The Everyday Revolt

It was shortly after rush hour on a hot afternoon in May. I had just left Howard Public School, where I worked at a children’s afterschool program, and was waiting to jaywalk across to Dundas West subway station when it started.

It started the way it usually did.

“Are you Japanese? Chinese?” a man called out, approaching casually yet purposefully at the same time.

I brushed past, ignoring him as best I could.

“Hey, what kind of Asian are you? Japanese?” he said.

I continued to play deaf as I prayed for a break in the traffic so as to dash across the street. But, the comments continued, loud as ever and growing increasingly inappropriate.

“You know, sex with Asian women is the best,” he was getting closer now, “Japanese especially. Such smooth skin. So great in bed.”

I had turned my back determinedly, refusing to acknowledge his remarks. Anyhow, it couldn’t be too long until I could rush away. 

And then, quite suddenly, he grabbed my arm. 

Immediately, I wrenched sharply away, recoiling at the unexpected feel of strange hands on my body.

“Don’t touch me!” I said, firmly and angrily, and took off across the street, ignoring the annoyed glares and honks of drivers as I ran.

While the incident had attracted many furtive glances from passer-by, no one else had reacted. I did not blame them. It was daytime, and I had not felt particularly threatened at any point. After all, it was not the first time someone had grabbed me on the street. It was not the first time I’d received explicitly sexual comments from a stranger. It was not the first time a man had made an uncomfortably rapid beeline for me.

But, of all the times that I had experienced harassment, not once had I said a word in my defense until that moment. Even if it had meant enduring extremely difficult half-hour long commutes, I had always stuck it out politely, quietly, not wanting to cause a commotion or make big deal. As I departed from the scene that day, I felt a strange, new emotion rise within me: satisfaction.

In previous incidents, I had hated myself for staying mute. As an ardent feminist, I knew exactly how problematic these remarks were, and yet I had never managed to do anything more than sit through it or walk away silently. The encounters made me feel weak and powerless in my small female body. But, as a woman who had so often been told to “be gentle” or “be nice”, learning to raise my voice in public was more of a challenge than I could express.

It was a minuscule victory in the grand scheme of things, but a personally significant one nonetheless. For the first time, I left the scene not with overwhelming shame, but with the reminder that it really was in my right and power to resist.

Originally published on Project Boundless.