By Miya Jones
The hustle and bustle of New York City’s Penn Station was as normal as the sun rising. It was organized chaos as usual, and as I darted past the crowds of confused tourists and tense workers, I focused on getting to my meeting with a friend who worked at a major publication. I knew for me—a recent journalism graduate—it was a much-needed talk.
After I eventually separated from the crowds, and regained my personal space, I saw a man in the corner of my eye mumbling in my direction. I picked up my pace and prayed he was talking to someone behind me. He wasn’t.
I couldn’t make out everything he was saying but based on the gray in his beard, I knew he was too old to be giving off the vibes he was giving me.
I eventually heard him slur out the words, “Can I walk next to you?” I said no. I grew increasingly uncomfortable as he continued to follow me. He asked why he couldn’t walk next to me and I said I needed to get somewhere. I walked faster.
That’s when I felt his hand pull my shoulder back. I pulled away, sped up and told him to get away from me. He said something else, but I didn’t care to know what. I just tried to put as much distance between us as possible.
I didn’t know what his intentions were, if he had a gun or if he would go further. I also remember thinking, “I don’t want to be the next tragic story on the evening news.” I wondered if any bystanders would intervene, but they either stared awkwardly or ignored the sexual harassment I was forced to endure.
I felt a warm rush of fear, embarrassment, isolation and paranoia all at once.
A few minutes after, another man came up to me not knowing what just happened. He stared me down, smiled and said, “It’s not that bad.” I assumed he was trying to be nice, but what just happened was bad, and what he said was the last thing I needed to hear. I just wanted to teleport out of Penn Station and be by myself.
Street harassment is one of the many burdens women have to struggle through. The fear of being violated in some shape or form is real. An extra challenge presents itself for Black women. Like everyone else, Black women have meetings to get to, people to see, and goals to accomplish. On top of daily obstacles, we deal with the duel weight of sexism and racism while just trying to live life and thrive.
Malcolm X once said, “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman,” and this rings true.
The recent documentary, Say Her Name: The Life and Death of Sandra Bland shows Sandra Bland’s story and how being a Black woman was a death sentence when Brian Encinia, a white man with a fragile ego and a state trooper’s badge, pulled her over and forcefully encaged her, leading to her death in a Texas jail cell in 2015.
As Sandra Bland’s case tragically reminds us, Black women are always antagonized as aggressors who are too mean, too rude, too strong, and too stuck up, and thus deserving of forceful punishment, violations of our bodies, space, and dignity, and a suppressive hand to coerce obedience. And when we challenge (cishet) men by refusing their orders or advances, we are punished in ways that prove fatal.
We expect the state, by way of law enforcement and the structures that militarize and legitimize them, to murderously punish us. But instances of intra-communal harm and violence, also showcase the ways in which Black women, especially Black trans women, are under-protected in a colonized community.
In 2016, 29-year-old Janese Talton-Jackson was shot and killed outside a bar after she rejected a 41-year-old man. Shemel Mercurius was just 16-years-old when she was shot in a Brooklyn apartment while babysitting her 3-year-old cousin by a 25-year-old man who didn’t know how to handle rejection.
For Black trans women, these incidents of violence are especially dire. Just last week, Candice Elease Pinky was shot after a man chased her down in Houston. He is still at large.
While we can recognize that because we live in a racially segregated society, we’re more likely to experience violence from those within the same racial group, the murderous sting of toxic masculinity within the Black community undoubtedly cuts deep.
Stopstreetharrassment.org did a study and found a 40% difference in street harassment experienced between men and women. It also stated 48% of Black respondents received verbal harassment compared to Hispanic respondents at 45% and white respondents at 36%. Also, 38% of Black respondents reported physically aggressive harassment compared to Hispanic respondents at 33% and white respondents at 27%.
Verbal and physical harassment often goes unchecked or is excused as the expected behavior of young boys and men, thus opening the door for men to escalate their harassment of women to the point that abuse, traumatization and fatality are commonplace.
We know that Black girls and women are sexually assaulted very often given that we’re seen as “too fast” and “too grown,” and thus deserving of such abuse. The Black Women’s Blueprint stated that 40 to 60% of Black women report being subjected to coercive sexual contact by age 18.
What went through my mind as a single, young Black woman when I was grabbed was fear and the possibility of the situation escalating to rape or another criminal offense. I thought about other women like Janese Talton-Jackson and Shemel Mercurius. When I came back to Penn Station to head home, I was still paranoid and afraid that I would see him again.
Being harassed is such a terrible experience that literally transforms how Black women go about life. The tension and anxiety stays with us as we walk the streets hoping for peace and safety, and not catcalls and non-consensual touching.
Black men should not take this piece as hyperbole. The danger Black women face is real, and an immediate end to this form of intra-communal violence is an absolute necessity for something beyond mere survival.
Miya Jones is a writer, journalist and producer who has written for Essence, Newsday and The Long Islander. She is also the founder of the Long Island-based website Shades of Long Island, a media outlet that cover minorities, millennials and generation z on Long Island. For more info. you can check out her personal website and follow her on Twitter (@miyajones1996), Instagram (@miyajones1996) and Facebook (Miya Jones).
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