“I was walking through the Bois de Boulogne
one afternoon when I noticed something strange…”
The Bois de Boulogne is the enormous stretch of green space along
the western border of Paris. It has a museum, two lakes, a horse
track, and enough acres of trees to get lost in. Perhaps because
of these trees, it also has a deliciously sordid reputation.
Elena was on her way to the big lake for a picnic. “At one
point, I noticed all these vans parked along the path. Sometimes,
I’d see a person sitting in the driver’s seat, just
waiting. They were men dressed as ugly women.”
Sophie was crossing through to get to a meeting in the 16th district.
“There were quite a few men around. Loitering. They kept going
into the bushes to pee. And then I noticed they were doing it in
pairs.”
“Tell me another one!” I couldn’t stop myself.
Meanwhile, I kept my eyes open for a sighting I could call my own.
--
During my second year of living in Paris, I attempted my own shortcut
through the park. On the narrow sidewalk, cars whizzed by on my
left. The woods sat quietly on my right.
I passed a few average Joe kind of guys along the road. An overweight
family man leaning against a car. A shaggy blond in baggy jeans
watching the traffic. A fellow who resembled my neighbor, the Moroccan
grocer. It dawned on my slowly: that the strangest thing about their
presence was their presence. There was nothing on this path except
to walk through it. There was no proper stopping point for the rush
of cars, no lake or picnic area just behind the dense trees. There
was nothing on this path but your average, everyday man loitering.
Then out of the corner of my eye, it approached. The pink penis
hanging out of the pants of a black man dressed in head to toe black
leather. He was not a large or scary man. He was whistling as he
passed me without a second glance.
The Bois de Boulogne was harmless. If anything, I was the intruder.
--
Out of the woods, my next flasher experience was more disturbing.
On the late metro home, in a nearly empty car, another everyday
man chose the seat right across from me. My quick glance snapshot
his stiff face, grey eyebrows pinched, and disproportionately long
torso. Quite a few moments passed before I noticed his red penis
sticking straight out of his pants. “Look at me!” it
screamed. Even as I looked out the window and in my book, the redness
waved and bobbed out of the corner of my eye as the metro hurled
on its rickety tracks.
Afterwards, I wanted to kick myself. If only I spoke French well
enough for the perfect comeback. If only I’d screamed. If
only, if only…
Aside from those regrets, the only lingering effects of the encounter
were the occasional red penis flashes across my vision. In the days
that followed, my eye zeroed in to the crotches of men crossing
my path. Each of them was capable of perverted intentions. Zipped
up men were off the hook but if a fly betrayed the slightest crease,
I glowered.
I thought about the years of martial arts classes under my belt.
Couldn’t people see that I was walking around with an internal
big stick? That they shouldn’t bother messing with me? In
my fantasies of side kick and arm lock retaliations, I would be
the “victim” to make these bad guys change their ways
for good. Next time, I would stand up for myself.
That was my definition of self defense before I actually had to
use it.
--
On my way home after socializing with my Tae Kwan Doe buddies one
night, I passed through Les Halles, the central station of Paris.
At half past midnight, I had just missed the last train home. The
station employees had the thankless job of turning us remaining
stragglers into the street. Even the homeless were told to pack
up their cardboard box beds. A small African man, charging by with
a passport in his hand, hissed when redirected toward the exit.
His body crackled with tension. Without the bustle of crowds, the
station was dank and dodgy.
I was headed for the station exit when the same angry man appeared
and cut ahead of me. My ‘on guard’ mode had barely blinked
on when he spun around and stuck his face in mine. “Where
do you think you’re going?” he growled.
He’s got to be kidding. I put my hands up. “Eh ! Calm
down…”
“Who are you trying to tell calm down?” He moved even
closer.
My hands curled up into fists and moved to position in front of
my chest: textbook fighting stance. My body was buzzing, “here’s
our chance!” The guy was my height, stone stiff with red veins
criss-crossing the whites of his eyes. Yet, as we stared each other
down, reality sunk in. This guy wouldn’t fight fair. He might
even bite.
No, there would be no double kick combinations, not even a kick
in the groin. With no referee and no handbook on proper sportsmanship,
we had only the chaos of uncertainty. Did he want my passport or
was it a meaningless threat? Was he going to spit in my face and
walk away or should I start preparing a counter defense?
I wasn’t going to find out. Instead of letting fly a single
attacking arm, I let out a screech. The piercing scream of a little
girl, it's echo trailing me as I tore out of the exit.
Once away from the source of danger, the real darkness closed in.
On my way to the taxi stand, potential attackers hovered. The solo
guy approaching from a side street. The noisy group of loitering
youths. What kind of sicko would be out at this hour anyway? I zigzagged
the boulevard, skirting them, moving into brief lit up areas.
Images of past incidents and warnings replayed in my head. The time
my mother had to fight off a pickpocket. The friendly Indian student
on the overnight bus in Spain whose right hand got even friendlier
when I dozed off. All those perverts and their penis. All evidence
pointed to the same conclusion: the world was an ugly place and
I had no control over it.
I kept my eyes peeled for a small and meek cab driver. I will have
to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I will have
to pack up and move to a country full of meek men.
The idea of traveling made me realize something else though. I was
a different girl before settling down in Paris. Back when I was
backpacking solo, I emitted pissed off “don’t mess with
me” vibes. My instincts were alert, heightened.
If I wanted to continue living in Paris or wherever my heart desired,
I should be smart enough to take up this behavior again. Keep my
shoulders hunched, stop staying out until all hours, and avoid deserted
train stations like the plague. What a shame to have to modify my
lifestyle and live in a state of cautiousness…
But perhaps in the end, the only thing left to be redefined was
my definition of self defense. To shift from fancy moves to strategic
thinking. If I wanted the freedom to live where my heart desired,
if I simply wanted to be safe, I would have to face the facts and
compromise. Bragging rights or not, good instincts may be about
staying out of the woods. When pressed, it’s about dropping
the tough girl façade and being smart enough to run screaming
like a little girl.
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