It’s funny the things that I think of, now that I’m – what – 2 weeks gone from Morocco? Oddball memories occur to me every so often, of classmates and Moroccans and funny stuff that we did.
For example: yesterday, I thought of my tiny, devious revenge on catcallers in the street.
Now, YOU all know how much intestinal distress I had in Morocco. I’d be walking along, minding my own business, when (of course), I’d need to relieve some of that gaseous pressure building up down there. One time in February or March, this sudden need to pass wind coincided with a particularly explicit catcall by a passing male.
So, obviously, I farted as he walked by.
…And cackled maniacally!
Some of these catcallers do what I call The Swoop: he’ll swoop in waaaayyyyyy too close to an unsuspecting woman’s face, whisper something filthy, and then swoop out again before she has a chance to react. It’s a really unsettling experience, even after you get used to it; nobody wants to feel a strange man’s breath on her ear, whispering something dirty, before he swoops out again and goes back to his wife and grandkids (no, I’m not kidding. Gross, huh?). So I began to fart whenever they did it, and it always gave me this sort of goofy satisfaction: take THAT, I’d think, with (probably unwarranted) vindictive pleasure. Smell my FARTS, you STUPID CATCALLING MAN!
This became my own silent (but deadly) retaliation against any sexual harassment I encountered during my time in Morocco. If someone followed me, I farted. If someone grabbed me, I farted. If someone catcalled me, I FARTED. I could only hope that after I passed, supremely ignoring them, they’d catch a whiff of Intestinal Distress and wrinkle their noses in disgust. It was, as I recall, the only upside to having tummy issues during their time there: I had an inexhaustible supply of farts to aim in the direction of people yelling at me.
And then I’d giggle. I remember chatting about this with some other girls in my cohort, a few of whom had taken up the same silent battle against catcalling: harassment vs. gas. How else could we fight, when middle fingers and harsh words won’t work, but ignoring them wasn’t enough to satisfy us? Farts.
I am a dignified and mature woman.
Coming up soon: How to Cruciate Catcallers (another of my altogether useless but entirely satisfying methods of fighting the eternally losing battle against sexual harassment: the Cruciatus Curse). Stay tuned!