a day in the mall

Last Wednesday, Carmen and I met at the Complex Desjardins. We sat on various benches, going from one place to another to stop by the pharmacy, then buy a hot chocolate, and then simply to sit. We had settled in the food court where I was showing her pictures when this man, who seemed like he was merely walking towards the exit, stopped next to us and says to Carmen, “Excuse me, I just wanted to tell you that you are a very pretty girl.” Needless to say, he interrupted our conversation. We had not looked at him nor had we tried to attract his attention in any way. We were just sitting there minding our own business. Having addressed Carmen, he then glances at me and says, “And you are also a very pretty girl.” We acknowledged him by looking at him, without saying anything and expecting him to go his own way. But he stays there next to us and tells me, “Give me your hand.” (In French, because he was a French Canadian, to give one’s hand connotes a handshake more precisely than it does English.) By then I had had a good look at him. He appeared stained, like a man who isn’t necessarily dirty but looks as if he cannot clean himself of some sort of accumulated filth. The creases of his skin were marked by an unnatural brown. He was thin enough, and his built seemed like that of a tense man, with tight tense muscles wrapped around solid and angular bones. His eyes were round and protruded from his skull. They had an intense look about them. Something about him was off, so I naturally answered no to his request, which he then repeated. I said no a second time. His hand was outstretched towards me, waiting to receive mine. He repeated another time, with a hand gesture punctuating the air and his voice becoming harder, “Give me your hand.” Finally I did, because I felt he was becoming aggressive and did not want Carmen and me to be in any worse a situation. He took it, shook it, and then brought it towards his face as he bowed to me. I tensed up. Maybe he had planned to kiss it, to show that he is the image of some sort of gentleman, but he could surely feel the stiffness of my arm. He brought my hand to his forehead where he rested my ring to his brow for a few seconds. He then let it go and left.

I gave him my hand to get ride of him. I gave in to this shady stranger to avoid a potential reprimand more offending than the original request. Within a few seconds, I negotiated worse case scenarios and acted accordingly. But when the man had left, Carmen assuring me that she watched him go up the escalators and out the building, I became angry. Why did I have to negotiate about what I want to do with my own body? Sure, one can say that the man meant no harm, he simply wanted to compliment two pretty ladies. One can say that I overreacted, that I am overcautious and untrusting, as all city dwellers eventually become. But then again, why should I give my hand to a man I don’t know, who is rude enough to interrupt my conversation and that I don’t instinctively trust? Why must I, as a pretty woman, be put in such position? To give my hand might be harmless, but if I don’t want to, why should I be made to? Why is it that I loose power over my will and my body to assure its safekeeping from the demands of others upon it? Because of his aggressivity, his desire was met, while my will and my body were transgressed. Shouldn’t I have the most rights upon my body? And wasn’t he being rather un-gentlemanly by not respecting my will?

When he left, Carmen said to me that she always becomes defensive in such situations. Through the whole scene she did somewhat look like a cat, crouching back, watchful, and ready to attack. I don’t think men realize what potential threats they can be. A dark night. An alley. A night out boozing when you start talking just a bit too loud and act just a bit too forcefully. A tone of voice. I hand gesture. Mindlessly walking from the bus stop to your apartment in the evening, walking just a bit too close the woman ahead of you. So many times a man might be causing the woman next him to tense up, or look back, or hasten her step. Even the nicest and most harmless man, one completely oblivious to any threat he might pose, can cause caution. A separation of worlds brought on by our bodies. How strange this separation: the men oblivious to it all and the women defensive of each and every one of them. How strange and how lucky they are to be able to walk around at night and speak to strangers without that slight but ever-present fear, somewhat crouching back in case she needs to attack.