Seasons of safety
NS September 14th, 2009
I took up running a couple months ago and was doing really well with it up until two weeks ago. The first week I didn’t go at all was due to a combination of TNB’s illness (tonsilitis) and previously scheduled nights out. Last week’s inertia was mainly due to TNH’s work schedule and the sudden change in sunset. It seems like just yesterday it was light until 10pm; now it’s pitch black by eight.
As a woman who has had nighttime safety drilled into her head from a young age, I didn’t think twice about automatically assuming this meant I couldn’t go running past that hour. But today, as I ran in the park with TNC and felt my feet pounding the ground, a strong desire to get back on track overcame me. But when would I run? TNH usually doesn’t get home until close to 7.30. By the time I change into my running clothes and do a couple things relating to the kids’ bedtimes (7.30 is the absoloute worst time to try to get out of the house) it’s already nearing complete dark.
And as much as I know that my area of London is pretty safe and that, in theory, I should be okay for a half hour on suburban streets when there are still people out and about, a knife of apprehension still twists itself in my stomach. What should I wear, do, or take with me to prevent an attack? Which route would be the least dangerous and in the most well-lit and high-traffic areas? Should I not listen to my iPod so that I can be more aware of strange noises behind me? What should I do if I suspect someone is following me or shouts at me from a passing car? Am I crazy for even considering running at night?
This is what a woman’s thoughts turn to as summer turns to autumn and the night closes in nearer on both sides of wakefullness. These are the questions we ask ourselves as we assess how safely we can access our communities now that the daylight hours are receding.
This is what we have to think about every single year, every single month, every single day. And it’s bloody exhausting.
I have to wonder if men, even feminist men, can ever really grasp what it’s like to constantly assess our actions and routes and words to prevent violent crime being perpetrated against us. It’s something that is hard not to be worn down by, and to become more cynical and bitter about. We may have the right to work and vote and do a lot of other things that used to be the exclusive privilege of men, but we still don’t have the privilege of walking freely and without fear of assault, or comment. Because it’s not just about the restrictions that nightfall bring, but the constant barrage of sexism and exertion of power over us, year round.
In the summer, we fear wearing a dress or a top that is too revealing, even if the weather is unbearably hot, lest we are catcalled and groped by leering passerby whose aggressions seem to rise in conjunction with the temperature.
In the winter, as the elements make car breakdowns and accidents more likely, we freeze in fear at the thought of accepting help from a stranger and would rather sit in our icy, broken cars while we wait hours for the orange flashing lights of the accredited and vetted roadside cavalry, doors locked and fingers on the panic button of our mobile phones.
In the spring, as everyone comes pouring back onto sidealk cafes and parks and out of the stupor of hibernation, smiles and comments about the lovely weather between strangers have to be monitored and reined in for fear that exhanging passing pleasantries will give a man the ‘wrong impression’ and invite him to pester us for a date or a number or a smile.
As women, our seasons are not ones of calendars and turns of weather, but of shadow and light, cold and hot, open and enclosed spaces. As women, we are still denied the liberty of safe, free range motion without fear of bodily harm and social repurcussions.
So I can’t help but feel a bit like a caged hen, a battery chicken, as I look out my window at the autumnal city streets and then forlornly at the running shoes gathering dust at the front door.
Post-feminist world, indeed.
