On Stories, Being a Woman, and Not Letting the Assholes Win

Here is what happened. I was running on the beach, going a different direction than our normal route, along the long, white crescent to the point that borders the next village south of us. Instead, I turned north, towards the fishy-smelling market and center of the village, hopscotching over taut lines anchored in the sand, dodging men hauling huge sacks of gear, piles of dried fish. Around the corner and along a line of bungalows until I reached a huge, flat plain of sand, ripples of water and small dunes running throughout it. I splashed right through the puddles, to the edge of the frothing water and I danced, feeling free and alive and adventurous and happy. 

All the time here, especially when I am alone, which is rare, my eyes are constantly searching, looking for threats–looking for men. It is unique to be in a place where, as white people, we are very much the minority, perceived near-constantly in public spaces, a truth I had almost forgotten until we got on the Pangani ferry on the way to Ushongo, when a man on a motorcycle shouted “white people! White people! Move! Get out of the way white people!”, which somehow hurt worse than the oft-hurled “mzungu!”. I looked around and realized it was true, that Ryan and I were surely the only white people for miles around, traveling alone, at night, far from our homebase and teachers in Arusha.

The thing is that I feel very safe here, especially when accompanied by male friends. People here are welcoming and generous, constantly sharing food and news, “mambo’s”, smiles, and yes, the occasional “mzungu!”, which rolls off my back these days. I feel different but not othered as a white person here. And I think often of the reverse, of people of colors’ experiences in the US, in which they are not treated like a rare mystery or a chance to make money like we are here, but are instead, in the worst of cases, considered immediately by their countrymen as threats, dangers, enemies, and I tell myself to stop complaining. 

As I began my run back to the village I noted each person I saw– a woman in a hijab, looking as free and unbothered as I was among the sand and sea. A man collecting something on the shoreline, to whom I gave a wide berth and kept running. And then a man in a bright, striped shirt, walking in my direction, meandering closer to the water, narrowing my potential path. I clocked him instantly, turned down my music, and prayed I could pass without any kind of interaction. As I got closer, he mouthed something, so out came the Airpod. “Sema tena?” (say again?) I asked, continuing at my pace. He mouthed something again, clearly goading me to come closer so I could hear him. I continued on straight ahead, and to my horror he turned and began running with me. “Sijui!” (I don’t know!) I shouted a few times, hoping he would back off. Eventually, he near-shouted, in English, “I love you!”, still running with me, falling back now, and then began singing love songs. I gave him a half-smile, my heart galloping out of my chest, my brain running through the calculation all women know well: Where is the nearest help how fast can I get back is he stronger than me is he faster than me what’s the worst that could happen, all while trying to calm my heart and my breath so I could, in fact, run faster. I called Ryan, hoping against hope that he had returned from playing soccer and could meet me at the point, where I now realized, heart falling further, that in the darkening evening the fishermen had returned, and soon I’d have that to contend with them, too. 

Sometimes ignorance is bliss, and sometimes it is dangerous–earlier today, as we went to give letters to the village chairman and were accompanied by hoots and shouts, something that happens a lot here in this place where most people use their outside voices pretty much all the time, Ryan asked “how often do you think those comments are about us?”. “Probably a lot,” I answered, grateful not to know. 

It’s different, though, when you’re alone, a woman, running in too-few clothes for the cultural norms, rounding a bend with a man still singing and running behind you, and descending into the belly of the beast, a men-centric place of commerce with no women, or people who speak English, in sight. 

Ryan didn’t answer the phone and I picked up the pace, mind on hyperdrive. I rounded the corner and blissfully, with the sun setting behind the trees, could neither hear nor see the men sitting under the palms and, like I was in a video game, I considered the obstacles in front of me. Two lines to jump over without falling down or losing pace. Two groups of fishermen coming up from their boats. Lots of shouting, potentially leering, to zone out and ignore. One man sitting close to my best place to jump over the line, avoidable. Soft sand up there, not ideal for running fast. Three hundred yards until I’m back at our bungalow, where the key is tucked into my shoe and I can slip inside the door without the man catching up, or anyone seeing me. 

And there, really, is where the story ends. Nothing bad happened. The man with the striped shirt either gave up or turned around, back to where he was originally heading. I didn’t fall, and no other men tried to speak to me, although all watched me pass, and probably shouted things I didn’t know. And yet I am still edgy, sitting by the bungalow, waiting still for Ryan to return, flinching at each cat catching crabs in the sand, men walking to the bar next door. 

It occurred to me, floating after my run in the warm water, unable to relax my shoulders even then, that floating in murky, unknown water is a lot like existing as a woman sometimes. I do not relish murky water, like it is today, during my float, at low tide in Ushongo. There are too many leaves from mangroves, pieces of sea grass mixed with trash and sand, and something invisible that always pricks my skin when I get out. It’s gross to get the leaves stuck to my skin, and scary to step down into a pile of moving murk that could be full of jellyfish tentacles, or a sea urchin. But the vast majority of the time, it’s just that–a gross pile of leaves and debris, nothing more than a nuisance. Regardless, it sets me on edge, it leaves me feeling itchy when I get out, sometimes for hours.

The whole time I’m floating, I’m on edge, wondering if the next thing that bumps up against my back is the worst thing, the jellyfish tentacle that will send me back to shore screaming, the sea urchin that will, according to our local contacts, “turn my leg a different color”. I won’t really be able to relax in this murky low-tide water, even though I know that, statistically, the things below me are probably nothing. 

And yet, I am still plagued by that itchy feeling on my skin often enough to know that I am lucky. I am lucky that my life has been free of jellyfish and sea urchins and men grabbing me in dark alleyways or on well-lit beaches. I am lucky to have lived a life free from the kinds of things that ruin women’s lives, to know only their threat, lightly following me like a shark beneath the surface. I am lucky, and it shouldn’t have to be that way. 

And I must consider that it is the election that is making me think this way, that is making me angrier and sadder than normal to be a woman who has to feel afraid. I am angry at my fellow Americans in a way I have never felt. I am sad that people believe their own fear of others is the answer to their problems, at the expense of others’ lives. I am heartbroken for the people who will suffer in the next years, and in the many years that this administration will poison afterwards. I am heartbroken for the state of the ecosystems and communities I love so much. I am in disbelief that this outcome is real. 

And I hate how much hate there is in my heart these days, how much hate the stupid men have blown into my chest, where it rattles around like a hoarse cough I can’t shake. I hate how hard it is to be brave. I hate that my first reaction today was to call a man. I hate that today happened at all, that men are taught that this is an okay way to make other people feel. I hate the thought that that man premeditated our conversation, thought he was so clever to mouth his words silently so I would have to come closer to hear him, his assumption that I would do so, like a polite woman should. I hate to think of the women and men who have suffered senseless violence, whose stories don’t end like mine. I hate being afraid. I hate that that man disrupted my peace, my freedom, some of the rare alone time I’ve spent in this country, in this village that is starting to feel like a new home, where I feel jumpy now, always looking for him or the next man who will make me uncomfortable. I hate that, without putting his hands on me or raising his voice, I am as bothered as I am, that he ruined my run and forced me to write these words that won’t change his behavior, won’t make him any less likely to do that to the next young woman he runs into, won’t change who we just elected president, won’t change what all this leads young men to believe is okay. 

None of these thoughts are new, or even particularly noteworthy, my recounting an incident that happens to women and men everywhere, every day, but they are what is bothering me today, and I believe, in the same vein as many of the writers I love the most, that the way we move forward is by letting out what we often keep in. Telling our stories rather than letting our stories tell us. Using our anger and despair as tools, as fuel, rather than letting them rule us. Let your anger make something productive today. And don’t let the assholes win. 

Bungalow view- home for now.