"Why'd you let me have the number if you weren't gonna pick up when I call?"

I guess I should give the brotha some credit. It's a legitimate question. 


Let me backtrack. So on the Friday of my first week of work, two days after the man who got down on his knees to ask for my number, a man who had been riding his bike alongside a woman walking on the other side of the street heading in the opposite direction made a dramatic u-turn to come ride alongside me as I was walking home. We were approximately a block and a half from my house. What'syourname? Whereyoustayat? Howlongyoulivedthere--Iain'tneverseenyoubefore. SocanIcallyousometime? 


I answer his questions begrudgingly. I walk slowly. I am aware of the fact that he will probably interpret my slow pace as a sign that I want to be spending time with him in this moment. I most certainly do not. The correct interpretation is, I don't want this man to see where I live. I need to get him to stop walking with (read: following) me before we get to my corner. 


So when he asks if he can call me sometime, I stifle the parts of me that want to say, "Uh...no." and "For what?". All I'm thinking is, 'Please, don't,' but all I say is I guess so...


He jams his knee into a metal fence as he tries to get his phone out of his pocket while on his bike, and I feel bad for the guy. So bad that, in a fit of compassion, I give him my actual number, rather than what I always tell myself should be my usual trick of changing one digit of my real phone number so that it comes out with the rhythm of my actual number.


And he rides off before I've turned my corner, and I feel as if I've safeguarded the location of my secret headquarters. But then, he calls me. That night. Twice. And the next night. And Sunday night at 2:30 in the morning (which, thankfully, does not wake me up). And Tuesday in the middle of the day while I'm at work. I begin to feel bad for the guy. And then I rationalize to myself, well, if he had anything to say to me, he'd leave a message.


Then he leaves a message. And my first thought is fuck, now I have to pick up the next time.


And then I realize, lol wut wait a minute, the fuck am I thinking? No, I most certainly do not. I am no more obligated to pick up because this man keeps calling me than I was obligated to give him my number because he was walking along beside me. I should have just been forthright from the beginning and told him I wasn't interested. Instead, I let myself play mouse to his cat because it was easier. And that disturbs me, when I think about it, but I can't rule out the possibility that he would have followed me all the way to my front door if I'd "played hard to get" told him to get lost.


Unfortunately, I came home later that week to find him hanging out with the guy who lives across the street, so my secret headquarters weren't safeguarded for long. He asked why I let him have my number if I wasn't going to pick up when he called. I wanted to say, BECAUSE YOU WERE FOLLOWING ME. Because I was in a good mood and didn't mind being flirted with at that exact moment. Because I felt bad for you. And outside of that moment, the only thing that was true was that you had been following me and I wanted you to go away. 


I didn't answer. He asked if I'd pick up if he called again. I said maybe. Another blatant lie. But one that shut him up so I could go in the house. (AS IF I NEED HIS PERMISSION TO GO IN THE HOUSE. I DON'T. GRAH.) I shut the door to the sound of him reminding me that he likes "them thick girls."


And when I came out of my house Monday evening and he was leaning against a car parked in front of my door for no apparent reason (which worries me, although he seems to know people who live on my block so it's probably nbd), he said I looked beautiful (which was the point--I was on my way to a concert) and I just said thank you. And thankfully, he didn't call again. 


But when the next one comes along, someone pretty please remind me to give out a fake number. Or, better yet, to just be able to say no, I'm not interested in you. No, I don't want to be speaking to you. No, I don't want you to call me. No.    

True life: I had a man get down on his knees yesterday to beg me for my number.

Yes, I caved and gave it to him. He was on his knees. No, I haven't decided whether I'll pick up if/when he calls. Entertainment potential seems high, but he also seems excessively clingy...

Why do I talk to uninteresting/creepy guys that are talking to me?

Just read this on a blog about rape culture:

Women who are taught that refusing to flirt back results in an immediately hostile environment will continue to unwillingly and unhappily flirt with somebody who is invading their space and giving them creep alerts. (source)

And though I try to be good about recognizing stupid things I have been socialized to do and not doing them just because it's more convenient in the moment, I do this all. the. fucking. time.

Okay, well, at least a lot. I can think of a few examples off the top of my head.

Most recently: So I have a new guy's number in my phone. His name is Matthew. He is a grown man. Thankfully, he's pretend-to-be-classy-enough to have given me his number instead of asking for mine, so our interactions will not continue, but let me explain how I came to have Matthew's number.

It was a little before midnight last Monday night. I was standing on the platform at Trenton Transit Station, waiting for my train to take me to Princeton Junction, on my long trip back to campus from my interview in DC. There was a tall pretty cute guy standing to my left, and he caught my eye and I smiled a small smile at him. (This habit of smiling at strangers is something I picked up from my years of working in customer service, and I'm conflicted about whether it's a habit I need to try to break.) I sat down on the train and he sat one row behind me, to my left. As he's sitting, he asks me if this is the local train, and I know it's starting. But then he gets a phone call! He picks up and it's muthafucka this, nigga that, and I have decided that I have no interest in talking to this man. But then he tells whomever he's talking to that his phone is dying and he needs that last bit of juice to last him to NY, so he'll call him back later. Damn. I was almost free from talking to this man. We sit in silence for a minute or so, and then he starts again. I must commend him for his opening line: "Why you got all that hair tied up like that?" (We naturals are known for pride in our hair, I suppose.) I explained that I was coming home from an interview, and he asked me about the position and whether I wanted to move to DC and why and why not Philly or NY? He explained that he splits his time between Philly and NYC, has apartments in both places (the rent for the Manhattan apartment, which is only a few blocks from Penn Station, is $2k a month), and he owns a recording studio and sells cars. He didn't go to college, but his sister went to UPenn. He thought there were 5 Ivies (Cornell, Brown, and Dartmouth weren't on his list. Go figure.) He was talking about how great it is to be able to call himself a success without being in the drug game, and how much satisfaction that gives him, that he makes money cleanly and legally, and I respected that. He was kind of re-vamping my opinion of him until he mentioned that he has a son and he's really cute too. Yes, sir, it's great that you have a kid and evidently like/take care of him, but you are a grown-ass man who runs businesses and has a child and why are you interested in a 21-year-old college student? My answers had gone from being succinct and designed to express non-interest to semi-conversational, but at this point I was just like, wait, why am I talking to his man? Okay, he said I was pretty and he complimented me on my smile and my grey nails and the way I said "they match my suit...which is also grey." So what? (Side note: he also busted right out with "What are you mixed with?" And then seemed dubious of my "nothing recently..." This bothers me on multiple levels and will probably get its own post, so I'm going to move on.) We got to Hamilton and he asked when my stop was and I said next, and he said something that expressed dissatisfaction at this. Later he said, "So how are we gonna do this? You gonna take my number or what?" (Sir, you are not entitled to me. There is no guarantee that we're going to do anything.) I paused and may have "Hmmm"ed, which threw him off guard; he said, "What, you considering it or something?" "Am I not allowed to consider it?" "Well you, like, actually stopped and thought about it. You had me a little worried." I took his number, knowing I would never call it. 

Why did I do this? I have done this before! As long as the guy wasn't rude or legit calling me out on the street like this is an appropriate means of communication, I will generally entertain their advances, regardless of my own disinterest. I suppose I've always just interpreted it as, hey, I'm a nice person, and he doesn't seem to be an asshole, so I'll let him spit game as long as it doesn't seem like it's going to definitively lead anywhere I don't want it to go. Or as you know, I should work on my communication skills, or on talking to "regular" people (yes I know this term is all kinds of problematic; I just don't know a better way to phrase what I mean. Please volunteer one if you have one.) I don't give such guys my number when they ask--"I just don't give it out. It's just a rule I have."--and I won't volunteer to take theirs. But what's making me feel obligated to talk to them? Why do I feel the need to justify why I won't invite these men into my life by giving them my number? Operating under the rule that any men who do not seem like total and complete disrespectful creeps are allowed to occupy my time is...basically wrong on every level. When a guy calls out to me on the street, I will either ignore or flat out reject him (click here and here for interesting stories from my summer in New Brunswick), but on a train I feel like I'd be being rude by not allowing conversation to happen. But this is RIDICULOUS and I need to stop, like, immediately.  

Kudos to you, good sir,

for knowing how to compliment a woman. Someone taught you well. Kudos to him or her as well.

The situation: 

Me, wearing my favorite Sesame Street shirt, waiting for the train door to open. There are two cuteish boys standing on the platform in front of the door, waiting to get on. Door opens. Boy A smiles at me. Boy B says, "I love your hair too, miss!" as he's stepping onto the train. I turn around to say, "Thank you!" enthusiastically and genuinely, and walk home with a big old smile on my face. 

He totally could have gotten my number or at least a legitimate interaction if he'd had the time/asked. Because THAT is how you talk to a woman. 

Reblogged from Vibe Vixen

This article made me laugh as I remembered the man who thought calling me Brown Chocolate was an appropriate way to garner my affections:

By Jessica C. Andrews at Vibe Vixen,

"Like most women, men have approached me since I was a child, 10 years old to be exact. Over the years, the attempts to get my number, whether through “Excuse Me Miss” speeches or full-on catcalls, have run the gamut from flattering to downright offensive.
And it seems the older I get, the more lewd and unbearable the approaches are. No matter how fine you are, here are 6 ways to NOT get my number:

1. Call me any name my parents did not give me.

No matter how many times you yell it, I will not respond to “Psst,” “Shortay,” “Yo” “Ma,” and the like. I have a name and approaching me that way will ensure you never know what it is.

2. Refer to me by using a body part, complexion or hair texture.

Men, if you call out a part of my body to identify me (i.e. “shorty with the fat butt,” “the short one” or “girl with the ‘fro”), it will just make me walk away faster. Sure I can put two and two together and figure out you’re talking to me. But guess what? I’m still not interested.

3. Approach a girl two seconds before you speak to me.

Let’s be clear: I don’t expect monogamy from men who holla at me on the street. But if you’re competing with your friends to see how many numbers you can get, or just can’t help but spit game to every girl you see, I am beyond turned off. Please find a whole stadium of seats.

4. Physically touch me.

I’ll never forget the time when I was walking through Atlantic Station and a guy grabbed me to spit game at me. Or the time a stranger on 42nd street cut in front of me and gave me a hug. Touching my body in any way is a guaranteed way to get me to turn down your advances—and run away from you as fast as I can.

5. Send your friend.

Now that we’ve graduated from elementary school, sending a friend to spit game on your behalf is pretty much unacceptable. You’re a big boy and can come up with lines all by yourself.

6. Too Many Lines.

Speaking of lines, I can tell when you’re reciting lyrics from Trey Songz’ latest album and when you’re being genuine. Spitting too much game is a good way to go home empty-handed"

Ain't-Shit Brothas

Someone please explain to me why Negroes men of various races but usually Negroes who ain't shit are always tryna talk to me. What about me gives any suggestion that you are worthy of my time and attention, ain't-shit men? You would think my don't-talk-to-me headphones, neat afro, pink lacy dress, pink hair flower, bead-and-seashell jewelry, and Black Snob bag would do the trick, but noooooooo. You sir [though a sir you certainly are not], will still stare at me while we're on the platform waiting for the train, then follow me up to the same area of the double-decker train, then halfway through our ride move back so you're sitting across the aisle from me, then tap on the seat next to me [where the bag is riding] and ask if you can sit there. Actually, you'll basically whisper it so that I have to take my headphones out. And then when I say I'm good, and try to put my headphones back in and continue my life before I was so rudely interrupted, you will continue talking to me. And because I am incapable of being so directly rude, I cannot bring myself to put my second earbud back in. And suddenly we are having a conversation, though I am trying to be as monosyllabic in my responses as possible. 
Let me explain that you, sir, are wearing jeans, sneakers, a plain white tee, a chain, a cap, and sunglasses. SUNGLASSES. INSIDE. AT NIGHT. ON THE TRAIN. 
Why do you think it's okay to just start asking me all these questions? Like where I'm going and where I'm coming from and where I go to school and what my major is etc. etc. Hmm, our conversation surrounding where I go to school needs quoting:

Juve [this is evidently what his friends call him]: Where you go to school?
Me: Princeton.
Juve: Oh, what school you go to?
Me: Princeton.
Juve: Oh that's a school? Princeton College?
Me: -___________________________- Princeton University
Juve: Oh, but you said you live in New Brunswick? Why you ain't go to Rutgers? Your GPA wasn't high enough?
Me: Princeton is a better school than Rutgers.
Juve: Oreally? 
Me: It's the number two school in the country. It was the number one when I got accepted...
Juve: WOOOOOOORRRRRRRDDDDDDD.

...I can't. This man. After thus establishing that I was way out of his league, he proceeded to tell me his life story about how in high school his GPA was a 2.5 and he wanted to go to Rutgers but they said his GPA wasn't high enough so he went to Bloomfield College but only for a couple years and now he's trying to go to Kean.

Another excerpt, though I can't remember this part verbatim:

Juve: When's your birthday?
Me: January.
Juve: January what?
Me: The 29th.
Juve: Oh so what sign are you?
Me: Aquarius.
Juve: [some of this part is a paraphrase] *pronounces Aquarius incorrectly* *repeats it* Y'all are some good people. Strong and confident. I got this cousin who's an Aquarius. She lives in South Jersey too. She's real good people. She always tellin me what I need to do and helpin me make plans and shit. Yeah Aqauriuses, y'all good people. You seem like real good people too. *pauses for two seconds* Why you ain't ask me when my birthday is?
Me: ...You were still talking.
Juve: *looks skeptical*
Me: When's your birthday?
Juve: Oh, now you ask!
Me: YOU WERE STILL TALKING!
Juve: March.
Me: So you're a...Pisces?
Juve: Yeah!
Me: I had this friend in high school who was a Pisces.
Juve: Oh, was she--she or he?
Me: He.
Juve: Oh. Was he good people? Did you like his personality and stuff?
Me: Yeah, he was my friend. 
Juve: Oh. Well look, I ain't even tryna really talk to you or nothin, but I think you good people, and I could learn from you, cuz you focused, and you could learn from me, so I'm tryna ask if I could be your friend.
Me: -_______________________________- 

Then I get off the train and try to powerwalk away from him but he catches up to me and asks, "Damn why you walk so fast?" and tries to see if I'm catching a cab so we can split it and asks if we're going to exchange numbers and I just look at him. SIR. HAVE YOU BEEN PAYING ATTENTION TO ANY OF MY BODY LANGUAGE OR MY SINGLE-WORD-RESPONSES? WE ARE NOT GOING TO BE FRIENDS. I WANT TO GET AS FAR AWAY FROM YOU AS POSSIBLE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. 

Me: I don't give my number to strangers, sorry.
Juve: But how bout if I call you tonight and we can talk and then we won't be strangers?
Me: I don't give my number to strangers. It's a rule.
Juve: Okay then I'll give you my number...
Me: *rolls eyes*
Juve: You ain't gon call me. How we gon be friends if I can't have your number? 
Me: *crickets*
Juve: We ain't gon be friends are we? 
Me: I'm sorry. I have to get home now. *walks away very quickly, laughing to herself about what a great blog post this will make*

MEN WHO AIN'T SHIT, CONSIDER THIS YOUR WARNING. YOU WILL NOT GET MY NUMBER. YOU WILL GET ON MY LAST DAMN NERVES. YOU WILL BE PUT ON BLAST. So the next time you see a fine-ass woman who obviously has her shit together reading on the train with her headphones in, LEAVE HER THE FUCK ALONE.

This has been a public service announcement.

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day Five--Letter to the Last Person Who Hit on You

Dear It's-Not-Like-You-Had-the-Manners-to-Introduce-Yourself, 

First off, don't go thinking you're special or anything because you got a Facebook status and a blog post, that's just a matter of circumstance. I was halfway hoping someone else would hit on me before today so I could write to them, but I can't say I'm really disappointed it didn't happen...it's a little uncomfortable. Like, part of me likes the attention and goes Mhmm I know I'm cute/sexy/fly but thanks for pointing it out, but another (larger?) part of me disapproves entirely of the manner by which you (and guys like you) choose to make your opinion known, and yet another part of me wonders if I really want to be considered attractive by the kind of guy who leans on sides of buildings/sits on front stoops and calls out to women as they pass by. That almost feels like I'm doing something wrong. But then I take a step back and remember that no, sir, YOU are in the wrong, and I'll be damned if you make me feel like I've made a bad decision by wearing shorts or walking with confidence or generally being presentable. So there.
Let's review what happened here, shall we? I was minding my own business, walking home from the train station after a long day of "work", not really demanding or even inviting your attention in any way. I certainly wouldn't have minded a compliment, but I feel the need to inform you, sir brotha, that "Brown Chocolate, Whassup baby?" is NOT a compliment. Let's dissect that statement: I am brown-skinned, yes, okay. Chocolate? Like you wanna eat me up? A) That's pretty damn forward, and B) I got that handled already, tyvm. Most importantly, I am not your "baby". You don't even know my name, and I'm supposed to answer to that? You and I both know I walked the hell away without the slightest hint of a response. I heard laughter after that, not sure if your boys were laughing at you  because I ignored you or if y'all were laughing at me because you said something rude in response to my ignoring you (which would just further prove all the points I'm trying to make here), but frankly [stranger] I don't give a damn. 
See, you don't know this, but the guy before you got a response, at least. It was a shut-down reference-to-my-boyfriend response, but it was a response. Why, you may ask? Well, situationally these events weren't much different, but he said, "Hey, come here and talk to me for a minute." That's...less intrusive. It seems more like I'm being offered an opportunity and less like I'm being reeled in on a line you've been casting all night. I felt like a person and not like a thing (you called me chocolate). I mean, granted, that other guy probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere either, but you could learn a thing or two from his approach. 
But really though, I would like you, and him, and other men who engage in this practice to sit down and think for a few minutes about "holleraing at" women. Because it just does not make sense to me that I'm expected to respond positively in any way to being halfway yelled at while I'm walking home. My advice: I can see myself hypothetically appreciating a line in a proper setting (aka not calling out to me while I'm walking down a street) and if it seems, Idk, sincere, like the guy is embarrassed about using the line because he thinks it's cheesy, instead of like hes been standing there all night calling out to every woman who walks past. I don't like when it seems practiced. Introducing yourself and saying you couldn't help but notice me from across the bar could be acceptable. Tell me your name. Don't call me baby when you don't even know mine. And don't yell at me.

This has been a public service announcement in the guise of a letter.

--Maya

I got hit on walking home from the train station tonight

and I finally got to say, "[Sketchy dude,] I'm not talking to you because I don't think my BOYFRIEND would appreciate it." I've wanted to be able to use that line of deflection without lying for years, haha. (In fact, random story time: I once used to carry around a picture of my best guy friend in my wallet and tell this creepyish guy in my freshman year world history class in high school we were dating so he would stop asking me out. hehe)

In case you were wondering, he seemed taken aback for a moment, then looked at me again and said, "You right, you right. I wouldn't either...*he keeps talking but by this point I have walked away*"