My Woman
The last time I let a man make me feel small
Today I was walking to the bus from work. It was a blustery day. The wind would catch my sweater and lift it from behind—the breeze across my back felt glorious and I delighted in its presence. I was wearing a simple black tank top underneath and had forgotten to grab a scarf in my haste to leave the house this morning. As I was walking down the sidewalk a man a few stores down saw me approaching and as he did he pulled out his flip camera to take a picture of me. I immediately grabbed my coat and pulled it across my chest. Blatantly. He deserved no subtlety. He laughed at my coyness, or attitude, I’m not sure which, and put the phone back in his pocket because the photo opportunity he had wanted was gone.
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I shivered from the wind and when my bus finally came I found a spot in the back and sunk down into the seat—my jacket tucked firmly across my chest. How dare he!? But I already knew the answer and his point of view didn’t matter at all. I should’ve told him to fuck off. I felt smaller. I compressed my back and when I realized what I was doing I felt like I’d lost. There was no game at all but I had let go of myself so that I wouldn’t be visible. No woman wants to feel like game for hunting so we disappear. He was still back on that street but I let his slimy presence follow me on the bus ride home. So instead of thinking “fuck him”, I said “fuck that.” I took three deep breaths and as I did my back raised itself until I felt like my woman.
I didn’t need to tell him to fuck off. I didn’t need to cover myself for the rest of the bus ride home. And I didn’t need to allow his spectre to snuff out my light.
Honour your body. Hold it like it deserves to be held. Feed it well, push it hard. I’m not good at this but I haven’t given up yet. I only have the one. Say every day, this is mine. Love your body like nobody has ever loved it before—and it never matters if they do. Be.
