I will never forget my first trip to New York City.  I was seventeen, and my twin sister and I had been hired for an exciting project.  We traveled, independent of parents and safety-nets, from our Southern hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, to the Big Apple, to take part in a reading of a brand new musical. We were green to the industry and to the buzz of the city, but we had earned our way into the cast, and we were going to be working with industry professionals and personal heroes.  To this day, I get goosebumps just thinking about my fist cab ride, passing Madison Square Garden, Bryant Park, and the giant star in the walk-way that always lives in the pavement outside of Macy’s.  I had finally ‘arrived’ and the concrete walls of the city seemed to be all mine to explore and conquer.  I mean how hard can it actually be to navigate the subway?  Life seemed like it was finally starting. 

The first day on the job came and went, and the city opened its arms wide to greet us.  My sister and I literally wore out our tennis shoes exploring every inch of Central Park and every Hallway at MoMA.  We tirelessly learned our lines and practiced our harmonies as the joy of what was happening grew more tangible each and every second we spent ‘working in New York.’ 

Week two rolled around and it was a Sunday morning.  Naturally, we had no rehearsals scheduled so the day was ours for the taking.  We got up early, got dressed to meet the day and headed to the subway station closest to our condo, planning on making the journey to midtown to student rush some tickets for a matinee performance featuring a cast member of ours.  We arrived at the subway station and, seeing as it was early on a Sunday morning, the station was pretty much deserted save for a young couple with a baby in a stroller.  We excitedly waited for the train to arrive, gushing about compliments we had individually received in rehearsal a day prior and deliberating where we would stop to grab a cup of coffee.  And that’s when we collectively noticed we were being circled.

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Two men, easily in their late twenties, had arrived on the platform and slowly began walking, one clockwise and one counter clockwise around my sister and me.  As their circles around us grew tighter, our talking grew more manic.  Every stereotype and horror story I had ever heard about ‘the dangers of city life’ rang in my ears, as my sister desperately tried to lock eyes with the young couple, who incidentally, were purposely looking away from our current situation.  One of the men began to whistle.  God, where was the train?  I willed it to arrive so we could make our escape. 

The other man, whose circles still grew tighter around us, then said, ‘You think you’re hot stuff girls?’ As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I never had considered myself more than ordinary by today’s standards, and I was brought up in a home where ‘modest was hottest’ so every lame attempt I had made to liven up my look was often met with grave disapproval. Neither of us replied. The men stopped walking but continued to talk at us, making demands and asking us questions. One called us ‘princesses’ but his voice was oily, and a word meant to signify royalty and worth, suddenly stripped me of all my self-esteem. The other, commented on how we were identical and that it would be ‘like getting two for the price of one.’  They both laughed. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But then the train came. And we got on, leaving the men to make final comments about ‘those bangin’ asses,’ before the doors closed and the platform disappeared behind us into blackness. 

On the train we said nothing to each other.  My face was still hot from embarrassment.  We both knew we had gotten lucky.  To this day I am grateful to have been lucky, but it is hard to know that others have not been so lucky.

I will never be able to forget my first trip to New York City. 

I will never be able to forget what they said. How they said it. How I felt threatened and violated.  

I will never be able forget what it felt like to be hunted.  To be circled.    

I will never be able to forget how one interaction, over four years ago, still negatively colors an experience, that I, as an intelligent, strong, and hard working, seventeen year old, deserved to be colored with nothing but joy.  

I can’t talk about my first trip to New York City without remembering that story. 

And now, I will never be able to remain silent until stories like this one are no longer a crushing reality. 

Throughout my life, I’ve never been one to raise a flag of activism and speak up in regards to political or societal hot topics. It’s not because I’m apathetic, but more or less because I’ve always been afraid of stepping on people’s toes. Growing up in the South, I was trained to adopt the mindset that politeness is paramount.  In some ways this mindset has gained me great opportunity and respect among friends and co-workers and I am grateful for the comfortable and  happy childhood I experienced.  But in the wake of the Isla Vista killings, which was born out of a troubled, misogynistic mindset, I have realized that now is not the time for silence, but for loud and righteous indignation. 

I am proud to support the #YesAllWomen movement.  I am proud to raise my voice about the horrors of rape, assault, sexual harassment, sexual objectification, domestic unrest, misogyny, sexism and inequality.  I stand with hundreds of thousands of both women and men, in calling for a global take-over and a resounding change.  Day after day, my Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter feed are filled with stories; stories that are attached to red-blooded, intelligent women, women with husbands and families, women who have souls, who have faced both physical and verbal objectification in broad daylight, while bystanders stood around silently watching.  My heart breaks as I nod at the familiarity I experience in reading each and every one of these tales.

I am here to tell you, silence kills.  Silence is polite and submissive.  Silence doesn’t instigate change.  We have to start holding the world accountable.  I often times wonder what would have happened if I had stood up to those men at the Subway station, so long ago.  If my seventeen year old self had found the courage and the articulation to let them know their actions and words were not simply rude, but hate filled harassment.  We have to stand up for each other, empower each other.  I want someday to find myself in a society that has deemed campaigns such as the #YesAllWomen movement irrelevant, because enough people raised up their voices to dictate actual change in the world. 

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I am here to tell you, silence kills.  Silence is polite and submissive.  Silence doesn’t instigate change.

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This is a call to action.  Ladies, now is not the time to ignore the noise, but the time to become a united voice.  Tweet, write, paint, argue and debate, no matter the medium, no matter the time or place, get your voice heard.  Invest time and energy into encouraging the men and boys in your life.  I hate that one rotten apple can ruin the whole barrel. I have a twelve year old little brother and he still seems so new to the world.  Everything is still wonder-filled and hopeful to him.  I have made it my ambition, to uplift him and encourage him.  I invest time and energy in my relationship with him, and when he asks me tough questions, I answer. I will not stand by and watch him grow into a “rotten apple” (it’s a silly metaphor but you get what I mean). As a thought provoking blog on the elephant journal recently suggested, ‘In order to create a space for women to exist safely and equally - we are going to need men… We need to humanize our roles, throw away our stereotypes, and stop painting our babies cribs blue and pink.’            

It is through the collective that we can create change.  I for one, don’t think I can go on living in a world where shootings and stabbings, acts of mass violence and murder born out misogynistic bull shit, have become common place in the news.  I will never be able to forget how I heard about the Ilsa Vista killings… I was in my car driving to Target, and I heard the news on the radio and I wasn’t surprised by it at all.  In fact I felt nothing, because in a horrific way, I’ve grown accustomed to hearing such headlines. 

Something’s gotta give. Raise your voice and share your story like so many brave others have before you.  #YesAllWomen is millions strong and growing by the minute.

 

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