Month: Apr 2020

Jess’ Story #quitthecatcall

street harassment

Street Harassment Awareness Week

STOP Street Harassment is an international campaign aiming to raise awareness against Street Harassment – every year they head an awareness week and, it just so happens, my campaign has conveniently cat-call collided head first into it.

I wanted to take this opportunity to begin to share some of the experiences from some amazing women who have bravely said they’d stand beside us in this fight.

These are their accounts, verbatim. They are personal and raw. They matter. They are all too relatable.

I am collating and posting these stories in the hope that, if we shout loud enough, we will quash the victim blaming and stigma associated with it.

This anecdotal evidence is a huge step toward getting out voices heard.

Some will be anonymous, some will not. All are important and are real.

I have asked these wonderful women the same questions to highlight the face that our experiences with street harassment are, unfortunately, all too similar, common and consistent and yet still vastly personal.

In this post I spoke to the wonderful Jess (@kennyyyyy_)

Jess is a wonderful light in the running community. She recently ran her first marathon and proved that training hard, turning up and trusting yourself really can pay off . She’s a wonderfully strong character who I relate to a lot and reminds me that, some times, it’s ok to be silly among the serious.

Hi Jess, you’re part of the Instagram running community, but what inspired you to run in the first place? And when did you start?

I first started running as a teenager, largely due to the classic societal pressures to be skinny (a sadly common reality). I dipped in and out of it throughout my teenage years and university, generally building myself up to 10k, but I was never able to really push myself further or find any proper joy in it as it often went alongside very restrictive diets which obviously aren’t great running fuel! About 2 and a half years ago I threw out my scales, gave the middle finger to diet culture, and started running because I love myself rather than because I hate myself – and this MARATHONER hasn’t stopped since!

I relate a lot to that – to be honest, I started running for the exact same reason. We seem to have had the same experience of running through university too, I think I prioritised cider too much! So we’ve both not always been runners. Does that mean there’s been incidents of street harassment in your life outside of running? What is your earliest memory of this?

There have been plenty! My walk to work is 10 minutes, and I would say at least half of those walks I get some sort of harassment – from a leer out the window to a beep and shout. I couldn’t say my earliest memory exactly, but I do remember being catcalled whilst in school uniform, and even as a fairly attention-seeking teenager I knew how gross that was. I think it felt like an inevitability though, and so we would brush it off as definitely creepy, but expected.

-Have there been many instances of you feeling unsafe on a run? What caused it and what actions did you take in the moment, if so?

One that springs to mind was when I’d forgotten my headphones (which makes me nervous anyway as I can’t take my mind off people around me) and I ended up getting chased through a park by a group of 4/5 lads who’d yelled something at me and I’d told them to fuck off. I’ve also had cars slow down and crawl along next to me, with blokes leaning out the window asking for my number etc. I generally speed up and/or change direction. Sometimes I’ll cut my run short or change my route. To be honest, at this point any male presence on my runs makes me feel unsafe!

That’s horrific. I don’t know about you but I always think of a million witty things to say in response to these situations after but, in the moment, my mind goes completely blank and “fuck off” is usually all I can muster. People always tell me to be carful when responding too – but it’s hard to not want to stick up for yourself! Do you take preventative measures when running – is thinking about your safety normal to you?

I have my mum tracking me on runs, and my partner when I’m staying at his. I also have a whistle on me for most runs. I generally try to stick with very rural routes, I’m lucky that I live somewhere I can run routes avoiding a lot of people!

So is there a certain time of day or any environments you avoid running in?

If it’s dark (evening or morning) I’ll only run in well-lit residential areas, which is a pain in the winter months! I won’t usually run through town centre during busier hours.

And has that affected your behaviours in and out of running?

I tried running in just a sports bra and shorts a couple of times last summer when it was really hot, and I just felt I started to victim-blame myself every time I was catcalled in those outfits (which I would never do to another woman). I just felt so exposed and I’m very wary of doing it anymore so I’ll always wear a t-shirt.

I feel you on that – I have blamed myself before for the actions of harassers but would never even think of doing so to another women! On the subject of victim blaming, have you experienced any negative feedback from people close to you regarding outdoor exercise and harassment?

I’d say the main response from older generations is that I should be flattered/take it as a compliment. The alternative seems to be ambivalence and not seeing it as a big deal. When I was younger there was definitely more of the victim blaming – wearing “slutty” clothing etc meant you obviously wanted that attention. I don’t think anyone would dare say that to me now!

Hopefully attitudes like that are changing. Do you notice an influx in it after certain events? I notice a lot more during sports event, and even lockdown seems to have brought more out of the woodwork!

The worst it’s been for me was when I used to live in Bristol behind the Bristol Rovers home stadium. I remember once I went out for a run without realising there was a home game, ended up getting cornered and followed up my road by a load of rowdy Rovers fans. Never made that mistake again. The pack mentality along with booze just seems to make things a million times worse. Where I live now is so rural that during lock-down I’ve actually experienced it less because there’s just so few cars around, so I count myself lucky for that.

I think, weirdly, being on trafficless roads makes most of us feel safer in that aspect – which is everything our parents probably warned us against. What other measures do you feel would make you feel safe? What would you like to see change?

France criminalised street harassment and started handing out fines and it works! I don’t think it would eliminate the problem, but knowing we have that backing and we have the law on our side would be reassuring at the very least. I’d love to see attitudes to it change, I’d love to see more men calling out their friends rather than laughing off their behaviour and enabling it to continue (that one is a big ask).

You heard it from Jess, we need allies in this fight. It’s important for us to call out harassment when we see it and if we are safe to do so. It’s especially important to hold our friends accountable if we see this. Education is key.

Thank you so much, Jess, for speaking out on this. Your honest account will show others that they’re not alone and it’s ok to speak out.

A Marathon of the Mind

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I’m ashamed to say I’ve never run a marathon.

Everyone and their mothers seem to have ticked 26.2 off their bucket list.

Especially in the social media running community.

There was a time when hitting that kind of distance was for elites only. It was an Olympic event, impressive to the regular hobbyist jogger, seemingly impossible to muggles and, quite frankly, an inappropriate time to spend running if you’re not being paid for it.

Hell, up until the 1967 society told us women’s bodies weren’t designed cope with that kind of athletic stress and there were rules banning us from running them.

But the human body is resilient.

And in the 21st century, the boom of regular, run of the mill, marathoners is sky rocketing.




So, why?

Are we all so bored by our 9-5s that we need to exert ourselves for hours to thrive.

To get that caveman rush of adrenaline?

Deep down, are we just monkeys in Nikes? In need of that sweet, sticky rush of endorphins distance running brings to us.

It makes sense, why we’re still seeking that primal urge to run. It’s in our base DNA. At our peak and over distance, human beings can out-run nearly every animal on the planet. It’s what we’re born for. It’s what we do.

So, yeah, we’re apes. In need of a drug. Of that jolt back into nature.

And, for some reason, we’ve decided that toeing the start of mass participation events is the key to this. It doesn’t hold quite the same poetry as our ancestors dashing across the savannah but, it’ll scratch the itch.

That itch has been bugging me for years.

For the last six of those years I’ve half heartedly signed up for the London Marathon, which has satisfied the craving momentarily, only to be rejected in the ballot, for that itch to move further down my back, out of reach, but still persistent.

I’ve always wanted to have more of a “fuck it” attitude.

I envy spontaneity and, ashamedly, I’ve worked my way out of many opportunities because I’ve been too scared, lack confidence and, though it pains me to admit, have hands down been plain lazy.

Recent events have evoked change in me, though.

We’re all in the same boat,

We’ve all spent hours, lately, day-dreaming about the first thing we’ll do “when we’re out”. Lockdown is a virus induced prison and our release date is, yet, undetermined.

Maybe we’ll get put on bail if we’re all really good and do what we’re told…

I’m no longer scared of fear. I want to embrace uncertainty. I’ve realised my appreciation for what life was before. For freedom. For being unsure.

And, as they say, there’s no time like the present.

That was the motivation for Monday’s marathon.

I say marathon – I ran 26.2 miles. And I’d be a fraud for counting that as a true marathon. I couldn’t currently fathom the endurance of having to keep focussed on that distance all at once. To try and keep my mind and legs in a perfect painful tandem. One day I will conquer it. One day I will feel that sickly, dizzy finish line joy. Until then – multistage feats will have to satisfy.

That’s not to say those miles were easy. My state approved exercise token only covered me for 10 glorious, outdoor, spring miles before it started to feel like I was taking the mick.

The day began like this:

0700: Unceremoniously thrown awake by my alarm. I did not sleep enough for this.

Snooze

0709: Abrupt alarm once more. Scratching around in the depths of my being for enthusiasm.

Snooze

0718: Ok, ok, I get it.

Alarm off. Caffeine.

I shamefully scrabbled for excuses not to start for an hour – The treadmill will wake the neighbours (it might). My housemates might hear (they can’t). I should do some dynamic stretching first (I didn’t). I should eat a bagel (I did).

My reluctance to beginning the run wasn’t from lack of enthusiasm. It was because I had and long, arduous, 25 kilometres on the treadmill planned.

There’s a reason they call it the dreadmill.

Nothing about me looked forward to those starting miles.

The first run scheduled would be my longest indoor stretch. A dull, barely conscious 10k to start off the day.

My legs wouldn’t listen. My feet were barely lifting off the floor. And my head, well, quite frankly, my head was anywhere but the treadmill.

Mile one. Trudge.

Mile two. Trudge trudge.

Three, four, five, mile six was the hardest. Knowing I was staring down the barrel of another 20. Well, damn. Why on earth have I chosen to do this alone?

There’s a lot to be said for crowd support. I never realised how it has carried me through the numerous events I’ve raced. The pain is still there, the battle between your head and your legs, then your legs and head. But at least you get the contagion of cheers to keep you keen.

But not for me. Not today. Today was a battle between me and my tired, anxiety riddled brain. Today was about me proving to me whether or not I had the grit to do this alone. To set a goal and stick to it.

But the morning had definitely began with my brain beating my, lack of, brawn –

“Stop, keep going, stop in a mile, no – keep going”

And this was only kilometre ten. Jesus. I’d better buck up my ideas soon on this solo slog is going to defeat me.

Luckily for me, my past self had scheduled in regular pep talk pit stops – Bagel break #2. My race fuel of choice. A soft, bready delight. A carby ring of hope prior to the many hours of running ahead.

After this, stage 2, was an easy treadmill 5k. Good. Thirty minutes. I can do that. Tiger King and Corona memes were my distraction. The support signs and aid stations of this multistage Monday.

I also had something more to keep me going. Stage 3.

Stage 3 I was really looking forward to. The heat of the past few sticky spring weeks had petered into ideal racing weather. I’d take myself down to the canal to cool myself further. Running past the few other joggers and dog walkers who were cashing in their commute spurred me on.

“I’m running a marathon!” I wanted to cry. “Halfway there!”

But you don’t do that. Not in London. You make awkward eye contact with your passing peer, managing a nod at most, a grunt if you’re lucky.

My enthusiasm for being outdoors, finally off the hamster wheel of dread, was not contagious enough to perk up the grey-mooded city dwellers in the smile-stagnant streets around me. But what did I care? I was running a marathon.

It must have been the comparison to that mornings treadmill traipse but some of those ten miles were the most joyful I’ve had in a long time. I was proving to myself that I could overcome. My head would not defeat my legs and, vice versa, my legs would prove to me that they could keep going. Even if they didn’t want to, they were strong. And I was tenacious.

I rarely feel this.

This affirmation of my ability. Confirmation that I can. And my willingness to work for something I want.

I wont tell you about the final two five ks. They were pretty similar to the first. And, quite frankly, I’m bored of them just thinking back. They were filled with support-seeking calls to friends and out-of-breath Taylor Swift sing alongs.

But I will tell you this –

They made me more sure of myself than I ever thought I could be.

I can do what I find hard.

I can commit and I can triumph.

As I ticked off that final .2 miles my heart fluttered. Slamming the E-stop I stood for a bit. Silently. Then a little whimper.

“Well this is emotional”

“Now what?”

No finish line photo. No bag collection. Just my housemates and homemade banoffee pie.

I sat, sweaty on the sofa and demolished it in seconds.

If all marathons end like this sign me up.

My first 26.2. It’s not a grand story. Just a tale of a runner trying to better herself and conquer corona-induced anxiety.

Of finding something to do to pass another mundane Monday.

And, fuck it.

Yeah.

I ran a marathon.

My Story #quitthecatcall

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Cat Calling.

Let’s talk about it.

When I started writing this post, at the beginning of the Corona-induced lockdown I had my thoughts organised.

I felt calm and concise in what I wanted to say.

But now

Now a fire has been lit within me.

Now it’s time for change.

Recently, I have been sharing my experiences more and more on Instagram, regarding street harassment. I have been overwhelmed with messages of support and solidarity, of well wishes and advice. But what causes a knot of rage in my stomach and has distressed me the most is the accounts of every other female runner on the platform.

I know I’m not alone in this, in the feeling of dread and uncertainty every time I pull my laces tight and cross the threshold of my front door. I knew that before and to have that crushingly confirmed has been the spark that has led me to wanting to take action.

I guess my story is as good a place to start as any.

I’ve spoken to many non-runners in the past about the street harassment of our kind. It often results in the same, age-old, tiresome “but you’re called Cat, wheeey” comment, which I’ve now come to expect so much so that I’ll usually get there first. Saves my eyes rolling, that way.

I’m more than happy to laugh about the serious stuff in life – humour is the buoyant, British way of dealing with most adversity. However, it’s time to lose the smiles, change our grins to war paint and stare this street-born affliction in the face.

The harassment of runners leads to a dangerous precedent for women in most other aspects of life.

I can only speak from my perspective. As a woman who has been pounding the pavements for four years now and, before that, a barely-pubescent teen ambling to the village shop for a Creme Egg, I’ve seen my fair share of heckles, white van whistles and “Smile, love”s.

I’ve been shouted at, sworn at, followed, touched. I’ve chased motorcycles down streets in a blinded fit of rage and I’ve crumbled to my knees after in exasperation. Damning my legs for not being able to keep up with them and my eyes for not being keener.

“Get the registration number, we’ll have a word”

Have a word. That’s what the police officers told me, as I begged them in the street, breathless and bitter for something, anything I could do to stop this.

To not feel safe, to know the law couldn’t protect me, was shattering. In that moment, my confidence in our leaders waned.

Not that my ire is with the police – it’s not. The law doesn’t make their job easy in this matter and, quite frankly, they can do as much as I can with the little information I can maintain in that circumstance.

It always happens so fast. I’m barely able to muster an instinctive “fuck you” before my head is able to spur my body into action. By that point they’re usually just a small, misogynistic dot on an a-road horizon.

There’s a lot to be said for the inclusion of street harassment under the legal umbrella of sexual harassment. In September 2018, France took the steps toward making cat-calling and gender based harassment illegal after a video of a man assaulting a woman went viral, after she confronted his vulgarity towards her.

You’ve probably seen it.

It briefly shook the internet.

Before we all forgot.

Because this aggravating act is so ordinary, such a persistent, accepted element of our existence that we can’t help but sweep it under the rug as soon as it becomes inconvenient.

It did, however, confirm what we’ve been trying to divulge to society our entire lives.

This footage was prime evidence that verbal harassment is a gateway toward other more violent assaults down the line. If you asked any woman this, they could have told you that in an instant.

There is solidarity in the female experience. Not that I don’t have the support from my male peers. But there is a certain amount of nescience in the community. Whenever I’ve posted on social media about the reality of harassment there is always an influx of shock from my male friends and nods of acknowledgement from women.

But how do we expect our male peers to know about these every-day occurrences if there is still a stigma around talking about it. I’m guilty myself of just shrugging these experiences off as “it’s hot out, I’m wearing less, I made eye contact…”. And, whilst I’d never in a million years victim blame another woman with these thoughts, the accountability for my own ‘choices’ does seem to shame me into silence more often than I’d like.

I’m reluctant to say I’ve been fairly ‘lucky’ with street harassment in my running life.

I’ve never been violently attacked.

I’ve never had persistent, unwanted advances for more than a few minutes.

I’ve never had an encounter that’s lead to further repercussions for me.

Is that lucky?

I know plenty of women will be under the impression that, in the same circumstances, they’d feel lucky too.

Because, the horror stories you hear as a little girl seem worse. The terror you read in the media. The influx of warnings to protect yourself, don’t dress like that, carry pepper spray, don’t get too drunk, don’t flirt – he’ll think you’re asking for it, don’t go out after dark, text me when you’re home. The need to carry a wolverine like grip as you walk home from a night out, keys in fist. The stories from friends, from women we love. Who have experienced worse. The feeling that, on any run or night out, that worse, well, that could be me next.

I’m just lucky it hasn’t happened yet.

What a society we live in, to assume that the responsibility of safety relies on our own actions to divert attacks, rather than to prevent attackers being made. That if we only feel slightly threatened that we can count that as a win. That living in a constant state of mild fear is the norm.

So, I want to start talking about it.

I want to quash the stigma of street harassment.

I want us to speak up and the people in power to start noticing.

It’s scary, it’s ambitious and it’s provocative.

Women who have spoken out for their rights in the past have been subject to media abuse, cyber attacks, keyboard warriors criticism. They’ve been threatened with rape and death.

Which is all the more reason to speak out.

Until women are taken seriously, until our experiences are treated with respect this bigotry will thrive.

It’s time to make a change… watch this space.