Caroline

I had JUST been reading “Men Explain Things to Me” and feeling like I could start to make a difference and stand up for myself. I went for a bike ride in my neighborhood and surrounding area. Immediately a moving truck full of men gawked at me as they passed by. Not 5 minutes later, a yard worker muttered something under his breath in Spanish about kissing me. I was feeling mad at myself for not saying/doing anything when confronted in real life. About 15 minutes later, I was at a stop sign waiting for the oncoming traffic to pass so I could cross the street. I’m waiting for the cars to pass and I start to hear this horn honking continuously as it is getting closer to me. It’s one of those moments you tell yourself, that’s not intended for me, it’s something traffic related. It wasn’t. It was honking at me on my bike, in athletic shorts, muscle tee, and no makeup. Fuming that this is the 3rd time I’ve been catcalled within the past 20 minutes on my peaceful bike ride, as they pass, I barely take my hand off of my right handlebar and give the truck the finger. I was nervous, but proud of doing SOMETHING. The traffic clears and I cross the street. I continue with my headphones in down the quaint neighborhood street, checking behind me every now and then because of my headphones being in and I don’t want to get hit by a car. That’s when I see the truck that had been blaring its horn at me coming down the street towards me. I immediately take my headphones out and start riding my bike on the side walk so I can put distance between the truck and me. It slows down and they roll down the windows and start cussing me out and screaming at me. “You stupid fucking slut, what the fuck is the matter with you, bitch? Fuck you bitch. Fuck you and the whore mother that spawned you.” Obviously I can’t remember everything these two, African-American, 40-ish men were yelling at me because I was trying to deescalate and was absolutely terrified. They kept on me for half a block screaming obscenities at me, and their closing remark was, “Just you remember who’s in charge. The Blacks.” I don’t know why they made it about race, but they did. I hadn’t even been able to see who was in the truck in the first place because the windows were tinted. We reached a stop sign and I waited for them to turn so that I could wait and go the opposite way. They turned left, I turned right and immediately went into a stranger’s carport and parked my bike. I hid in there, shaking uncontrollably, and trying to figure out what to do. I hadn’t seen the plate and I knew I wouldn’t be able to ID them. I kept peeking back out to see if they were circling the house or anything. I ended up rushing to my friend’s house, who luckily lived a couple streets over. She wasn’t home, but two of my best friends were by her pool, and I sobbed and told them what had happened. Only a couple people know this story, and I haven’t told my parents because I know they’ll tell me that it was my fault because I gave the guys in the truck the finger. I had been wanting to stand up to catcallers more, but this makes me overthink doing so. It makes me overthink it more than women already do.