Once, in my 20s, I became separated from my friends in a club. It was late and, with no cabs available, I decided to walk the 15 minutes home. At some point I got the sense that a car was following, creeping a few metres behind. When I looked back, a window rolled down, and although I could not see the face, I heard the voice. “Hey beautiful, need a ride?” I kept walking, the car kept tailing. Now the voice was getting angry: “Why are you ignoring me?”
There were other voices in the car. I calculated it was full, and started to run. Was it laughter I heard, laughter at the woman skidding in her heels? The car kept tailing.
That’s when I knocked at a house where the lights were on. I apologised when someone answered the door. “Please,” I said, shaking, “can you pretend you know me? I’m really scared.” The car pulled in at the kerb opposite, waiting, but eventually the occupants grew bored with us talking. They drove off.
As we grieve for Sarah Everard, and women share stories of walks turned into horror, I was reminded of my own. It is, sadly, one of many and it won’t be the last. “They’ve got to legislate against kerb crawling,” my boyfriend responded, outraged. “How is any woman meant to know if it’s kids being idiots or someone who’ll do something?”
Later, I corrected him. “It’s not kids being idiots, or not doing something. It’s sexual harassment. Call it what it is.” With our words, we let them off the hook, make it passive. Even when it happens to us: “I was assaulted”, not “He assaulted me”.
I long to see change. So I will write letters, sign petitions and attend marches. But there is one thing I can do, right now. I will call these things what they are when they happen.
