"That guy just grabbed my butt cheek"
A- whispered towards me, and the guy she was referring to walked towards the nearest balut station just in front of us.
It happened in a public place by the beach. The wharf was swarming with people trying to get a glimpse of the afternoon sun. Children happily swam by the edges of the shore, while families were walking side by side on the concrete walkway.
It's not the first time I encountered assh*ts who took liberties on the street.
While innocently walking the sidewalk back home, a boy passed by and ran his hands over my developing chest. I was 8.
While waiting for a cruise to run on Loboc river, two boys catcalled from the edge of the bridge in elevated voices and expressed how much they wanted to spend time with me in bed. By then I was already old enough to know what it implied and flashed the most angsty hand gesture I could muster, only to be reprimanded by my mom. I was 12.
I walked towards the offender, and I gave him the nicest smile I could ever give anyone. Surprisingly, he giggled back like a little child.
"Why kuya, unsay muot?"
"Gwapa man gud kaayo mo ma'am"
glancing at my friend who was behind me.
"Ahhhhhh" I looked down kept smiling.
"Kuya, do you think sakto to imong gibuhat?"
If I had any of what you would call an "underappreciated talent", it's my ability to make people uncomfortable, because the old man started ticking all the boxes on my list of signs for discomfort.
It might have been the teaching, or maybe it might just have been me. It might have been my smile that made him uncomfortable, or how I stared at his face of discomfort without blinking. The air of the surroundings turned sour and sinister. My fellow female friends were rallying behind me, as were my two brothers, in case violence was put on the table.
As anticipated, the offender would turn towards his own bag of tricks: gaslighting, denial, defensiveness, and derision.
"Unsa diay akong gibuhat ma'am?"
"Unsa diay gyud akong gibuhat? Igo raman ko nilabay"
"Ayaw sad palabi dira ma'am"
How did I deal with it?
I dealt with it like I would deal with any misbehaving student, except that I couldn't confiscate his ID card, or send him to the guidance counselor's office.
No shouting.
No excessive rage.
Just plain communication.
I even cut the conversation short when his excuses and replies were starting to turn routinous. It was enough for me to see the person in a state of discomfort, being called out in a public space.
A- gave me a side hug after the ordeal.
"Thank you. I wanted to say something a while ago, but I was scared my voice would break midway."
"I know." I hugged back.
I know because that's what I would have felt too.
Is this what it means to reach the apex of growing up?
Is this me turning into someone the younger versions of myself would have needed during those times they felt unsafe?
During those times they were taken advantaged of, catcalled, and have their boundaries crossed? And to recognize and break the cycle the moment I see it starting again in other people?
How many women have felt this way, and allowed it to slide because it was societally expected of them to not be offended? Or to keep their composure, or to wait for someone else to stand up for them and fight for their honor? What if no one went after the damsels in distress? And the reason why was because they don't necessarily fit the criteria of being one?
"She's a strong, independent woman, she can take it." She can take it, but she shouldn't have to.
Behind every "strong and independent" woman-- no, every "strong and independent" person--- is a backstory that gave that person no choice.
But gender-wise, don't you think that instead of teaching little girls not to lose their composure when their boundaries are crossed, we should teach our little boys not to cross those boundaries instead? Just a thought.
Here's to raising better men 🥂