Me and Mr. Happy Pants
It is quite remarkable what one can become accustomed to. Sure, I have yet to figure out which seemingly innocent ingredient is making my pasta sauce almost candy sweet, but otherwise I am settling in nicely to a world of tortillas, cars with right of way regardless of pedestrian signals, rain falling at 6pm every evening like clockwork, and having to check my ubiquitous blue bag at the entrance of every store I enter.
But the Metro! The Metro! What sort of daily ordeal is this?!
To be fair, nothing happened to me this morning, nor does anything happen to me more than three quarters of the time I use the city's remarkably inexpensive and efficient public transit system. In fact, having been here only a few days shy of a month (!!), there have only been a handful of encounters.
"Handful." Ha! Pardon the pun.
As in many countries, save at least rigidly insecure Canada, the men here can be a little aggressive. I've been warned about impromptu lapdances from men "clinging" to the handrails because it's just "so crowded" that their hips "have to" jiggle in front of my face, and I have on several occasions been more than a little unsure as to whether the gentlemen behind me might not actually have a flashlight in his pocket.
Yesterday, I claimed my first revenge. While making the journey home, a kindly 60+ gentlemen, who moments before had caught me genially when the train made an unexpected lurch, opted to steady himself for the longer term by laying the flat of his hand against my left hip. At first I thought I was imagining it, it was his bag, or his arm, or, but then I felt it begin its nearly inconspicuous slide inwards. After attempting a passive aggressive lean away (and into the flashlight of someone else) and discovering the hand dutifully following, I felt I had no option but to bring my cellphone hard down across his knuckles. There was no further fondling.
This kind of interaction bares absolutely no relation to actual personal or sexual interest: perhaps the thrill is the renegade anonymity or the lecherous immediacy. I can feel the difference immediately on those rare occasions when I am approached with sincerity: two men thus far have shyly stuttered out the same old flattery that is often hissed as I walk through the market, yet I actually smiled and blushed. After a frantic fondle in the Metro, I am angry, disheveled, and badly in need of a shower. My personal space - something that seems ever expansive - shrinkwraps to a millimetre from the surface of my skin; I fight the urge to snarl, "no me tochas!" at everyone around me, nevermind the fact we are squeezed into the train car so tightly I am convinced I could lift both feet up from the floor at once.
Suddenly the "solo damas y ninos" cars make sense. They seemed a bit precious when I first saw them, but now the conspicuous glare of anti-gringa Latinas seems a much preferable option.
I can't even begin to imagine what persuades these paramours that this is acceptable behaviour towards a stranger. It's not ethnic fetishizing or degradation, because it happens universally across the pigmental pallet, and if it is a part of the inherent culture than it's a part not immediately evident in your dealings with these genuine, welcoming people.
From the little I know and the fraction of reality I've seen thus far, my impression is that Mexican women are undergoing a kind of renaissance. Mexico is a very traditional country: men live at home with their mothers until they are married, at which point the wife takes over as mother (or sometimes just moves in and begins the eternal competition). Machismo is rampant; I was warned not to offer help to an elderly man struggling to push his stalled car out of a busy intersection because of the shame, the shame of it. Women are not so much helpless little dolls tottering around in ridiculous clothes to conform to perceived male taste - that would be my culture - but rather fiery souls... who know their place...
Yet it seems to me that my generation of Mexican woman is a bit frustrated with the constraints of these roles. Most of my girlfriends still talk of needing a husband and babies to feel complete, yet there is a reclamation - or perhaps a claiming? - of their inherent person-ness, independent of gender. This appears most evident in their sexuality: forget the question of whether they need to remain a virgin until marriage, these girls flaunt their right to say yes OR no with a confidence unequalled by their "emancipated" northern sisters.
So will this mean the end of Mr. Flashlight Pants in the Metro? I have trouble believing that the average feline Mexicana is willing to shelve both her fervent desire for a loving family and her determination for sexual autonomy long enough to tolerate these attacks. And, if it is about anything even remotely more than a covert thrill - a thrill because it is covert - then I imagine these greasy few men will start to adjust their technique. If not, and it is just about a lusty flash of friction, then I imagine they will start losing fingers.
And the next person who touches me without permission will be the first.
But the Metro! The Metro! What sort of daily ordeal is this?!
To be fair, nothing happened to me this morning, nor does anything happen to me more than three quarters of the time I use the city's remarkably inexpensive and efficient public transit system. In fact, having been here only a few days shy of a month (!!), there have only been a handful of encounters.
"Handful." Ha! Pardon the pun.
As in many countries, save at least rigidly insecure Canada, the men here can be a little aggressive. I've been warned about impromptu lapdances from men "clinging" to the handrails because it's just "so crowded" that their hips "have to" jiggle in front of my face, and I have on several occasions been more than a little unsure as to whether the gentlemen behind me might not actually have a flashlight in his pocket.
Yesterday, I claimed my first revenge. While making the journey home, a kindly 60+ gentlemen, who moments before had caught me genially when the train made an unexpected lurch, opted to steady himself for the longer term by laying the flat of his hand against my left hip. At first I thought I was imagining it, it was his bag, or his arm, or, but then I felt it begin its nearly inconspicuous slide inwards. After attempting a passive aggressive lean away (and into the flashlight of someone else) and discovering the hand dutifully following, I felt I had no option but to bring my cellphone hard down across his knuckles. There was no further fondling.
This kind of interaction bares absolutely no relation to actual personal or sexual interest: perhaps the thrill is the renegade anonymity or the lecherous immediacy. I can feel the difference immediately on those rare occasions when I am approached with sincerity: two men thus far have shyly stuttered out the same old flattery that is often hissed as I walk through the market, yet I actually smiled and blushed. After a frantic fondle in the Metro, I am angry, disheveled, and badly in need of a shower. My personal space - something that seems ever expansive - shrinkwraps to a millimetre from the surface of my skin; I fight the urge to snarl, "no me tochas!" at everyone around me, nevermind the fact we are squeezed into the train car so tightly I am convinced I could lift both feet up from the floor at once.
Suddenly the "solo damas y ninos" cars make sense. They seemed a bit precious when I first saw them, but now the conspicuous glare of anti-gringa Latinas seems a much preferable option.
I can't even begin to imagine what persuades these paramours that this is acceptable behaviour towards a stranger. It's not ethnic fetishizing or degradation, because it happens universally across the pigmental pallet, and if it is a part of the inherent culture than it's a part not immediately evident in your dealings with these genuine, welcoming people.
From the little I know and the fraction of reality I've seen thus far, my impression is that Mexican women are undergoing a kind of renaissance. Mexico is a very traditional country: men live at home with their mothers until they are married, at which point the wife takes over as mother (or sometimes just moves in and begins the eternal competition). Machismo is rampant; I was warned not to offer help to an elderly man struggling to push his stalled car out of a busy intersection because of the shame, the shame of it. Women are not so much helpless little dolls tottering around in ridiculous clothes to conform to perceived male taste - that would be my culture - but rather fiery souls... who know their place...
Yet it seems to me that my generation of Mexican woman is a bit frustrated with the constraints of these roles. Most of my girlfriends still talk of needing a husband and babies to feel complete, yet there is a reclamation - or perhaps a claiming? - of their inherent person-ness, independent of gender. This appears most evident in their sexuality: forget the question of whether they need to remain a virgin until marriage, these girls flaunt their right to say yes OR no with a confidence unequalled by their "emancipated" northern sisters.
So will this mean the end of Mr. Flashlight Pants in the Metro? I have trouble believing that the average feline Mexicana is willing to shelve both her fervent desire for a loving family and her determination for sexual autonomy long enough to tolerate these attacks. And, if it is about anything even remotely more than a covert thrill - a thrill because it is covert - then I imagine these greasy few men will start to adjust their technique. If not, and it is just about a lusty flash of friction, then I imagine they will start losing fingers.
And the next person who touches me without permission will be the first.
Comments
Not only does it get the point across, but hopefully the shame of being bruised by a bonita will shame him into being a little more respectful.
I think what is required is a sharp knee to the flashlight.
apart from all this attention, how are you doing?
ST