IN MY OPINION Various and Sundry Opinion Essays

A woman can't be too careful these days -- or can she?

Since arriving at this university two years ago, I have learned a lot about what its means to be a woman in this society. I've hard talks dealing with employment discrimination, debated pornography, and discussed problems in women's health care.

But through it all, one theme keeps coming up that I simply cannot absorb, cannot understand, and cannot believe -- the world is not a safe place for women, and unless you protect yourself, you're going to go the way of Nicole Simpson.

At first the messages made sense. Don't walk around campus late at night by yourself. Don't accept rides from men you don't know. Don't walk around the dorm in your underwear. Short, sensible ideas that can go a long way to keep a woman safe.

And even if I did resent the fact that I was being told to look over my shoulder now and then, it didn't bother me too too much. It wasn't as if people were asking me to change every aspect of my life. After all, why on earth would I want to walk around in the underwear anyway?

Millions of women are being verbally harassed, physically assaulted, raped and murdered every minute of the day, I kept hearing. Over in that dorm, behind that bush, in such and such a town, in this state, around the world, the violence goes on and on.

I nodded my head, taking sober note of the statistics glaring out from posters hung in my dorm -- one inf four women will be attacked by a rapist during her college career and one in seven will actually be raped. Well, I guess that's it for me and my laissez faire attitude about this, I thought. Maybe I should be a little more worried.

So, like a dutiful little girl, I locked my dorm root at night to protect myself from the man who might try to get into my room and assault me.

I called up the escort service when I had to make a long trip across campus late at night. I ran from streetlight to streetlight to stay in "well-lit areas." I listened to the sounds around me, kept track of stray shadows, and watched out for suspicious characters.

Riding the bus, I kept my eyes out for strange men looking at me or trying to draw me into conversation. Watch out, you can't be too careful, I told myself, confident my vigilance was paying off.

But was it? On the nights when I didn't lock my door, nothing terrible happened. Many times I found it very convenient not to have to worry about getting locked out in the middle of the night just because I'd made a quick trip to the bathroom.

And out of the many times I made long trips across campus late at night, I'd never seen or heard a single thing that was suspicious or even vaguely frightening.

I had met a few strange men on the bus, but that didn't seem like something I could avoid.

So did changing my behavior make a difference in my life? Well, in one respect, I'd say yes. It made me afraid.

Walking across campus any time of day, I feel like I should be wary. I look around for lingering eyes. I go out of my way to avoid empty stairwells because they make me so frightened. I shy away from conversations with strangers. In short, I've become the stereotypical shrinking violet, too afraid to go about the basic tasks of life.

I'm not the only one either. I have plenty of female friends who seem to face a similar problem. None of us has even been assaulted or followed or threatened in any way, but we all feel like we're going to be. Remember -- one in seven women will be raped at some point in their college career. So you can never be too careful.

Recently I noticed a flyer on dorm safety hanging up in my dorm. Printed by the local action group Riot Grrl, the flyer offers several pieces of advice on ways female college students can protect themselves from sexual assault. I flew in a rage.

Lock the door even when you're in the room, And when you're "just running down the hall for a minute." I obviously must have the wrong kind of mentality to accept this kind of thing, because the way I see it, I'd rather be "unsafe" than live like I'm in the midst of rapists or axe-murderers. Sure, locking my door might reduce the chance of some strange man coming in, but what kind of chance is that?

That wasn't the only bit of advice I took exception to either. No, there was also one warning me that "the guy down the hall may seem very nice" but could a rapist in disguise. Don't shut the door when you're in the same room and don't go over and visit him without telling someone first. You never know what could happen.

Attention all you guys down the hall -- don't you feel insulted? In can't you don't, let me tell you that I, at least, am very insulted. How dare somebody tell me -- just because somebody is a man I have to treat him like he's some kind of high explosive. Smacks of prejudice to me.

So now I'm angry. And afraid.

Afraid that just because I dare speak up about what I see as militant paranoia, the entire women's community is going to come down on me and chew me up.

Because I don't get it. Because I don't go along with everything they say. Because I'm not afraid enough.

I think I've discovered my personal hell. It's a familiar place, one many have come to know and love, easily accessible to anyone with a television. It's name? The U.S.S. Enterprise, as it appears in Star Trek: The Next Generation.

The realization that this ship is fated to be my eternal suffering took many years to develop, years during which I expended literally thousands of hours partaking in the adventures of Jean Luc Picard and his crew. I delighted in the antics of the famously flamboyant Q, marveled at the unending talents of Data and sighed at the noble sensitivity of the ship's captain.

I was in awe of the holodecks, in love with the notion of interactive computers and dazzled by the crew's seemingly unlimited access to music, historical records and leisure time.

The ship (and the show) became a kind of paradise in my mind, something with the ability to provide me with absolute contentment and peace, at least for the duration of the hour it aired. Little did I expect it when about four months ago, the spell was broken by a two minute conversation with my roommate.

I told her about my affection for the show and the way I used to watch it every night at home with my parents. She was disgusted with the show and, I think at least partially, with me.

"I can't stand it," she said. "To me, that show, that life, represents everything I hate about this stupid society today."

I asked her what she meant.

"I mean, it's so messed up. Everything is so sterile! It's all technology, computers, simulations. It's like the people are all dead, just like they are here now, or are becoming. All my fears are coming true!"

I did not attempt to make a reply. But I thought about it. And then I knew it was true: Enterprise is my personal hell.

Think about it, all you ST:NG lovers, you people who read those Star Trek technical manuals like they're the Bible, all those who have mastered the game of three-dimensional chess.

On Earth in the here and now, people wear all sorts of clothes. On the Enterprise, half the people wear uniforms -tight, unflattering, itchy-looking uniforms. Standard colors are red, turquoise, and a sort of dirty marigold. The zippers are in the back somewhere. Very nice.

But suppose you're someone's wife, husband or child. Or maybe you're on break or just don't have any connection with Starfleet at all. Ah, now it's time to relax in something a bit more comfortable. How about one of these nice leisure uniforms? You take the grey one, I'll take the brown. My, that's attractive. It could use a little accenting, though. How about this little communicator pin? Now, that's better.

Hey, you know what's really great about these clothes? They all match the furniture. Everything matches the furniture, actually. All the walls are off-white, that color you find on personal computers these days. Very tasteful, unobtrusive, perfect for a ship with all the character of a Caribbean cruise ship or a floating office tower. Bland, abstract art for every room, furniture in shades of gray and beige. Knickknacks stored in little containers hidden in the walls. The light is soft and soothing. Have a seat, the doctor will see you shortly.

And speaking of the doctor, you couldn't possibly be sick. No, in this era, the human immune system has become a redundancy, something easily outdone by one of Doctor Crusher's fancy computer gizmos. Got a hangnail? Zap, it's gone. How about a broken leg? It'll be like new in a flash. No problem!

But a cold? How could you have a cold? Sit down and I'll give you a complete diagnostic. This should not be happening. Think what could happen to you! You might sneeze, get a runny nose and have to deal with... oh, that stuff... you know, um, mucus.

It's not that bad? Nonsense -- just like what you said about those bruises the other day. It's lucky you weren't written up for that episode the other night with your husband. Violence during sexual intercourse! That's unheard of! And to enjoy it? It think you might be in line for a visit with Counselor Troi.

Listening to the counselor, you quickly realize that your attitudes toward sexuality are in need of some serious revision. You're telling me you actually picture that lieutenant naked and masturbate to that image during your leisure time?

That is grossly inappropriate behavior for a Starfleet officer -- objectifying a fellow officer and engaging in nonprocreative sexual activities! Where will your shining, perfect children come from if you continue this behavior? But let's cut this conversation short; sexuality has never amounted to more than one or two minuscule subplots on the show anyway.

Let's take a walk around the ship instead and take a gander at its famous diversity. Hmmm, interesting. We've passed around a hundred people by now, and a full 90 of them were humans. Funny, I thought this was a Federation starshpi. Aren't there supposed to be aliens working on this ship? Oh, well, as long as the quota gets met.

And speaking of quotas, it's impressive how many of these humans fall into the old racial category known as white. I guess this is some kind of attempt to make up for the fact that white are outnumbered something like three or one on the old Blue Planet. They've got to have some turf to rule, you know!

Disgusted? I sure hope so. It's a shame that the show's producers came up with such a sterile, boring, unimaginative vision of the future. Now we have all these people going around thinking that's the wave of the future. They're working to get there. Just look at those modern office buildings. Don't tell me they don't look like Picard's ready room.

I walk down the long, gray hallway, my mind floating somewhere out in space, capturing the rhythms of the music on my headphones. Out the window at the end of the hall, the snow glares brightly under the outdoor safety lights.

I turn to the right and put my key in the door. Resisting me slightly, it finally gives and lets me into my dorm room, a cinder block box painted a refreshing shade of industrial beige.

Without thinking, my hand reaches out and hits the light switch. A faint glow emanates from the little globe up in the ceiling.

I drop my bag, coat and walkman on the bed and toss my hat and gloves on the shelf in the closet. Stepping past the mirror, I take a look at myself. The light above is too weak to show the real red of my hair, but strong enough to show the bags under my eyes. I am exhausted.

The light on my phone is blinking. This comes as no surprise since my friends and I are obsessed with voice mail. Walk in the room, check for the red light, that's the program.

I press the preprogrammed 6-2000 button and punch in my password with a speed that astounds me. Two messages. I go through them mechanically, forwarding one, reply to another, pressing 3 to hear the message I just sent.

Still on the phone, I bend over and connect my cable to the TAU, the University's version of a modem. I stretch out my arm and press the power button on my computer. Slowly it whirs to life, clocking the megabytes and booting up the familiar Windows screen.

I check my roommate's clock over on the window sill. I check my watch. I check the little Timex travel clock I keep on my night stand. It's later than I thought. Maybe I won't get seven hours sleep.

The computer is ready. I press the button on my monitor and slowly icons appear before my eyes. The glare is too much for me in the semi-darkness.

I get up and push in the plug for the Christmas lights. The roommate's baby, this lovely ring of lights circling around the room.

Finally sitting down in the chair, I reach out and turn on the standing halogen lamp. Not too bright tonight, but enough to kill the glare of the screen.

My finger falls on the button on the mouse and clicks on Trumpet Windsock. Time to go on line. The last time I checked it was four hours ago. Somebody could have contacted me since then. Or maybe I should go and check Notes or the newsgroups or look at some pages on the World Wide Web.

But not before the connection comes through. This takes a few seconds, so I reach down and turn on my stereo. The soundtrack to The Piano is in the tape player, so I leave it there. I have listened to this too many times this week, but it will do. The music rises up around me as my screen tells me, "CONNECT 9600."

Click to minimize, click on Eudora, enter password, press OK, and there are some messages for me. Press OK, maximize message list, click on first one. Read it, click to reply, block delete, type a reply, click to close document. Read the next one, erase it. Junk mail. Close the list of messages, click to exit.

I am tempted to check Notes and do all those other things, but I am so tired.

Maybe I should have gone to bed earlier. As it is, I've been home a half an hour and still haven't touched the bed. It's almost 2 a.m. What was a I thinking?

I look around me. The globe glowing in the ceiling. The phone blinking with another message. The twinkling Christmas lights. The halogen lamp. All three clocks. The tape player moving the cassette forward. The obnoxious color monitor and the accompanying hum of the computer fan.

What's going on? Do I exist solely to operate a bunch of heartless machines? Walk in the door and plug yourself in -- it's the American way and, by the way, the way of the future. Oh, joy, oh, rapture, I can't wait.

I listen to my breathing, the gentle sound of my heart. Outside my window, the moon hangs in the winter sky. My bones grind into the hard wooden chair. As usual, my nose is running.

I exit from my programs as soon as I can and switch the computer off. I get a tissue and blow my nose. I change m clothes. I check the latest message on my phone and shut off my stereo. I turn off the halogen lamp and cut the juice to the globe in the ceiling.

I slip under the covers and grab hold of the travel alarm clock. I move the switch to the "alarm on" position. The time is 2:00 a.m. Goodnight, America.

For a few hours last Thursday evening, time stood still.

As still as Amherst College when I emerged from the Campus Center just after 6 o'clock. A few figures darting here and there, off in the distance. A professor prodding the snow off his windshield.

In some far corner someone was shoveling. The accompanying crash of metal against asphalt seemed to be the only sound for miles. The snow had swallowed the rest.

Deep and soft it was, a down blanket keeping the earth warm. Feathers falling from the sky, so silent, silent, silent, only the people below making the sound, uttering the curses.

I looked up across the quad, through the broad trees, up at the chapel, the dormitories, and all the various other buildings. I could hardly see them through the falling flakes. Funny, I thought, if these cars weren't here, it'd be the same as... well, almost the same as a hundred years ago.

Students huddled in their rooms or leaning over warm bowls of soup, gossiping about the elements, worrying about their exams. Then is now and now is then, I thought as I gathered my scarf tighter around my neck.

I headed to the bus stop by the old library. The walking was hard. Drifts seem to reach up and grab me by the ankles, twisting my feet this way and that.

The wind pushed me backwards toward the quad and snapped my head down until I could see nothing but my struggling feet. All the paths were filled with snow, no more footprints left for me to follow.

I turned and stopped. A bus approached, one I couldn't afford to miss. I ran to the right, my legs like lead. Overcoming the mighty force of gravity, I clamored onto the bus and threw myself into a seat.

It was quiet in there, too, nothing but the sound of melting snow. After a few minutes, the bus lurched forward and pulled a left.

More waiting at the intersection. The whole world seemed to be waiting. At the crosswalk. At the bus stop. Everywhere people stood and asked, "When will it stop?"

The bus lumbered down North Pleasant Street, picked up some more passengers, and got stuck at another intersection. Total silence on board and the sky grew dark and the air turned an even brighter white in the glare of the headlights and street lamps.

I was on a carriage riding home in a storm. Here was the village, the church, another passenger on his way to shelter. Instead of a newspaper vending machine, there was a gas lamp. A horse stood tied up in front of the church. Modrian had become a cobbler's shop, Bart's a tavern. The owners were probably sitting at home in front of the fire at this hour.

Only the Mobil station stayed the same, mired in the warmth of exhaust fumes and glittering in the bright fluorescent light. Emily Dickinson's house used to be there on that spot, or so someone told me. It's gone now. Imagine the snow on the roof and out in the front yard. The poet looking out the window and seeing a gas station.

The bus moved on, stopped for a few more passengers, and made a left toward UMass. The library stood dark against the gray sky. The Fine Arts Center lay like a mausoleum. Bright lights shining in every corner, but no one to guide. The University was closed.

The desert began at Haigis Mall. Winds swept the sand up in the air, where it swirled around in a loop around the statue. My feet made their own path on the steps going down to the pond. I held on tight to the railing.

Is this the way things will look after we're all gone? The desert will rise up and take this land. When the French found the Sphinx in the last century, it was buried under the desert sands. They had to dig it out.

Time to get the archaeologists to come and dig out the Campus Center. It looked so much like a temple with all those steps. Some of the priests were still alive, studying manuscripts and praying for an end to the terrible storms.

People don't seem to like the weather anymore, especially not this snow, which explains why I was the only one out there by the pond. Not even another person in sight. I stared down at the beautiful curves of the wind-lashed snowdrift. I listened to the chatter of the ducks. Tine to move on.

Eventually the snow came to a stop. Time moved forward and mankind picked up the reins again, clearing the paths and uncovering the buildings. The desert was packed up and dumped somewhere out of sight.

But the illusion had already been revealed.

I am very familiar with sidewalks. Walking across campus, I look at them a lot. The same goes when I'm in town. The pavement is my friend -- every crack, every crumbling bit of asphalt, every little dip and pile of sand.

I am shy.

As I walk, I try to look at the people coming towards me, but I can only stand so much. So many factors to consider when you are looking at people and they are looking at you. How am you supposed to look? Should you smile? Should you try to be serious? And what about eye contact? The pressure is enormous. After making my decision -- smile, nod, forget you haven't seen -- I often regret it. Perhaps I have made a mistake and someone has been offended. And why did that person look at me like that? It would be best to look away. And so I do.

Shy people know things. Besides sidewalks, they know floors, walls, ceilings, windows, doors, carpets, tables, all in very good detail. They've been very well acquainted over the years. Standing outside the professor's office for what seems like hours, they memorize the posters on the bulletin board. They notice that the ceiling light is broken, a tile is broken in the floor.

But still, they ask themselves, how can they ask the question? What should they say? He's not going to be friendly. He probably has a lot to do. Maybe they can come back later. Meanwhile, let's reread all the comics on his door. And then suddenly, it opens.

"Oh, hello, have you been waiting long?" he asks, with astonishing innocence. "The door was open, you know. I hope I haven't kept you waiting,"

No, not at all. They have kept themselves waiting. They could have gone in, they could have asked the question, but they were too shy, too afraid. The professor is, after all, very friendly, kind, cordial. But so passes another hour of the shy person's life.

Telephones are even worse. Who knows what the person at the other end might be doing. She might be in a bad mood. She might be busy. She might not want to talk to you. Maybe she's not there. Then there are the variables that have to do with you. What should you say -- exactly? How do you pronounce her name? How do you pronounce your name? You become confused.

You write out a script: "Hello, my name is... I am calling to speak with... Yes, I am calling because... Thank you very much." Unfortunately, it never goes the way you've planned. The person you called for isn't there. Or they are there but they're not the person you need to speak with. Or they are the person but they're too busy or too friendly or too talkative. Why do you even bother with the script?

Fortunately for the shy person, live communication can be easily avoided. Letters are a wonderful tool. Sit down, write out everything you have to say exactly how you want to say it, any length you want, and no chance of anyone laughing at you, at least not to your face. You might get a phone call afterward, but then it's your chance to embarrass them. The ball is in their court.

There are other tools as well. At UMass, the voice mail system can leave messages for anyone who lives on campus. Dial 6-2000, enter your password, press 2, press #, and there you go -- an instant prop for the shy person! If you don't like the message you've recorded, you don't have to send it. And after you've sent it you can press 3 and listen to it. Ah, that's good, you said what you wanted to say. If not, you can send another message.

E-mail is perhaps an ever greater innovation. Instead of the tedious and painful wait outside your professor's door, you can send an e-mail message. Of course, you don't want to do this too often, since you do want the professor to recognize your face, but it comes in handy from time to time. Example: "Would it be alright if I came by your office Thursday afternoon?" Once the professor replies ("Yes, I look forward to talk with you." or "No, unfortunately, I will be teaching"), the suspense is over. No more guessing about whether or no it's OK for you to knock on the door. You can do it!

Shy people are not in favor of an impersonal world. They do not enjoy their condition. Being shy is a hard habit to break. And once you're friends with the sidewalk, you're friends forever.

All essays ©1995-6. By Wendy Darling.