I have been reading the Blank Noise Blogathon posts. They have only reinforced what I’d always known. Street harassment is something that women confront everyday, without fail, every time they walk out of their homes. (For the moment/for this post, I'm going to ignore the harassment of women within the 'home'). All of us have hundeds of stories to share. Teaching in a women’s college has at least given me this knowledge--that I am not alone in the constant humiliation of my Self. The humiliation that I have to face simply because I have breasts and a vagina and I haven’t yet learnt to walk with lowered eyes. My stories are no different from the stories that other women have to tell. The ‘accidental’ brush, the pinching of buttocks, the groping hands in trains, the quick squeeze of the breasts, the rubbing of erect penises against the body—the list is endless. I feel like I need a rant, but I’m too tired today and a poem (or poems) will have to do.
***
The Street: I
The street knows
I’m a sum total of body-parts
I’m flesh
in the marketplace
ready for the taking
The street grows
lewd hands
and sneering eyes
and slaps me until I shrink to a zero
***
The Street: II
When my friend
talks about riding
a nightwave on a distant
moon-drenched street
I want to scream.
I will never know
what it means
to seduce
the nightstreets
alone.
***
The Street: III
The street has inscribed
a frown inside me.
I can’t rub it off
And I wear it
emblazoned on my skin.
***
- Action Hero ~River~
