South Side Street Harrassment & Ben Rapistberger

Saturday night I went out on the South Side. I usually avoid Carson Street after dark, but a friend recently moved to that side of the river from my side of the river. So after wine and hummus and homemade ciabatta in her gorgeous apartment-with-a-view, we decided to check out some bars outside our East End comfort zone.

Before I say anything else, I will say that there are some decent spots on the South Side — Piper’s Pub for cask ale, Double Wide Grill for seitan wings, and Lava Lounge and Dee’s if you can tolerate the carcinogenic stink.

But… I never again want to go out on the South Side. Ever. The streets are inhospitable. Hostile. Aggressive to women. The South Side at night is a hellhole of douchebaggery and misogyny. A frat party vomited its teetering stilettos and Drakkar Noir stench onto the sidewalks of Carson, and the rest of us are stuck slogging through such rampant chauvinism it makes Jersey Shore look enlightened.

Never once have I felt unsafe on Butler or Penn or Liberty in what are supposedly more fringe neighborhoods than the South Side. But walking down Carson Street with a group of women, I felt my physical and emotional space continually violated by men — no, little boys — who think it’s totally righteous, dude, to catcall, to grab, to, like, jump in front of a chick and shout loudly in her face just to make his friends laugh.

I’ve been harassed on the South Side before. The night of my sister’s bachelorette party a couple years ago, some asshat thought it’d be hilarious to slap my breast as I walked down the street. A high-five. My breast was high-fived by a stranger. Harassment, or assault? You decide.

That’s suck with me.

Perhaps I have not yet forgiven the South Side.

I walk down its main drag, my guard up. Don’t fuck with me. I want to be proven wrong. I want to feel safe. I want to feel like a person instead of a cunt. Instead, it’s more of the same.

Back when I lived in Philly and wrote a column for the alt-weekly, I did several pieces that addressed street harassment. Here’s one; here’s another. And no, I don’t know what that Republican National Convention image is all about.

On a related note: This city’s amnesia re: Ben Rapistberger is disgusting. If a soulless gossip blogger who routinely objectifies women is up in arms over the circumstances, you know it’s bad.

Now please excuse me while I post one of my favorite riot grrrl songs.