It was in Rome that I first became consciously aware of space used as power.
After graduating from college, my long time friend and I toured Europe from the “luxury” of a bus with about 25 other recent college grads. 17 countries in 21 days (or something like that) was the hook. I think the way they made the trip “affordable” was to spend most nights traveling and sleeping on the bus instead of in an actual hotel. The pace was exhausting, but the experience of seeing Europe was exciting and enriching–mostly.
We were some of the first riders as we took a public bus from our cheap student hotel on one side of the city to the Colosseum. As more and passengers got on the bus, we moved to the back to make as much room as possible. I remembered the tour guide’s instruction to be aware of tourist-targeting pickpockets as I crammed myself into a corner. It felt safer not being surrounded on all sides.
At every stop, more people forced their way on, even when I thought the bus was already overloaded.
A taller, older man got uncomfortably close– and then closer. Wanting to avoid confrontation, I kept my head down, eyes averted. “Only 2 more stops,” I steeled myself.
Rather than turn his body a little like most people do, he faced me straight on. It felt like a dare, a confrontation, as he pressed closer. My fist grasped the strap of my purse across my body, but I also held it out a bit from my body as a boundary.
“Is he really rubbing his crotch against my leg?” I thought to myself. “Surely not. I must be imagining things.” But I felt my body get hotter, my defenses rising.
The body knows.
My fist and arm were held stiff with tension between us, prepared to punch him in the gut if he moved any closer. At the same time I felt so small that couldn’t even imagine looking him in the eye.
Finally we arrived at our stop. I made my way to the door, apologizing as I did so for making others move for me. When I finally stepped onto the street and could reclaim some sense of space, the tension flooded out of my body like water released from a dam. I wanted to scream and hit something.
As wrote this, I remembered feeling ashamed and trapped and angry all at the same time. Being “nice” was part of my early childhood training. How dare he make *me* feel small when he was the one who should be ashamed. It was a power play I didn’t know how to handle.
It’s taken a long time to rewire the tendency in my body to shrink. I wish I had known then that I had a *right* to take up my space. Now I know how.
