by Celeste Montaño
I’m not a big fan of elevators, especially the ones in my dorm. I greatly appreciate my personal space, and it’s hard to have any space in
a small room packed with students; plus, it sucks when I have to push through all the tall people to get out. But mostly, I hate ending up alone in the elevator with a bunch of guys. It makes me nervous, and I start imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios.
Now, after two years of living in the dorms, I instinctively avoid the elevators if the situation doesn’t look good. If I’m going to be alone with two or more guys, or if girls are going to be outnumbered, I’d rather climb up five flights of stairs.
These are the rules and limitations that I impose on myself to feel safe. I’m not sure when I started following these guidelines; I just know that there was a point in my first year when I was suddenly taking the stairs quite often. It took me a while to realize exactly what I was avoiding–I’m so used to being scared for my safety that I don’t even realize I’m scared.
But none of this was on my mind on a Sunday morning when former SPARKteam member Eliana and I were coming back from breakfast. We were waiting for the elevator in the lobby and deep in conversation when I felt his presence. Some dude had come up only a couple inches behind us, as if he knew us and wanted to join our discussion, but he was acting as if we weren’t even there.
Was he was an extremely socially awkward person that didn’t realize this was inappropriately close? Was it only weird and creepy for me because I have such a need for personal space?
I continued speaking normally even as my skin crawled because of his closeness, but I knew something was truly wrong when he started nodding enthusiastically to what I was saying. I broke off, completely taken aback. When I finally spoke again, my voice was unusually high with panic. “Do you need something?”
“Nope.”
Another moment of silence. The thought of leaving didn’t even occur to me. I was frozen to the spot. I forced myself to speak again, as much as I just wanted to curl into a little ball. I was already dreading his reaction, so I forced myself to keep a light tone in order to ease the effect of my words. “Then can you please take a few steps back? You’re kind of in our personal space.”
But he simply turned his back to us, still too close and still perfectly within earshot. I didn’t say anything else.
When the elevator arrived a couple seconds later, Eliana and I walked in warily, our “friend” close behind. Luckily, the only thing he did inside was stand against the opposite wall and mutter bitterly, “I’ll just stay way over here, then. Wouldn’t want to invade your personal space.”
I got off on Eliana’s floor because going to mine would’ve meant a few more seconds with him. It wasn’t until we were all the way down the hall that we breathed a sigh of relief. The whole thing lasted maybe two minutes.
The anxiety wore off after a couple of hours, and I started getting furious. I couldn’t believe someone would be so unashamedly rude as to invade my personal space and insert himself in my conversation, then sulk because I asked him to step away. And I hate that he’d confirmed my fears about elevators. I’d made it clear that I didn’t want him so close to me, and yet he didn’t move, and by pulling that little stunt, he took away a sense of safety that I hadn’t even realized was such an illusion. I was supposedly preventing this type of thing by following my rules and those of society—I did, after all, remain polite at all times—and yet it still happened.
But I’m also angry at myself. I’m angry that I wasn’t brave enough to insist that he back away further, and that I forced myself to be nice throughout the whole thing. I’m angry that I didn’t give him a good punch in the nose. (Though he probably would’ve hit back.)
It would never in a million years occur to me to mess with people in the way that he messed with us. But that’s because I haven’t lived my life with the entitlement that society awards white cis men—entitlement to space, to people’s time and attention, to respect and submission from women.
The incident was a way for this man to assert his superior position in society and remind us of our place. (Even though I’m not sure what we were doing that indicated we were stepping “out of place.” Just existing, I guess.) It was just some random power trip, but knowing this doesn’t make the whole thing any less bewildering or scary. I still don’t understand why he chose us, that moment or that place. It’s not like he knew us or like we provoked him. It happened completely out of nowhere.
But perhaps this guy’s biggest privilege is that even though his actions haunt me weeks later, he was probably laughing as we left the elevator, and he most likely forgot about us within the day. Whereas for me, it was a harsh reminder that no matter what safety measures I take, what “rules” I follow, it’s all useless. They give me peace of mind, a false sense of security, but in the end I’m still at the mercy of the men around me.