Hagintha Woods

Outside of the car, the moon hangs low in the sky.

The air is quiet but stirring, the darkness of the night still impenetrable, but the space has the weight of anticipation, the knowledge that in a time that is coming, it will have to make way, cede itself for the arrival of dawn.

And so, in the dark purple, in the hidden security of time still its own, the night shoots down the last drink of the night, leaves a red lipped reminder of itself on the glass, gathers its skirts.

Inside the car, I blearily blink sleep from my eyes.

I recently acquired the opportunity to visit a friend’s stable, and any opportunity to visit horses, let alone ride, is something I take eagerly, no matter the early mornings or training time.

I’d gone a few times, but previously, by luck and sometimes courtesy of soft urging, I’d always had the privilege of being accompanied, a companion to keep me awake through the journey. But she was unfortunately occupied this time.

I’ve gone long periods without riding.

It is an unfortunate thing I’d gotten used to, what with horses being expensive and requiring a lot of land. Recently having been able to put my hand up to a horse’s muzzle and feel the warmth of its breath, however, instead of sating the urge somewhat, has only sharpened my want like a knife.

And so, rather than cancel, I decide to make the trip alone.

The drive is peaceful, familiar roads and flickering street lights, and i do appreciate the way I do not have to meet someone or interact. Instead, I drive in silence with the moon for company, and I enjoy the darkness of near morning.

I pull into where I usually park, but there is a car at my usual spot today, two men standing by it.

Unbidden, my heart stutters at the intrusion.

On a day like today, silly as the change is, I was counting on routine. No matter. I park further in front, where I can see the car from the entrance.

I feel the men’s attention hooked and drawn, following my movements as I park, eyeballs on a string attached to the car. Though I too would feel curious about someone coming in at 6.30am in the morning, they are two men and I am a woman and I have never been more conscious of the fact that I am alone.

I feel the thread of their attention attached to me like a limb I cannot shake.

I watch them in the mirror before I get out, and stare perhaps a second too long when I come out the car, but my attention will not allow itself to be pulled away, and neither would I pull it so.

They are talking amongst themselves and laughing boistrously in the way that men seem to learn to do once they hit their teenage years, a manner that seems audaciously confident. The type of laughter that so often accompanies jokes someone happens to be the butt of, that often prompts someone to pull me aside and whisper with a smile that tries to ease things over whilst inviting my own tacit allowance: “Boys will be boys.”

I am a champion of free spaces, and I do believe that everyone deserves to have leisure spaces that are free and unstructured, where they can enjoy some downtime and their own company whenever they please.

Perhaps they were having one of those conversations where a dark night stretches into the morning, and were curious as to my entrance so early into the day. Perhaps my arrival served as an unwelcome herald of the dawn, an annoying reminder of time’s passage and the hours that soon would not belong solely to them.

Either way, they were definitely as cognizant of me as I was of them, albeit probably with different emotions attached.

“… But she’s parked already!” I hear one of them exclaim, over the sound of my own heartbeat.

It is too specific. Too coincidental. My hands are trembling.

I take everything with me, and speed walk away, keeping myself just a hair’s breath from running. I hope that the car will be alright, and that in the light of day, it will be right where I left it, unsullied and working.

I know that when I come back with the security of the daytime, I will be checking it’s surroundings before I approach, and checking the car itself thoroughly before I drive. I consider cancelling my plans. My mouth is dry.

Now with the privilege of hindsight, I can say that nothing happened.

The two men did not try anything. Perhaps I’d taken their favourite parking spot, and they were bemoaning that fact.

I know with every cell of my body that if it had been a group of women staring at me, screeching into the dawn like inebriated banshees, I would not have acted in the same way.

I would have possibly been annoyed, but it would have been more likely that I would have been amused. Fond, even. I might even have given them a small, awkward wave, the camaraderie formed between people that were awake at the witching hour together.

But these were not women.

And when one is scared, there is little room for empathy.

And it frustrates me. I so dearly want to give people the benefit of the doubt, or even the joy of trust in a general standard of humanity. I myself, after all, would not be where I am today without the kindness of the people around me.

My country is relatively safe. I have grown up well, without a need to resort to anything desperate or vicious. As a person, I fully believe in kindness to others as a basic human tenet.

After all, who are we if not helping hands to each other?

But I am not unscathed by the patriarchy. I am a woman, and they are men, and to act like we are equals and they would not harm me would not only be unrealistic, but willfully ignorant and dangerous.

And so, I am borne away on fearful feet, with frustration at a scuppered mood raging within me.

I know this experience will linger, will leave a pall over me that will not lift until I am back in the car and driving home, and perhaps not even then.

Though it was only a few minutes, and there was no notable interaction between us, my day and plans have been minutely and undoubtedly tilted, set off kilter by a small, acute degree. Not large enough to cause any real disruption (hopefully), but occasionally when I put my foot down, I cannot find the ground. I stumble forward.

Behind the frustration, there is a latent anger that boils, deep within my soul.

Those men are strangers. I did not speak to them. For them to have such a grip on my life is ridiculous, upsetting and very, very aggravating.

An introvert by nature and a person who forms close but few bonds, I don’t have much contact with most men as it is- no boyfriend or husband, a paltry few men I count as friends, and yet they did not even have to be close to my heart to affect me in such a manner.

Most of all, however, I also carried a well of deep disappointment.

This incident illuminated a truth that I had known but intellectually fought against, that I could not put into words.

Under patriarchy, I cannot truly be happy for men. Under misogyny and the way it is imbued in the rules of the world I live in, I cannot share in the world with them with a completely open heart, the way I dream to with the people around me.

I can befriend men. I can get to know them and respect them.

But as long as some part of me exists as prey in relation to them, as long as it is societally sanctioned and expected for them to have something they can take from me, I would never be able to simply enjoy a man’s company.

Whether the labour is sexual, emotional, domestic, or many of the myriads of ways in which a woman can be used by a man, most men see women as something from which value can be derived, consciously or subconsciously. They can want partnership and friendship, but till they work on themselves and tackle beliefs that had raised them, many times they do not realise that they are complicit in the systems around them.

Just by existing around a man, I can often feel myself shrinking, making space for them in some way or another. And sometimes, even if the man is acting normally and respectfully, it is only too easy to fall into societally prescribed roles, for me to afford him space before he can ask for it, and for him to step into it because he didn’t know it was space recently vacated.

Until both the men and women tackle that, until we can truly face each other equally and give each other the benefit of the doubt or the expectation of shared humanity, I need to preserve my lifelines. Until I can face a man and not feel a pressure to shy away, until I know he isn’t poised to conquer, I cannot see them as anything more than an adversary on a battlefield.

I talk, I get to know them, and sometimes can even love them greatly, but I am cognizant of the fact that I wish for them to be at their best without me. That many times, when a woman wishes for the best for a boy, there is a contract made for the draining of energy, one that the both of them might not have consciously signed.

I guard my energy religiously, and I wish them the ability to flourish on their own. We familiarize ourselves with each other’s mind, we laugh, and I will adjust that wariness I need to have as I get to know them, but the wariness will never be entirely gone.

In shared spaces, private conversations, gentle touch, a part of me is always watching, waiting for them to unhinge their jaw and swallow me whole.

And that causes me no small amount of grief and loss. For though it is rare, I have met men that defy the world. That are beautiful souls that prove their humanity, again and again, and from our friendship come exhilarating conversations, wonderful experiences and the mutual joy of connection. The state of our society is not the fault of one man alone.

However, whether they know it or not, they have to prove themselves worthy of the benefit of the doubt again and again before I come closer. Our love and connection is based on the tenet that we both care for and wish for the best for each other, and I must always ensure that if the situation changes due to intention, entitlement or negligence, that I am not caught unawares.

Because of the state of the world, I love them and wish for the best for them, but every time we eat at the dinner table, my focus will sharpen ever so slightly whenever he picks up the knife.

And so, I cannot allow myself to get fully invested in them-cannot allow myself to extend a hand without planning in advance how much is too much, and when to withdraw my assistance. I cannot put my all into wishing for their wellbeing lest I drown.

And I dearly wish it weren’t so, that we can change this state of affairs. I cannot change this alone, and neither do I profess to try to very hard. After all, I have spent my years forging a balance that even allows me to navigate this world, and within it, I have other things I need to speak on that require my focus.

All the same, I hope that it gets better. I hope to love, and even if unconnected to me, I wish for people to be better for their own sake. If I see signs that show promise, I am a person ruled by curiosity and optimism, and if I have the energy for it I will often lean closer, probe and see how this could possibly go. If there is a change, I adjust my sails with hope, and find that we can move into a yet unseen future together.

But till things change, until there are large scale efforts and clear signs of progress, I cannot afford to be the one that extends the hand first. And that will be a disappointment that will stay with me till I am in the grave, because as it is, it is the better alternative for my survival.