Snap Back to Reality
During my time off, I went to a music festival. Most of the time I think of festivals as a reset. For three straight days, I only care about surviving the heat and catching my favourite acts. Good vibes only.
The pure escapism comes with a license to dress however the hell I want. On festival grounds, people don’t gawk over a little skin. As a feminist, the amount of sideboob and ass on display is healing. It’s empowering to watch carefree, goofy girls not trying to be modest or conforming. They just want to dance, laugh, and get a decent view of the stage.
And, of course, feel fabulous.
Even the artists play along. Tove Lo flashed the audience during one of her songs, and the crowd became a sea of flopping boobs in response. Free, fun, and far from sexual. At least not to me.
Festival girls living it up
On the second night of the festival, my husband spotted something disturbing. A man was using his phone flashlight to watch women pee behind some bushes. Maybe he was recording.
Mark confronted him, and he left, but the illusion of the festival was shattered. My escape became tarnished by that familiar feeling of being unsafe.
The freedom I thought I had slipped from my grasp as I recognized the same quiet behaviours that haunt me in the real world. I noticed men staring at my body. I noticed young girls holding hands to slink away from groups of drunk bachelor parties. I saw guys encouraging women to flash the crowd. A man came up to me dancing and said “thanks for the show.”
The rest of the weekend was clouded in something icky. I kept questioning what I knew about festivals. Were the creeps always there? Had I turned a blind eye to maintain the free feeling I wanted to have? Or was I so shaken by that man in the bushes that everything became more sinister?
It’s amazing how quickly magic is ruined by reality.
Players Gonna Play
Back home I’m more accustomed to grotesque behaviour. I struggle to choose topics for this blog because each awful story mimics the last: Man hurts woman. System does nothing. I feel gross.
The Hockey Canada scandal has affected me more than I thought it would. Beyond the graphic details of sexual assault is the revelation that the organization planned to cover up these attacks. Hockey Canada saw players raping women as an inevitability, and, instead of doing anything to fix the problem, found means to ensure it would only happen quietly. For years they collected registration money into a “National Equity Fund” that was used to settle sexual abuse claims against their athletes. In fact, they’ve paid $8.9 million to 21 alleged victims since 1989.
The volume of cases is appalling, but, unfortunately, not surprising. We’ve known for years that hockey - and other sports - have a problem. Off the ice, no one is playing referee. Growing up in Canada, I think most women have heard stories about hockey players. You don’t need to be an NHL player or a World Junior to engage in bad behaviour. The culture starts much younger.
In high school, there was a widespread rumour about a girl who had sex with the entire boy's hockey team in the woods. People made ruthless jokes about her and the coordination that would take.
Looking back, I feel sick.
Tara Slone’s impassioned speech on Hockey Night in Canada last year felt like a turning point to me. She called out the NHL for its refusal to hold offenders accountable. She noted Logan Mailloux, a player who was drafted to the league after he was caught sharing sexual photos without consent. She mentioned Kyle Beech, who was sexually assaulted by his coach. She looked deep into the camera and told hockey fans,
“Anybody who thinks that this culture is not deeply broken is wrong.”
Less than a year later, Tara is out of a job.
I come back to the same cycle: Man hurts woman. System does nothing. I feel gross.
There It Is Again, That Funny Feeling
No matter what I’m doing, there are moments that pull me back to states of fear and disgust. It’s like there’s an alternate world parallel to your pleasant experience: the Upside Down of gross male behaviour.
As free as I feel in my mesh festival dresses, there is a man with a flashlight lurking somewhere in every crowd. No matter how awe-inspiring a player is on the ice, they can be a criminal behind closed doors.
On Friday I went for drinks with friends in a revealing shirt. Mark assured me it looked great, and in the apartment, I felt terrific.
I was whistled at within minutes of leaving the apartment.
The rest of my walk was agony. I constantly adjusted the shirt and crossed my arms to feel comfortable. A homeless man came up to me and said “don’t tell anyone, but I love your titties.”
A few days ago I got an ice cream cone on my way home from a dance class. It was a hot summer night, and joyful indulgence was nothing short of joyful. That is until I noticed the way men in cars were watching me eat. My frozen treat suddenly felt like a beacon for violence.
I decided to take a 30-minute detour to walk through more family-oriented neighbourhoods. I was afraid the allure of the ice cream might prevent me from making it home safe along my usual route.
Last week a reader reached out with a cybersecurity guide she thought would be useful for my audience. Her email was kind and concerned.
“…we need to learn how to avoid putting ourselves at risk of hacking, doxing, and other types of online harassment…. I wish it wasn't up to us to take so many precautions, but I'm sure this guide will help other women like me…”
She signed the note with “In hopes of a safer online world for women.”
That hope is hard to hold on to.
Me trying to cope with life
This Place About to Blow
Besides a night-time ice cream cone, the luxury I most want is to be unafraid. I want to walk in this world without constantly evaluating my surroundings. I scan every subway car before I get in, I count exits in new places, and I search my coworker’s eyes for any glimmer of threat.
It’s exhausting.
While writing I quickly googled “how to feel safe as a woman.” What I found were safety tips I didn’t even realize I needed to be doing. Beyond keeping keys in your fingers and telling friends where you are, you also need to mind your garbage and avoid posting pictures from inside your home in case creeps memorize the layout.
In other words, live as though someone is plotting your death at every moment.
Beyond the how-to guides were articles about overcoming trauma. The most common answer to feeling safe is to exist in your body. Breathing exercises, meditating, and mindfulness are all meant to help ground us in moments of security.
Ironically, my body is where I feel the most unsafe. Women’s bodies are regularly violated, inside and out. Grounding techniques feel useless when the whole world is a hunting ground.
When I was out on Friday, I saw this graffiti in the women’s bathroom:
“Buck up baby blowfish
Just puff up bigger than your
sadness and scare it right off
It’s the only way to live in the
awful old ocean”
Pufferfish have two forms, and so do women. I’ve adopted a cold demeanour on the street to keep men from talking to me. It’s as intimidating as baby-faced, 5’3 me can be, but it’s the only armour I have. I walk this city like prey, and I’ve learnt how to puff myself up when needed.
That constant fear makes it tempting to think that it is, in fact, all men. The real strength is in finding time to deflate into a vulnerable little fish. I want to be that softer version of myself as much as possible - the woman who likes shaking her ass at concerts, eating ice cream on the street, and posting whatever I damn please.
I want to keep the festival magic all the time.
In hopes of a safer world for women,
Your favourite side piece
