I rode the subway to work this morning, 13 stops. It’s Saturday. A man got on my car, screaming about how big his dick was. He kept saying “fuck all of you. My balls are king kong’s balls. I’ll kill every one of you. I’m going to fucking kill you.” At the next stop, I switched cars. At the next stop, so did he. He kept screaming. He kept threatening me and the other passengers with physical and sexual violence. I changed cars again. So did he. I ran multiple cars away. The train tried to leave without me. I jammed my arm in the door and waited seconds for the conductor to open the doors. I rode a few more stops without the man. When I got off at my stop, I looked behind me every five steps, hoping he wasn’t following me.
Part of being a woman is being threatened. We are not surprised by threat. I am not surprised when someone threatens to rape me in public, the same way I’m not surprised when I walk by a man in the street and he looks me up and down and imagines me naked, prone, at his mercy.
I dated older men when I was young. Pedophiles. I thought they liked me for my personality. Maybe that’s true; maybe the innocence everywhere was compelling. One was 45 to my 19. He told quoted Keats to me, “beauty is truth.” That meant “I only date models.” I was thin because I subsisted on Coors Light, cigarettes, and buttered bagels. I was a nervous wreck, a full-blown alcoholic, a timid, natty animal, thirsty for anything. He tried to convince me to quit my retail job where I made $9.25 an hour and become a cocktail waitress at a club in the meatpacking district. He brought me to an expensive restaurant with another friend, a short Indian man who owned an airline, a millionaire. He looked at me skeptically when I inhaled the entire bread basket. I was hungry, and he wasn’t used to seeing women eat.
This is the year for women and feminism. It’s really easy to buy a T shirt now, announcing your activism. We elected a rapist to the presidency of the United States.
I’ve been hiding from news and social media for a year. The daily anxieties are crippling. A woman is raped every 4 or 5 seconds. The fact of Harvey Weinstein. The fact of Bill Cosby. Matt Damon opening his mouth.
Opening Instagram is a bitter pill. Women with 40,000 followers hocking diet shakes for flat bellies. People curating their lives with zeal and vigor. Impossibly happy, cooking things from scratch, going on vacation, loving their husbands or boyfriends without resentment. Women getting pregnant. Kardashians. Artists more successful than you. Everyone is doing so well. Otherwise it’s something about wine, which is called “mommy juice.” Another hilarious take on the daily urgency for global novocaine.
I heard a man tell a rape joke in an alcoholic recovery meeting once. I heard another white man talk about how, at his lowest moment, he was indistinguishable from a black man. There is no such thing as a safe space.
We are all implicit in the American Disaster. The idea that this country was built on the premise of freedom is a decrepit, insulting lie. It was built on the oppression, slaughter and rape of anyone who was not white or, to a lesser degree, male.
We congratulated ourselves when we elected Obama. Then we chose Donald Trump over a woman. My Apple news app shifts from Trump’s latest tweet, the threat of impending nuclear war, to a tantalizing teaser of a headline- do I want to know how Chrissy Teigen looks, newly pregnant AND in a bikini? This is our world. We all might burn to hell today, Dante’s blazing inferno, but Donald has a longer, fatter dick than Kim Jong-un, which could better satisfy a woman. And just in case today is not the day an atom bomb floats like a feather into the heart of Times Square, try to make more recipes your husband enjoys. Try not to get fat while you’re pregnant.
The guy on the train this morning won’t stop me from taking the train again tomorrow. I will get up and go to work. I’ll try not to think about the man who showed me his gun five years ago, or the one who, twenty years ago, showed me his Donald Trump.
I shaved my head when I got home tonight. My husband took a picture and said, “you look angry.”
I am angry. Angry and bald.