Week Two: Fear

It takes me an hour and twelve minutes to walk home from work.  If you’ve met me, which you probably have because who else is spending their time reading this blog, it seems pretty out of the question that I would ever attempt to walk for more than an hour.  But an unlikely combination of a broken laptop and an overused Uber account, and a deep hatred for the muni bus system, has led me to spending this week walking the one hour and twelve minutes home. 

Worse things have happened, in fact my walk is pretty great.  I begin on Market Street and then walk all the way up Haight.  I walk home from The Center right through the historically gay, and currently alternative district of the city.  I have been offered marijuana by no less than four kind young men. I have passed more pride flags then I can be bothered to count.  I have gotten hopelessly out of breath while trying to walk up some of the steeper hills along the way.  I have seen the true character of this city.

In my hour and twelve minutes I have facetimed, watched friends, listened to podcasts, called my mom, thought about work, reflected on my day.  I see the value in taking time to stop and think.  I have found the walk to be peaceful and restorative. 

I have never once felt in danger or at risk.

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“On Sunday, I started carrying a knife with me again.”

“I am scared, because I don’t think I will be able to get away.”

“I’m always afraid I am going to get attacked on the street.”

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Fear.  I have been thinking a lot about it lately.  Following the Orlando shooting I felt the kind of fear that sits deep inside of you and makes your stomach hurt.  The truth is, I don’t think this was fear for personal safety, more a generalized fear for the state of our world at large.  Nonetheless, it made my stomach hurt. I ached at the thought of the families’ mourning, the unpredictability of life, that expressing any identity that diverges from the norm inherently carries risk. 

However, as a woman, I am not a stranger to fear regarding personal safety.  Few things scare me more than walking around central campus at night.  I would never leave a bar alone.  I have felt stares from men that feel more than objectifying and instead feel downright dangerous. 

But these moments are brief and passing.  Fear has never been my constant state of being.  It has been a feeling that ebbs and flows. 

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“On Sunday, I started carrying a knife with me again.”

“I am scared, because I don’t think I will be able to get away.”

“I’m always afraid I am going to get attacked on the street.”

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These are direct quotes from the past week at The Center.  Quotes from coworkers, not clients. 

I think fear has been the central focus here at The Center this past week.

First in very concrete ways.  We are putting ourselves at risk working in a space that identifies itself as queer and in service of the queer community.  So let’s talk safety protocol. 

And then a little more abstract.  How do we show up at Pride? San Francisco Pride is one of the largest gatherings of the LGBT community in the country.  How do we show up and stand tall.  How do we avoid compromising the character and the pride of this community in the face of hatred and potential risk?

And then fear as an emotion, a crippling emotion that gives you a stomach ache.  And my coworkers told stories of constant, unwavering fear.

The truth is, I’m not really sure what to do with this.  On the one hand, I feel myself getting angry. Angry and restless.  That so much of our world isn’t granted the basic human right of safety.  On the other hand I feel myself once again confronting a privilege that I had never even acknowledged was there.  The privilege of a pleasant one hour and twelve minute walk home uninterrupted by any feelings of fear.