My Strength is Yours

I’m walking north on Broadway in the middle of New York City. The northern wind sweeps in and tosses back my raincoat, whipping the tail end up and teasing the corner of my backpack. I walk, and instead of the buzz of people, horns blaring, sirens, bums cursing the world, and delivery men screaming at each other as crate after crate slides down service doors into basements, I hear the gentle lull and laments of Chant d’automne, Op. 5, No. 1. Beautifully the music wanders the streets with me, a discarded bag whips up, swirls in front of me to the strings, and exits on a sewer grates updraft.

I walk. As I pace with the natives, I notice something that I had forgotten among the current debates, propaganda, and sheer hatred that permeates the consciousness of the world.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

There was a young girl, hair back in a bun, perhaps the age of 12 years old, rushing forward with earbuds in, her ballet shoes in her right hand, dangling by twisted laces. A black turtle neck fought the crisp evening air. Eyes down, she pushed past me, and was gone.

I thought of my own daughters.

The world and I walked forward, down the iron clad curbs sunk below ground due to years of decay, yellow cabs churn and honk at bicyclists who dare them with careless turns and a silent hint of fear. So many of these streets are riddled with apathy, brought forth in our limbic minds to assuage the hints of fear we have for each other. I pause at the corner of 30th, and Union Square.

A group of women talk amongst themselves, motioning up with their hands, and I feel they are vigilant for each other. A constant sense of awareness, as it should be ever present, pushes their eyes back and forth as they discuss the costs of coats, and maybe going to 5th avenue. The light turns green, I walk on.

I catch a reflection of myself in the windows of the shops around me. I see a reflection behind me, a young girl sits on the stairs, she holds her knees, and she is so small. I see her rest her head gently on her knees, and her blonde hair struggles against the wind. I notice her. And almost instantly, I am reminded, and changed.

I feel a rush in my blood, my veins, my mind, that I’m responsible for her. That she is vulnerable, and defenseless in a way. I look over my shoulder, and her mother joins her from the door. She holds her hand, and they quickly join the crowd. I pause a moment, and brought forth from my momentary stupor by the life about me, I move on.

I see them suddenly and feel a deeper sense of compassion.

I feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility to protect.

I realize this as I walk, alone, through crowds of people, without much fear of being overpowered, or harmed, or abused, or worse. The men around me don’t blatantly stare at me, undressing me with their eyes, or call out at me, they don’t pose a threat. I don’t have to always be aware of how many men are around me, or if what I’m wearing is too much for someone to bare, turning me into a victim.

I see two sisters waiting for the light, and I feel the fear they live with, every day, and night. A fear I will never truly know.

Being 5’10” and 220 lbs helps a lot in a big city, or just in general; being trained in self-defense, and having the strength to do lethal damage also helps.

The sisters, maybe the age of 13 and 15, huddle together and watch cars go by. I feel for them. I feel for every one of them. I look up and see women walk past me, eyes away from me, ignoring me, part habit, part defense. Do not look predators in the eye, it only draws attention to you.

I want to tell them that I’m no predator. That if they ever found themselves attacked, I would be there for them, to toss off their attackers, and punish accordingly. That if their daughters or sisters ever found themselves accosted, they would have the protection of a man who may not understand their fear, but would do anything to give them safety.

I look around me as I turn the corner and the sun goes down.

I imagined myself standing watch over the young girl on the stairs.

I thought of my daughters.

Was this feeling rooted deeply bringing forth the fruit of realization because I was now a father to daughters? No. I have always felt this way for women. That they are vulnerable in ways I’ll never understand, and strong in ways that, despite all my efforts, I shall never find.

I felt sorrow. That these women had to live in this fear, and in this mindset. I felt sadness, to be seen as a predator or threat. I would get so angry with the posts I would see, or the conversations I’d hear, or the commentary in the media, about how men have been dominating women for ages (which is true), or the way women think it’s ok to write off all of my gender as shit.

I don’t find myself angry anymore. A slight hint of sorrow has replaced it. Not at my own expense, for I can care less about what women think of me. I feel sorrow for their fear.

No woman needs to fear me in this world.

If I’m there, and you need my strength to keep you safe, it is yours.