I’m working on a film in Atlanta, just a few days here and there. Not a huge part, but satisfying, because my character carries a gun. I am often glad that I am not armed, because I have such a temper, that I am sure I would have the itchiest trigger finger, and I might have already slaughtered thousands of bad drivers and bitchy bystanders and busybodies; the streets awash with the blood of innocents, their only crime being their annoying, annoying personalities, which is an offense, but not one that should be punishable by death.
I hate to say that the majority of these minor acts of aggression are perpetrated by men, and straight men at that. I swear, I have nothing against straight men. I really adore them, when they behave. But when they are bad, I must say they are really the worst of the worst. It isn’t because they are men, or that men are predisposed to be horrible, and that there is no hope for them, it is just that when they are assholes to me, I notice it the most, it bothers me the most, maybe because they seem bigger, stronger and therefore more terrifying. Maybe because I imagine that society condones their badness, and so the awfulness of their ill-mannered ways becomes exponentially worse, and I have the sick thought that this abuse comes straight from the state of things, which will seemingly never change, never get better, only get worse as time marches on.
It’s hot here, and so walking down the street in the heat of midday is a trial. Atlanta is not particularly a walking city, and so the sidewalks bake barrenly in the unreasonable southern sun. When you do walk, you become a moving target of sorts, a free-for-all to entertain motorists as they burn up fossil fuels and leave you in their smoggy wake. I got hit today with a classic, “Me love you long time!” The offender was loud and cheery enough, and the streets were just crowded enough, and I was just in between buildings and out in the blazing spotlight of sun enough to feel the full force of bitter amusement and overwhelming shame, like the double winner I am.
I don’t know why I have to feel bad about it. The incident only reveals the insensitivity and the racism of the driver, yet in a shitty turnaround, I am the one who is embarrassed. I feel violated and wronged, and ultimately rejected, because they came on to me, even though it is the sorriest excuse of a sexual advance, and then they left without wanting to know if I had accepted the offer. That is what I hate the most about these hit and run incidents, is that they run. What if I had actually said, “Okay. I will love you, uh, long time.” Isn’t that what he wants? Or is the point just to momentarily verbally assault a total stranger and then disappear? What is the satisfaction in that? Is it that satisfying to reaffirm societal weaknesses? What if I yelled out of my car to some balding gentleman, “I have hair!!! I have hair!!!” It is still not the same really, because I am not offering up a racial insult as well.
It isn’t always racial. I was walking down the street in Los Angeles, and a man was busily chatting on the phone, and as I passed him, he said very quickly, “I want to fuck you,” then continued his conversation, without skipping a beat. He actually returned to his phone call and apologized to the person on the line. So it went – “I want to fuck you. Sorry. So anyway…” I hovered just long enough to hear that, but he wouldn’t have noticed, since he was so deeply engaged in his phone call. What if I had said, “Oh, okay.” But he didn’t care if I responded, he just kept going. I deserved the apology more than anyone else, and not only that, I deserved the right to respond, but he shut me out before I could. Maybe he is afraid. I realize these things happen because men are really afraid of women sometimes, because we are real, and our responses are real, and that is so frightening that they would rather snipe at us from far away, from where they think they are safe. But they aren’t safe. They are just sad.