Notes from Guatemala III: Unwanted Attention

Trigger Warning: this post contains details concerning sexual harassment and minor assault.

 ***

Chh! Chh!

I'm window shopping in a large-ish city near my site, waiting for fellow PCVs to meet me at the park, when a city bus pulls up alongside the sidewalk on which I'm standing. Chh! Again, the obnoxious hissing. I ready myself. I know what's coming.  Fight or Flight?

Chh! Chh! Negra! Moreniiiita! Colocha! 

The men have begun their ritual. 

 Fight.

I keep my back to them and pretend to look through the window of a cell phone shop. I say nothing, only imagine the men as I think they are: leaning haphazardly out of the bus windows, lazy smiles plastered across their faces, desperate in their attempts to match the bravado of their friends. 

I'd like to walk away, but embarrassment and anger prevent me from turning. If I'm able to size them up, to see their faces, I don't know what I'll say (or do.) It's not fair, but I'll stand there until they're gone.

I wait, and my mind wanders. 

I remember:

It's raining hard and I'm standing at the corner bus stop. An old man makes small talk about the dreary weather, and I return his pleasantries by relating how I was able to run back to my house for my rain boots and jacket. He nods, smiles, and an instant later, I feel his hand on my chest. Weird. I back away, thinking he's made a mistake. Hell, he's old! He might be blind, who knows? Maybe he lost his footing... But then he does it again, his hand groping my breast. 

I say nothing, only react, pushing him away so hard I feel the bones of his old arms twist. He doesn't even seemed shocked, just looks at me with the half-smile of a boy. I almost expect him to shrug and and say, "What'd you expect?" Suddenly, another Peace Corps Trainee is by my side, and we're shuffling off to the bus as she asks me, "Did he just touch your chest?" I report nothing to Peace Corps because it's my decision, and I'm realistic: the incident was isolated and I don't feel unsafe. 

Flight. 

The bus driver pounds on the horn, impatient. As usual, traffic has bottle-necked into a jam as the road narrows. Of course, the men continue their harassment, but I'm thinking about my current site, and those 4 days when a sad drunk man follows me around, mumbling about Belize and wanting to shower with me. 

My town is 3 or 4 streets wide, so he always manages to find me as I go about my day. "Don't worry about it," a shopkeeper says, lightheartedly, as the man wanders over to me, asking me questions in a slurred gibberish only he can understand. Everyone in the shop stares at me as I try to maneuver away from his slow, floundering gait. My host family only laughs when I relay the stories of this troubling cat-and-mouse game, and I join them (though I feel I've put a laugh track in my belly.) Ironically, I'm never really afraid when he happens upon me. In fact, I find the reactions of everyone around me more disconcerting.

When I tell my sister and trusted PCV friend what's going on, they urge me to call the Peace Corps Safety & Security Officer. "Be that Volunteer." My sister tells me. She's talking about being that Volunteer that hounds Peace Corps day and night to keep her safe. I make a deal with myself: if on the 5th day the drunk man bothers me, I'll report. But I never see him again. 

I have a right to report. I have a right not to report. Isolated incident. I feel safe. This becomes my mantra.

With one last honk of the horn and final rev of the engine, the bus spurts off, and the voices of the men fade away against the banging music and chatter of the park. I turn away from the window and make my way across the street to meet the others. 

Another episode of unwanted attention: survived.

Street harassment in the United States always occurs in pockets for me. I know when to cross the street, which streets to avoid, and which men are the main perpetrators. Here, I have none of that background knowledge. It's hard to understand why folks just laugh at drunks instead of getting them away. It's frustrating to see a man cajole his young son into yelling, "Morenita rica!", especially when said son looks eight years-old. It's difficult to hold back when all you want to do is scream at a bus full of idiots interjecting their chest-pounding man-games into your quiet life.

Of course (friends and family), if I ever feel unsafe, I will call Safety and Security.  I will also never stop believing I have a right to my own space. I will never resign myself to believe the harassment "just comes with the territory."

Every person has the express and inherent right to walk down any street without the fear of being cat-called, harassed, or touched. Even as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Selected posts on the subject from fellow PCVs and RPCVs in Guatemala:

I Don't Want You to Make Me Feel Like I'm the Only Girl in the World
Now I Know The Meaning of Machismo 
Guatemala Through My Eyes