Trigger warning: Sexual harassment & image-based abuse
Like most women, I have had my fair share of awkward and uncomfortable interactions with members of the opposite sex. Some mostly innocent, others creating lifelong trauma.
Who hasn’t been cat-called by a stranger, speeding past in a decked-out Nissan Skyline, leaving you questioning if they actually said something creepy or were just being indiscriminate jerks? Or nervously walked up a set of stairs, holding the back of your skirt down, which suddenly seems incredibly short, but you swear it hit just above your knees a minute ago? The memories of all those random sweaty hands you’ve felt on your skin while out dancing with your friends or walking through a packed bar leave you craving a hot shower. And let’s not forget that time a boy you liked in high school commented, completely out of nowhere, on how your body had changed since school ended the previous year.
Not to downplay the seriousness of these types of interactions but, at least for me, they are mostly easily forgettable and blend together into a general gross feeling.
There is one incident, though, that lives rent free in my mind. It happened over a decade ago, but I can recall the vivid details with an ease that makes my heart race.
I was heading into the city on a packed midday train. It was standing room only and I was squeezed into a small space right next to the priority seats near the doors. There was a young man sitting in the seat closest to me. He was completely unremarkable, an average guy around my age.
At some point during the 10-minute journey, I noticed him move his hands out of the corner of my eye. I looked down, and his phone was positioned directly under my skirt. I was shocked and it took a few seconds for me to comprehend what was happening. After what felt like several minutes (but was more likely only around three to five seconds), I moved back as much as the crowd allowed, which was hardly much at all. He noticed my movement, looked up, and our eyes met. He withdrew his hand and put his phone away. After that, I can only remember feeling sick to my stomach and wondering if I would ever come across an image of my crotch on the internet.
Afterwards, I replayed the incident in my head over and over. What was it about my knee length navy-blue-and-white polka dot skirt that enticed him to do this? Was I acting in a way that invited this behaviour? Was my white t-shirt with a picture of a unicorn an unknown calling card? Or was it just my luck that I wore a skirt that day and was born a woman?
It’s been many years since this interaction, and I often go months without thinking about it. But then something happens that reminds me of one of the most vulnerable moments of my life, and I feel like I’m right back there in that train carriage – the feelings of confusion, disgust and anger fighting between themselves to see which will reach the surface first.
Mostly, I’m angry with myself for not being brave enough to do anything in the moment, and for letting this person maintain a stronghold on such a significant part of my memories and thoughts. He does not deserve that space.
I still wonder if there is a photo of my patterned high-waisted underwear somewhere on the internet. I’m assuming that’s where these kinds of images end up. Of course, I’ll never know. I’m not exactly the kind of person who spends their free time browsing the ‘upskirting’ realm of the internet.
Sometimes I fantasise about what I would do if I could go back in time or if it happened again. Would I yell and scream at him, embarrassing him in front of all the other passengers? Would I grab his phone and smash it? Or would I freeze up and do nothing, just like the first time? Hopefully, I will never know.
