Saturday Night

Tuesday, August 30^th 11:30pm, 2016, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.

Dear Reader,

     Guess what? Last Saturday night, I realised that I had never been on a girls’ night out before, despite being 21 now, and quite partial to going out over the past three years. Every night out I’d been on had just always been with a mixed group of people. Luckily, that Saturday night would be a girls’ night out, so I was very excited, and I was also going clubbing for the first time in ages! (That is, if you don’t count the time I went clubbing in Edinburgh, so I’ll rephrase and say that it was the first time in ages that I went clubbing in my home town.)

     Normally, I’m not the biggest fan of clubbing because I don’t like the crowds and the noise and being leered at like a fish in an aquarium. That said, Saturday was such fun.

     I got to catch up with an old friend and meet a new friend, and bump into so many people I’d gone to school with who I hadn’t seen in years. The nightclub was different to how I had imagined it too, as if to say that the songs weren’t all incomprehensible remixes of remixes (Oh God, sorry that I sound like such a hipster) and I could dance to the great songs being played like Whitney Houston, Jackson 5, The Chemical Brothers, and so many more.

It was, of course, one of the best nights out I’ve had in ages, but there was just one thing that made my skin run slick, cold at the end of the night.

It’s something that I’m kind of scared to write about because I don’t think everyone will understand its impact. I believe that people will read about this thing with an ‘o’ shape on their mouths and puzzlement in their eyes, because an action of this kind, that I experienced on Saturday night is so small, subtle, invisible even. You could say it’s not serious at all.

And yet, why do I justify myself?

The best thing to do is to explain this incident in the best way that I can and not to feel like I am the culprit in the situation.

I need to write about it because I know that there are readers who will relate.

And so, here I go.

It was the end of the night and so I was making my way across town with my friends towards the smell of pizza, just minding my own business and daydreaming about peperoni.

But, my inner monologue of pizza toppings was interrupted when a rusty voice flew in beside me, just there, next to my ear.

Hello there, lovesss.

It was a hiss,

from a young man I assume; his hiss meant as a way to address myself and my friends.

     It was not well received on my end. Imagine slick, cold skin; My freckles erupting in goose bumps.

I did not like the feeling.

     Sure, there are times when I am in the supermarket buying milk, and the shopkeeper greets me with a ‘Hello, Love’, but it does not spark the same feeling that rose from the serpent-like hiss of Saturday night. I know that the shopkeeper during the day probably recognises my face, and by addressing me in this way, he is just being friendly and wishing me a nice day. That is completely fine with me.

He calls the woman behind me - Miss, and the man behind him – Chap.

But at night, my ears become more sensitive to strangers in the street who call me these pet names, like something you would say to a cat or a small child.

Darling. Babe. Love. Princess.

These are words that have completely different meanings when chosen to label someone who you really do care about, or at least somebody that you’ve talked to over the course of your Saturday night, given the right context.

It is not something you should say condescendingly to a girl walking past you – a girl you’ve never met before in your life.

What sounds better: Getting pizza or humouring a sleazy stranger?

Yeah, right.

And yet, it’s something that I’ve always found so hard to explain to guys that do this because it is something so small and subtle that you wouldn’t even see it. It is not physical. It leaves no scars.

But, it’s still a problem, because when a girl grinds her teeth to smile back at the strange voice that called her his baby, she is only reinforcing the idea in his head that he can call her anything he wants, just because he can.

What other ideas are floating in his mind?

What else does he think he can do to this girl? To other girls?

Of course, maybe it’s not this guy.

Maybe this guy is the nicest guy in the world, and his only flaw is that he’s impressionable so he’s just parroting what he’s heard another guy say.

He doesn’t mean anything offensive by it at all.

But what if this other guy was parroting a really, really bad guy.

When this bad guy hears these other nice guys parroting his actions, he will think that these actions are acceptable, and if the patriarchy is 100% flawless in his mind, then what’s stopping him from executing his ‘superiority’ in other, far more extreme and harmful ways, than simply calling a stranger his baby?

Well, now, what was once a simple action doesn’t seem quite so simple anymore.

This ‘simple’ action of barking a pet name at a random girl in the street is not the fault of these guys or the girl who grinded her teeth and brushed it off.

They are all collectively to blame, like we all are too for fuelling our society in this way.

-Like me, who up until recently would ignore the strange voice in the street or else just start speaking in a foreign language so that the voice would think I hadn’t understood him.

But something inside of me snapped on Saturday night, and my pizza priorities fell to one side for a moment, and I said:

     ‘Why would you call me that in that way? I don’t even know you, and it’s patronizing!’

It’s only now that I realise that I can’t even describe the face of this stranger, because I, feeling threatened, couldn’t look him in the eye.

His friends nearby, two girls that looked to be about my age scoffed at me and said:

     ‘He was only being polite’

And the three of them walked off together; my heart engulfed in a shrinking feeling.

Polite? Really?

It had felt like I was a sheep dog and a farmer had just whistled my name.

So then this guy and the two girls had created mental chaos, just like the hypothetical nice guys who parroted what they had seen, and the hypothetical nice girl who had grinded her teeth and forced a smile at the voice in the street.

If the voice in the street had been kind, or if it had simply said hello, how are you, I would’ve said hello back.

My friends will tell you that I could talk for Ireland, so yes, kind stranger in the bar, I would love to see a picture of your baby, and good luck with buying a puppy tomorrow! I’m sure you’ll find the cutest one.

But, if you have made me feel threatened, then don’t expect me to engage in conversation. And don’t argue with me about it either.

If you’ve offended me then you don’t get to decide that you haven’t. You just have.

     Now you’re probably thinking that me telling you all of this is entirely useless; that you’ve never done anything like the voice in the street has. Well of course, dear reader, maybe you haven’t, but maybe you’re the girl grinding her teeth and brushing it off.

Next time, you could speak up, and say that

you don’t like the feeling,

and even if the voice in the street does not hear or understand, your best friend by your side will listen to your reasons for speaking up, and she will then realise that it’s important not to encourage the voice, and you will have made a difference in the world, even if it’s only a small one.

Maybe you’re a guy, or maybe you’re a girl, who’s seen the parroting guy in action before. I bet you know him quite well. Maybe you could let him know that his actions are quite damaging and condescending.

He could be the nicest guy in the world, but you need to let him know that you

would not like the feeling,

if you heard the voice in the street speaking to you in that way.

There doesn’t need to be a fist fight or a bellowing argument about it.

You just need to speak up.

     Onwards we marched on Saturday night in any case, because our tummies still hungered for pizza. And in the pizzeria of an Italian name, away from the hustling, bustling crowds, we met a bunch of lovely men and women who offered us slices of pizza and asked us all about our lives. In return, we offered them chips and asked them all about their lives.

I must say that even despite my discomfort when I heard the voice in the street, my expectations for my first ever girls’ night out had been met and surpassed, now that the chef had given us a free pizza.

Not a single pet name was used inappropriately there,

and it gave me hope,

that the hustling, bustling voices in the street had the potential to be as kind as the voices in the pizzeria.

So even now, dear reader, if you read this with an ‘o’ shaped mouth and puzzlement in your eyes, I hope that you will agree that the world is better when we’re looking out for each other.

The pizza tastes better when we’re sharing it, and not trying to prove our superiority above each other.

I know, that even through your puzzled eyes, it would upset you to hear a family member or someone close to you say:

I don’t like the feeling.

So then, why is it different for that girl in the street?

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x