Relapse in Machismo Rehab

When it happens, it starts a very specific wave of physical discomfort—beginning with a tightening of the muscles in the back of my neck and the growing tangle of curse words breeding in the back of my throat. I take comfort in my armor--dark sun glasses and The White Stripes blasting from my headphones. My pace quickens, I pull my shirt down over my butt, hold my head up high, and start walking at an angle to create greater distance between myself and the approaching man. I hate that living with machismo has made me a hider, the kind of person that puts barriers between herself and her surroundings. But to be honest, I need my barriers to keep my sanity. And I realize that by saying this I may seem a bit crazy. That’s OK. I am. And yes, I know for every machista, there is another man just walking along minding his own business. But sadly, over the past few years I’ve lost the ability to see anything but the dogs out there. Maybe it’s an unfair prejudice, but regardless, my instincts keep me coiled like a cobra, ready to strike at anything invading my territory—perceived liars, cheaters, chauvinists, horny bastards licking their lips. I’m always expecting the worst, bracing for the hiss in my ear, the invasive gaze scanning my body as I move. And I keep a face smack on stand-by for the butt grabber moving in just as I step off a crowded bus. There are moments when I think I’m starting to make progress. I definitely know more than a few good men here who chip away at the negative stereotype in my mind. Thank God for the exceptions, the *Santiagos* out there. Santi, a 43 year-old Argentine student of mine, came into my life at the beginning of 2012 and we immediately developed a unique friendship. Our shared love of sweets, story-telling, creative writing, and Lou Reed brought us together. I was told my friendship with him was a bold move…friendship between women and (especially married) men was playing with fire according to my Ecuadoran girlfriends. “Kali, unless he’s family or gay or gay family, then you simply can’t be his friend out of respect for his wife.” So yes, at first I felt guilty for thinking of him as my friend, but as time went on I realized I had absolutely no reason to. What we had was a genuine co-appreciation and neither of us had ever thought of it as anything more than that. Simply put, he helped me heal. No matter what kind of bad encounters I had earlier in the day, there was Santi to paint over that lingering negativity in my mind. He never once looked at me with anything but a warm, friendly smile. He never spoke to me like I was some fragile little blonde doll. His first question to me wasn’t “Are you single?” “Where’s your boyfriend?” or “Do you like Latino men?” It was “Do you feel happy here?” I used to fear that I may never be able to really trust men anymore, at least not in this cultural context. Santiago reminded me that my head is holding me back from being able to discriminate between “the good guys” and “bad guys” of the world. Yet still, there are days, like today, I feel I’m relapsing and I wonder, Will I ever recover, damnit?. It was 7:30am, I was walking down Ave. America, and suddenly a man carrying a beautiful little girl wrapped in a blanket rounded the bend. He had her tiny Dora the Explorer backpack dangling from his forearm. He must have been in his early thirties. He rounded the bend so quickly; I didn’t have time to put up my usual preemptive defense shield. And suddenly he veered across the wide empty sidewalk, passing within inches of my face, making a loud wet, lip-smacking noise beside my left ear. The tension came rushing to my neck and the instant fire in the back of my throat stopped me dead in my tracks. As he walked away his daughter watched me over his shoulder, bouncing with the cadence of his steps, a sleepy haze in her dark brown eyes. I wanted to scream at him, humiliate him but nothing could come out with her looking back at me like that. So I stood there on the sidewalk, feeling paralyzed and enraged as he walked away…Every few steps he turned around to look at me, smiling, winking, mouthing words. Usually by this point, I would be in full-attack mode. Right up in his face, calling him a coward, a pathetic small man with a small mind and a small…, fingers waving in his face. But this time I was just frozen and silent. How could I tear him apart like that in front of his little girl? Would she get scared? How would he influence her relationships with men in the future? Would she end up angry like me, or worse…just indifferent? I know I will see this man with his girl again, as they walk down to her school in my neighborhood. Next time I need to do something. So I’ve written this note to give him which I carry in my pocket every day just in case we meet again. Roughly translated, it says this-- You do not have the right to disrespect me. I can only imagine you behave in this way because nobody ever taught you how a real man should act, but it’s not too late to learn. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect you to change for someone like me, the Gringa you harassed in the street. But you need to do it for the beautiful little girl wrapped around your neck. Show her how real men treat women, so that one day she will seek out a man that will treat her in a way that feeds her strength rather than rips it away. And blow kisses at her, be in awe of her--not the women you pass in the street. Please, be the man you can be. **Name changed