Littering

We stopped the march outside the fraternity house.  One girl ran over to the front walkway toward their front door.  She crouched down and tilted her candle to make a puddle of molten wax on the cement.  The rest of us went silent as we watched.  She wobbled as she rose up while staring at the small beacon.  The flame was flickering.  None of us wanted the wind to come up.  It was her spot and we wanted her light to shine and not burn out.  

We were littering. I’m not sure if our candles were biodegradable. At least two dozen were left behind on our route.  Each was the ultra-personal made public.  The revelation that someone had been sexually assaulted in the locus of that space.  We were geo-tagging each epicenter of sexual violence with small fires.

Within five minutes of our passing, most candles were gone.  Pulled up, stamped out, or crushed.  Temporary relief.  For whom? The perpetrator or the bystander?  

Then there is the reverse trashing  -- the students in the residence halls who thrust open their windows as we move past.  Out come eggs, French fries, bottles, cans, and other handy, disposable goods – all in our direction.  I marvel at the hostility.  Sometimes the smarmy, slurred hollers are demands that we show our boobs or booties.  I pretend its Mardi Gras.  But without the purple-green beads.  

When we put ourselves  - our stories, our truths - out in the public space, must we plan on being heckled, harassed, spited?  Our rallies, marches, walks give us some safety in our numbers.  Harder to ignore a problem when there are so many standing together.  Keep going.  We can pick up the trash after the march is over.   

Each month, I share snippets, stories, and slices of my journey as an educator, activist, author, speaker, and survivor. By Katie Koestner.