More Than That

MORE THAN THAT

The other night I got a taxi to the local station, having finished a week spent volunteering at a festival.  I had packed all my things, said goodbyes to all these lovely, lovely people I'd been lucky enough to meet, I was feeling pretty content and at one with the world, and I was looking forward to going home and seeing my family again. The only little niggle playing on my mind, was making sure that I got the taxi to the station in time for me to catch my train. I didn't anticipate anything else to be worried or stressed over. What could possibly go wrong? Over the last five years I have caught numerous taxis without any hassle or bother, and in more recent years I have taken to talking to taxi drivers whilst on the journey, as I consider it to be a polite, friendly and generally nice thing to do. And usually everything is absolutely fine, and it quite often makes the journey more enjoyable for both parties, so you know, nothing wrong with that.

However the other night when I got picked up, as soon as my taxi arrived and I went over to talk to the driver, I could sense something was a little amiss. As I said, normally I have no issue whatsoever with taxi drivers, and I've never had a problem with them, which is why I think I picked up on this particular taxi driver so quickly. Something about the way the way he was looking at me and replying to my questions made me feel a bit uncomfortable, especially as he was easily old enough to be my father. This guy lingered too long, paused for too long. Something just seemed unclear about him. It felt like both of us were approaching this taxi journey from two very different angles: me as a paying customer wanting to get from A to B, him with what felt like some kind of ulterior motive. But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. So I got in the car, made polite conversation, and away we drove as people waved me off. 

However on the way out of the festival site, we got stuck behind a car that was having problems. Initially that was fine. The taxi driver asked me questions about what I'd been doing at the festival, I asked him about how long into his shift he was. Again, that was totally fine. But I quickly began to notice how he was relaxing against his window and looking over at me with this weird look in his eye. There was something a bit off about the smile, and his whole body language in general. I started to feel uncomfortable in his presence and it was only a couple of minutes into the journey too. After a pause, he asked me how old I was, so I told him reluctantly and I could sense him looking me over with that weird smile, and I didn't like it one bit. I knew this wasn't normal.

Something about the whole situation made my survival instinct quickly kick in. I tried to keep calm and logical whilst my heart was hammering in my chest, my brain was formulating all these questions like a checklist: where's my phone, where's the door handle, is the door locked, how long to the train station, what would Mum say, who could I call, what should I do in case, is this taxi being monitored. What do I do, what do I do? Eventually we got moving again, and I felt it was important that I stay calm and rational. I could just about remember the route from the campsite to the train station, so I kept my eyes peeled on every single turn, just to be safe. For a couple of minutes I relaxed a bit, and stuck to asking carefully selected, neutral questions about boring but safe topics. After a while we stopped talking, but I began to worry about what he might ask next. I don't know why, but I suddenly thought; what if he tried to approach the topic of boyfriends, and literally seconds after, there came the question, and I felt myself freeze in my seat. 

Often when people ask you a question like that, you can tell by a whole host of signs like body language and tone, what they mean by it, and often you sense no hidden meaning. Just natural curiosity. But when a middle aged taxi driver who makes you feel uncomfortable just by looking at you, asks you that question, you know that things really aren't okay. So I considered my response at lightning speed, sensing that I had to be very careful about what I said. Do I lie, do I tell the truth, do I tell him it's none of his business. I didn't want to aggravate the situation or put myself in danger. I just wanted to say as little as possible, keep things as neutral as possible, and make sure I safely made it to the station. So I told the guy curtly I didn't, all the while expecting my tone to give him the hint that I really didn't want to talk about my love life with him. 

And if he'd stopped there, then that would have been just about bearable. But the taxi driver began questioning why an attractive girl like me didn't have a boyfriend, asking if I got up to any fun with guys whilst I was at uni, pushing me to justify why I felt like I didn't need a man, before going on to imply that I was boring and no fun and not living my life properly because I didn't have a boyfriend or go around sleeping with people for fun. By that point I felt really uneasy, as was part of me questioning why I was here justifying my personal life choices to my rather sleazy taxi driver, and essentially being called a prude. I didn't know where he was going with it, and I didn't even want to think about it. All I wanted was to get out the car, but I knew we were very near the station, so I tried to stay calm and keep the situation as neutral as possible. I replied curtly, firmly and vaguely, all the whilst preparing myself to react if anything more happened. 

After that particular bout of questions, the manner of the driver changed. He became sullen, quiet, mardy. I knew that I hadn't replied how he was hoping I would, but it was a relief to know that my answers had been enough to put a stop to it all. When we finally got to the station, I paid the him, thanked him for the lift, and wished him a good night. Obviously that didn't quite reflect how I was feeling inside, but at the same time, to me it felt like an act of defiance, an act of strength, an act of humanity. Something to counteract the negative energy of the situation. Something, just something, to perhaps prick his conscience. In spite of everything, I wanted to be the better person. 

After the taxi had pulled away, I felt so on edge and I guess a bit stunned, shocked, and scared too. My heart wouldn't stop racing, my body felt tense and uneasy. I tried to keep my distance from any man I could see. I don't know why, but all I wanted to do was call up in a ball and cry. I didn't know how to process what had happened. I didn't know what to think, feel, do. I knew I was safe. I knew that in theory nothing had happened. I knew that I had made it to the station. I knew that all I had to do was get on the train and then I'd be home. I knew all these rational, logical things, but it didn't make me feel any better. I needed a hug. Someone to tell me it was all ok. The only thing I could think to do was call my sister and tell her what had happened, partly for the comfort and reassurance of a familiar voice, partly for verification that I hadn't overreacted to the whole situation. I didn't dare call my Mum.

On the train home, I started thinking again about what had happened, once again attempting to process it all and decide what to do next. The whole situation was wrong on so many levels, and I hated how vulnerable and scared and trapped I had felt. I hated how all I had wanted was a lift to the station, not an interrogation of my love life and being forced to reject the inappropriate attention from my taxi driver. I hated how I hadn't given that man a piece of my mind. I hated how I hadn't known what to do. I hated how he thought it was ok to do that in the first place. I hated how outdated and sexist his views were, are. I hated how he made the idea of being a happily independent young woman, something I am very proud to be, seem like a bad thing. I hated thinking that he might do all that to another girl. I hated that I had been subjected to it, simply because by the sheer chances of fate my chromosomes are an XX, not an XY. I have boobs. I have curves. I have a vagina. I have a higher pitched voice. I have feminine features. And even when my hair was a greasy mess and my boots were caked with mud and I was covered from top to toe, this middle aged man still thought he'd give it a go, despite it being completely inappropriate for so many reasons. I was pretty sure that if I had been a 20 year old guy, that taxi drive would have been completely different.

Part of my stress came from wondering if I had just overreacted to the situation, and it got me thinking about how when it comes to being a woman, you really can't win either way. Whatever you do, think, feel, you're going to get a label for it. It gets hard to differentiate how you feel, and how society dictates that you should feel. Am I wrong to have felt afraid? Am I wrong to have reacted so acutely? Am I wrong to have considered this guy's behaviour to be offensive and inappropriate? I know some men I know would say yes to that question. And heck, as a human being irrespective of gender dictations, am I even allowed to feel the way I do? It's all so confusing, and being a woman is still as much of a pain in the arse as it's ever been. 

You can't help but wonder why there's even room for sexism in this modern age. You can't help but wonder about how women are still presented and addressed within society. We're continually being goaded and pushed into an inferior status and position from so many different angles, whether that be consciously or unconsciously, even though we demonstrate our equality, and dare I say it, our superiority, time and time again. Even though we are proving time and time again how strong, intelligent, amazing, fierce, compassionate, skilled we are as a gender. Although being a woman can still be tough, in ways that many men just cannot understand, I still feel so incredibly proud to be one. I refuse to allow my gender to define who I am as a human being. I refuse to be limited by it. I refuse to feel inferior because of it. Why should I? Why should you? 

A while later on the train home, I began thinking about the whole idea of refusal, and how even though it didn't feel like it in the moment, I had a choice. I have a choice. I always have a choice. I get to choose how I respond and process things. I don't have to be afraid. I don't have to be the weaker one. I realised that I could refuse to acknowledge myself as vulnerable or weak, because in reality, I am more than that. Way more than that. I had been clever, I had been strong, I had looked after myself and ensured my safety. I handled the situation calmly and maturely and sensibly, even though I felt the complete opposite on the inside. And thinking about it like that helped me to feel a lot better about everything. I then started thinking about how that taxi driver had no idea how his actions had made me feel. No idea about the repercussions. No idea about how outdated his views towards women are. No idea whatsover. And how wrong that actually was, is.

In those fifteen minutes, that taxi driver wanted to feel superior to me. He saw me objectively. He saw me as my gender, and consequently considered me vulnerable because of it. He didn't see me as a fellow human being. He didn't even consider that there was more to me than merely my appearance. He didn't know that I'm at a top university, half way through a degree and coming out with firsts too. That I know so much information about a wide range of different topics, as do I have opinions, feelings, perspectives, and I could easily have intelligent conversations and debates and hold my own. That I run my own online art store, write a blog, did a radio show, play for a sports team. That I regularly volunteer with stroke survivors, that I volunteered at a camp for disadvantaged kids, that I peer mentor, that I helped raise over £10,000 for charity. That I can paint and draw and write and drive and play the guitar. That myself and a whole host of other amazing women just spent a week heavy lifting and putting together and taking down a festival. That I try to be a good person and see the positives in every situation, every person. That one day I hope to change my corner of the world in some kind of way. That I want to pioneer, advance things, make a difference. He didn't know. He just didn't know. But I did. I knew, I know, that I am more than what he saw me as. And if I know, well then that's all the power I need right there.

Sometimes being a woman feels a bit like being a tiger that has long since outgrown and broken out of its cage and confinement, yet people still try to force you back into it all the same. They don't realise that you're already free, and sometimes you forget it too. They don't realise that it's impossible to go back to what used to be. They can try and force you into that position all they like, but guess what? It's just not going to work. It can't work. It's not happening. End of story. Us women, we're smarter than we realise, stronger than we realise, more kick ass than we realise. We are so. much. more. than the dictations of our bodies, the weights that try to drag us down, the labels we're latched with, the outdated views we're plagued by. I'm more than that. You're more than that. We're more than that. We're not a star in somebody else's universe. We're the bloody universe itself. We stand right there beside our male counterparts, and we do one heck of a marvellous job at holding our own. And the older I get, the more I realise how foolish I am for allowing myself to be tricked into feeling weak, when in fact I have that glorious, gorgeous, intelligent, burgeoning, kick ass, female strength within me all along. And as The Smiths would say, it's a light that never goes out.