As a woman, it is hard not to imagine a life that was NOT fear-based. Anxiety is born from how we find ourselves in situations we did not ask to be in, and forever believe that energy will follow us. Its is giving the past an eternal pen to write our future, and it SUCKS because you have to be the strongest person that, internally, is pooping herself. The problem with anxiety is that it, simultaneously, makes you believe you will be datelined while also thinking something as tiny as a key can become the very assassin tool you need. 

Being a little girl, I hated how warned I was, especially because it was my mother´s love language. If she cared for you, she told you everything that could go wrong, and, as a girl, that is a lot. How you speak, what you wear, how you walk, WHERE you walk! Everything can feel open season for someone else to end your reputation or your life by age 7. It is why I have written about the feeling I got, in my family, that the supposed overwhelming forgiveness we all gave to the messy men we married or birthed was just reshaped or repackaged for the women. My cousin could be a meth-head, but I had to be a math one. Still, the problem is that the harshness saved for the girls, though excused as prep for a world that would be harsher, left us feeling divided. The world would match our homes in making us feel endangered, but we never got a home that made us feel safe.

Being a concert photographer, is the funnest job to, actually, get you potentially datelined as a woman. First of all, most photographers are 50 year old white men that look at you like suffragette infiltrating their boys club. If there are 10, there are, at least, 8 waiting for your to burn a bra and begin to promulgate, ´Where are the BIPOCS! Where are the QUEERS! Where is THE VADGE!¨ Yet, there are always 2.-3 that are super nice, and remind you that in a room full of humans, there is always one that remembers to be humane, and that person crosses all labels and boundaries. Still, they do not, exactly, face the fear of becoming The Woman of The Hour, out on Netflix now. 

I was walking back home when, immediately, I noticed I was being followed. Here’s a little snapshot of a woman’s process to realizing she is being followed. First, is a quiet panic attack. You are composed as you veil your squinting eyes and do the, ¨Is he looking?¨ subtle nod to see if, well, he’s looking. As someone whose father would send private investigators to keep tabs on her mom and her, I do have a higher rate of noticing when I’m being trailed BUT I also am an over thinker. So, at least, 15 minutes is wasted saying, ¨Are they?¨ instead of booking it to the second part of the process, ¨Becoming dodgy!¨

Suddenly, you do not know how to walk a straight path. You curve into lit streets or the road, so if an oncoming car comes while the potential attack happens, they see you and either A) stop to help you or B) drive right past you and becoming a social media symbol of how people do not help victims.  Either way, if you go down, it is under lamp- post lighting. Then, you proceed to figure out what in your purse could be turned into weapon. Could you jam your lipstick with such a force  into someone it impales them? Your phone is pretty weighty and could cause a concussion, but there is a monetary cost, you are just not ready to pay if you live. How about your keys…. Ahhh… yes… the jagged shaped tiny key with a hello kitty figurine attached to it and furry ball…. that’s the weapon of choice. 

I picked out my keys, and proceeded to walk mid-road in what was, suddenly, the quietest portion of Brooklyn known to man. It’s funny how silence always follows darkness. I looked back and … HE WAS following me. I sped my walk, and so did HE. Soon, we were both doing a very strange skip walk that looked like two people trying to run fast but needed orthopedic shoes. It was the strangest ¨run for my life¨ moment that was followed by am ¨am I athletic or is he not a good serial killer¨ look back. Yes, I know we are never supposed to look back. There is a reason Lot´s wife became a pillar of salt. The minute you look back, you might as well stay there. When I realized he was a block away standing and I, immediately, turned to book it like never before, he yelled, ¨I’m not following you!´

¨What!¨I yelped while doing an off-beat jog- run- walk.  just in case, and flashing my keys like a makeshift pocket knife.

¨I´m following you home. I mean I was following to tell you I’m not following you!¨ he said walking back to, officially, make two blocks between us. We were yelling at each other. just two human beings: one trying to prove to the other he was not a killer and the other  one trying to prove she was not so easy to kill. 

¨Why would you do that? That makes you look even more like a serial killer!*¨I screamed back; with my fear turning from being a potential homicide victim to a noise complaint one. We were surrounded by apartment buildings and houses that were all lights out because it was 1 AM. 

¨You seemed scared. So I wanted to tell you, I’m not scary!¨ he yelled back realizing my point midway. 

¨Again, sir, that still makes you sound creepy and dangerous. You saw me scared so you followed me to say you are not scary!¨

¨Alright, I’m going to walk this way! Have a nice night!¨ he declared and just turned the corner of the street nor caring if it was his or would get him closer to home anymore. 

It was in that moment I, officially, decided I was only covering opening acts that were at like 7PM.