What were you wearing?

The recent news in London about Sarah Everard, the young woman who was murdered on her walk home has brought back memories of an experience I had one night in Toronto, 48 years ago. It's odd that I should think of it now, I who reads and watches so many crime thrillers. Why is it this that has spurred me to write about my experience when for years it's been tucked away in my memory? When I have watched so many shows about women (and men) being stalked and murdered? Perhaps by the end of this post I will know.

I was a 20 year old college student, living for the first time away from home. I shared an apartment with a good friend, a bus ride away from campus. My friend hitchhiked around Toronto quite a bit but I had never been brave enough to try it. Until one autumn night, when I was on my way (ironically) to my first self-defense class and I missed the bus. There wouldn't be another one for an hour, so I decided I would stick my thumb out. I was almost regretting doing it when a car pulled over. It was an older car and I got in, putting my bag firmly on my lap. Those were the days before seat belts were compulsory; a good thing, again ironically. 

The driver was in his 30s, said his name was Joe and asked me my name. I gave him a fake name and told him that I was going to my "regular" self-defense class on campus. I tried to sound very self-assured and maybe that was my undoing. For days afterward I wondered if he thought I was "easy," a college girl who deserved anything she would get. Such was the judgment on women then, and maybe even now. But I was nervous and my heart sank as he drove past the campus. He accelerated every time we came to a stop and started shouting obscenities at me, telling me what he wanted to do to me. I was terrified and I do know what people mean about instincts for survival.

He veered off the main road, down a dark road and I began to look around desperately. I noticed a lighted building to the left and, not much farther, he veered down another road and then pulled to a stop. As soon as he braked, I jerked open the door and almost fell out. He tried grabbing for my purse but I managed to pull it away--it may sound strange that I wouldn't just leave it but I didn't want him having my information--and ran around the back of the car and into the brush to the side of the road. I knew where I was running to--that lighted building--and I ran faster than I had ever run before. Why he didn't try to pursue me on foot, I don't know. He could probably have caught up to me as he was, as I said, in his 30s and had the build of a construction worker. But he got back into his car and raced along the road, trying to block me from crossing the road to the building. But he overshot and I ran behind the car and towards the building, praying that there would at least be a night guard there. My would-be attacker slammed on his brakes but as he saw someone emerge from the building, he screeched away.

The men in the factory--it was a glass factory--were very kind. They wanted to call the police and I probably should have let them. But I just wanted to go home. The foreman very carefully assured me that the person he chose to drive me home was a "good, family man" and I would be safe with him. I remember the man talking to me on the way home, telling me how lucky I was but I don't remember him chastising me at all. His concern seemed to be for me to feel better.

When I arrived home, my flatmate was there and, after hearing my story, she said we should call the police. We did and after about an hour, they arrived. Two men in plainclothes. The first question they asked, after I told them what had happened was, "What were you wearing?" I pointed to my jeans, t-shirt and buckskin jacket. I hadn't even taken my jacket off as I was so cold, shock probably. Ironically, when I called my boyfriend in Montreal later that night, he asked the same question.

To this day, that's what I remember about the police--that they asked me what I was wearing. And that they called two days later and asked if I could take them back to where it had happened because, apparently, another girl had been attacked that night. They didn't tell me how she was; I don't remember asking. They just told me I was very lucky and that I probably shouldn't be hitchhiking. And that was the last I heard of him. I put the episode away and decided to limit my going out at night alone; from then on, I only ever went out with friends. It's funny that I never realized that until now--it's a detail I had forgotten. That I never went out again at night in Toronto unless I was with friends who would see me home. 

So, there it is. I only hitchhiked once after that, during the Hamilton bus strike, during the day with my 2 year old daughter along with several others who were also making their way to work.

But I did eventually get over my fear of being out at night. Back home in Montreal a few months after the Toronto episode, I rented an apartment on my own downtown and was often out and about at night. On foot or in the Metro. Montreal was my "home" though, without the memories of Toronto and there were always people around. 

And then, when I moved to England, I would sometimes go home alone at night. Stuck to the main streets, the lighted places. I still know, though, that unlike Sarah Everard, I was still lucky. Because, like Sarah, for women who are simply minding their own business, going home, main streets and lighted places aren't always "safe." And for women who have to work the streets, the situation is worse.

I wrote at the start of the post about knowing why, with such a horrible event in my past, I would like crime thrillers and murder mysteries. I did some research; an old article in The Observer https://observer.com/2018/07/why-do-you-love-murder-10-women-explain/ posited that perhaps women are seeking to know how to avoid their fate. Yes, I would agree. As well, perhaps it's that knowledge is power--the more we understand about murderers and victims, the more secure we might feel with our own behavior. I also agree with that. When I read or watch crime shows I think to myself "Well, I don't do that anymore" (go clubbing or meeting strangers at a bar or walk home alone at night) or "Thankfully I am no longer young and attractive." In a kind of warped way, perhaps it makes my quiet existence more appealing, more comforting?

But, wait, some of you may say, don't you still go traveling alone? How is THAT being quiet and safe? Well, again, because I have watched so many murder mysteries, read so many crime thrillers, I avoid dangerous behaviors. I am friendly but not too friendly. I either drive myself or take public transit and I don't stay out past 7 p.m. And, let's face it, I am at that good senior age where I am not young enough to be attractive to predators who prey on young women and not old enough to be attractive to those who prey on vulnerable older women. I talk volubly about my husband and family, I draw them around me like a security blanket. I am not a woman who is alone and vulnerable. I don't wear expensive jewelry, I don't draw attention to myself. I try to be . . . invisible. I've got good at it.

Still, it's sad that with all the other things we women have "won" in terms of freedom, we still are so vulnerable. That in order to be safe, many women have to be invisible. And that in order to be sympathetic--like Sarah Everard--her family has to emphasize how extraordinary and good she was. When we should say NO woman deserves to be stalked, attacked and/or murdered, extraordinary and good or not.