self-defense against schmucks who try to make you take your headphones off

This is self-defense 101, kids. Learn how and when to overcome the social expectation to be friendly with everyone. Predators rely on that conditioning.

This also works when you're in the gym working out, or doing homework in a coffee shop: any time when you're obviously engrossed in something yet someone feels you only showed up for their entertainment.

First of all, don't ignore anyone who is obviously trying to get your attention. Don't let it get to that point. If anyone moves within 3-4 feet of you, glance up. Be aware of your surroundings. Don't make eye contact, just note who is nearby, how they are dressed, what they are carrying. Cultivate an expression of alert concentration. Be alert. Be in control of your environment.

If someone moves into your personal space and stands or walks alongside you, notice them. Don't smile. Give them a rake of your eyes that says, "I see you." Go back to what you were doing.

This will usually discourage them better than pretending they aren't there, because you will have already signaled your disinterest.

If it doesn't, if the entitled fuckwhistle waves his hand in front of your face or does something else to demand your attention, look up with an expression of weary disdain, remove one headphone, raise an eyebrow. Don't smile.

Repeat: don't smile (unless of course you actually WANT to talk to this person). Take in their face and height with an expression of alert indifference, as if reading the menu board at McDonald's. Note hair and eye color, and distinguishing features.

Make him speak first. He may genuinely need information like directions or the date and year, if he's a time traveler. But if you're in a crowded place and he chose to interrupt the girl with the headphones on, odds are he's just being an entitled fuckwhistle.

As soon as he tries any conversational gambit, i.e. "Are you a student? What are you reading? What's good on the menu? Your hair is so pretty," your response is as follows:

"I'm not actually here for conversation, thanks."

Repeat if necessary. Be polite but cool. Do not follow his conversational script. Look at him until he goes away.

Put your ear bud back in. Go back to what you were doing. Maintain awareness of your surroundings.

that feeling up the back of your neck

So I'm fairly sure I got cased out on the street today.

I was walking through downtown Lawrence, on my way to the coffee shop, about 9 am before all the shops were open. Bright daylight, chilly, very few pedestrians.

I cross the street from south to north, at the corner, and two guys cross from the opposite corner, from east to west. As they cross, one of them goes straight, but the other makes a beeline for me, adjusting to my trajectory so he steps up on the curb maybe two feet behind me, and then lingers there for three or four strides.

 I did a 180 turn, maintaining my stride, looked him in the eye. He, of course, almost steps on me and has to skip to the side, with a grunt as if I were being annoying.

"Excuse me," I said, and kept walking. I figure he's going to either drop back or stride ahead, but he kept pace with me, at the building edge of the sidewalk. We're watching each other from the corners of our eyes.

I have on combat boots, a utility jacket, backpack. He's about my age, six feet, lean, dressed like a clean homeless guy. I check the shop windows but can't see his partner. I keep my hands in my pockets and slow my pace.

My kung fu teacher says, if you don't want to fight, act like you do. And I know from experience that if you act unafraid, they'll wonder what you've got in your hands, inside that coat. In any case, I'm not about to run from a predator when there's nowhere to go, anyway.

I'm pretty sure I bluffed him out. Because after a minute, he said, in a very phony glib voice, "So you up here for school?"

And I said, in my usual cold flat response to idiocy, "I'm not out here for conversation, thanks."

He says nothing. He drops back. I cross the street at the light, keep going. Didn't see them again. My pulse accelerated a bit, but that was all. I'm not entirely sure what happened there, but it was definitely shady.

And I thought again, as I walked home a couple hours later, what a sheltered life I have led, that I have so seldom had to deal with nonsense like that. Wish I'd gotten a better look at his partner.

EDIT: I did call dispatch later that afternoon and they sent an officer to my house to take a statement. Nothing ever came of it but the young officer got a glint of respect in his eye when I used the term "interview" and dropped the name of Gavin de Becker.

a scream in the night

I woke up last night around 3 a.m. and had to pee. This is a fairly common occurrence, and I took care of it without difficulty.

I should mention: we live in a 100-year-old house in which the bathroom is a tiny closet off the kitchen; its door faces the exterior back door, and is next to the bedroom.

I should mention also, I typically wear foam earplugs to bed, because the boy snores. It's probably not a good habit, but there it is. When I got out of bed, I took out one earplug and laid it on the nightstand, so I could negotiate the doors more quietly.

As I came out of the bathroom, in the pitch dark, I heard a sound that literally sent gooseflesh prickling down my spine and arms. It sounded like someone screaming. Like a fight, and someone screaming. It was slightly distant, as if coming from outside the house, and had a kind of doppler effect, as if it was close—like outside the kitchen door—and then moving forward, toward the street.

Friends, I was sure as could be that someone was being chased through the neighbors' yard and clubbed to death.

I took the other earplug out and took a step toward the back door, which put me in the doorway leading to the living room. The sound came again, but I couldn't zero in on it. I just knew it came from the east side of the house. I stood there for a probably less than a second, sorting through possible scenarios, which included domestic violence, drug deal gone bad, home invasion next door--where there is a cute little blonde soccer mom and three young children--and I was standing there stark naked, in pitch darkness, without my contact lenses.

Did I go for a weapon? Call the police? Put on clothes? I couldn't answer any of those questions until I knew what was happening, so: glasses. Confirmation. Find out what the fuck was going on. I went into the pitch-black bedroom and crawled over the bed, put my hand on the Sparring Partner's ribs. "Honey, wake up."

My tone got to him. "What?"

"There's somebody screaming outside."

"Are you serious?"

"I just heard it. Sounded like it was coming from the street." But I couldn't hear anything more, and with our bedroom windows close to the house next door, any noise from the street tends to get amplified. I grabbed my glasses and cat-walked through the house toward the front door.

Halfway there I heard it again: screaming. Sounds of blows, fighting. Sirens? Car engines? Even when you are awake in the middle of the night, panic and darkness can be very disorienting in terms of direction and distance. I thought, Why aren't there more lights on the street? Why don't I hear other voices yelling? People don't fight silently, ever. And I was hearing car sounds that suggested there should be flashing blue lights.

As I got closer to the SP's desk I realized the sounds were coming from the headphones he had left plugged into his computer.

He had been watching World War Z on Netflix, and put it on pause when we went to bed. But apparently Netflix had started running some little preview loop—like the bits of music/sound that get layered behind DVD menus—that consisted of running, screaming, fighting.

Lord Almighty. The release of tension was incredible. I was annoyed at myself and annoyed at the computer but mostly I was just glad nobody was dying and glad I didn't have to make some terrible decisions. By the time the SP walked up behind me I was nudging the mouse to close the browser window. "It's all right," I muttered. "It was just your computer." I did feel kind of stupid for not realizing it sooner. Maybe I would have, if it had been three in the afternoon instead of in the morning.

"Well at least you're still pretty," he said, which is one of our standard lines. He sounded relieved too. He put a hand on my bare back. "You're sweaty."

"I know! I literally broke out in a cold sweat when I heard it!" Some of the clichés are true, it seems.

We went back to bed. I had a brief, minor attack of the shakes as the adrenaline wore off, and a sicker sense of dread as I realized that I probably wouldn't hear someone being murdered in the house next door—nor would anyone notice if I screamed my head off inside our house. We live in a little brick bunker.

What would I have done if there had been a murder taking place in my front yard? I'd like to think I would've thrown on a robe, grabbed a weapon and gone out there to disrupt it, at least. I was well on my way to doing so, and I woke up the SP with two thoughts in mind: that I needed him to verify the situation, and to call the police if necessary. I did not wake him up and say, "Go check this out," because that's not my style. I am more confrontational and damn-the-torpedoes than the Sparring Partner, possibly because I have a less realistic idea of my own physical vulnerability.

I train in martial arts and I take advantage of the laws which allow me to arm myself. I read tactical articles and books because they pertain to my research as a writer and to my safety as a woman. But it's all theoretical; very rarely does the average person get their mettle tested without actual bloodshed.

But almost the first thing I thought of—and what I'm still thinking of today—was how that actress from The Commish was attacked and stabbed in the street while everybody stood around and watched. I saw the made-for-TV movie of that years ago, probably while I was still in high school, and I pretty much made up my mind then and there that I would never be a bystander to something like that. I hope I never have to make that choice, but if I do, I hope I make a choice I can live with.

The irony of all this is, if I hadn't taken out that one earplug before leaving the bedroom, I probably would not have heard anything at all. But afterward, I was creeped out to realize—anew—how easy it would be for someone to break into our house at night and I'd never hear them.

I should re-train myself to sleep without those earplugs. And train the SP to put his computer to sleep at night.

At around 7:30 this morning it occurred to me to hope I hadn't heard a banshee. Because that's the way my mind works.

ConQuest, Stalkers, and #YesAllWomen

I was probably going to write this anyway, but all this #YesAllWomen kerfuffle has made it particularly relevant.

I have what you might call a minor-league stalker. We'll call him Old Slow Stalker. OSS met me at ConQuest several years ago and started following my blog, commenting on every post, sending me emails. It was harmless stuff, though I found it condescending and irritating. I have never enjoyed anybody, particularly strange men, telling me things I already know, or telling me I got something wrong when I know I didn't, or giving me advice I didn't ask for.

I told him to knock it off a few times. He didn't seem to get the idea. He sent me birthday cards in the mail, having acquired my address from the ConQuest mailing list (I'd like to smack whoever was in charge of guarding THAT information). He offered to buy a copy of my novel (I did sell him a copy of an early work, before I realized what was afoot). He began to develop this idea that he was a valued contributor to my writing work.

Every year at ConQuest he'd show up with some trinket or message or oddball present, which I consistently refused to accept. When I married the Sparring Partner, OSS tried to get close to him, chat him up. I believe he sent us a card of congratulations at our new home when we moved out of state. When I banned the OSS from my Facebook feed, he friended some of my friends and makes a habit of talking about me to them (although they have been warned, and know to be circumspect). He approached my friend Haymitch, who runs my writer's group, and tried to get himself invited to it. Luckily my Haymitch is a savvy one and checked with me first.

This year, the week before ConQuest, Old Slow Stalker sent me an email, the first in years. It was quite polite, even obsequious (my unwanted fanboys are invariably unctuous, even submissive). In it, OSS informed me that he was NOT a stalker, because reasons, that he'd always looked on me as a favored niece, and he was glad he'd met me because that had enabled him to meet another friend of mine, who was also very beautiful, and he intended to come to my reading at the con, but he wouldn't say anything while there.

Now, OSS has never made any lascivious comments toward me, although he has repeatedly and randomly assured me how pretty I am. He is, in a way, an old-fashioned gentleman, although of the type that seems to believe women have no faculty over their own needs or wants or brains, that women require the support and approval of men, that we are there as objects to be admired and be grateful for the admiring. Imagine the kindest, politest guy on Mad Men, the one who was sweet to all the secretaries, and you'd have OSS.

I didn't respond to OSS's letter because I have adopted a zero-acknowledgement policy toward him. I trashed it. And naturally, when I arrived at the ConQuest hotel, he was almost the first person I saw on the floor. He practically did semaphore signals with his arms, trying to get me to notice him, but I didn't. Three times I ran into him Friday, and each time I ignored him.

I hadn't thought too much about what he would do if he DID show up to my reading; I figured if the room was full I'd just ignore him. But when he walked in, in the middle of my second paragraph, there were only two people in the room, and the Tao decreed I was not going to put up with him, sitting in there and sucking off my qi.

"I don't want you in here," I said. I wasn't even angry. I was just drawing the line.

He blustered, protested. I told him I had made myself clear and I would go to the Con committee if he didn't remove himself at once. He announced he would NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN and stormed out.

I apologized to my audience for the interruption and went back to reading. Gradually more people arrived; I ended up with six. They all laughed at the right places, and you could have heard a pin drop when we got to the climax. Not bad for a chick whose book isn't even out yet, especially since my Bio was left out of the program. I enjoyed myself.

But you know, I just really don't understand the mentality of someone who will keep trying to force themselves in where they are clearly not wanted. Hell, I have a couple people at that Con who hate my guts, too; if I see them, I nod. If they ignore me, I don't press the issue. But then, my self-esteem is sufficient that I don't feel the need to be more than polite.

I'm aware that it could be much worse. I don't believe OSS is so deranged he will turn violent, and even if he did I could and would happily break him in half. But he does seem to believe that I owe him some attention, or at least an explanation.

And that offends me: that imposition, that implication that I owe him something. Not because I feel threatened, but because there are so many women everywhere, in similar but much more dangerous situations. And because there are so many men out there who don't understand that their actions are causing enormous distress, even illness and pain, even though they "don't mean anything by it," because they are too absorbed in what they want to consider another person's feelings. It offends me on general principle.

Old Slow Stalker will almost certainly turn up here and read this.

When you do, SG, let the above serve as your explanation. Don't bother rebutting; any emails from you go directly into my "evidence" file. If you need further insight, go read Chuck Wendig's post. Especially the part where it says, "forcing yourself into safe spaces and unwelcome conversations makes you an entitled, presumptive fuck-whistle."

That about sums it up.