I read an amazing piece a few weeks ago about street harassment which explained in clearer terms than I have ever encountered, the experience of a woman when a man street harasses her. You see, we are acutely aware that you could just be a perfectly ordinary, kind person, who genuinely just wants to make our day with a surprising compliment. But you could also be our rapist, making his first move. And in that instant, you are simultaneously both of these things in potential – a little like Schrodinger’s cat. Hence the metaphor of describing a street harasser as Schrodinger’s rapist. Here is a poem I’ve written in response to that, and about street harassment more generally.
It’s Not a Compliment / Schrodinger’s Rapist
Whether I’m walking to work or out with my friends
Taking my sister to the hospital or having coffee with my Grandpa
Men will think it’s OK to call out at me
To grab me
To shout about me to their mates and to strangers passing by
It’s not a compliment.
Pyjamas, Bikini, Burka or Sundress
You really couldn’t care less
But please hear me when I tell you
It’s not a compliment.
Your persistent insistence yelling “get yer tits out, love”
The fact that you chose me to talk at
Gawp at
Means nothing.
It’s not a compliment.
Doesn’t matter if I’m having a bad hair day, if it’s a Thursday, Funeral Day, good day, slow day, show day
You will still shout at me. Grab at me. Talk at me. Gawp at me.
It’s not a compliment.
It’s a curse.
I don’t want your opinion, thanks
I don’t need your thoughts
I am who I am, ta
And that’s fine with me.
I need to get where I am going
And you are standing in my way.
You are Schrodinger’s rapist.
You are the kind, gentle man, with no agenda, who just wanted me to know how pretty I looked today
You are the stranger looking to sweep me off my feet
You are the victim of a dare by your callous mates
You are my attacker
And you are my rapist.
You are all of these things,
And none of them.
But if I make the wrong call
If I give you the benefit of the doubt and then you do rape me
Well then it’s my fault.
For taking the wrong street
For wearing the wrong clothes
For being the wrong woman
For making the wrong call.
My fault.
Not your fault for raping me.
So forgive me, kind stranger, when I ignore your calls and keep walking, head trailing the floor, fingers clasped at keys
Forgive me.
Because you are Schrodinger’s rapist.
And society will shame me and blame me
If I judge it wrong, and you rape me.
So please have the decency to understand how difficult that call can be for me
And if you are angry that I would assume the worst of you
Don’t be angry with me.
Be angry with society
For shaming and blaming women when we make the wrong call.
And fight with us, for our overwhelming right
To walk down the street
Not constantly calculating the risk profile of every man we pass
Not constantly aware
Of Schrodinger’s Rapist.