Clandestine visits

He told me I could drop in at any time, but could I take
him at his word?  What if his flat
mate had been right?  What if he
had a line of women who visited one after the other and I arrived at his
doorstep while he was entertaining one of them?  
I had already said good night to my mother.  My father was asleep drunk. I was alone
in my bedroom.  It was easy to
change into a dress and put on sandals. 
I did not bother to pack a bag. 
It was easy to walk out the front door on tip toes,
undetected.  My parents did not lock external doors in those days.  And so I closed my
bedroom door on what my mother could only assume was my sleeping body.
This walk along Warrigal Road in the dark under stars and
with the occasional flash of headlights did not trouble me as it might were I
on my way home at other times.   Such as after university in the evenings when I took the train from the
city to Cheltenham and then needed to walk for thirty minutes to get home.
Even as I walked along Centre Dandenong and Warrigal Roads
and avoided the side streets, I imagined footsteps behind me;
someone preparing to grab me from behind bushes.
 
On such nights I trembled all the way home, but on this night, almost midnight, when there was no one else about, I relished the solitude.
The only hurdle now involved the knock at his door and the
fear I might not be welcome.  
He was alone in bed without any of the women of my imagination beside
him.  It was easy to slip in beside
him, to hold him, to be held, to try once more this business of having sex and
then when the first rays of light were about to break through the window to dress and say goodbye. 
He offered to drive me home but I preferred to walk.  I needed to put some distance between
me and my mother.
The early morning light had an ethereal glow as if I were
in heaven and it was just cold enough to stiffen the hairs on my arms.  By
the time I had reached home, slipped through the front door and pulled the blankets
back over my head in pretend sleep, by the time my mother stuck her head around
my door to say good morning, I was hot.
 
But my mother was none the wiser, or so I suspect she’d
have liked me to think, but I will never know.
Can you imagine it, your nineteen year old daughter slips
out and is away all night long and in the morning you find her in bed in her pyjamas as usual?  
Only she knows what she’s been up
to.  You have to guess. 
 

To be wolf whistled is not about you.

On the radio this morning I heard the news that two
young girls in New Delhi, one fourteen years old and the other fifteen, were
found in their village hanged from a tree after they had been gang raped. 
It’s hard to understand the minds of men who could do such a thing to two young girls.  
I refuse simply to dismiss it as a function of the culture of New Delhi with its high incidence of sexual assault on women, in a place where women are considered inferior, and of no intrinsic value in the
eyes of men, except as commodities. 
It puts me in mind of an article I read recently where a
young woman in America, Estelle Tang describes her experience of being wolf whistled and
worse still of having her bottom slapped as she ran through a park during one
of her exercise routines.  
Her first
impulse was to run back home and hide herself away. 
Here in Australia, one of my daughters reports a similar
experience.  She was jogging along
a shared cyclist/pedestrian path when a man came up behind her on his
bicycle.  Before she could register
what was happening, as he overtook her, he leaned down from his bike and slapped
her hard on the bum.  He then looked
back at her with a leer as he rode away. 
She was left mortified, ashamed and enraged all rolled into one.  
Her impulse, too, was to hide.  She stopped jogging and took herself
home.
What is it then with these men, that they see fit to
invade another’s personal space with such careless disregard.
Before I heard the news of the two girls in New Delhi, I
had a conversation with my youngest daughter.  We had talked about these things before, about how strange it is that
when I was young, some forty years ago, I considered a man’s wolf whistle to be a
compliment, however uncomfortable it made me feel.
‘How can that be a compliment,’ my daughter said.  ‘To be wolf whistled is not about
you.  It’s not even about
your body.  It’s about the fact
that you’re a woman.  A woman walks down the street and certain men believe it’s fine to pass judgment on her without so
much as an invitation.’
I’ve begun to re-think my reading of The First Stone,
Helen Garner’s book about two young women at Ormond College at the University of
Melbourne who went to the police after one of the masters at the college
had fondled the breasts of one of the girls.  
In the book, Helen Garner in her usual
brilliant writing style, ponders her own reaction to these two women’s response
to what had happened. 
After I readit, I was left with a sense that
Garner believed the two young women had over reacted.  And I was then inclined to agree with her.  They should have taken it less
seriously, brushed it aside perhaps.  
I cannot do justice to the book here, but I recognise my own
re-think.  
We must not brush these
things aside.  They are the tip of
the iceberg, the thin edge of the edge. 
I wonder whether Helen Garner is re-thinking it, too. 
These events, the brutal murder of two school age girls in
New Delhi – though whether they were at school, able to get an education, I do
not know –  and the assaults on
young women in Melbourne, Australia, in America and elsewhere, are on a
continuum. 
And then I worry for the men who live in a world in which
such behavior is almost expected. 
How are they to rise against it?
Once again I find myself wishing I were a man.  I’d start up a campaign to get the men
thinking. 
I recognize there are many men who respect and love women and
who are appalled at all this domestic violence and sexual assault.  What can they do to stop this?