I have been to seven different European countries thus far and I have been able to note unique cultural traits in each that may differ from those in the United States. But one thing has remained constant even after crossing the Atlantic: the sexual harassment of women.
I was having a divine lunch in front of the Eiffel Tower on a crisp Autumn day. My friend and I had found a local market just an hour before. We strolled down a charming Parisian cobblestone street and purchased fresh cheese, bread, and meat. We felt so city savvy, just like the locals, and yet we had only been in Paris for about a day.
A night bus from Amsterdam dropped us in the city at 6:30 in the morning. The closest metro stop was shut down upon our arrival so we had to wrangle a taxi to our hostel in the Latin Quarter and scavenge for breakfast. It was a big task before the sun had even come up but we felt good being able to manage it. Without missing a beat, we headed out to conquer the city after changing at our hostel. With little to no sleep in our systems, we visited the Pantheon, shopped, strolled through a park, and ate crepes in front of the Notre Dame. So of course, by day two, we felt like seasoned professionals with this traveling thing. As we packed up the remainder of our charming picnic in front of the tower and headed to the metro, my friend said, “we have Paris in the palm of our hands.”
We went down into the metro and bought our tickets. We checked a map. We got on an escalator to get to the right platform. That was when I felt Paris leave the palm of my hand. I was in someone else’s palm.
It took me a moment to register what was happening. I felt something touching my backside. Then I realized it was not my friend. That was when the panic set in. I registered that someone, a stranger, was actually groping my butt. They were grabbing me, touching me, as if it were their right to do so.
I flushed red, yelled, “Whoa,” and pushed my way off the end of the escalator. I grabbed my friend’s jacket and tugged her to the corner with me, shouting, “Get him away from me.” Then I started crying.
I was crying for so many different reasons. I cried because I felt violated and used. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I felt dehumanized and objectified. I felt put in a position of submission. I felt weak and afraid and mostly angry because moments ago I felt strong and confident. But that man stole all of my poise and joy with the palm of his hand.
I pulled myself together and we continued on our journey. I pulled my baggy sweater down lower over my backside. When we went to the hostel, I changed into a looser skirt. Then I stared at my empty palms.
One thing is universal: sexual harassment. In every country I have traveled to, I have experienced the sting of a society that fails to teach men how to act but never fails to teach me how to behave. The governments change in every country but the weight of misogyny and patriarchal ideals is always present. And these statements might sound dramatic but after experiencing harassment and its resulting fear so often, I can’t help but be so.
These experiences have not completely emptied my palms of the treasures gained through my traveling. I won’t allow them to have that power. But the point is that these things happen so frequently that I must grip very tightly to my self confidence and feelings of independence so that they cannot be so easily stolen.
This journey has shown me that no matter how progressive my own little bubble back home feels, there is much more progress to be made outside of it. The world does not progress collectively and so our efforts to fight sexism should not wane just because of the progress made in our own small communities.
In the palm of my hands, I no longer hold all of Paris, but I do hold the motivation to change this situation.