The Parisian Art of Self-Delfense

Self-Defense

The one thing I will not miss about Paris are the Parisian men. Granted, there are creepy and crazy men everywhere you go. But I have never felt so disgusted, violated, or enraged by men anywhere as much as I have in Paris. As a woman in New York, there are very simple and appropriate ways to deal with inappropriate men. If they whistle, you can smile and keep walking, and they will turn back around. If they follow you, you can turn and confront them, make a whopping scene in front of a crowd, and they will flee, embarrassed. If they touch you, you have the absolute right to touch them back, and no doubt whoever is with you will join in. New Yorkers simply do not, will not tolerate violation of any kind, and anyone who thinks they can get away with it will be crudely brought to justice. In Paris, there is no such easy code. Upon our arrival, we were told that, as women in this city, we will have to deal with ridiculous incessant verbal and physical abuse from Parisian men whose reputation notes them to be aggressive, unashamed, and very persistent. Furthermore, we were instructed that the best way to deal with this was to ignore them. It seems Parisian men take the slightest reaction to their abuse as encouragement (whether it be a glare, an elbow in the stomach, or an angry "go to hell!" as well as many worse insults). There is literally nothing to do if you, as a woman, find yourself under siege. In the subway, on the street, in a bar, men can touch you, yell at you, follow you, and the slightest reaction only fuels them on, and then you have an even bigger problem. The only thing to do is pretend it isn't happening, look straight ahead and say nothing. In essence, take it.

Coming from New York, where I've learned to be constantly on the offense--aggressive and angry--and where no one ever refrains from telling you exactly how they feel, this has been quite a challenge. The other night, my friend and I were catching the metro to go out. The platform was plenty crowded and when the subway rolled up, we saw that each car was extremely packed. Knowing it was one of the last subways of the night, we squeezed on anyway to the car that stopped in front of us. Now when the Paris metro is packed, it's packed, people pushing in on each other, slamming full against each other's bodies. No sooner had the door closed that we realized the four or five people standing behind us, around us, practically on top of us, were a group of typical Parisian men who were not going to let an opportunity slip away. One of them leaned his chin over my shoulder and began whispering in my ear. Another did the same to my friend. Using the packed car as an excuse, they leaned heavily against us, slid their hands down our bodies. My first instinct was to turn around and knee them as hard as I could but being taught to take it like a Parisian woman, I said nothing. They began inching closer, on all sides of us, talking, breathing on our necks, touching our hair, our hips, our hands. "Where are you going? What stop?" they asked, their words dripping hot on our shoulders. I began to get angry. I leaned forcefully back hoping to throw them off me, but it only made them smile and continue. The car was packed with other people, other women, who watched and listened in the silence of the train, but did nothing. One young blonde man near us asked quietly and kindly that these men leave us alone. They blew up at him angrily. "Who is this? Your mother? Your sister? Your girlfriend? Do you know her?" They began spitting curses at him. "Am I touching her? Am I raping her? I'm just talking to her." The blonde man looked down at his hands. "She doesn't seem to want to talk..." he said quietly. This only angered them more and after cursing him out for a few more minutes, they turned their attention back to us, and they were even more aggressive. At the next stop, I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled my friend out and we got off the car. I turned around, stared at them, yelled at them, wishing with all my might I could pummel them as hard as I wanted to. We jogged to the next car and got on before the train left the station, and we weren't bothered by them again.

It took me the rest of the night to calm down. This is something I will never understand or accept of Paris. Here, I don't have the right to stand up for myself. I don't have the right to defend myself. This is the 21st century. I am just as much a person as anyone else. Yet a man would never be asked to "take it" the way women in Paris are. A man would never, ever tolerate such disgusting animal abuse. A man would fight back. I wanted to fight back. Since when do I not have the right to fight back? I miss the crazies and creeps of New York. I miss the disgusting guys who catcall safe in their cars or construction sites, but are too afraid to get any closer. I miss the right to get angry, be aggressive, defend myself when someone tries to violate me in any way. If there's anything that would keep me from coming back to Paris, it would be that feeling, that powerlessness I'm forced to swallow, that tolerance I'm expected to exert in the face of vile behavior. I guess at least now I know I have the rage capacity to self-defend myself if I ever needed to. But god, I miss New York.