“But, you’re a beautiful woman!”
To the strange men who put their hands on me
When I tell you it’s best not to put your hands on a strange woman, you tell me I’m not strange.
You tell me I’m beautiful. As if this has anything to do with your sudden hands on my body in a quiet, public space.
I am strange, and you don’t know me, I reply.
“But, you’re a beautiful woman!”
So you must put your hands on me?
Despite my attention to myself and my own life, you insist on physically connecting your nasty hand to my sovereign body.
Not just one of you, both of you.
Y’all do love to work in pairs and groups to feel less cowardly about your ill intentions. I heard your pathetic conversations about feeling like big men who hate weak people.
How you’re the backbone of the country, and those of us on social services should suffer and die, because according to you, we bring the value of the country down.
I listened to all of this, while trying to focus on writing something motivational. And then…
Two hands from two strange men, placed on my shoulder before they leave. One face from one man leans into embrace distance.
I left a chair empty between us for a reason. To separate the two of you, from the one of me. I focused on my my notepad.
I didn’t engage with you. This did not deter you.
Not when I was 30.
Not when I was 20.
Not when I was 10.
Will it when I’m 50?
Is there an end to strange men putting their hands on my body absent any and all suggestion or invitation?
Is there any public space free from men like you, or the masses who silently watch them do this to women over and over again?
Will I have to wait until I’m dead?
The one who leaned into my face asked me why we had to be strangers.
I heard your opinions on Medicaid and SNAP recipients, and I am one. Y’all don’t care about people in need, there’s no friendship to be had here.
He leaned in closer and snarled:
“Why should I?”
Exactly, now get your hands away from me and please leave.
And because celebrating suffering, followed by sexual harassment and battery, wasn’t enough, he got close once more before walking out to tell me:
“You have a nice afternoon, Miss.”
I walked back to my friend’s trailer in tears, because beauty doesn’t mean anything to a growing number of people, and beauty in poverty doesn’t make anything easier.
Ew
I fucking hate dudes like that
if i was your brother or friend id teach em gentlemanly manners