Is staring considered harassment (and where does the line lie?)

I like motorbikes.

I like the way I feel like I’m freefalling whenever I make a steep turn.

I like the brisk, chilly way the air feels at night after rain.

I like the soft, ticklish way sunlight feels on my skin, especially when it’s been filtered through trees.

I like riding past cars during rush hour, and flipping off the asshole drivers that try to cut lanes just before the turn in.

Know what I don’t like?

I don’t like how some men think that if you’re a female and on a bike, it means you’re open game.

But I digress.

I started riding since I was 11 – on a crusty, second-hand Honda Cup that my father had bought off a friend. He’d take my little brother and me on joy rides throughout the countryside. This was back in Sungai Petani, where little Malay boys would start riding around at the tender age of 10, causing havoc up and down kampung backstreets and generally having an amazing childhood.

Not to be outdone, I asked my father to teach me as soon as my feet could reach the ground from the bike’s leather seat. We practiced switching gears and making sharp turns in the park in front of my house. I fell once – I received a scrape deep enough to rip through my jeans – and never looked back.

Now I ride a cute, little SYM Mio 100. It’s been approved by my parents – too slow for racing but light enough not to crush my legs should I fall – and has a decent pick up speed. The only issue I’m having now is when I’m riding to work in my office wear (or shorts because let’s face it, Malaysia is a fucking hot and humid country and there is no way I’m going to sweat in my jeans all day if I can help it) and some guy thinks it’s perfectly fine to shout out from his motorbike – or lorry – at me.

What's it like to be harassed on the road?

To put street harassment into context for my male readers, I don’t think I’m going to do the old sex switcheroo and ask you to imagine a woman leering at you (because that is just not a realistic or effective example). 

Oh no. I want you to imagine sitting on a bus when you catch this dirty, fat man staring at your crotch. Or imagine walking the short distance from your house to 7-eleven when a man catches up and starts walking alongside you, asking personal questions (Where are you going? Who are you with? What’s your name? How old are you?).  

It’s uncomfortable (you’ll be hearing that word quite a bit), it’s unnerving, but unlike men, for most women it’s also dead terrifying. Because I’m a 5 foot Chinese girl at 53 kg, I don’t have that many defence options other than running, or pissing my pants (or both).

I’ve been groped at and shouted at in the past. I’ve had people try to strike up conversations at traffic lights more times than I can count, and have had way too many middle-aged men stare at me way longer than is necessary.

But is staring or striking up conversation even considered harassment?

“Why get so upset?” My ex had asked this one time, after two men on bikes called out to at me (Nak pergi mana, amoi? You comel lah!) as I was leaving my apartment “Maybe they were just complimenting you.” He said.

(You see why he’s an ex now.)

Maybe they were, but that is exactly what makes this example and situation in general so troubling. Because that. Is. Not. How. You. Hand. Out. Compliments.

I can’t believe that in this day and age, I still have to spell it out for some people (But not you, dear reader. Clearly, the mere fact that you are reading this is evidence enough how much more highly evolved you are than the common man) but:

1. A compliment is by definition designed to make the receiver feel good about themselves.
2. It is done in a safe setting where both parties feel secure.
3. It is made with genuine and/or earnest intent.

That’s it. That’s all you need to know. Really. It’s really that simple.

So last week when a stranger pulled up beside me and started asking probing questions (Where I lived, what I did for a living, where I was headed), that was neither a compliment, nor a welcomed advancement. Then when he followed me down two turn-ins, rode up beside me and asked me to pull up ahead for some coffee, that was also neither a compliment nor a welcomed advancement.

Frankly, I was shit scared.

“But Clarissa!” You might cry out “Well then how the frick frack do I talk to other women? Say I spot the girl of my dreams and she’s starting to leave and this might be my only chance and I just want to be friends after all and –”

Stop. Just stop right there.

I hear your cry, fictional but relevant reader.

In other words, how do you draw the line between friendliness and harassment?

I’ll share a little secret I’ve learnt. There is no line. Or rather, I don’t think that there are any set circumstances that can construed as either definitely friendly or harassing – a man’s stare could either be interpreted as a smouldering come-on, or a revolting gape. It all boils down to how comfortable the person on the receiving end is.

But it isn’t enough just not being an asshole. If you see someone else harassing a person, and making them visibly uncomfortable, then the best thing to do is step in. I don’t mean telling the person off – that usually brings more trouble than is warranted. But normally I get very relieved when someone else joins the conversation. The original asker usually butts off when they see that I’m not alone.

But what about staring?

First, staring isn’t illegal. Anyone can do it; I do it all the time, especially if it’s a very attractive person in question. But there are of course, boundaries. If the person looks clearly uncomfortable, stop. If you know the person can see you but is intentionally averting their gaze, stop. And if the person has to open their mouth to tell you to please, for the love of god, stop, then for the love of god, stop.

Secondly – and this is where it gets tricky – girls, If you are feeling uncomfortable, say so. I know we’re socially programmed to be polite (Or more accurately, not be bitchy), but when you stay silent, you’re letting people know that it’s okay to violate your personal boundaries.

What a person does in his own time, or thinks in his own mind is his business. But when their actions or words infringe upon you, they're making it your business too. So speak up.

It doesn’t have to be rude, or loud, but next time when someone is doing something that makes you uncomfortable, voice it out. Even if it’s a joke or a compliment, a simple “I don’t feel comfortable” or “please stop that.” lets everyone know where the line is.

A lot of people get away with being assholes by the “joke” excuse. Lately Sam Pepper is getting a lot of heat for posting a “prank” video where he groped visibly distressed women. Years ago, nobody would have cared (he has posted up another video in the past where he forcefully made out with strangers on camera), but now I’m pretty happy that the tide is turning. 

It is always a good thing when all parties are being held accountable for the shit they do.

This isn't a question of feminism, it's a question of not being an asshole.

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BRATs Melacca 2014 Part 1

“Hey Clarissa” 

Ian’s message popped up on my phone, “You still interested in senior-ing for this trip’s BRAT’s camp?” He asked.

I had missed the last one because of a family trip to Thailand, so I was still getting a lot of flak for dropping out at the last minute.

Okay, no. That’s not the version we agreed on.

In all honesty-not-really-but-okay, I’d been harassing Ian for the past year for a chance to senior for the next BRATs camp. It’s was unbearable. I was relentless -

 So desperate.

- Until ultimately he gave in (in what I’d like to believe was a table flip and near-manic “What will it TAKE to get her off my back??”) and let me hop on board. Because really, ever since I moved back to Penang, things haven’t been the same for me.

I guess both accounts are true-ISH, depending on how you want to see it. But either way, I found myself getting on an 8 hour bus ride to Melaka that involved screaming babies. A pervy middle aged man, and one very, very slow bus driver.

BRATs is young journalist camp for teens from the age of 16 to 19. The acronym stands for Bright, Roving, Annoying Teens, which I suppose is a pretty apt name, given the sort of people we’ve managed to attract in the past (it takes a certain type of person to enjoy writing, and another sort to willingly put that writing up for critique and judgement)  VJs, international models, chart topping bloggers (ahem), you name it.

I was a little more than apprehensive about the thought of handling thirty-over – practically forty­ – angsty teenagers. Not because I think I’m cooler than them (which so does not need proving), but because I’ve been a BRAT before and BOY WAS I OBNOXIOUS. I feel bad for whichever poor soul who had to lead my team (I afterwards found out that not only did I forget said person, but no one seems to recall me either. Huh.) I thought I was the best writer on the planet, that my farts smelt like roses, and that my shit don’t stink (all of which were proven to be disastrously wrong).

So you can see why I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep up with 38 past-Clarissas; I cannot stress this point enough: I. Was. A. Little. Shit.

I arrived at the hotel some time around 4pm, having taken a taxi ride from Melaka Sentral to Quayside hotel and MAN, did the place look posh. What was previously some sort of warehouse had been converted into an artsy loft-styled hotel that looked super atas, in a Tumblr sort of way.

Ian and the rest of the R.age team – May Lee and Vivienne – arrived an hour later, considerate enough to bang on my door for a full minute before letting me know that I had the wrong room. Fuck.

The kids* were arriving the next morning, so that night would be the only responsibility-free one we’d have until the end of the workshop.

It's shoooooo pretty

The night before.

 

Our first stop was Pak Putera Nasi Kandar where I had multiple foodgasms in one sitting. It was a first for me. I could hardly stand up after we were done. I’ve never done it with three other people before.

Really, this is too easy, I can go on all night (Ayyyyyyy).

Then we walked down Jalan Heeren, Jalan Jonker, and  Jalan Tukang Besi to get an idea of where the BRATs would be doing their assignment the next day.

Nearly all of the shop houses were closed for the day and the roads were glowing with a dusty yellow streetlamp-glow. On Jalan Heeren there was the sound of live piano music dancing out from a tropical looking café, darkly lit and empty. At the back sat a man behind a huge, black grand piano.

Then we turned down to Jalan Jonker and walked past more closed buildings till we got to the main road where a few food stalls were closing.

On Jalan Tukang Besi, reggae music was blasting from a dingy, little store. When we got to the source of the Jamaican beats, we saw a couple of foreigners chilling outside on rattan lounge chairs. The interior was a narrow and plainly furnished with a couch, a counter for the cash register, three tables, and a fridge way at the back, filled with nothing but orange juice**.

We had a can each and sat at a table near the couch where three middle aged Chinese men were sitting and rolling joints. That was when I noticed that the walls were entirely plastered with magazine cut outs of random things. And cat heads. A lot of cat heads. All the images of people had their heads replaced with that of cats. It was bizarre.

We could have gone back to our hotel then, but hey, it was 1 in the morning and we had at least another hour to kill. So we drove around in this completely inconspicuous looking The Star van, through dark empty roads on night-chilled asphalt.

There was a stretch of real nasty looking pubs and nightclubs. Outside one, stood a crowd of about 20 people who were either cheering or standing idly in the middle of the street, directly in front of where we were heading.

“Oh my god I think they’re fighting.” May Lee said, from the high perch of her shotgun seat.

“Let’s get out of here”  Said Vivienne, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but.

The crowd made way for our van as we drove past slowly. From my window, I saw a man stumble across the street, blood flowing from his head down to his torso. This was getting a lot more exciting than I had anticipated.

Just as we made a two-metre headway, people started running in all directions. A man actually ran so fast he made it past our van and went on sprinting. It was hilarious. Bless his soul.

At first we thought that there must have been a cop car coming from behind, but when I turned around, all I saw was a blank van. “Oh my god” I said, “I think they’re running from us.”

And our The Star charity van. Imagine that.

We managed to find our way back to the hotel where everyone collapsed on their bed . I fell asleep nearly as soon as my head sunk into the pillow. I didn’t even get around to hearing May Lee’s snores.

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Journal entry: 2 things I've learnt from getting lost in KL

The job

"Clarissa!" A month ago, Nelly the head of HR called me from PJ - I was walking through Gurney Plaza wondering if I really wanted to blow 20 bucks on sushi when my phone started ringing.

"What?!"

"I just got a call from the editorial department!" She ended each sentence with an exclamation mark. "They have one extra slot for internship!"

"Cool!" I got caught up in her enthusiasm. "Where?!"

"R.age! So now you have two options - HR and editorial! Which one do you want?!"

I gave a pause long enough to be considerate, but short enough to not to sound like the line was dead "R.age, if you don't mind!"

I have friends working in HR. No sign has been heard or seen from any of them. We still post up flyers every now and again.

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