'Sexual harassment has tainted each street I’ve ever strolled, every bus stop I’ve stood at, every campus I’ve crossed, every bar I’ve sat in, and every cab I’ve ridden in.' Vanessa_ABee writes in this excerpt from 'Home Bound'
Photo-Illustration: The Cut; Photos: Getty. My neighborhood studio has offered it a few times since I arrived in Washington, D.C. but it takes me until November 2015 to sign up. I dread it from the moment I hit the purchase button. Taking the class feels like an admission of my inability to navigate the world without help, of how often I feel afraid when I step out of my apartment, of how tired I am of my own body.
Sexual harassment has tainted each street I’ve ever strolled, every bus stop I’ve stood at, every campus I’ve crossed, every bar I’ve sat in, and every cab I’ve ridden in. I never cease to be surprised by the number of my male friends, sensitive feminists, who believe street harassment exists, as any sensitive feminist would, but claim to have never seen it with their own eyes. I doubt they are lying to me. It’s easy to miss what’s in front of us without a reason to look. But to be routinely harassed in a sea of people, without so much as a blink, without anyone asking if I’m alright, if this man is bothering me, it makes me doubt my sanity.
My second effort is better but not great. Still, walking home from the studio that night, I feel a little bolder. The studio is two and a half blocks from my apartment in Petworth. Knowing my parents would check the city crime alerts, I’d hesitated to give them my precise address until the apartment was mine and it was too late to reverse course on moving. The alerts emphasize carjackings and armed robberies, but I don’t have a car to jack and don’t look much worth robbing.
The hugs began on his second or third day. They were sporadic at first. I was emerging from the kitchen when he rose to his feet and asked me to embrace him. When it happened again, I was reading a textbook on the sofa. The time after that, I was working on the desktop downstairs. Pastor Ilunga was a man of God, an elder and a guest in our home. It was my duty to go to him when he called, though I felt a tendril of guilt. Clearly, I’d not missed him as much as he missed me.
On the fifth day, after another insistent hug, I snuck my phone into the half bath and dialed my friend Christina. We had met this school year, our sophomore, and though our friendship was young, I trusted her instincts. I told her that I was at a loss with what was happening. Here was a spiritual leader who seemed tocare for me. His attention should have felt flattering. Maybe Pastor Ilunga was seeing something in me that I didn’t. Yet, his touch repulsed me.
Without asking this time, Pastor Ilunga wrapped me in his arms so forcefully that it pressed out my breath. He loosened his grip twice: the first time to smell me rabidly, and the second time, to lean into my ear and say, “Do you want me to come visit you?” Downstairs on the sofa, alone, I replayed his words in my head. How dense of me. I hadn’t actually said “no.” What if he came for what he wanted anyway? In a matter of minutes, the duplex would be dark. My parents would fall asleep. The possibility of waking up in the middle of the night with his heaviness on me made me nauseous. If he covered my mouth, no one would hear me scream.
I pass the self-defense studio again one chilly evening in March 2017 as I head to the Petworth metro station, down New Hampshire Avenue, past the signs that ornate front yards withand Pride rainbows. A band I’ve been itching to see, Adult Mom, is playing at the Black Cat tonight. It’s warm enough for leggings and a loose sweatshirt. I could’ve walked or biked but it’s a little past eight and Taryn is already waiting for me at the venue.
The train doors open. Rather than enter the car closest to him, he doubles back towards me. He’s moving quickly. I stumble towards the door closest to me. My instinct won’t let me turn my back to him. I don’t know what he’s holding anymore. I can’t see his hands. Only his face, zeroed in on mine. I accept that he’s going to hurt me and that I’m not going to get away before he does it. I decide that it will be a fist. No one has ever punched me but I know this will hurt.
. Both intimate an agreement of wills and participation, however reluctant. Both are essential to letting men assert dominance over our homes and bodies. I’d complied and been complicit more times than I cared to admit. I’d let catcalls go, minimized them, and surrendered rather than speak up. I’d told my parents about the pastor and, in time, about the family friend, but reported neither man to their families or communities. My silence had allowed the pastor to return to his church unscathed.
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