Afraid of You
We arrived at the traffic stop in the dark, the cold, the rain. There were a few cars already waiting. We got in line. It was alongside Kennedy Lake, on the way to Tofino. A big upgrade being done to the treacherous road.
A lone flagger stood in a fluorescent rain suit with a STOP sign. Cars whipped by us to the left, and it was our turn to pass through the rock and rubble in a single lane. As we passed by the flagger, I saw that it was a woman.
“I would never want to be out alone in the dark like that. I would want a tazer.” I said.
“I think tazers are illegal,” offered my husband.
“Either way, I’d still want one. Or bear spray.” I said.
“Yeah, I’d be worried about the bears.” he said.
“That’s not what I’d want them for. I don’t think there will ever be anything in this world that I will be more afraid of than Men.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes as we drove. In the air hung the reality that we would never experience that fear in the same way. My husband has about 80lbs on me at any given time, he’s 7inches taller, and his biceps have the same circumference as my calves. I am 5ft 3in, about 112lbs, and even though I am stronger than I look, it wouldn’t be as much use to me as I would like if I was up against someone his size.
My husband could fear men, sure, in the sense that there are dangerous people out there with little regard for the safety of others. But not the way that I carry it with me every day. I am so lucky that I have never been seriously attacked by anyone. I have lived a relatively safe life. And yet, the fear is there with me always. When I cross a street at night, when I run alone in the woods, even in my own home. I live in a small place where we rarely lock the doors, where the neighbourhood delivery guy opens the front door to holler inside and see if you’re home (happened just the other day). I also live in the middle of the forest, at least an 8 minute drive from town, and a good 500m dash to the nearest man I know in my neighbourhood who I could run to in an emergency. When I am home alone, after dark, I am always, at least unconsciously afraid and often times consciously. If my husband isn’t home, I lock all my doors, shut all my blinds. I have more than once slept alone with a knife on my bedside table, a baseball bat on the floor. Just recently, he was away overnight, only for one night. I woke up several times in the night, hearing only small sounds, but enough to make me shake with fear. Even though I know that I live in a relatively safe place, even though I had all the doors locked, it doesn’t quell the fear completely. I am probably more sensitive to this sort of thing now than I have been in the past, since I am used to having my husband around. It may feel the same if I lived with a woman, maybe I just get afraid when I am alone now. But, what I am afraid of won’t change. Call me paranoid. I call it lessons learned out of necessity.
I was watching the news recently and they had a segment on a workshop that was being run in High Schools for young men focused on conversations around consent, sexual expectations, and being respectful of women and any partners (which is great!). One of the clips showed the workshop leader asking “What do you think some of the girls in your school did today to prevent themselves from being assaulted?” They showed a few responses from the young men like “Maybe they considered dressing differently.” and “They could have taken the bus or a car instead of walking alone.” Doesn’t that break your heart a little bit? They are talking about girls who can’t be older than 17 or 18, and many who are younger. They are still children. Why should they already have to worry about these things? And, why should they ever have to at all?
This is a world I often dread the thought of raising a daughter in. I try and fight that fear with the knowledge that I will raise her the way I was raised: not even considering that my gender would make my life more challenging, that I was empowered. I would teach her to be strong as well as compassionate, fierce as well as gentle, to live with a straight back, a confident voice, and an open heart. Raise her to know that she is the one who defines her own boundaries and she should never feel shamed for speaking up. That she should respect and be respected. But I would always fear for her a little bit more than if I had a son.
A son I feel differently about. I would be excited to raise him to be the kind of man who will be part of the work being done to turn around the misdeeds of those come before him. A man who is all the same things I would want a daughter to be, but he would be a leader among men, an example of what it means to respect women and treat them as equals. Knowing what is in my husband’s heart, I have no doubt that any children I raise will have a wonderful role model for what kind of man they want to be, and what they should expect of other men (and other people) in the world. And for that, I am grateful.
I don’t know if it will be different when I have kids, I don’t know if this fear will ever go away. It’s the reason I don’t pick up hitch hikers. Why I don’t walk alone down dark alleys. Why I fear for the safety of my sisters and friends when they travel by themselves. I live in easily one of the most liberal places in the world, and I still worry. I hear too many stories from too many places that make me ache inside, make me wish I was strong enough to go abroad and help. I commend those who are working in the public eye, or even behind closed doors, to right these wrongs.
There is a lot of conversation around this topic and more like it these days. And I feel that there should be, and I am never likely to be quiet about it. We spent too long saying nothing. We’re not trying to blame, we’re trying to educate, to seek fairness, to understand together. I have to remember that if I raise my family in fear, they will learn to be in fear. And so instead of letting the fear lead me, I will let hope lead me. I will build my voice to be stronger, learn to have the right conversations, communicate with compassion, and do my part to make change happen, because I believe, change never happens in the presence of silence.