Women are only taught to defuse bombs thrown at them

My new home was a small yellow room in a dark green house that I shared with an illustrator and an oil painter. It used to be occupied by a dancer who was going away for the summer and sublet her bed to me. The house, which rents for $400 a month on the west side of Providence, has a big backyard and a cat named Elvis. The dancer left me a pillow, clean sheets, soft gauze blankets, and little whitebait fish in the drawer. The morning after I arrived, I momentarily forgot where I was. I panicked until I saw the cream-colored walls of the house and leaves pressing against the Windows. Nobody's home. I looked around. The kitchen has a black and white tile floor and giant jungle paintings. There were freshly picked tomatoes and carrots, their threaded roots caked with mud. A wooden shelf filled with spices, a hard honey pot, a green kettle, a crocodile statue. I followed a string of lights past a dark blue sofa, a mustard corduroy chair. A newspaper lay unfurled beside a half-done crossword puzzle, a small landscape painting and peach-colored yarn. I already have a crush on my two roommates who are not home.

The road to school is two miles away. It's hot in Rhode Island, and the sun doesn't just kiss your forehead like it does on the West Coast. My path is flanked by iron fences, and weeds line the pavement like black flames. Old furniture lay in the street like a sea lion stranded on a beach. People sat on lawn chairs outside hotels and laundromats, white cigarettes scattered by the roadside. In the corner stood a carriage; I can buy fruit sorbet in a styrofoam cup for $1.

As we approached the campus, the streets began to tilt upward, flattening the pavement, and the trees spread their arms in shades of gray. The grass here is lush, unlike the dry grass in California, whose leaves are always yellow and curly. There were boys and girls with flamingo pink hair, cotton dresses, high heels and feather earrings. I looked down at my old sweatshirt and fingered the cheap pearl earrings I had worn for the occasion, thinking I must look frumpy.

The class was in a small brick building, up two flights of stairs. A large window full of glass. The cork panels are studded with tiny holes, nailed with artwork for review. I saw the paper rack where our prints would soon be set up. A room just for writing.

My teacher had a bushy beard, round glasses and a long apron that fell almost to his ankles. He asked us to walk around and introduce ourselves and talk about what brought us here. The 10 students remind me of fairies who specialize in fine crafts: blowing glass, spinning cloth and making pedal-less bicycles. Everyone except me was an undergraduate, and many of them used their summers to make up for credits. How about you? He said. "I just moved here, from California for this course, and I quit. I love printmaking, and I took a course at university, mainly letterpress printing." The teacher said, "Good! It's exciting!" He told us to write our names on tape, pick a drawer, label it. I wrote my name in big letters, "Chanel Miller!!" "Ready to fill the drawer with new prints. He distributed a list of all the items we needed to buy, as well as the items already offered: Single-side frosted polyester film, acetate, ruby red, rubber film cutter, point relief or frosted glass, hydrophilic coated board, rosin, acid, BFK Leaf print paper, stiff cheesecloth, polyester monofilament, defatting agent, direct latex, coating device, Kelendi water-soluble crayon, blotting paper, etc. After class, I walk up and down the aisles of art supply stores, picking things up and looking at price tags. I didn't factor the cost of materials into my budget.

Next class he asked us to follow him back to the darkroom. He taught us how to use the magnifying machine, how to mount the film rack, how to transfer the film to the right lens, expose the latex test paper up, how to develop, how to finish developing, fixing and draining. How to put the transparent emulsion in the center of the positive plate, placed in a vacuum bed, remove the grease on the plate, coated with pine powder on the plate, coloring, soaking in nitric acid; Bevel the edges, place the plate on the press, mix the ink, wet the paper, pat it dry and adjust the pressure. Finally, turn the roller to take off the newly printed pattern and gently put it on the drying paper rack. After several hours of demonstration, a print was created.

I watched intently, standing on tiptoe behind my classmates, frantically taking notes. In the end, I don't know what happened. I was already lost in the first 45 steps. The students began to sketch out their ideas. I sat on my stool and stared at my small scribbles, like the marks left by dead ants on my pages. At last the class was over, and I hurried downstairs.

By the third class, I was further behind, too embarrassed to ask "What is cheesecloth?" I eat lunch and dinner alone. I have destroyed a photographic plate because I took it into a sunny room. Everyone else was skilled and purposeful, preparing their material step by step. I followed them closely to see what they were doing. After class, I went to the administration office. I felt I had made a mistake and needed to take a different class. It's too late to change now. I nodded.

I opened Up Google Maps on my phone and saw a light blue stripe. It was a river. I walked a long way, found the river, walked a long way along the river, and at last plopped down on a patch of grass and cried. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know the name of the river in front of me. I moved to a place the size of a jigsaw puzzle, away from everyone I knew, in order to learn outdated printing techniques. What kind of thinking is that, and why do I think I can do it? Emily followed me around, reminding me that I was a victim of nowhere and nowhere. This life is too sweet. This joy, this creation, belongs to those who are not me.

But just a month ago, when the boss wanted to raise my salary, something made me shake my head. My boyfriend offered to let me move in with him, but something made me shake my head. It seemed illogical, expensive and incomprehensible to come all this way. And yet here I am, sitting in that thought, sweating in that thought. It's the only real choice I've ever made in my life. No one told me I could do it, except myself, which also means no one could tell me I couldn't do it, except myself.

This requires me to trust myself, completely. I never asked anyone if I was an artist when I was a kid. I just make enough space on my desk for papers. I packed my things and walked slowly home to prepare for the next day.

I started going to classes on my days off. I told myself I wasn't stupid and started asking questions. My teachers always took the time to help me and encouraged me to make bigger prints, and soon my prints were the size of a table top. I taught myself to ask for help, and in return, wonderful things happened.

One night, I heard my roommates and their friends in the living room talking about going bowling. I sat very still, afraid to go to the bathroom or introduce myself to so many people. I was waiting for them to leave so I could take a long shower and slice a zucchini into rounds and fry it in a quiet room. Then I heard a knock on the door.

I waited a moment, pretending to be busy, then opened the door. "Do you want to go bowling?" asked the roommate. I don't have a plan. I certainly don't have a plan. My instinct was to decline her invitation, fearing it was out of pity or politeness, like a cashier asking if you need help carrying your bags to the car. But before I could politely shake my head, the person at the table chimed in, "We're going to McDonald's for ice cream after bowling! What bowling nickname are you going to pick for the screen? Don't forget the socks." So I nodded, put a wad of socks in my bag and followed them out the door.

I was homesick because I wasn't ready to go home, but I felt the uneasiness of being adrift in the world with no place to stand. That little invitation and others saved me: driving into a pond and lying on a frayed towel amid thunderous warnings. Driving a cranberry van with Angie, missing a seat, sitting on a squashed cabbage box. Projected Purple Rain on a hanging sheet. Eating cherry pie and listening to an electronic remix of the Seinfeld overture. I had played a small part in their summer, and my presence was probably barely visible in their memories. But I can't imagine living without them, never forgetting what it feels like to be included.

I bought a desk on Craigslist. A nice couple came to deliver. The lady called me, said they were outside. "We can help you move in, but I understand if you don't want us in your house, because you know, people from Craigslist. I just don't want to -- "The man said," How else would she move this table?" I understand what the woman is saying. Even a simple transaction like taking a piece of furniture from a stranger carries an inherent threat. Any time we meet online, we have to look for signs of assault, rape, death, etc. We all know that. But the man did not speak in that language: he only saw a table.

I walked an average of six miles a day to get to parks, cinemas and bookstores on my own, intent on discovering my new territory. Everywhere I go, the same thing happens. It started with an old gentleman who nodded and said, "Good morning, beauty." Then I turned to see who he was talking to until I realized he was talking to me. Confused, I said, "Good morning." I don't even think I should have said anything. Be kind to the old. A bald man said, "Hey babe, you're beautiful." His smile spread slowly, as if his face were unzipped, and I replied, "Thank you!"

These words accompany my walks, as common as birds in trees, and strangers ask me, "How are you?" And I said, "Fine, how are you?" The comments feel too small to matter, like a thumbtack sticking into a thick tire. I sometimes berate myself for being too nice, and for being too quick to smile back. When someone honks at me, I wave instinctively. My default setting is to respond to every greeting. But I realized I didn't know anyone who honked, I hardly knew anyone in Providence, and I didn't need to wave next time. No waving, no thanking, no greeting, I told myself.

I passed three people in a car staring at my legs, smacking their mouths, mimicking the sounds and gestures they made when summoning cats. As I walked away, I felt six eyes caressing my calf. I don't know if non-verbal behavior bothers me more than words, whether I prefer clicking or commenting. I just want to be quiet. At one point, several men gathered on a narrow sidewalk and did not move as I walked through the narrow passage between their bellies.

I started avoiding certain streets. If someone asked me to go one way, I would take another and come back and find myself detouring several blocks. I trained myself to bury my head, avoid eye contact and pretend I couldn't see. Instead of looking up at the trees, I walk firmly, or look down at my feet. Once, a man came up to me and said, "Can I walk with you?" I began to pick up my pace. "Let me go with you." When his footsteps caught up with mine, I just shook my head, gripping the handle of my backpack with both hands, waiting for him to fall a few steps behind. Some men get angry when I don't respond. One man says, "I just want you to get the day off to a good start." But when my body language communicates that I don't want to be looked at or approached, those compliments don't feel like compliments. When they shove it in my face or whisper it in a voice only I can hear, I don't feel like it's a gift. The subtext is: "I like what I see, AND I want it." "But I don't want it, I don't want it." I want to.

Imagine you're walking down the street eating a sandwich and someone says, "Damn, that looks like a good sandwich, can I have a bite?" You think, why am I making you eat this sandwich? This is my sandwich. So you go on walking and eating, and they say, "What? You didn't respond? Don't get mad, I just wanted to compliment you on your sandwich." Suppose this happens three times a day, and strangers stop you on the street to let you know how good your food looks and ask if they can have some. What if people start Shouting in their cars about how much they want your sandwich? 'Give me some! They would scream and honk and drive by. Should you say, "Sorry, no, thank you," every time? Do you feel obligated to explain over and over that you don't want to share because it's your lunch and you don't know them? That you don't owe them anything? It doesn't make sense for them to ask you for something in the first place, does it? All you want is to walk quietly down the street and eat a sandwich. Maybe I made things worse by comparing a woman's body to a sandwich, but do you see what I mean?

I started discreetly recording videos on my phone as I walked past groups of men. I sent a video to Lucas. "How often does this happen?" He asked. "Every day." I said. He asked me if I needed a car and said he would pay for the taxi. I said I liked walking: it was the only way to see everything. Besides, I have so much time on my hands that I'm never in a hurry, and walking is one of the few things I need to do.

One afternoon, as I was walking home from school, a van passed me and blared its horn: I was too familiar with the game now to turn my head. But the sound of the engine didn't go away. I heard the wheels slowly turning on the tarmac. He pulled back next to me and rolled down the window. "Talk to me." He said. I immediately crossed the street and started filming as I went. He was about fifty, with untidy hair, a hat and a thick, soft neck. "Come and talk to me," he said. "I'm lonely." "No." I said.

"Why not?" He said.

"I don't know you." I wondered whether I should laugh or cry at his question.

"Just for a while. I'm lonely."

"No." I said, shaking my head and looking down at my feet. I said no more, too angry. Why should I care if you're lonely? "Please." He said. As he continued to shout after me, I quickened my pace and pretended to walk into a house until he slowly walked away, then ran to the house WHERE I really lived and closed all the shutters. I sent the video to Lucas. He called me at once.

"I want you to rent a car," he said. "I'll pay for it. Don't put it off. If the car rental shop is still open today, go. All right?"

"Yes," I said, "I'll go."

"Thank you," he said. "No more videos. I can't look at them, they make me so angry."

I said okay, he goes back to work. I sat in bed feeling as if I had done something wrong and sent him the video to upset him. He seemed to be saying: If they disturb your walking, why are you walking? It doesn't feel like a solution at all; They forced me to lock myself in a car. I don't want to give up my sidewalk.

I called Lucas back. "That's not fair," I said. "I just wanted to walk home from school. I didn't do anything wrong. I should have been able to do that. You can walk anywhere you want. It's not fair that you don't want to watch these videos anymore. You can refuse to watch, you can choose to watch, and I don't have that option of shutting them out of my life. I just wanted to tell you how I feel. It doesn't matter what I do, it doesn't matter what I wear, it doesn't matter how I do it, because the harassment is constant. I don't have money for a car, and even if I did, I like walking, and I want to keep walking." I began to cry.

There was a note of resignation in his voice. "I feel powerless here. I don't want anything to happen." I know what "happening" means. He sounded miserable, trapped on the other side of the country. One night, when I told him I was working late at the studio, someone had transferred some money through an account paid to me by Vinmore. "To ride in the Lyft," he said, "and get home safely." I get it. He's looking out for me. I promised him I wouldn't walk alone in the dark. But even in the Lyft, I never gave my real address, and the driver never knew where I lived. Security is always an illusion.

Walking down the street is like being dropped a bomb. I fiddled wildly with the wires and broke every one of them. Each time I was unsure which wire would explode, tinkering with it in a sweat. Women are taught to be astute, to be crafty at all times. She had to know how to deal with a succession of bombs, how to politely refuse to give out her number, how to keep her hand off the button of her jeans, how to refuse a drink, that was all she had to do. When a woman is assaulted, the first question people ask is "Can't you tell?" The default answer to that question is always yes, and all she has to do is withdraw from the agreement. She needed to defuse the bomb that was thrown at her. But why should they have the right to touch us before we physically repel them? Why is the door open until we have to slam it?

One day, I tried to read while walking with my headphones on, hoping to appear immersed and busy. I walked a mile. On the viaduct, a man pulled up and said, "Hey, you look like a leader, I like it. I've never seen a girl walk and read at the same time." I began to look up and laugh, as if I had finally seen through the truth of the world, I could not escape! What do you want? What can I do? I stopped, pulled out my headphones, walked over to his window and surrendered. The guy asked me what I was reading, I told him, he asked me my name, I told him, he asked me where I was going, I told him. He asked me if I would be interested in attending the conference where he was speaking, and I said no, and then he asked me if I would be busy, and I said yes, and then I was worried about giving him too much information, so I lied and said I would be moving back to California in the next three days. He gave me his card, and I took it and thanked him. Then I threw it away.

I did it. I gave someone else my time. Can I not waste my energy on this one-sided conversation? Once, IN a coffee shop, I saw a flier with a picture of a pouncing kitten, produced by an organization that aims to stop booing, and a fake business card that said "Don't talk to me" and was intended for cat-lovers. Some people felt the same way and even printed leaflets.

Lucas took a day off that summer and flew across the continent to see me. I showed him the route to the school. I showed him how incredible it was that I had worked so hard. I took him to the printers and showed him everything I had learned. In the evening we open hamburgers by the river. I'm proud to share my world with another person, a world OF my own creation.

When he was gone, I felt that my life had been empty and miserable, like a peach without the stone, without the firmest part, and THAT I had become the squishy mass around me. I had forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of by someone who bought me fresh smoothies, killed centipedes for my room, fanned me with a piece of paper, and wiped my limbs with cold towels. I had forgotten what it felt like to walk leisurely in the sun, sleep easily, and not be on my guard. On top of that, no one spoke to me in the street when I was with him: his presence silenced them.

Men have boundaries that no other man can cross, an unspoken space of respect. I imagine a thick line drawn around Lucas. When men talk to me, the line doesn't seem to exist, and every day I'm forced to redraw it as fast as I can. Why aren't I born with boundaries?

I continued to go to the studio every day. I spent more money on art supplies, couldn't afford to eat out, and stuck to frozen pizza and raw vegetables. Sometimes I'd spend hours working on a print that was either black, blurry or smudged. I started all over again and lost track of time. I turned my notes over until I knew them by heart.

One night, I left the studio at sunset, but the sun was setting much faster than I expected. A few blocks from my house, through the neon pink lights of a liquor store, a man pulled up in a silver car. Not now, I guess. I don't like it. I heard the window roll down: "Let me give you a ride!" He smiled as if he were driving a gold chariot instead of a little Chevy the color of gum foil. He was excited as if we were long lost friends and he was happy to see me. I couldn't believe his wide, smiling face, so confident. I started filming, took three strides towards his car, bent down and put my head in his window. In the video you can hear me asking, "What did you say?" Ask him to say it again. He replied, "Get in the car and let me give you a ride."

"Get on your car you his mother crazy I why get on the car!" "I cried angrily, in a voice so high that I could hardly recognize it. "Fuck you! I said. I remember his smile disappearing like a drop of water on a hot road and he sped away with the steering wheel. Good. I want to. But my limbs began to shake, thanks to the adrenaline, and I staggered to the sidewalk. I looked at the parked cars, trying to make eye contact with the drivers. If he comes back, will you help me? Do you see me? As a glowing little man on the sidewalk was illuminated, I began to run, my backpack beating rhythmically against my back.

I didn't send the video to Lucas. I promised myself THAT I would be careful and get back from the studio early. I was trying to save $6 on the bus fare. It's funny to think it costs $6 to be safe. I know I shouldn't yell at someone when I'm alone at night. Most of all, I felt the look: it didn't count as standing up for yourself, it didn't count as brave. If this gets to my prosecutor, I'll be reprimanded; Defense lawyers would say she was crazy, and she would do all sorts of things, yell dirty words, provoke men. She should have left him alone. Why did she have to walk alone? She risked her life and asked for trouble.

Always her, always her. I never heard a voice ask him why he pulled over, why he trusted me to get in the car, what he would do if I did. People expect how much I should take, take in, and ignore, and they are so free to shout and patter their tongues that they don't have to be afraid to face it personally. Am I too stubborn to walk? Is that too much to ask? The thick tyre was now covered with thumbtacks and nails. I felt the tire deform, tilt, leak. It can no longer function under these conditions.

One warm evening, I was in a coffee shop on Thayer Street, far from home. As I prepared to leave, I sat on a bench outside, waiting for my Lyft. An old man sat down next to me. He turned around and said, "Would you like to try some bell peppers?" Wearing glasses, a soft cotton shirt and a small notepad in his pocket, he looked content and serene. He had a knife in one hand, a piece of green pepper in the other, and the remains of the pepper in the handkerchief on his lap. I stared at the green pepper. What if he poisoned the seed? What if he's a pervert, rubs pepper on his penis, wants to watch me eat it? What if he cuts me with a knife? The little old man patiently took the bell pepper and prepared to hand it to me. And it was at that moment that I thought, I'm losing it. On a warm night, there was a nice man in a fedora sitting on a bench eating a sweet pepper. You can play it safe, but you don't have to be scared all the time. Give yourself permission to enjoy this veg. I took it, ate it whole, thanked him.