Every time it happens, the harassment just gets added into this memory blob of unwanted advances from men — a blob that had to start somewhere, I suppose. But drilling to the middle of that terrible memory bank would be all but an impossible task now.
But I did remember something.
When I was a teenager in rural Michigan, which is where I grew up, I drove to the grocery store late at night to get cold medicine. I parked next to a minivan, and there was a man standing next to the van’s sliding side door. I figured it was just a dad helping his kids into the van.
When I walked past the van on my way into the store, the guy tried to “compliment” me in that disgusting, sultry voice that street harassers use. It makes my skin crawl. I think I glanced over long enough to look disgusted.