Average Walk to Class

Fifteen minutes until class.

I walk out of the building in black jeans and a high-necked long-sleeve sweater.

“Damn girl!”

I look down, headphones in, pretending I don’t hear him over the sound of the music. Little does he know, today, I’m not listening to music. I’m victim to the degrading sounds of New York City streets, sounds only audible to those with breasts.


Twelve minutes until class.

“Slow down, beautiful. Where you headed so fast?”

Why can’t you see that you’re the monster fathers warn their daughters about, the dragon that traps the princess?


Six minutes until class.

“Come on pretty, give me a smile”

This time, it’s a group of them, cackling like hyenas.

“Freedom of speech” you prefer to call it, convincing yourselves you’re not the pack of vicious predators that every gazelle runs from.


Two minutes until class.

“You’re my dream girl.” He grabs my hand in passing, briefly yanking it as he travels across Astor place. Why can’t you keep your hands to yourself? I’m not something to be poked and prodded.


I finally sit down in class; next to a male classmate who lives in the same residence hall. We take the same route, yet somehow we travel down two very different roads.

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