(non)mating habits of the avis raris

Now I am not saying that one doesn't enjoy a certain degree of attention, in fact, every now and then it is nice to have one's charm and grace appreciated, and yet...

I guess I should not complain, except, well, I will, because here I get to make the rules, and out there, my little acts of defiance may not go unnoticed, but they certainly don't do much to change the status quo.

Where to begin my rant, I wonder? Perhaps with my walk home, four blocks on Thursday night, after finally meeting Agustín (and his equally charming friend Andrea) and spending an evening of engaging conversation and literary activity. I am left on the corner, and feel quite safe on a wide avenue. I am wearing a long black skirt, and yes, I do have bare shoulders, though I am not, by any means wearing skimpy clothing. I walk briskly because it is midnight, and I am tired, and because I am trying to decide whether to go to class the next day or not. And it isn't so much that I don't notice the heads turning, or the catcalls from buses, but rather that I choose to ignore them.

The other day, when our entire class was out, and listening to an endless monologue on the architecture of female oppression (I say this when we were looking at spaces originally destined for the education-albeit limited- of single women that were in present day usurped by men, almost in their entirety, for self-aggrandizing purposes). Whistles rang out but the men had no balls to show themselves, and Susana, finally spots them across the street and starts yelling. We make jokes amongst ourselves about the fact that they would probably run the other day if we turned their aggression back in on them, and suggest they perform. I had not reached my limit, just yet.

But it might be a juicy little tidbit, to see this systematic attempt at... domination? control? corruption? perversion? I don't know that there is anything one can say that can make it ok for a man to be sitting in his car in the via pública jerking off and looking up defiantly at two women who really are only trying to take a walk around the park. That was Wednesday, I think, but Friday night, on our way over to Susana's there was a man lurking in a tree, right in front of a store with his pants halfway down. Kik made a little yelp, and her insults in Spanish were not loose enough to spill out in disgust, and I, fortunately, saw nothing. But I digress.

It isn't that I feel unsafe, in fact, I have never felt safer in the city than I do these days, and yet...
I am constantly asking myself what the deep-rooted meaning of this behavior is. I am back again, walking alone at midnight, I cast my glance around, always ready to bolt into the middle of the street, or a store, always looking for the escape hatch, always knowing if there is someone on my back. And then. A car pulls by in slow motion, three men with bullet-proof "seguridad pública" jackets don't quite leer, but their heads turn in tandem and I lift my chin in defiance and walk at a faster clip. The car is unmarked, my heart is racing. Three blocks, I search for a way out, and the car starts to slowly reverse, it is following me, in the wrong direction, 2 blocks, they are getting close, but I zip across a cross street and the oncoming traffic acts as a buffer, I know they can pull a U-turn so I almost run the last block home, but I don't, I won't, because then they win.

That would be nice if that were all, but it isn't, how could it be? I spent the day walking, walking, walking around my old haunts, rediscovering undercurrents, paths that my feet had forgotten, homes that were mine, before, pieces of who I was, but I walk confidently, happily, the miles stretch out, and I am alone in the city, except, I am not. One notices, of course, that each microbus has a battery of differentiated sounds, greetings to friends, warnings to other cars and buses, attention-drawing tactics to encourage travelers to pack themselves in like sardines in a movable feast, of sweaty, jerking motion. I was alone, walking against traffic, Río Churubusco is abandoned. Kids just got out of school and the city is half-empty, there are no signs of life but the continual flow of traffic that fills the veins of the city like a medicinal drip, steady, constant, unending. And I hear it, the sound of a whistle, not from the mouth of the lascivious, but emanating from the bus itself, as if the machine were one giant pulsing phallus poring over the city in search of unsuspecting flesh to sink itself into. I am now more than a little irritated, after the parking lot attendants at the Superama called out, "mamita sexi" and myriad taxis and unmarked vehicles flashed lights at me, as if I might suddenly decide to join them for a ride? I can't imagine that that is the real intention. So it builds, because mostly I am at peace and enjoying my walk, and I am angry, really, that I have to be expecting attacks from all sides. So I walk past the Alberca olímpica, and I keep going at a steady pace even though I subbed my toe, and I pass two men, not much older than me, I would guess, talking, smoking a butt, leaning in to one's car. I brace myself, and they don't even have the decency to wait until I am out of arms reach to whistle, and I surprise myself and turn angrily on my heel, with a challenging shrug of my shoulders, "what the hell do you want from me?" my gestural language asks, and I shake my head haughtily and continue, but after a minute I look over my shoulder and one is following me up this lonely path, so I stare, harsh, quick, and he slinks away down a side-street, all the while my eyes are simultaneously searching for a way to get away if I have to. I have a bag, I will use it as a weapon if needs be, I can run up to the main road, I can get away.

And I wonder if it is pleasure that they seek, or if it is simply so ingrained that it doesn't seem like there is anything wrong with making a woman feel like she should not be alone. This enactment of hyper-masculinity is so powerful, so pervasive that it even becomes the lingua franca in certain lesbian representations. How do I know this? Because Friday night we went out to a club in La Roma, hopeful of having a good time, being surrounded by women, just dancing, dancing, forgetting, alone. But no.

Of course one does have to laugh that the drink that was sent over to Kik (she was the hit of the club) was a bottled water. The insistence with which certain women latched on, their practical blocking our exit, don't go so soon.... it was too reminiscent of the male behavior that we had hoped to escape--to not leave with a profound sense of depression.

I don't know what to say. If I were to challenge every single man that mutters under his breath, or whistles, or asks to accompany me a) I would be exhausted and b)I would change little if anything in terms of social behaviors. There has to be a better answer. And as I read up on the feminization of poverty in the world, and the opportunities for education, I am struck with this recurring thought, that education for women is not enough. It is a start, but it is simply one part of the whole, and if men are not asked to reflect on this, if this sort of aggression based masculinity is fomented at worst (or merely tolerated at best), then all the education in the world directed at women will not solve the problem of women's (upward) mobility being limited.