A Letter for You

To whom it may concern,

I am writing this letter to you three days after the incident. It took me this long because I was extremely upset. Even thinking about it made me angry, so writing it on paper would just make it worse. It wasn’t until this morning I wholly committed to channeling my wrath into something more productive, into writing this letter… for you.

For a school project, I had to buy some plastic bags sold in the Encalada market. As you know, this market is indoors with small corridors and stands on each side of the wall. My dad decided to wait in the car, and at the moment, I didn’t think twice about it. But I realized I made a mistake when I approached the entrance of the marketplace and met your stare, which was not directed towards my eyes. I saw how a hungry smile crept on your face. Then your eyes reached my own, and I stared at them, summoning from the depths of my rage the strength to portray coldness in my eyes. Coldness to hide what I was truly feeling, and what I didn’t want you to see. I was biting the inside of my lip while I stared at your eyes, thinking about what I would do if you turned out to be like the male I’ve been warned about since I can remember. From the bottom of my stomach, anxiety, discomfort and shame started to emerge; I became angry by the familiarity of those feelings since I feel them everytime I meet your stare. Your smile began to fade, and soon enough, it was gone. The glint in your eyes remained, and I don’t doubt they followed me as I entered the marketplace. I fought the urge to run back to the car.

Unfortunately, I met your eyes again. This time, you were behind a meat stand skinning chickens. I saw how your eyes examined my body, starting from my now dirty white uniform shoes then my uniform skirt and as you kept on going up, I understood how the chickens hanging on your stance felt. You eventually met my eyes: narrowed, rigid, cold, hard. You looked away quickly and kept on skinning your chickens. And just when I thought I was safe again, I met more of your eyes. You were all eating lunch in one of the stands, as you saw me approach, your conversation faded, and your attention was directed at me. I quickly looked away and focused on the path ahead. There was nothing I could do while I felt all your eyes bore into my skin. I just kept walking; not willing to bend under your stares, I fought the urge to look at the floor as I walked.

I felt relieved when I bought the plastic bags and began making my way to exit the market. I actually thought the worst part was over. Then I saw you with a dirty white shirt, even dirtier jeans and black stained boots. You were at the end of the corridor, strutting as if the world should be at your feet. You didn’t see me at first, you were too busy looking around with an amused expression like you knew something the world didn’t. Then you saw me–I wished you didn’t-and your smile grew as you began to examine me. I kept on walking towards you, towards the exit, with my eyes impersonating coldness itself, but my hand had become white because of the pressure I was holding my phone. I couldn’t bear staring at you this time, since I used all of my strength on you before. I stared at the ground ahead, focusing on a stain on the floor as I walked. I wished I was in the car already. Then I began to feel a coppery taste in my mouth, I realize it was because of the pressure of my teeth inside my lip. In that moment, when I became aware what I was letting you do to me, the depths of my rage came to the surface suppressing my shame, discomfort, anxiety, and fear. I’ve had enough. So, I raised my eyesight once again, determined to look ahead. We were about to cross paths, your stare directed at me while mine was focused on the exit. But I saw in the corner of my eyes how you forced a breath through a small hole between your teeth and summoned a high pitched sound… for me. A whistle that cut through the air like a sharp knife used to skin chickens. A whistle said to compliment me, but in reality it only reminded me of why I should fear walking alone more than you should. A whistle that degrades, dehumanize, and causes a sinking feeling in my stomach. A whistle that makes my heart beat faster, and transforms an ordinary situation into a fight-or-flight situation. A whistle that humiliates, that makes me feel unsafe and uncomfortable. So, that is why when you whistled, I stopped walking, turned around to completely face you, and asked you “Do I look like a dog? Do I look like a dog for you to whistle at me?”

I hope you now understand,

The girl who shouldn’t need to explain this

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