You Do a Lot of Hoping

JAZZ WARD

The blue tricycle catches your eye. It sparkles in the sunlight and the little girl riding it seems to be about your age. She’s new. You’ve lived in your house for about three years now. You and your mom walk the three houses down to meet the new neighbors.

She becomes your best friend and your childhood is spent at each other’s houses. It’s not until you’re nine that you question why you can’t stay over past dark. It’s not until you’re ten that you cry to your mom about how unfair it is that your brother can walk home anytime he wants. It’s not until you’re eleven that you understand why.

You love living in Saint Paul. You know all your neighbors, you have a park one block away, and the hills are great for sledding. Best of all, you can play fetch with your dog every weekend. You feel like an independent woman the day you get to walk your dog by yourself.

And you feel like a scared child when the old man drives slowly beside you. You feel helpless when he asks your eleven-year-old self if you have a boyfriend. You hate yourself when you smile and laugh pretending nothing is wrong. You’re relieved to see your house a block away. You don’t ask to walk the dog anymore.

You’re eleven and walking with your friend on Grand Ave. You’re wearing your favorite outfit: white shorts and blue flowy top. You feel older and sophisticated. A group of men across the street yell out to you, “hey ladies come on into the bar with us.” You throw the top out when you get home.

You’re twelve and excited over your first pair of denim shorts. Your friends all have them. You’re heartbroken and angry when your mom tells you to change. You scream and cry and call her names. Why can’t she let you fit in? You’re too young to notice how scared she is to let you out of the house by yourself. You’re too young to see her panic about you becoming a woman. You’re too young to understand how scary it is to be a woman on her own, let alone a girl.

You’re fourteen and you’re so excited it’s finally hockey season again. You and your friends will be at the state tournament all by yourselves. It’s not until you’re there that you understand why the older girls stay in groups when they go to the bathrooms. Young and old players all around grope and catcall you and your friends. They laugh. They smirk. And they don’t care.

You’re sixteen and finally able to drive. Freedom is yours. You’re even excited to pump gas. The guy parked next to you leers at you and asks if you’re a Pilates instructor. He’s old enough to be your grandfather. You shield your eyes, give a polite laugh and shrug off his comment. It’s not socially acceptable for you to yell and be offended.

But why is it socially acceptable for him to comment on your body?

You watch the Kavanaugh hearings and finally understand why your mom can’t sleep until you’re home at night. And honestly, you finally get why men and women don’t come forward with sexual assault allegations.

Truthfully, at this point, you’re more confused as to why any person comes forward at all. Theoretically, you understand, they want the perpetrator in jail. But realistically all that happens is that they fall victim to more bullying and assault. You realize that you never told your parents about your experiences with creepy men. And you realize that you don’t tell them because it seems to be normal.

You don’t know what to wear anymore. You feel pretty in your strapless maroon top but you’re told it’s too revealing when you’re traveling on your own. And honestly, you agree.

You’re comfortable in your white tank top. Then the volleyball ref asks you to cover up because you look like you’re wearing a bra and she’s “embarrassed for you”. You wear a Wild jersey and your brother has to tug you closer to him because he’s scared for you when you pass a group of men shouting obscenities.

You’re almost eighteen and you still don’t walk alone at night. You’re almost eighteen and you still don’t pump your gas at night. You’re almost eighteen and you’re more concerned about getting sexually assaulted in college than actually getting in.

And they tell you to take an Uber. “It’s safer. You won’t be walking alone.” But it’s not being alone that’s scary. It’s realizing that you’re not alone. Uber doesn’t calm your nerves. Because your rides are spent checking your maps to make sure your driver is going the way they’re supposed to. And you’re busy texting the license plate to your mom because all you see on the news are unsuspecting women being assaulted in cars.

The saddest thing about this speech is the fact that most of the women in this auditorium aren’t even surprised about the experiences that I’ve had. Because some of them HAVE had experiences that were worse.

You’re supposed to have all the answers by senior year. It’s your speech and you have to inspire those 9th grade girls. Give them advice, tell them how to survive in this world. The truth is, you don’t really know what advice you could possibly give them. It’s scary out here and you desperately miss the days when you didn’t understand. Because now it’s clear, now you understand that one in four women are sexually assaulted in college, you understand that you can’t run alone at night because so many female joggers are raped and murdered, and you understand that you can never unlearn these facts. You hope it changes by the time you have kids. You hope you don’t have to laugh when a man offends you. You hope you can run at night one day. You hope you can walk home three houses without feeling afraid. You do a lot of hoping.

TANA OSOSKI