This article discusses sexual violence and may be triggering for some readers. The Kingston Sexual Assault Centre’s 24-hour crisis and phone line can be reached at 613-544-6424 / 1-800-544-6424 or by emailing [email protected].
Last term a man grabbed my ass on the street.
This sentence isn’t remarkable in any way, and neither was the experience. It was jarring, but for any of the women reading this, unremarkable.
I was on my way to the grocery store. It was the afternoon, and I was listening to music, my scarf snug around my neck. The man stared as he walked closer, ing me before reaching back to grab me. I froze, feeling my stomach drop, hoping no one saw so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge what had just happened.
Within seconds, I watched as another man ran up to me. He lifted his shirt, exposing a police badge underneath. In a swift blur he spoke quickly as my heart pounded, thinking I was in trouble.
Instead, he urgently asked for my name and phone number, saying he was going to arrest the assailant, who was now strolling around the corner.
I hesitated momentarily before stumbling over my digits. Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt confused and embarrassed. My control over the situation quickly slipped through my fingers as I handed over my name, my address, my information, unsure whether I could even refuse. The officer left, promising to call soon.
It was too bright, and I felt exposed, left standing on the sidewalk. I wished a third person would walk towards me and explain what just happened. I felt sick as the sun beat down. I wasn’t sure where to walk or who to call. If the officer called me, what would I say? What was I supposed to say? What did I want to say?
I continued my walk to Metro in a trance, texting my housemates, hoping they might be there when I got home. My phone rang before I had picked up my grocery basket, and I met the officer outside in the parking lot, the man who had grabbed me sitting in a car nearby. I wondered if I was being watched through tinted windows.
I told the officer where I lived as I stood in the shade of the large, unmarked police car. Though I very little of this conversation, I do crying.
The officer said it was a good day. He had been tracking the man for some time, observing him, waiting for the right time for an arrest. He told me I was safe now, that other women would be safer with this man off the streets.
But I didn’t feel safe. I felt like bait.
I was confused, lost, and was told to wait to be ed. The person who was meant to keep me safe had watched, waiting for his opportunity, only to capitalize when I was harmed.
I went home, locked the door, and took a shower. But after handing over my name, phone number, and address, I knew this whole thing wasn’t over. It still isn’t.
In the following weeks, I got random and startling phone calls from the police, updating me on the case. I’d be sitting in CoGro with friends and suddenly be reminded through an uned phone number about the man sitting in a cell somewhere.
I was told I might have to testify in court, that the man’s address was only one block away from my own, that he had a lawyer, that his next hearing was in a week. The police seemed to think this barrage of information could make me feel safe, but every time I saw that number glowing on my screen, my mouth got dry as I tried to answer.
I would subconsciously shrink away from men on the street, eyeing their hands and veering off the sidewalk if I felt they were getting too close. My housemates and I made new rules. Our door would always be locked, even if people were in the house, and we would check each other’s locations more often.
Despite the officer’s promises I was safe, I felt nervous walking down my own street and flinched every time my phone rang.
I the initial officer saying he was there to protect women, to make sure things like that, or worse, didn’t happen. I believe him, but I haven’t felt any sense of safety since the first time he wrote down my name.
A man grabbed me in public, in broad daylight, two blocks from my home. I wonder if I would choose to give up my control and enter a process I’ve found to be this dehumanizing if my experience had been dark and behind closed doors.
The last phone call I received was three days ago. In cases like mine in Canada, we’re witnesses to our own assault, meaning the Crown can call us to testify if the case ever goes to trial. Standing across from Tindall Field after my Tuesday morning class, I learned I don’t have control over whether I’m called to testify or not.
My name, my number, my address, and my story, filed in a police database somewhere, no longer feel like my own. The moment I lost them wasn’t when the man grabbed me, but when the officer wrote them down. I still don’t know how to get them back, or if wanting that means I’m letting other survivors down.
Statistically, few survivors get the opportunity to come forward after experiencing sexual violence. I realize having a police officer witness what happened to me is a privilege others aren’t afforded. I’m lucky no one has questioned my story, and I know testifying might stop harm in the future. But I don’t feel like I chose this.
While acknowledging my experience is unique and may not mirror anyone else’s, the past few months have shown me the things that do make me feel safe: my housemates who text me when I’m out too late, and my friends, who despite my protests, walk me home every single night even when it’s out of their way. I’m also grateful for my ability to share and control my own narrative.
Pursuing legal action isn’t an easy process, but entering this process should be a choice, and I wasn’t afforded that privilege. The police took away my name and my story and I have become a prop for their prosecution, without my consent.
Instead, I’m stuck in that moment on the sidewalk, and I don’t feel like I’m allowed to move on.
I hope that one day, survivors in Canada won’t have to turn over their autonomy, under the false guise of safety, to find justice.
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