One of my first memories from childhood took place when I was around 5 years old. My mother was holding me, and I was half asleep as it was so early in the morning the sun was barely even up. She was bending down to put me into the car — well, lay me down, to be precise. This was the mid-’90s, so there was no pretense of a car seat. Just a cheetah-printed sheet stretched out across the back seat. Oh, to be a kid in the ’90s, rattling around the back of a car like a bean in a can.
My mother was mugged as she put me down into the car in our driveway in Midtown Memphis. I remember her expression changing to an “O” of surprise as she was jerked away from me by her purse strap. The rest I don’t actually recall, but it’s been told to me a hundred times over the years. For a long time growing up, I was naively shocked that someone would choose to target a woman with a child to rob. Somewhere along the way I realized that my mother was targeted because she had a child. She was distracted, compelled to stay put to protect her daughter instead of running or fighting back.
Another memory: My brother and I were going to walk somewhere or another, as we often did, and I had a purse with me for the very first time. It seemed very grown-up. I was probably 10. I doubt there was actually anything in the purse. But what I remember is my mother nonchalantly showing me to wear the strap “like this,” across my body instead of hanging off my shoulder. That way it would be harder for someone to snatch it. At the time, this seemed perfectly straightforward and wise, and it only occurs to me now to be saddened by that lost moment of innocence.
There are myriad ways in which my upbringing taught me to be cautious and aware of my surroundings at all times. A few months before my divorce, I went to the movies by myself. My ex-husband was concerned.
“I don’t know about that parking lot,” he said as I was getting ready to leave. “Be careful.”
I stared at him, incredulous.
“I have to worry when I’m in the parking lot of a grocery store,” I said.
Men, I want you to understand: You get to pick and choose when you’re worried about the women in your life. We don’t have that luxury. We have to be worried all the time.
A friend of mine recently had a break-in at her home. Then, there was another one, clearly done by the same person. This man didn’t steal anything from her. Instead, he laid out personal items in a sick tableau for her to find. Women have to be worried all the time. In our driveways. In our homes. At work. I’ve worked in many places where there is an unspoken rule that whoever closes the business doesn’t leave by herself. I’ve also worked in places where this rule isn’t unspoken but acutely laid out by management.
A phrase often comes to mind when I’m thinking about all this: “CONSTANT VIGILANCE.” It always amuses me that this utterance is the catchphrase of a man, not a woman. Mad-Eye Moody of the Harry Potter book series is cool, but “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” has always seemed like a feminine mantra. Constant vigilance is exhausting. We have to watch where we park, how we hold our keys, where we go on walks. Heaven forbid we let a drink leave our hand at a bar.
I started writing this weeks ago on August 19th, with my friend’s break-in fresh on my mind. At work today, I learned that Eliza Fletcher was abducted this morning, and I had several conversations with people about the struggle of staying safe. Yesterday, my coworker walked me to my car at 5 p.m. as a matter of course. At this point, worry and fear have permeated our lives.
I’m tired of constant vigilance.
Coco June is a Memphian, mother, and the Flyer’s theater columnist.
