I didn't engage much in #metoo. Don't get me wrong, I totally supported it and still do so, but on a personal level I didn't. Not really. Maybe not much until now.
The news in the UK, London, a place I called home has shaken me. The recent (but not surprising) statistic that 97% of women have been sexually harassed in their lifetime made me remember things I'd rather not remember, long before social media and hashtags were a thing.
We were a very normal family. Looking back, I guess we really were NOT normal, but for a kid growing up in the 80's, I thought we were. My Dad was in the military, we moved a lot and so my Mum worked where she could, eventually getting a job where she was able to work from home, revolutionary at the time but then again, her Boss was a revolutionary man. Rare. They always said, no matter what, I had to tell them if I felt anything strange or if I felt weird in any situation. They didn't tell me why. I guess they wanted to warn us off without going into details..
My parents always worked. They never went on mini-breaks without us; my sister and I. Going to a restaurant was a twice year treat, the treats that one would get dressed up for. This was the UK in the 80's, I guess we were standard. The one thing we looked forward to more than anything else was our almost annual holiday camping trip to France. It's the only time I've ever seen my Dad have a bit too much vino, Mum read during the day, a time when we as children observed our parents as actual "humans" who needed to rest, eat out, laugh, play cards, swim, eat pizza and relax. It was special.
I was about 8 or 9, I can't really remember now, when we were on holiday in our favorite place for swimming, high up in the mountains in the Ardèche. We loved to snorkel. I was a competent swimmer and I'd often dive off and nose around the rocks. After lunch, when my parents were resting and my sister wanted to read, I was impatient to get back in the water so they sent me off alone. Alone, I was only about 8 meters from them, snorkeling, when under the water, a young man (about 19? 20?) pulled down his swimwear. Repeat: I was 8, maybe 9. I remember his face.
I didn't know what to do. I swam back and told my Dad that I saw someone do something weird underwater but I didn't really know what to say. My Dad guessed and asked me if I could see the person on the shore. Everybody looked the same! How could I know? From that moment, I never swam alone. Dad didn't let me.
That was my first, but not my last experience with flashing. The next time was when I was 15, walking home in a small village in Surrey after going to the library. A nice looking guy in his 30's stopped me and asked if I knew where a certain street was. Normal question before smart phones, but I didn't know the answer. He walked off and I walked towards home. Two minutes later he was back and said: "Hi again, it's ok if you don't know the address, I'll just follow you until I cum".. I looked down and he was touching himself whilst walking next to me. I don't know how or where it came from but I GOT ANGRY. I turned on him and screamed so much abuse at the top of my voice on a small road full of houses that he ran off. I ran home. I told Mum and she called the Police. Thank god, they took me seriously. As an artist, I even drew his face. It's still on my mind. They said they would keep my drawing in the police station. I sometimes wonder if they really did? If my drawing helped at all. Why did that man do it? Did he do anything after, or before, was I lucky? I never walked home alone after that. I still think of him now.
But years go by and we forget. So I moved to London. It was a different time, year 2002, hopeful and cool and just so, LONDON! I lived in Camden with by boyfriend and flatmates and I'd commute to Uni and work. I always felt safe walking back from the tube, it was so routine that it became normal to chat on the phone and not pay any attention to what was happening around me. Usually I'd be walking home when the restaurant crowd would be falling into the pubs, everyone had their own agenda and I was just one girl amongst the mass, walking home. But there were shadows. Our flatmate had a bad experience on the tube and came home in bits. Someone went missing near to our house. The alarm went off at 3 am. I came out of the bubble a few days later.
Camden Road is a busy, well lit street. It was my walk home. I got off the tube and I just felt odd. A guy had been staring at me since Charing Cross. He never got off. He got off with me at Camden. Something felt very wrong so I didn't cross the road past the pub, I stayed on the other side where the big Sainsbury's was and pretended to make a call. He also made a call.
I crossed the road. So did he. I lit a cigarette and put my key between my fingers. I walked faster. I stayed in as much street light as possible but I knew I had to turn into the darker roads at some point. I crossed the road AGAIN. So did he. And that made my pulse race. I was being followed and I didn't know what to do. My mouth was dry and somehow frozen. I picked up my phone and turned a corner and bumped into a policeman and woman on patrol. I could have hugged them.
"You alright miss?"
"yes, can I just stay with you a minute? I need to get home and it's just round the corner but I'm a bit scared".
"We'll take you no problem"
I didn't tell them that someone was following me. He vanished into the night. I was just glad to see them and get home. I trusted them. But I didn't say I was being followed. Nearly 20 years later, I regret that. I regret I didn't point that man out. Who was he? Why did he follow me? What if... what if I hadn't seen the Police? Why didn't I say anything? What if he moved onto someone else...
I didn't say anything because I knew I was safe. ME. At that moment I only thought about ME. But when I was 15, I thought about others. Why was it different? Maybe because what happened to me at 15 was in broad daylight 2 minutes from home, where Mum was, and what happened when I was 18 was on a lonely street in London in the dark..? Who knows. And I think about him, the man who followed me home, more and more every day now. The irony, maybe the man who followed me home was an ok guy, and the policeman I turned to could've been the bad apple? This is the message from the case of Sarah Everard which has rocked London, and the UK, and the very people there to protect the walkers home. The Police. The Protectors.
It haunts me now that I didn't tell them who was following me home. It chills me that a Policeman is involved in the case of Sarah. It spurs me to think about my past, which is uncomfortable. I'm not alone here. We must raise our voice even when it feels futile. We MUST rise up, men and women against violence. We MUST. For our own sakes, for our children, friends and family and for the unknowns who could benefit from our voice. And RAGE against it all. As I rage against you: the man who followed me home.
