I walk to and from work a school , 14 blocks. Every morning and every afternoon. At each corner I have a station. A station that reminds me of a man who violated my privacy.
At each half block I have a station reminding me of a creepy look that makes me feel vulnerable. At every quarter of a block I have a station that reminds me of a comment or a sound made at me, making me feel like a sexual object.
It might seem like an exaggeration. Every day I walk twenty minutes to and from my school and I hear a psssst, a whistle, a mona , mamita , preciosa , bonita etc. Every day. Whether my hair is up or down. Whether I wear makeup or not. This is my suffering. This is my humiliation.
This is my Way of the Cross. Station 1 β Extranjera female foreigner leaves the house. But be careful. Take care. Take a taxi if you come back after dark. Yeah, I have to do that anywhere in the world I go. But my host family warns me about muggings and kidnappings, not the most common type of violence that concerns me. And every other woman in Barranquilla. Though there was one time they told me not to take my usual way, because a man tried to rape a girl. Now I take a different way.
Are you kidding me? I shop at your place and you dare to disrespect me like that?! And so will my host family and our neighbours. There are a few young men working on the site. One whistles. I ignore it and keep going. He whistles again. Think again. Their jaws dropped to that crushed pavement. This was the first time I ever responded to anyone.
