I’m not your armrest
On Monday mornings, I don’t sit. At least not in the crowded Jasper Jean buses.
Tuesday is usually much favorable, but the risk of standing for the next two hours is still there. So, when the opportunity came in the guise of a seat wide enough to fit one butt cheek, I took the chance and sat near the front. The man and the woman beside me didn’t budge; as usual, I had to dig my heels onto the floor to keep myself from slipping. Having wasted my midnight by binge-watching an Italian youth drama series, this small plight did not stop me from falling asleep. I woke up to movements at the top of my head and the usual heavy traffic.
The aisle was packed with people, but the conductor and the bus driver were convinced it could still fit a few more. One middle-aged guy in a purple Okada shirt was pressed — or was pressing himself — against my chair. This was perfectly understandable given the circumstances, but it didn’t exactly calm my annoyance when his whole front side was pressed against my arm. I slid my paper bag between us at one point, feeling body parts I didn’t want to be acquainted with.
Usually, in public transportation, a “katabi” would feel too close for comfort. While this normally incites several eyerolls from me and a general feeling of creepiness, nothing really becomes of it. For instance, once I was in an SUV on the way home from school, and I could feel breathing down my neck throughout. I looked behind and saw a guy inches away from me and realized the seats were too close to each other.
Of course, I was never certain if the intense breathing was intentional or a product of some condition. I’m torn between being “maarte” and knowing the signs. Ah, yes, because society seems to expect from me a radar for creeps or a Sex Offender Registry ready in my head. It’s quite the double-edged sword: If you missed the supposed signs and got hurt, thou shalt be victim-blamed. And if you assumed the signs and nothing really happened, thou art a “feelingera.”
I am also a product of my times, and have within me drilled the idea of being a lady, which means being the common martyr and not causing a scene. This time, I chose to be inconspicuous and understanding of the situation, trying to come up with logical reasons why the stranger in the bus felt the need to lean his whole body against the side of my arm. He also had a female companion, judging by the voices, so he couldn’t be that bad, right?
My senses, however, were tingling regardless of my attempt to rationalize. I tried to take a picture of him through a selfie, but would later realize my cheap-ass phone didn’t save the image. When the guy near the window slid out to leave, I felt relief at being able to sit more comfortably, but also discomposure at the thought that the stranger would take his seat beside me. The stranger first offered his seat to his companion, who refused. I thought this meant he must be decent enough.
He sat beside me awkwardly, sliding down the chair so that his head was at the same level as my shoulder. Of course, he was man-spreading like the commonly insensitive male, with his hands folded over his crotch. I was nearing my bus stop anyhow and tried not to think much of this. But then, in one swift motion, he leaned against me to rest his head on my shoulder and tried to loop his arm with mine. I immediately bolted upright and lifted my arm away from him. He pretended like he just woke up, as if this was all a pleasant mistake. Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder was one thing, but trying to slither your arm under theirs is another. There was no way in the general vicinity of hell that this was accidental.
The length between one bus stop to the next felt interminable. And I had to sit stiffly (the farthest away from him as I could get, which was a few inches) as I waited for the conductor to yell “Ayala!” When I recounted this to my coworker, he told me I should have punched him, which was easier said than done. I remembered tales from a friend who encountered a man who told her to her face that she was “sexy,” or the story from my shaken friend who was similarly harassed on the bus—and the guy tried to follow her out! Many gave her tips and tricks on handling creeps, and I also advised the same. But I knew—and she knew well, most of all—that these words were about as applicable as life quotes on Pinterest. What is the use of a rape whistle if no one would turn their heads and help?
Funnily enough, I had my rape whistle with me, dangling along with the mini Funko Pop of an empowered Eleven. But my hands never aimed to reach them. I just knew I wanted out. When I looked up, nobody was looking in my general direction and the woman beside me was gazing out the window. The stranger just sat there coolly, probably confident that no one would turn him in. What was I going to say anyway? That the man “tried” to put his arm through mine, but that I stopped him midway and no harm was done? If “Law & Order” taught me anything, it would be that the word “attempt” is unsubstantial. You can’t prove a damn thing without some sort of evidence and witness. In the end—and this was a gut punch to my feminist self—I kept mum.
I got down the bus and posted the account (or the shortened version of it) as an Instagram story soon after, the most that I could do since I had no photographic evidence. I thought I could handle the situation better, be like the badass female characters I write about who would have sent a knife-hand strike down the nape of a creep’s neck. Except what happened would go down as just another “normal” life event. It’s probably expected that I would let this issue go sooner or later, bringing it up only in sudden and random group discussions on the disadvantages of being a female.
That same week, I lost my mini Eleven, probably along with a sliver of my dignity. I looked down at the space between my rape whistle and a fluffy keychain. It was time to fill the vacant spot with another empowering gadget. This time, a pepper spray.
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Cerisse Madlangbayan, 25, is from Dasmariñas City. She holds a content writing job and is currently putting imagined worlds to paper.
