Let me start off by saying that sorry I haven't posted in awhile. Things got hectic and I needed to take a little time off. That doesn't mean I stopped writing; I was working on other projects unrelated to The Great Wild City and it seemed important to not overlap the two.
That being said, I think I'm coming back for the right reason: to talk about street harassment.
I don't leave my apartment a ton these days. Between work and gearing up for another year of school, I've been trying to organize my life. Mainly that equates to a massive late-summer clean out of the apartment but as many of you know, if you go decent lengths of time without speaking to another human being, you might find yourself forgetting if you can talk at all.
Maybe that doesn't actually happen to other people. Maybe that's just a problem I have. Moving on.
Three days ago, I went to meet up with friends and grab cupcakes. These are friends that are very dear to me and I haven't seen them all summer so obviously I wanted to put my best foot forward and ditch the flannel and athletic shorts I had been wearing all day.
I put on a simple black dress that can't really be called revealing, sheer black stocking that went to my knees (but not over the knee) and worn out ankle boots. This may seem like unnecessary detailing but trust me, it plays into my psychological break down of the events that were about to unfold.
Sprinkles Cupcakes is off of the Chicago red line stop, which if you know anything about Chicago, you will recognize this as a ritzy shopping area. It's much quieter than Michigan Ave. but just as pricey, maybe even more so. It's as New York's 5th Ave had a baby with the cobblestone streets of Savannah, Georgia.
Anyways, as I'm making my way over to the shop, I hear someone call out "those are some great socks." I mean, they are. They're really cool looking. That's why I bought them in the first place.
I turn and see a tall, buff dude in athletic clothing to my left. I reached a crosswalk at this point but I had just missed the light. Figures.
"Did you buy them at that fancy place on Oak Street?"
I've lived in this city for a year now and have no idea what or where Oak Street is or what kind of shops are on it.
"Uh no, just Nordstrom I think." I actually don't remember. I think it was Nordstrom.
He reached out to shake my hand. "I'm Dan." Or Danny. I don't actually care.
I recognized his New York accent. Should I tell him I'm a Red Sox fan and maybe he'll run away?
I didn't say anything back. I had my mother's voice in the back of my head yelling "don't tell him your name Jaclyn!" I briefly considered giving him a fake name. Maybe something simple like Jane or Sarah. There are enough Sarah's in the world that one more wouldn't really make a difference. Instead, I just weakly shook his hand back.
"Whoa, nice firm grip. Are you Italian?" Ah yes, Italian New Yorker, I should have known. First of all sir, you are full of shit because I know babies who can shake hands better than I just did. Second of all, I am a proud Italian but like hell I'm telling you that.
"No."
"What's your nationality if you don't mind me asking?" Dude I'm like the whitest of whites. I would much rather you just assume I was a total WASP at this point.
"Irish."
"So you like beer?" Well yeah, but also I'M UNDERAGE YOU MORON. YOU'RE PROBABLY 35 AT LEAST. I have been called a lot of things in my life but looking old for my age has never been one of them. "Would you want to grab a drink with me?"
"Sorry, I'm late meeting up with friends."
"Well, good luck to you." Yeah you too dude.
Turns out, I wasn't late to meet friends and I stood there for ten minutes panicking that "good guy Dan" was going to pop out of nowhere with two beers and a length of rope.
Long story short, I'm still going to wear those socks because I like them and I think they look cool on me. If you see something as mundane as that as a reason to harass me on a street corner, it is your view point that is screwed up and you should really reevaluate the way you interact with women.
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