It is midnight. I pack my things into my backpack and prepare to leave Ellis Library after a long night of productivity. I make sure I have my phone, grab my keys, and head for the door.
On the way, I begin a ritual. I make sure my phone is in a pocket that is easily accessible. I place each key on my keychain between my knuckles and make a fist. And as I exit the library, I tense every muscle.
I become hyper-vigilant, hearing each far-off footstep and seeing each rustle of leaves. I furtively look all around me and make note of each person I see. I am a rabbit – ears perked, eyes peeled, and prepared to dart at any moment.
I see two men walking together, laughing, and mentally dismiss them. I see a woman walking alone, shoulders hunched and eyes scanning Lowry Mall. I give her some of my attention, making sure she leaves my field of vision safely. I see a lone man casually strolling down the sidewalk. He has my full attention. Even after I pass him, I occasionally glance back until I am certain he is gone. Another man walking alone, headphones in and smiling. He, too, gets my full and undivided attention until I am sure he is gone.
Finally, I am at the parking lot. I use the remote start my parents got me for Christmas (thanks, parents!) to start my car so I can enter and leave quickly. As I approach my car, I look between all of the vehicles in the parking lot. A woman is arriving at her car just before I reach mine. I watch to make sure she gets into the car safely. Once I reach my car, I quickly unlock the door and climb inside. As soon as I am in, I lock the door. I exhale forcefully, relaxing my neck and shoulders.
It isn’t until then, when I am relaxed in the safety of my locked car, that I realize the absurdity of everything that has just occurred.
I think about how absurd it is that every man I saw was relaxed, even if he was alone. I think about how absurd it is that I think this is absurd. Why shouldn’t they feel safe? Shouldn’t everyone? I think about how absurd it is that everyone is not safe. I think about how absurd it is that being a woman makes me unsafe, or at least makes me perceive myself to be unsafe. I think about how absurd it is that every woman I saw seemed to feel the same way.
And then I begin to feel angry. I feel angry that those men got to feel safe when I didn’t. I feel angry that I live in a world that has taught me to fear those men, when they are almost certainly pleasant and rational human beings. I feel angry that that same world has taught me to perform these rituals to keep myself safe; that I, not a potential attacker, am responsible for preventing their attack. I feel angry that some people say that feminism’s work is done, when we clearly still have so far to go.
I feel angry that though I strongly desire to Take Back the Night, I do not feel that it is mine.
