Thahabu

“You forgot about me?” a 24-year-old man with a child asked me over the phone. I hadn’t talked to him for a week after giving him my number. I was walking through the park when we met. He was pushing two babies in swings and waved what I thought was an innocent hello. I smiled back, speeding my way to the library. The next thing I heard was, “Get that slim, get that!” I tried to rationalize as I always do in these situations, he can’t be talking about me. The man rushed after me, leaving the kids in the swings for his friend to watch. He began shouting to get my attention but I ignored him, already aware of what was going on. I turned around to see how close he was to me: close enough. I’m not new to this so I quickly went through the motions in my head, any man that will leave his kids to follow me out of a park is the type of man who’ll get angry and hurt me if I don’t respond to him. So I stopped, and performed the routine I always do when men bother me on the street. I forced a smile and complied.

“Why was you ignoring me when I was calling you?” There was a sense possesiveness in his voice.

“Oh, um, I’m kinda in a rush” I replied.

He told me his name which I do not remember, and kept telling me how I need to respond when someone’s talking to me. I just nodded my head. He asked for my number and I gave it to him my real number, because I knew what was coming: He called it right in front of me to make sure it was mine.

This happens so often that I have categories for types of street harassers, and I could tell he was the, “Let me call your phone right now so I know you ain’t tryna play me” type. Had it been the wrong number, if my phone didn’t ring when he called, my safety would’ve been compromised, my body and personal space would’ve been violated, and I’d be called a bitch like I have been in the past. And now here I am, speechless, because this stranger has the nerve to call me saying, “You forgot about me,” as if I owe him something for pressuring me into giving him my number.

“No,” I said, before hanging up and blocking him like should’ve done a week ago.

In those moments I practically reacted the same as I would to a police officer stopping me for no reason. I assessed the situation, realized he had much more power and strength than me, and did as he said I should to protect my life. Whenever I tell these kinds of stories to my male friends—specifically my black male friends—they tell me I’m overreacting. It’s sad. How can someone who’s used to being followed around by strange white men in uniforms tell me, a black woman, that being followed around and harassed by strange men isn’t that big of a deal?

They don’t understand how prevalent and violent is is. That’s why I need black feminism. Because the feeling of fear that rushes through my spine every time a cop approaches me is the same feeling I get whenever a man follows me home or asks me “Why?” when I refuse to give him my number. Just like cops think they’re entitled to my body and time when they tell me to step aside and give them my name, these men who approach me, refuse to take my “No,” and demand that I explain why I don’t wanna hang with them. They show the same bravado as a power-hungry police officer. What’s not to get? The same men who complain about store clerks following them around look me dead in the face when they tell me being followed home by men who ‘like’ me should be taken as a compliment. It’s frightening. ♦