as I walk down this dark alley,
the shadows start to speak.
when I’m walking down this unknown road,
there is nothing to guide me.
the foreignness leaves all a surprise to me.
but.
there is no excitement in this anticipation,
only fear.
and those shadows speak of the statistics of rape and domestic violence,
of the man who wanders near the Bay to prey on girls.
and these shadows remind me of the girl strangled by a bike chain on my street,
of the white van that does circles at 3pm on Sundays.
and.
in those whispers is the echo of the cars and men on the streets.
//
the beep as I walk to work
//
the tradie yelling in his truck
//
i’m 100m from home but I’m not safe
//
as I walk down this dark alley, the shadows start to speak.
and the whole time I’m wondering,
who will save me?
.
.
.
“hello beautiful”
they’re on the corner of the street
leering at the lights
and
then
there’s me
power walking
(r u n n i n g)
and they’re laughing
“f$%^ me so hard”
the music booming
i frown
surely i didn’t hear them right
i skip to the curb
there it is again
“f$%^ me”
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
i lose my breath
each step
r u n
lately;
three separate friends
have commented on my power walking
“you’re always moving”
“don’t you ever slow down?”
“why do you move so fast”
//
this is why
this is how i survive
//
there they are,
s t r o l l i n g
there is me,
permanently
r u n n i n g
.
.
.
.
blame it on anxiety
brush it aside as exercise
.
.
.
but maybe this is life?
.
is this the life I was born to?
because I am a woman?
.
.
.
.
as I walk down this dark alley,
the shadows start to speak.
holding my groceries,
the man comes over to me
“excuse me”
i stop
wondering who
“sorry, i just saw you,
i thought you were cute,
i had to say hi, i’m Pradeep”
the grocery bag cuts
my circulation slows
//
b r e a t h e
//
with purple hands
i speak
“um, hi”
he sprinkles conversation starters my way
and i’m trying to hide the pain
but
somehow i respond in laughter?
irony bleeds
i smile
surely this is a joke
but i know better now
and i tell him so
“sorry, i have to go”
//
reject
run
//
i turn down the coffee
and turn away
turn
.
.
.
then the next day
a g a i n
surely not
surely this is a joke
the man joins me at the lights
starts talking to me as though it’s ok
to treat a girl like a trophy to be won
he tells me i am rude
he tells me i am just “like them”
he points to the buildings
what does he mean?
am i am cold as his comments?
.
.
.
.
.
.
at home,
i’m confiding
my housemate fires up
“you don’t owe him anything!”
“you don’t owe him a smile”
“you don’t owe him your name”
“you don’t have to explain”
and there i was,
feeling guilty that i hadn’t been nice
that i had had a long day,
and failed to play “nice” to a stranger
“THAT’s the patriarchy:
making you feel like you’re the disappointment, that you’re the problem,
that you’re the one that needs to answer to him,
that you’re the one that needs to submit, that he’s the one who has power,
that he has the right to come up to girls on the street and play them for ‘coffee'”
.
.
.
.
.
.
yeah,
because you really want coffee
.
.
.
as I walk down these dark streets,
the shadows start to speak
.
.
.
but
there is a Light,
there is a Saviour,
who sees
who sets his angels concerning me
who gives me strength
who helps me breathe
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
this year my posts have been irregular to say the least
…
it has been a season of silent suffering it seems
…
perhaps there is bitterness wrapped within the irony of the (select) encounters i have shared above
maybe there are also raw wounds from the unarticulated.
…
lately i have chosen to bury, not share.
but.
here’s to exposing experience.
the daily grappling with my identity, my worth as a woman in this world, as a woman of God.
he owns this world, he owns me.
and
he knows what he is doing.
…
i just don’t know why he allows these kind of encounters to happen.
but i know that he treats me as more than a trophy.
i am his treasure. he is my portion.
he sees me as his prized possession, his eternal treasure,
not an object but a subject,
not just woman
but
daughter.
