On Being a Girl

CONTENT WARNING!



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“Chill out. I’m not going to rape you.”
 
It didn’t sound like much. In retrospect, the intonation with which he said the words implied that “rape” could have seamlessly been supplanted with “make fun of” or “laugh at.”

It was casual.

A friend might have said it.
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I almost could have brushed it off as a joke.
 
But that was the issue. As I reiterated in my previous blog post, several of my observations about Buenos Aires could prove pertinent to any city. While living here, however, the realizations I have come to with regards to this topic are more tangible than ever. As news of the Stanford rape case fades into media limbo, I think this theme (and it pains me to call it that), is one that should be discussed, here in Buenos Aires, and in New York, and in Shanghai, and any other speck on this Earth for that matter.
 
Two weeks into living in this vivacious city, I revealed to my mom, “I have never ever felt more aware of the fact that I am a girl.” Suddenly, I was holding my purse closer to my body and worrying more about just how long I made eye contact with the man across the street. I concerned myself with calling radio taxis when the Subte closed for the night because I had been repeatedly advised against hailing just any cab.
 
“Chill out. I’m not going to rape you.”
 
My friend and I were about to get into a cab, late at night. A man, in his late forties I assumed, approached us, inquiring about where we were from and what we were doing in Argentina. It was a crowded street, but a part of me was unnerved, so I was distant and reluctant, and my “discourteous” behavior invited these words.
 
Argentina does not fit the vision of politically-correct culture; my friends and I have been referred to by our (presumed) ethnicities outright, “La chica china, La chica índu.” Whenever I’m asked, “Where are you from?” my brain defaults to an automated response, “I’m from the U.S. but my parents are from India,” because that is the actual question being asked.
 
For the most part, this candidness is inevitable, innocuous, and maybe even refreshing. But “rape” is none of these things, politically-correct culture or not. It is not a word to be thrown around, a fear to be mocked. A wealth of women living in Argentina and the world serve as a testament to that fact.
 
My fear is not unfounded.
 
Sure, being an English-speaking Indian American automatically often subjects me to undesirable attention, along with my girlfriends. But now, late at night, my subconscious is nearly trained to avoid a man unless I see him accompanied by a woman. We all take our own precautions and this is one of mine (in addition to silently hoping and praying). Maybe my caution is excessive. But my anger?
 
My anger at:
 
“Chill out. I’m not going to rape you.”
 
is not.
 
So I’m going to point out, once again, that this is not specific to Argentina or to Buenos Aires or to tourists or to me. The truth, nonetheless, is that as much as I am enamored by this place, I have never been more aware of the fact that I am a girl. And the reason why terrifies me. And there is something to be said about that, something that lasts longer than a 24-hour news cycle.