My body, my right. Fuck you.

When I was 9, I used to live in India.. We had construction going on in the area we lived in. It was government funded construction for building hospital quarters where my mom worked. We would see new construction workers every day. What did you know when you were nine years old? We were told to stay away from the empty construction buildings, because once you go in there, there are 7 floors and no one would ever know what happened to you. In the hot summer days, I would walk back from where I got dropped off after school (2 blocks away from my house) and be in my own world, when... the bhaiyyas (otherwise known as construction workers/low-caste laborers) who would look at you in the most perverse manner, scanning you from head to toe and singing songs while smoking a "beedi" (cigarette). I remember, when my cousins used to come to India for vacations from England, they would bring me pretty little dresses. There was a cotton orange dress that I particularly remember. It was a floral dress and my favorite because it had a backless pattern at the back of it. When my friends and I used to go out and play, it was in the construction zone. I once had a "bhaiyya" come up to me and look at me in the most perverse way while asking me my name, where I study, and where I live etc. God knows what his intentions were. Even while being a kid, and without having any knowledge of the sick world at the age of nine, we somehow knew it was just wrong. What could we do? Nothing.

When I turned 11, we came to Canada. A new place, new people, new everything. We lived in somebody's basement, where I was assaulted for the first time. It was for no reason. It was not needed. I didn't ask for it. In the same neighborhood in Malton, I went to middle school. I was writing my EQAO in grade 6. I had to stay after school to write it. And I called mom that I will be coming home at 5:00 pm instead of 3:00 pm. She said she will walk there and get me. For the first time, I said, "No, it's okay mom. I can walk home on my own."  I was just showing a sense of responsibility and did not want to make her walk to school everyday. We didn't have a car in the second month of living in the country. She would just walk back and forth to my school, as well as my brother's. I started walking home. It was HOT. I took off my cardigan and I was wearing a pink tee, I very clearly remember. Two guys from high school were walking parallel to me. I had my eyes to the ground, not even trying to look at them, or even imagine what the consequence of looking at them could be. They yelled something. I paused and looked towards the right. I didn't understand it. I kept walking, even at a faster pace. They yelled, "Hey you, the girl in the pink!" I looked back, and heard them. They said, "Nice a**!" I kept walking, almost jogging now.. I was so consumed in my own fear, panting as I walk, and I didn't realize they were now following me. He ran out of nowhere and spanked me. I remember bursting in anger, turning around and hitting his shoulder as hard as I could. They laughed and went away. I was weak, and young. I could do nothing.

I moved onto grade 8. New class, new school. I remember our uniforms. White cotton shirts with navy blue pants. I was skinny back then, and had a nice body. I particularly remember a set of pants that I got stitched from a tailor, that fit me perfect. Not the generic loose fitting pants, that every student wears. It was my choice. So, what? Does that mean I asked for an assault? We had a cupboard in our class room, where we would keep cups (to drink water). The teacher didn't want everyone going out of the classroom to drink at the water fountain. So, she provided everyone with cups with our names on it. We would line up by the sink in the classroom to drink water. A Bengali guy would always line up behind me. I had a crush on him. He was the smartest kid in the class, yet a pervert. He would try to squeeze your ass if you were in the line in front of him. He knew half the class was filled with immigrants and we did not have the nerve to complain. We did not have a tongue in our mouth to even explain what had happened. It went on till school ended. I shared it with one classmate one day. And it happened to her too. Together, we cursed at the guy in his street, near school and got rid of our anger. His mom heard half of the things we yelled outside his hosue. I hope he got beat up. What did we do? We did something if not a lot, to voice our opinion. And so should you. 

Then, I grew into a teenager. Living in a different area, going to a high school. The stares, comments and the lust increased. Guys would scream all sorts of things. "Hey sexy!" "Wanna go for a ride?" "Wanna ride me, instead?" to all the girls on the streets. I am not claiming I was the only victim. It would happen to pretty much all my girlfriends, even when we were walking the streets in groups. Self-defence is easier in a group. Can you imagine going out on the street where you don't have to worry who is going to look at you, and what they would say? Can you imagine a subway ride home, without the possibility of letting someone touch you by accident (even though it wasn't by accident)? Can you imagine people not purposely bumping into you, just to have their elbows or arms touch your breasts? Can we have our safe streets back? Where women can go out in whatever clothes they prefer, without being worried about rape possibilities? Think of all of those stalkers we've had, just randomly following us on the streets.

Now, I am twenty one. And as I go out, on to the street, and I see a man saying "Hey babe, sexy legs!" I ignore. He was black, and then he said, "No response to a compliment?" I said, "It's hot, leave me alone!" And then he says, "You're a bitch, eh.. I just sent a compliment your way" (real experience). I said, "Yeah, just not yours, now fuck off."
Today, after all those years of stares, comments, touching, taking advantage of my vulnerability, I can handle myself in whatever attire I choose to wear. Because I don't give a fuck anymore. How many times does it take for you to realize that the people on the subway, guys standing outside street corners, riding by in their cars, are fucking perverts and could be potential rapists. Who knows? We are not sexual objects. We are humans. We are women. We have the right to our own body.

By sharing this, I mean to reach out to women (probably younger women in middle/high school) who are experiencing this. You're not alone. Reach out and talk to someone. Don't let this be a casual thing. It's not. You never know if that stalker of yours finds the perfect opportunity to tackle you one day. Make complaints. Talk to neighborhood communities. Call the cops if you feel unsafe. Report to school police. Tell your parents. Tell your friends. Share it. Don't be embarrassed. What you are hiding inside could result in a bigger problem tomorrow. Thanks for reading. And I would be happy to know even if I reached out to ONE person out there with this post today.