I don’t remember the first time that he spoke to me. I do remember that I was in high school, I was on my way somewhere, and that it terrified me. His name was Paul, and he lived in the same apartment complex as I. He called out to me: “Hey!” It was simple, and by then, as a girl in my teens, living in a rather large city, I was used to being called on by strange men while I was on the street. I said hi back, shyly, because even though I was used to it, I was not entirely comfortable with it.
After that first encounter, it continued. Every time that he saw me, he would wheel up to me and say hi. My parents came home one day, and told me about the nice man Paul who just moved in to the neighbourhood, how he was outstandingly pleasant, how his new girlfriend was kindhearted and good to him, and how he had lost his legs in the war. Which war, they did not specify, and I did not ask.
One day, I was walking home from school. I had a book in my arm and was lost in my thoughts. That’s when I heard it: that familiar “Hey!”. This time, it didn’t stop at that. “Come here!” He had to shout, because I was a distance away from him. I did not dare refuse. He was surrounded by a group of young men, as he often was, and like a good little girl, I went up to him. He asked to see the book in my hands, and like that, I was trapped. Once he was holding on to my book (which I had borrowed from the library), I could not leave without it. I was at his mercy. I could not just walk away. My discomfort must have showed because he said something that to this day, boils my blood. “Are you scared because I’m a black man?”
Although I wasn’t scared, I was very nervous. He turned my book around in his hands, and asked what it was about. I told him that it was about personal finance. He nodded. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?” I didn’t know what to say.
I never got to thank the two guys that saved me. They simply walked up, two young guys, the sort of guys that always seemed to be around Paul, and one of them muttered with his head down: “this again?”
I asked for my book back, and Paul placidly returned it to me. It was only after that I reflected on what he had said. “Are you scared of me because I’m a black man?”
I knew that it was definitely not because of his race that caused the immense discomfort and nerves that I felt each time I saw him, even from a distance. So what was it? And then it hit me. He was a much older man, who loitered around outside, from midday to night. He was a much older man who would call out to me, a much younger girl each time that he saw me, to have a conversation with. It wasn’t the usual cat call, he never made a comment about how I looked, except the one time that he said that I dressed very nicely for a girl that lives in the area that I do. His approaches never once bordered on sexual. Nonetheless, they were persistent, and extended. He would try to talk to me as long as possible, asking questions about where I was going, what I was interested in, what my dreams and hopes were.
I humoured him. But I got impatient. I typically do not leave the house just to wander around, if I leave, I do so with purpose. Whether it be for work, or school, or to a meeting, I leave the house because I have somewhere else to be. So to have this man calling out to me each time with the intent to have an extended conversation was extremely frustrating. I never mustered the courage to tell him to stop. I was nervous and uncomfortable, but I also felt extreme pity. He seemed intelligent, and to resort to this, for any man, must be rock bottom.
I was returning home from school one day when he had called me over and asked where I was coming from. When I told him it was school, he asked me which school I went to, and what I was studying. He asked me about my opinion on politics. We had been talking for 20 minutes when I decided that it was enough. I suggested that if he wanted a conversation, we could grab coffee one day and talk somewhere that wasn’t in the parking lot of our building.
And so we did. We exchanged numbers, and we met at a Tim Hortons. We spoke for 45 minutes and that was it.
Except it wasn’t.
*names changed.
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