When I moved to this area 3.5 years ago, I was at once
thrilled to be out of graduate school and back on the East Coast, and also
deeply unhappy that I was in this particular
city. You see, although I had lived for
4 years in the Midwest, and although much of the difficulty of those years was
tied to that location, there was also something much more far reaching.
Namely, the man responsible for my sexual assault was not
from Ohio. He lived in Baltimore.
So a year and a half later, when I applied to internships
everywhere from New Hampshire to Tennessee, from Ohio to North Carolina, my
ultimate placement at my top choice was bittersweet. Rather than leaving it all behind, it felt as
though I was walking into something new.
I knew the chances of seeing him were slim to the point of being unrealistic,
but it didn't stop my fear. My anxiety
about walking alone, going places alone, and being in the city was
intense. Through daily exposure, after
several months I could handle driving to work, taking the shuttle to where I
needed to be, and walking up and down the few blocks between buildings with
minimal anxiety. However, walking around
with friends, going out to dinner and walking back to my car, attending a
street fair...this was where panic loomed.
It's hard to describe the intense fear I felt and worked through so
frequently. Just walking the couple
blocks to the Whole Foods, or the CVS, or around the corner to my friend's apartment
complex was enough to make me nauseous, make my whole body shake, and
completely exhaust me. It was, in a
word, awful.
****
As I wrapped up my day at work this evening, I realized I had several
things I needed to pick up from the drugstore.
I considered several options of how to make this happen, and quickly
realized that walking the couple blocks to the CVS around the corner was going
to be the most time-effective way to complete this errand.
So you know what I did?
I put on my coat without a second thought and I walked to that CVS.
When I was about halfway there, I had this moment where I
realized: I'm not scared.
I wasn't surprised that I wasn't scared, per se, but it was
an affirming moment.
I'm not scared.
Perhaps it's silly, but I felt
brave. And powerful, perhaps. Maybe even a little badass. Realizing growth and change, however small,
is always badassery, I think. As I stood
on the street corner, waiting for the light to tell me to walk, I pictured
myself standing on that same corner two years ago. It was similarly bitter cold, but two years
ago, I felt unsafe in my skin. I was
shaky, and nauseous, and hyperaware, and I didn't know what to do with my
body. I was counting my breaths, just to
give myself something to focus on so I could get to my car.
Tonight? I was
standing on the street corner, waiting for the walk light, like people do. I was thinking about how damn cold it was,
and about what I was going to make for dinner, and about that funny thing I had
to text my sister about. I was standing
on the street corner, waiting for the walk light, just like people do.
I've had a number of these moments lately -- they're tiny,
and no one else would recognize them as moments...because they're things like
buying a new pair of jeans. Getting a
drink with a friend. Crossing the street
at night. Just like people do, you know?
*****
As I continued walking to the CVS, I noticed a woman, a
little younger than myself, with a huge backpack reminiscent of Reese
Witherspoon's pack in the new movie of Cheryl Strayed's "Wild." She came towards me, and moved to wait to
cross the road. We stood for a few
moments in silence. She, looking up and
around at the buildings (clearly a tourist), and me, unintentionally staring at
her blue wool hat, wondering why the hell I forgot my hat and gloves in the
car. As the traffic continued and we
waited, I became increasingly agitated with the cold and my lack of hat...and
she smiled. She turned and said in a
beautiful Scottish accent, "it's such a gorgeous night, isn't it?"
"It's a little chilly," I said. "I am finding myself admiring your
hat."
"Oh," she laughed.
"It's beautiful here. I am
just loving Baltimore. This is just so
incredible." She continued to look
up at the buildings around us, and then looked at me and extended her hand. "I'm Jennifer," she said.
"Are you visiting?" I asked, stating the obvious,
given the backpack and the admiration of the city I take for granted.
"Yes," she said.
"I'm from Scotland...came to the US to do a 6-month tour of the
country. I just came from New York by
bus...headed south after this. I'm
staying with a man...I believe his name is Zachary...around the corner." She flashed the map she had pulled up on her
smartphone. "I'm
couch-surfing," she said.
The light finally changed and we crossed together. She was full of energy and passion and
excitement for the new foods she was trying, and the excitement of New York,
and the beauty of Baltimore, and how much money she was saving by using this
"couch-surfers" website and finding people willing to host her in the
cities she was visiting. "I've met
so many wonderful people," she said.
"It's just truly, truly incredible."
When our paths were about to separate, we shook hands
again.
"You are incredibly brave," I said.
"Yes!" she nodded, simply, smiling exuberantly. "It was so nice meeting you."
"Take care," I said. "Be well. Stay safe."
She continued walking down the road, and I found myself
looking up at the sky she admired, and whispering a prayer to whatever power
might be out there that Jennifer be protected in her travels.
*****
For a moment, I laughed at myself. After all, it's funny, isn't it, that I would
get to feeling badass about walking a couple blocks to the drugstore and would
meet a girl visiting a foreign country, alone, for 6 months, staying on strangers'
couches?
There is nothing
badass about crossing the street, I thought.
And yet...
On Saturday, I leave for a week in Haiti.
A group of folks from my church and another local church are
traveling together to Haiti to learn, and to provide some assistance, and to
broaden our worldviews, and to open our hearts to people and the world just
that much more.
There is nothing
badass about crossing the street.
And yet, somehow, each of those actions has brought me
here. Even the ones where I was
trembling. Even the times I had to count
my breath. Each of those actions has still,
somehow, brought me here, and something in that feels maybe, a little bit,
badass.
Maybe a little bit powerful.
And maybe a little bit brave.
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