He passed around a supply list of everything we would need to buy and what would already be provided: Single-sided frosted Mylar, acetate, Rubylith, X-Acto knives, dot screens or frosted glass, Hydro-Coat plate, rosin, acid, Rives BFK, starched cheesecloth, monofilament polyester, degreaser, direct emulsion, scoop coater, Caran d’Ache water-soluble crayons, blotters, etc. After class I walked the aisles of the art supply store, picking things up and looking at the price stickers. I hadn’t factored supplies into my budget.
The next class he had us follow him back into the darkroom. He showed us how to use the enlarger, to load the negative carrier, to rotate the disk to the right lens, expose test strips emulsion-side up, develop film, stop bath, fixer, water. How to place the transparency emulsion in the center of a positive photo litho plate and expose it inside a vacuumed bed, degrease the plate, rosin-dust the plate, aquatint the plate, soak it in nitric acid; to bevel the edges, lay the plate in the press, mix the ink, soak our papers, pat them dry, adjust the pressure. And finally to turn the wheel and pull the fresh print off the block, gingerly placing it in the drying rack. After hours of demonstration, a single print was born.
I watched attentively, standing on elevated toes behind my classmates, furiously taking notes. In the end, I had no idea what had happened. I had been lost forty-five steps prior. Students began sketching out ideas. I sat on my stool, staring at my scribbles of tiny letters like trails of dead ants all over my page. When we were finally released, I hurried down the stairs out of the building.
By the third class, I was even further behind and too ashamed to ask questions like, What is a cheesecloth? I ate lunch alone. Ate dinner alone. I’d already ruined a photo litho plate by bringing it into a room where there was sunlight. Everyone else was well versed, purposefully walking from station to station preparing their materials. I stayed at their heels trying to glance at what they were doing. When class ended, I went to the administration office. I think I made a mistake, I need a different class. It was too late to switch. I nodded.
I pulled up Google Maps on my phone and identified a light blue stripe as a river. I walked and walked and found it, then walked and walked along it, and finally plopped down on a patch of grass and cried. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even know the name of the river I was sitting in front of. I had moved to a state the size of a puzzle piece, far from everyone I knew, to learn outdated printing techniques. What kind of idea was this, why did I think I could do it? Emily had followed me, reminding me I was a go-nowhere, do-nothing, VICTIM. This life was too sweet. This kind of pleasure, creation, reserved for people who were not me.
But only one month ago my boss had offered me a raise, and something shook my head. My boyfriend offered me a room, but something shook my head. Coming all the way here seemed illogical and expensive and inexplicable. Yet here I was, sitting inside that idea, sweating inside that idea. It was the only thing in my life I’d ever truly chosen. No one told me I could do it, except me, which meant that no one could tell me I couldn’t do it, except me. This would require trusting myself, fully for once. When I was little, I never asked anyone if I was an artist. I just cleared enough space on the table to make room for my paper. I picked up my things and walked slowly home, preparing myself for the next day.
I started coming in on off days. I told myself I wasn’t stupid, and started asking questions. My teacher always took the time to help me, encouraged me to work on an even larger scale, and soon my prints were the size of tabletops. I was teaching myself to ask for help, and in return beautiful things were happening.
One evening, I heard my roommates and their friends in the living room discussing plans to go bowling. I sat still, afraid of going out to the bathroom and having to introduce myself to so many people. I was waiting for them to leave, so that I could take a long shower and chop a zucchini into disks to fry in the silence of the house. Then I heard a knock.
I waited a beat as if I’d been busy with something before opening my door. My roommate asked, Would you like to go bowling? I had no plans, of course I had no plans. My instinct was to reject her invite, worried it was born of pity or necessity, like a cashier asking if you’d like help taking your bags to the car. But before I could politely shake my head, the people around the table chimed in and said, We’re getting McDonald’s ice cream after! What bowling nickname are you gonna choose for the screen? Don’t forget socks. So I nodded, put a wad of socks in my bag, and followed them out the door.
I was not homesick, as I was not ready to return home, but I felt the unease of being adrift, of having no footholds in the world. This and other small invitations saved me: Driving to the pond, to lay out on frayed towels amidst thunder warnings. Riding with Angie in the cranberry-colored van with missing seats, sitting on flattened cabbage boxes. Purple Rain projected on a hanging sheet. Eating cherry pie, listening to dubstep remixes of the Seinfeld intro. I was cast a minor role in their summer, and my presence may have barely registered in their memory reels. But I can’t imagine those days without them, would never forget how it felt to be included.
I bought a desk on Craigslist. A nice couple arrived to deliver it. The woman called me, said they were outside. We can help you carry it in, but I understand if you don’t want us in your home, because you know, Craigslist people. I just don’t want to— The man said, Well how else is she going to carry the desk? I understood what the woman meant, that a transaction as simple as receiving a piece of furniture from a stranger possessed an inherent threat, that any time we met someone online, we must scan for signs of assault, rape, death, etc. We knew this. But the guy did not speak this language; he just saw a desk.
I walked an average of six miles a day, taking myself to parks, movie theaters, bookstores, intent on discovering my new land. No matter where I went, the same thing kept happening. At first it was an older man, who nodded and said, Good morning, beautiful, and I turned to see who he was addressing until I realized it was me. Confused, I said, Good morning, before even deciding if I should’ve said anything at all. Be kind to the elderly. A bald man said, Hey, pretty girl, you sure are pretty. His smile spread slowly as if his face was unzipping, and I replied, Thank you!
These remarks peppered my walks, as common as birds in the trees, strange men asking me, How are you, and me responding, Fine, how are you. The comments felt too subtle to be consequential, like a tiny thumbtack inserted into a thick tire. I sometimes berated myself for being too friendly, for the way I smiled back too quickly. When a man honked at me, I instinctively waved. My default was to mirror every greeting. But I realized I didn’t know the honking man, that I hardly knew anyone in all of Providence, and wouldn’t need to wave next time. No waving, no thanking, no good morning, I told myself.
I passed three men sitting on a car who fastened their eyes on my legs, clicked their tongues, and smacked their lips, performing the sounds and hand gestures one might use if attempting to summon a cat. I felt all six eyes stroking the backs of my calves as I walked away. I couldn’t tell if the nonverbal bothered me more than the verbal, did I prefer clicking or comments. I really just wanted silence. Once a few men clustered around a narrow sidewalk, not moving aside an inch as I walked through the narrow passageway between their stomachs.
I began avoiding certain streets. If I was spoken to going one way, I’d come back a different way, and found myself winding around many blocks. I trained myself to tuck my head down, avoiding eye contact, feigning invisibility. Instead of strolling looking up at the trees, I walked with unwavering conviction, or stared down at my feet. Once a man started walking next to me and said, Can I walk with you? I began walking faster. Let me walk with you. As his feet kept pace with mine, I just shook my head, my hands gripping the handles of my backpack, waiting for him to fall back. Some men would be offended when I didn’t respond, one man saying, I’m just trying to start your day right. But the compliments didn’t feel like compliments when my body lan
guage communicated I didn’t want to be looked at, didn’t want to be spoken to. They didn’t feel like gifts when they were thrown at me or whispered so only I could hear. Every comment translated into, I like what I see and I want it. But I don’t want it, I don’t want it, I thought.
Imagine you’re walking down the street eating a sandwich and someone says, Damn, that looks like a delicious sandwich, can I have a bite? You’d think, why would I ever let you eat this sandwich? This is my sandwich. So you’d walk on and continue eating, and they’d say, What? You’re not going to say anything? No need to get mad, I was just trying to compliment your sandwich. Let’s say this happened three times a day, strangers stopping you on the street, letting you know how good your food looks, asking if they can have some of it. What if people started yelling out of their cars about how much they wanted your sandwich. Let me have some! they’d exclaim, driving by with a honk. Were you supposed to say, I’m sorry, no thank you, every time? Would you feel obligated to explain over and over again that you don’t wish to share because it’s your lunch and you don’t know them? That you don’t owe them any of it? That it’s a little unreasonable that they’re asking in the first place? All you would want is to walk down the street eating your sandwich in peace. Maybe I am making this worse by comparing a woman’s body to a sandwich, but do you see what I mean?
I started using my phone to discreetly record videos as I passed clusters of men. I sent one to Lucas. How often does that happen? he asked. Every day, I said. He asked if I needed a car, said he would pay for me to rent one. I said I enjoyed walking; it was the only way to notice everything. Plus I had so much time and was never in a hurry; walking was really one of the only things I had to do.
One afternoon as I came home from school, a van drove by and honked; I didn’t bother turning my head, familiar now with this game. But the sound of the engine didn’t die out. I heard the wheels slowly turning on the asphalt as he U-turned and pulled up next to me. He rolled down the window. Talk to me, he said. I immediately crossed the street and began filming as I walked. He must’ve been around fifty, unkempt hair beneath a cap, with a thick, soft neck. Come talk to me, he said, I’m lonely.
No, I said.
Why not? he said.
I don’t know you, I said, half laughing at his question.
Just for a little, I’m lonely.
No, I said, shaking my head and looking down at my feet. I didn’t say anything more, too irritated; why is it my job to care if you’re lonely? Please, he said. I quickened my pace as he continued to call after me. I pretended to turn into a house until he slowly pulled away, then ran to my real house, closing all my blinds. I sent the video to Lucas. He immediately called me.
I need you to rent a car, he said, I’ll pay for it. Don’t put it off, go today if they’re open. Okay?
Okay, I said, I’ll go.
Thank you, he said, and don’t send any more videos. I can’t watch them, these guys make me too angry.
I said okay and he went back to work and I sat on the bed. I felt like I’d done something wrong, upsetting him by sending them. It also seemed like he’d said, if they’re bothering you while walking, why are you still walking? It didn’t feel like a solution at all; they’d forced me to seal myself off in a car. I didn’t want to give up my sidewalks.
I called Lucas back. That’s not fair, I said. I just want to walk home from school, I’m not doing anything wrong. I should be able to. You can walk anywhere you want. It’s not fair you get to unsubscribe from the videos. You get to turn off the feed, you get to see it selectively, I don’t have that option, to decide not to live it. I’m trying to show you what it’s like for me. It doesn’t matter what I do, it doesn’t matter what I wear, how I act, it’s constant, the harassment is constant. I have no money for a car, and even if I did, I enjoy walking, I want to keep walking. I was crying.
There was resignation in his voice. I feel powerless over here. I don’t want anything to happen. I knew what happen meant. He sounded pained, stuck across the country. One night, when I told him I was working late in the studio, some money was Venmoed to my account. For Lyft, he said. Get home safe. He was looking out for me and I understood. I agreed I wouldn’t walk alone in the dark. But even in a Lyft, I never put in my real address, so the driver would never know where I lived. Safety was always an illusion.
Walking down the street was like being tossed bombs. I fiddled with the wires, frantically defusing each one. Each time I was not sure which wire would cause it to detonate, tinkering while sweat ran down my forehead. Women are raised to work with dexterity, to keep their nimble fingers ready, their minds alert. It is her job to know how to handle the stream of bombs, how to kindly decline giving her number, how to move a hand from the button of her jeans, to turn down a drink. When a woman is assaulted, one of the first questions people ask is, Did you say no? This question assumes that the answer was always yes, and that it is her job to revoke the agreement. To defuse the bomb she was given. But why are they allowed to touch us until we physically fight them off? Why is the door open until we have to slam it shut?
One day, I tried wearing headphones and reading a book as I walked, hoping to appear immersed, busy busy busy. I made it one mile. On the overpass, a man pulled over, said, Hey, you look like a leader, I like that. I’ve never seen a girl walk and read at the same time. I started laughing, up at the sky, like I see what you’re doing, universe! I can’t escape! What do you want, what can I do? I stopped, plucked out my headphones, walked over to his window, surrendered. The man asked me what I was reading, and I told him, he asked me what my name was and I told him, he asked me where I was going and I told him. He asked me if I was interested in attending the conference he was speaking at, and I said no, and he asked me if I was busy later, and I said yes, and then I’d worried I’d given him too much information so I lied and said I was actually moving back to California in the next three days, and he gave me his business card, and then I took it, and I thanked him. I later threw it away.
I did it, I gave someone the time of day. Can I be done wasting my energy, engaging in one-sided conversations. Once I saw a flier at a coffee shop that had a picture of a pouncing kitten, made by a group that aimed to stop catcalling. Attached were fake business cards that read 1-800-STOPTALKINGTOME, intended to be given to catcallers. Someone was feeling this too, had gone so far as to print fliers.
Lucas had a single day off that summer and flew across the country to visit me. I showed him my route to school. I showed him how incredible it was how much I sweat. I showed him the print shop and walked him through every step I’d learned. At night we unwrapped hamburgers by the river. I was proud to share my world with someone, the world I’d created myself.
As soon as he left I felt an aching hollowness inside my days, a peach with its pit missing, its strongest part, while I became the soft mush around it. I’d forgotten how it felt to have someone looking out for me, someone to buy me fresh smoothies, to kill the centipede in my room, to fan me with a piece of paper and dab my limbs with a cold washcloth. I’d forgotten what it was like to walk relaxed in the sun, to sleep with ease, to not be on guard every hour. Most of all, nobody on the street talked to me when I was with him; he’d silenced them with his presence.
Men had lines other men didn’t cross, an unspoken respected space. I imagined a thick line drawn like a perimeter around Lucas. Men would speak to me as if no line existed, every day I was forced to redraw it as quickly as I could. Why weren’t my boundaries inherent?
I continued going to the studio every day. I spent more money on art supplies and no money eating out, sticking to my microwaved pizzas and raw vegetables. Sometimes I spent hours working just to have my print come out murky or faint or blotchy. I started over. I didn’t keep track of time. I flipped through my notes until I didn’t need them anymore.
One night I left the studio around sunset, but the sun exited mo
re quickly than I’d planned. I was a few blocks from home, passing the neon-pink glow of the liquor store, when a man in a silver car pulled over. Not now, I thought. I don’t feel like it. I heard the window roll down, Let me give you a ride! He was smiling as if he’d arrived in a golden chariot, instead of a small Chevy the color of a foil gum wrapper. He was so excited, like we were long-lost friends, and he was elated to see me. I couldn’t believe the width of his smile, so confident. I started filming, took three long strides toward his car, bending over and putting my head into his window. In the video you can hear me asking, What’d you say? Inviting him to say it again for the record. He replied, Come in, let me give you a ride!
GET IN YOUR CAR ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY WHY WOULD I EVER DO THAT, I said. My voice was so flighty and high-pitched I hardly recognized it. FUCK YOU, I said. I remember how quickly his smile evaporated, like a drop of water on hot pavement, how fast he turned the wheel and accelerated away. Good! I thought. But my limbs started shaking, all that adrenaline, I walked unsteadily to the crosswalk. I looked at the stopped cars, trying to make eye contact with the drivers. If he comes back, are you going to help me? Do you see me? As the little glowing man of the crosswalk illuminated, I began running, panting to the tempo of my backpack slapping against my back.
I didn’t send the video to Lucas. I promised myself I would be careful about coming back from the studio earlier. I was trying to save the six dollars that the ride would’ve cost. It’s funny really, asking six dollars or safety. I knew I shouldn’t have yelled at a man alone at night. Most of all I felt the eyes: this would not count as standing up for myself, this was not considered brave. If this got back to my DA I’d be reprimanded; the defense would argue she’s crazy, she acts out, screams profanities, provokes men. She should’ve ignored him, why was she walking alone? She endangered herself, asked for trouble.
Know My Name Page 9
