fear

I’ve been thinking about fear.

I’ve felt fear in my life. I’ve felt true, full-bodied fear. The day of September 11^th, as a confused 8-year-old questioning if Indianapolis was going to be attacked next. Sliding on icy roads with children in my car. The first time I went to visit a child in the ICU at Moi Hospital in Kenya. A man with a knife running toward me and two other women on one of my final nights in Senegal. Various other times in my life when I have felt piercing in my heart as my chest clenched upward, the breath pulled from my lungs, my mind halting in panic.

And then there’s the other, more constant, sometimes even subconscious fear that I feel daily as I experience life as a woman in this world.

Once, in Senegal, I was on the side of the road, buying a watermelon for my host family with my two near-constant companions in Senegal, two people who know me at a level which few do and who I know care about me as I do about them. In all respects, I feel safe among them. The watermelon vendor, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, was being difficult as I tried to barter with him. When he began to condescend and wouldn’t bend, I turned away, moving on to the next vendor. As I turned my back on him, he grabbed me through my back pants pocket and tried to pull my body back to him. It was one of those moments of true, full-bodied fear, in which my only reaction was to whip around, yell “no” in Wolof, hurry away from him, and take deep breaths as Abby and George surrounded me. As we moved on, still in need of a watermelon to bring home, I told Abby that if the next vendor was a man, I needed her to interact with him rather than me. She immediately agreed, and did so.

Later that day, I sat with George, my bro in all sincerely familial definitions of that nickname, and we talked about what had happened. He asked me why I had asked Abby to talk to the next man, why I had let the first man scare me and had given him power over me by shying away from the next, why I had felt that level of fear when he and Abby were clearly there to protect me. The questions weren’t accusatory, just curious, motivated out of a desire to understand and a desire, I think, to challenge me as those who care do.

And because he’s my bro and because I feel safe with him, I answered with an honesty which as a woman you hate to admit, an honesty I barely share with my female friends with whom I share common experience. I told him that as much as I wish and want and strive to be that woman, that feminist, that person who can experience an incident like that and not let it affect her, not let it make her feel small and afraid, not let that fear overpower her belief in the inherent capacity of good in all such that she is afraid of the next man, I am not. Because, I told him, when you walk around every single day, particularly in Senegal, and are harassed, made to feel less than, reduced to your gender and to your body, and forced to be conscious of every single man around you, every single potential threat of disrespect and danger, and then a man grabs you through your back pocket and tries to pull you toward him…as much as you want to be that strong of a woman, a feminist, a person, sometimes you just need to take a minute to be afraid.

Over the last week, as the courageous, haunting, terrifyingly true #yesallwomen posts have been flooding social media, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear. As my female housemates and I have discussed some of these messages which are particularly relatable to our experiences as women in this city, in this country, and throughout the world and as we have discussed some of the male reactions to these posts, both horrifying in their cruelty and heartening in their solidarity, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear. When my college threatens my being in Kenya this summer by questioning my ability to be in a place where there is terrorism, where the U.S. government has declared a validation of that terror by warning for hesitancy, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear. As I discuss the changing monopoly on violence in our society and the ways warfare has moved from the battlefield to the everyday in my anthropology class, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear. As I hear stories and more stories told by women of jokes being made by men who are a part of my college community about supporting rape, about raping the sisters of enemies, about whining and emotional women who try to fight against these perpetuations of rape culture, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear. As, throughout this week, I have taken note of the hundreds of times, throughout my days and in varying contexts, I have been acutely aware of my surroundings, taking note of what men are existing near me, where my exit might be, how I might protect myself, I have thought a lot about that conversation and fear.

As much as I want to be that woman, that feminist, that person who isn’t afraid, I am. As much as I want to be that woman, that feminist, that person who doesn’t carry her keys between her fingers as weapons, who doesn’t have to ask her female friends to tell her as soon as they get home at night so I know they haven’t been attacked, who doesn’t feel safe walking even the shortest distances alone at night, who tenses when unfamiliar men walk toward her or share an empty elevator with her, who doesn’t know a single woman who hasn’t been harassed or made to feel ashamed or small by both strange and familiar men, who doesn’t have dear, dear friends who have been violated, attacked, and robbed of their sense of self by men who have felt entitled to bodies that are not theirs, I am that woman, that feminist, that person. And sometimes, this fear is overwhelming.

That same bro of mine recently told me, in a moment of overwhelm, that true strength lies in those who get through adversity and come out on the other side wiser, better, prepared for the next challenge.

And one of the #yesallwomen messages, that has gained popularity and has been on my mind, states: Feminism isn’t about making women stronger. Women are already strong. It’s about changing the way the world sees that strength.

And so while I’ve been thinking about fear, I’ve also been thinking about strength. I’ve been thinking about the strength of my trusted and caring, near-constant Senegal companions, I’ve been thinking about my sass-filled, foundation-rendering housemates, I’ve been thinking about my radical and intentional mother and father, I’ve been thinking about all of the women, the feminists, the people in my life who have given me witness to such strength as they have lived it out in their own lives and have shown me, through their kindness and compassion, how that strength lives in me.

And so I am afraid. But that’s not all.