UPDATE JULY 2024: In reposting this from my old blog, I had to revisit finally leaving that place, two caretakers (one another stalker) later. The management company, when I reported the first one, said the words (“We take this very seriously.”) but did nothing about it. In the end, they told me I should have reported the second stalker, and they would have ensured there was no contact. “Oh, except if you run into him in the hallway.”
UPDATE MAY 2017: I don’t see that much has changed. There’s a lot more focus on the sexual aspect of “no means no,” but we still don’t understand that “no” is a complete sentence in any situation. Toddlers understand, although the world rarely cooperates. I think it would be nice if we would all take the time to hear toddler disagreement. That doesn’t mean giving in, spoiling, letting them “get away” with whatever it is. It just means a little more listening and little less rush. That might help us take the adult “no” more seriously too.
ORIGINAL POST:
Sexual harassment, sexual assault, violence. Everywhere under the scraped-off posters of Jian Ghomeshi the signs and questions of what we should have seen and asked then, should see and ask right now. Three things have happened in the last few weeks that carry neon signs, demand my questions and leave me wanting answers.
The second of the two was a Conflict Resolution workshop. The breakout group I was part of addressed stalkers in terms of importunate patrons (in our public service workplace) who ask for personal information or make personal comments. It turns out that this was the first time in the many workshops the facilitator had run, the first time that a group suggested the word “No” as a response to a patron’s behaviour. Suggestions had ranged from “You’re making me uncomfortable” to “I’d prefer you didn’t ask me things like that.”
Really?
A group of experienced front-line staff could not imagine saying “No.” No, you may not ask me that. No, your words are inappropriate. No, I am not interested.
The first thing that happened put me in a frame of mind to notice far more about the workshop and the word No. And I did not say no. I encountered a masked protest on the way home from work on Guy Fawkes Day. Only a few were left by the time I was walking by. They were quiet in a circle chatting, and the one who was without a mask I recognized so I said hello. Others there I would know without their masks. They would have been at some of the same meetings, rallies, and gatherings, but they remained anonymous behind Guy Fawkes faces.
I would have carried on home to supper and sleep, but one mask stepped forward to speak to me. Curiously, he had no idea who I was; didn’t recognize me at all. He invited me to participate in the resistance and asked if I worked in the “building” (the Manitoba Legislature).
So I introduced myself.
The part that leaves me curious, thoughtful, wondering, came next. He showed surprise as if (I thought fleetingly) he did know me and hadn’t recognized me in the dark under wintry clothes. Then he reached to hug me.
I had a lengthy split-second conversation in my mind. This is a strange man in a mask hugging me without permission and I don’t want to be hugged. But I know most of them under the masks. You don’t know him, or if it turned out you do, it’s not well enough to want to be hugged by him. Well, now the hug is over so it’s too late.
Too late? Now is the time to walk him through a different story!
I walked home instead.
I am still thinking about it.
My gift of fear stays wrapped in its box too often.
Recently, I had to unwrap fear and put her smack in the middle of the floor where I can’t ignore her voice. She’s at home with me now, where the signs I should have seen a year ago are booming in the hallway. The caretaker of my building is sexually harassing me. Only when he’s drunk of course, so that’s all right?
It began a year ago when he came to check the broken thermostat that left the heat on high, all the time, in my apartment. I was practicing and he didn’t mind if I carried on while he was there. When he had finished the repair he asked if I’d play something, and, if I sang, would I sing a song and play? I played Moon River. There may have been a better choice I thought afterwards, when the trouble began. It took me a long time to realize that my choice of song didn’t control his choice of behaviour.
He was effusive in his appreciation, but harp players are accustomed to the Harp Thing. Men, in particular, seem to forget whatever boundaries they knew when they find themselves in the woman-playing-harp ambiance. That’s one of the reasons I stopped performing for so many years.
After he left my apartment he texted me: I can’t stop thinking about you and something more about being beautiful singing and playing the harp. I ignored that text and another one a few days later, Hi, how are you… He was friendly, lighting up when he saw me, and always immediately helpful. Two other women I know had described him as the best caretaker ever and though they were surprised and concerned at his words to me, it didn’t seem necessary to question his behaviour.
Or rather, it seemed that the task of questioning was hung about with weights to make it unbearably heavy. What would happen to me as a tenant? How safe would I be if I made the caretaker angry? How would the management company react?
A few weeks later he came to fix the oven fuses and brought a Christmas present from his trip home to the Philippines. I let him leave it with me (easier to accept than to create tension by saying No), quickly gave it away to a little girl who likes brightly colored wooden necklaces, contrived to laugh over the whole thing, and let myself think it was over. Sure, he was still friendly and happy to see me around, but he seemed generally to be that kind of guy, so it didn’t mean anything, right?
It’s a year since the I can’t stop thinking about you text. He called me one evening, the day before Remembrance Day, and asked if I would mind playing harp for a few friends he had over. They were all musicians and had never seen a harp. I didn’t mind–I have a small portable harp and though the red flag fluttered in the back of my mind, the music flag flapped wildly in the wind. Always love a chance to play with other musicians.
He offered, somewhat insistently, to come up to my apartment and help me but I am very able to say No once the balance tips far enough. He was very drunk. His friends were not drunk and were legitimately interested in the harp and the music, while he messed around annoyingly, placing the mic close to me and trying to put my harp case away. I finally got fed up with telling him repeated No, take the mic away, leave my harp case alone, and called it a night. His drunken, soaked mind thought it was a good idea to hold my harp case to help me put my harp in it. No, I said. Put it down. I don’t need your help. I had to say it several times, distaste puking the words. Put it down!!!
I do this quite enough at parties, at gigs, even at work, I told his friends. It’s no fun having to do it at home too. I sure don’t expect the caretaker of my building to need a caretaker.
I will walk you home, he said.
No. I’m quite capable of walking up three floors on my own.
By this time, his wife had returned home, and I wondered how she could smile so sweetly at me.
He followed me into the hallway, dripping soggy thanks and pleas to accompany me. Does “No” ever find itself running out of steam? No, I said. Go back inside. You’re drunk. Go home. So, he tried to hug me. Harps are lovely, but tough to pass through. My harp kept him away and I told him, NO. I don’t want to hug you.
Home, safe in my own apartment. He texted me: Can I go there just to thank you
I ignored the text. I ignored the six calls between 12:11 and 12:14 am, and finally put my phone on airplane mode. Later, turning it back to normal, there were two voicemails. He was waiting in the stairwell for me to come talk to him. There are two deadbolts on the apartment door and I turned them both, though he has the keys so it does nothing but buy a few seconds. I went to brush my teeth and heard tapping at my door. Repeated, careful, secret tapping.
I wish I’d gone to the door and recorded a conversation. I wish I’d told him I’d call the police unless he went away and delivered a full admission and apology. I wish I’d stopped feeling sorry for his wife and just called the goddam police. I wish I hadn’t frozen in place, afraid to move, afraid to make any noise, draw any notice to my presence and wakefulness in my own apartment.
Since that night, I sleep with a barricade against my bedroom door, with both deadbolts locked on the apartment door. I keep a rolled-up sheet at the apartment door so he won’t see the shadow of my feet if I peer through the spyhole. I carry my phone everywhere, even the bathroom, so that I can call for help if he shows up. Right now, sitting in my room at my computer, my door open because it’s daytime dammit, in my own home dammit, I hear slight noises over the music and pull my earphones off, glance over my shoulder at my open bedroom door. I will go now and check the spyhole, then I will move the laptop to the dining area, where I can easily see if the locks turn.
Later today, my friend is coming over to sit a quiet witness when I call the caretaker to fix my stove. I will also give him an opportunity to fix the impending disaster he is making for himself. I will have to tell him that his behaviour (whether he remembers it or not) is inappropriate and unacceptable; that I will not allow it to continue. I may have to tell him that if it happens again I will report him to the management company and also to the police; that I have kept the evidence of the text, repeated calls, and voicemails and have it stowed safely online where others also have access to it. I will record our entire conversation.
I do not want to do any of this. I want him to be the safe, helpful, friendly man he was in between the times of his unsafe, disturbing behaviour. I want the world to be a place where I can tell the management company and they will send him for counselling and offer me support instead of either blaming me or instantly firing him. I don’t want worry about his wife and son burdening me because of his bad choices. But his bad choices leave me without a choice. I cannot pretend it didn’t happen and I have to tell him the rules.
I have to tell him, but after that, what do I do? Whether he takes it well or badly, whatever he says or does in the moment, how will I know what he’ll do the next time he’s drunk?
How will I ever know?
UPDATE MAY 2017:
He didn’t like it. It took months before he treated me civilly. Since then, he’s very slow to respond to requests to fix things. The various tradespeople who work on the building tell me that he is forever blaming them but that he doesn’t bother to call right away. He also can’t be bothered to tell me when they are going to show up. Was it worth it, telling him about the rules? I don’t know.