I was breathing hard from the brief sprint, but quickly noted where he stood in relation to my husband and me. Again I noted that he was big, holding an empty cup as rain dripped down his face. "Can you tell me which way the Convention Center is?" That familiar urge to help arose, a flowering of the heart that overrides the gut feeling that I am not safe. As I scanned the street for a sense of direction to help the man, I simultaneously calculated which way to run. This is female multitasking at its finest. It's a skill set I've been perfecting for many years, since I was attacked at the age of 17.
I pointed to what I thought was south and said, "I think it's that way." He looked at me, seemingly unmoved by the new information. "No, hon," he said. "That's Washington." His voice caught a vaguely angry edge. Or perhaps it was disgust. Or, maybe he was just gathering his nerve. But a curious thing happened to me -- different than my reaction to a man who followed and groped me in high school, different from the man who said, hello and then threatened to rape me a few months after that. The urge to help quickly disappeared. Rage flew in. I think I grew a few inches.
I held up my hand in a gesture that was part arm bar, part admonishment. "You're asking the wrong person," I said. Then to my husband, who was a little bewildered by my sudden anger. "Let's go. This way, Miguel. Now." The first door to the building that led to the parking ramp was locked, then a second. The man was grumbling, looking for his own entrance, or next potential victim, I'm not sure. I found a black buzzer. My husband looked at me and said, "he was no threat." I was still breathing hard, now from adrenalin. "Yes, he was a threat," I said. I knew with every fiber of my being that this was true.
As we drove home, my husband teased a little, trying to wipe the angry look off my face. "Wow, don't ask you for directions." I rolled my eyes, but a few moments my anger found a new level when I realized that I'd been right about which way was south and that there was nothing going on at the convention center that Sunday night. Rage now flowered from my gut. But soon I shoved the whole thing beneath my skin. It was nothing, after all. No one was hurt. And who cares if a stranger asks me for directions, then disregards my answer?
A few days later, my friend and certified Rolfer, Kevin McCarthy, asked me what I was holding on to. "Nothing," I said. "I'm fine." He gently pushed. "This is going to sound pretty 'woo-woo', but it feels really old, like even another lifetime, from some time when men didn't listen to what women said, when they didn't have power." In my chipper, upbeat tone, I told him that used to happen to me all the time, but not very often any more -- except, well, this past Sunday. Recounting the story, my belly tightened, my heart raced, as I reproduced the gesture: You're asking the wrong person.
"What did you really want to say to that man?" Kevin asked. I thought a moment, then said: "Get the f*** away from me." He nodded. I said it again.
Now I had the whole picture: Try to disarm me by asking for help and then call me hon, I'll go primal on you. One of the beautiful things about getting older is this: I no longer cared about being nice or even being right. For the first time I didn't care if I was a bitch or appeared a little crazy. Here's an unscientific fact: A crazy bitch is rarely a victim. Push her further, she just might go primal on you.
