Locate Your Nearest Exit

I don’t want to have to wonder if I’m fast enough. 

It’s Friday at 5:20pm. I’m on a run, which let’s be honest, has turned into a brisk walk, at the park by my house. The park I go to when I want to devour my favorite books. The park I sit at as I watch the sun say goodnight to my city. The park that has become my escape from the dreary walls of my apartment. The park that is equal distance from my house to my friend Max’s, where we meet at during the warm summer months, feeling like little kids who have been told to be home by dusk. This park has seen me sunbathe and cry and smile wide, and tonight, run. 

I’m rounding the loop when I encounter the first person I’ve seen in the park, a man, out running too. A few minutes later I pass the second person, another man. I’ll soon pass another. It’s January and somehow daylight savings is still a thing in our country, so it’s dark. The park, though small, isn’t extremely well lit and backs up into a canyon on multiple sides. 

There is a workout playlist blasting in my ears thanks to Spotify and someone who has taken the time to thoroughly research which songs make 29 year old women run faster. Spoilers, it’s Beyonce. It’s always Beyonce. Despite my admiration for the queen bee, my brain has tuned the music out. It doesn’t have space for lyrics when it is planning an escape route. With every man I pass, my eyes dart purposefully, searching for the most direct way out of the park. My brain instantly begins to calculate if I could outrun them. Call it fear, call it training, call it whatever you like, but my body knows there may be a day I have to run to keep it alive. This response is so second nature I almost don’t even notice it. Almost. 

I am beginning to wonder if this is simply life for a woman; always knowing where the exits are located. We don’t need the flight attendant to remind us, we already know they might be behind us. We’ve memorized them. You may think we’re scanning the room for Karen, when really we’re making sure we know the quickest way out. We know safety is not a solo mission. So we stay in the well lit areas, we find the crowd, we use nothing but our eyes to tell our friends we need help. When we go on first dates we text the group thread letting them know where we’ll be, we share our location, we say “If you don’t hear from me by 10pm, come looking”. We laugh, but we will be checking in at 10pm. We know it has nothing to do with the time, or location or wardrobe. We know violence does not discriminate. We walk in pairs, we hold our keys between our fingers, we check behind us. The practice is so second nature we almost forget we’re doing it. Almost. 

It’s Friday at 5:40pm. I am home. I will make curry and watch The Good Place and go to bed early. I will try to reconcile the fact that the places I love may never be fully safe. I will think of all the women who have had to run for their lives. I will say a prayer for them. I will cry and wonder how they show up to the party, the first date, the park, with courage and grace. I will shake with rage at the injustice, the stories that have been buried, the women that have been silenced. I will google “how to support assault victims”. I will buy Chanel Miller’s book, Know My Name. I will write a few words trying to capture this feeling, knowing it barely scratches the surface. I will sit with my gratitude and disgust. I will be okay with feeling both of these emotions so strongly, and so deeply. I will pray I never have to find out if I’m fast enough.