She’s flip-flops and perfume, 15 years old. I’m 42 and not her mother, but close enough. I’ll call her “the girl.”
We are at the beach. She leans back in a chair, stretches her long legs haphazardly, soaking sun, laze-slow; I’m flat on a blanket reading a dull book.
Twenty-five-feet away a man sets up his beach chair on the nearly empty sand, oddly close to us. He faces his chair away from the ocean, which no one does, and directly toward us and the road behind us. He takes out binoculars. I turn around and scan the road. What’s he looking at? A car accident? Road construction?
The girl, wearing a bathing suit, shifts in her chair, and curls closed like a fist. She reaches for a sweatshirt in the too-hot sun, tucks it over her head and yanks the hem down far over her thighs. She’s huffed, irritated.
I look back at the man, then at the girl, then at the man again. “He’s watching you with those binoculars,” I say dumbfounded.
She already knows this and responds with a roll of her teenaged eyes. She tosses her hair and sets her chin high, defiant: “Whatever!” she says, angry at him. She’s pretending not to feel violated, or encroached upon. Her painted toenails peek out, fire engine red with tiny white flowers.
The binoculars point like owl eyes.
I sit up and glare at the man, hard. He wilts; I glare even harder and move to stand. He wilts more, turns his chair, packs up and goes away.
I know that this voyeur, was beyond the norm. I know that most men are not like this.
I don’t think women should be veiled, or hide from the sun, or fashion, or the razzle-dazzle of feeling sexy or desirable or done-up if that’s what they like. Bodies are a gift. They are beautiful and compelling. That’s OK. And, whoop-dee-do, not at all new.
Flash ahead to a week ago. Same girl, 18 now. This time a man followed her, over at least two days, from her school, to a store, to a parking lot.
When she realized this, she confronted him. She said “Go away.” She called her father from her cellphone, and he came. They spoke, together, to the police.
I know that this follower/man, this possible predator, was beyond the norm. I know most men are not like this.
When those who love this girl hear this new story, they freak with anger. Inside themselves – and faster than they can imagine – they become all bear, a grizzly rearing up on strong legs, looming huge, angry, claws like knives 6
inches long. Outside – and to her face, they remain composed – catch their breath, shiver at what might have happened. Their skin crawls.
Dangerous people lurk on beaches, in store aisles, in parking lots. Sometimes dangerous people will sit right next to you. We have to tell our children this.
We must teach them to trust their instincts. We must teach them to hear the small voice that tells them they are uncomfortable. They don’t always need to be nice or polite or helpful. Sometimes they need to say “Leave me alone,” or “Get away,” or scream for help.
Awareness and instinct, sad as it is, can save them from crazies.
We also need to teach them that most people are good. Bodies are pretty. People who look at bodies are normal. They are us. And all of us good people need to be aware that our culture is partially defined what we choose to buy, listen to, read, promote, participate in and support. Our culture is partially defined by how we choose to behave.
Our children should know that we are not entitled to the bodies of others – no matter what those bodies are wearing, or how those bodies are dancing, moving, twirling, or strutting. There is a respectful way to admire. It’s a far cry from objectification and voyeurism and an even further cry from stalking.
Our growing children are young, they are strong, they are – too fleetingly – unabashedly confident. Constant protection and awareness from good people is all they need. Our rallying around them is all they need.
A prayer of a chance is all they need.
E-mail Fort Collins poet and writer Natalie Costanza-Chavez at grace-notes@comcast.net. Read more of her essays at .
