Age 10:

Go change your clothes.
Those shorts are too short.

Age 12:

Go find something else to wear.
That dress is too revealing.

Age 14:

You shouldn’t dress like that.
There will be grown men there,
You don’t want to draw attention.

I am wearing jean shorts and a t-shirt
Or jeans and a tank top.
Nothing extraordinary.
Nothing dangerous.
So why does it matter who is there?
Why should I have to change?
To protect myself?

There is an argument people like to laugh at,
A choice
Between the man or the bear.

Seemingly simple.
Girls are asked this question,
Women too,
Over and over again.

And more often than not,
They choose the bear.

Men will laugh.
They will scoff.
Call them dramatic,
Delusional.

They ask them:
Why would you choose something
That will definitely kill you?
But that’s the point.

Bears don’t carry weapons.
Bears don’t plan.
They don’t wait.
They don’t pretend.
They don’t smile while you say no.
They don’t understand the word “stop”
Only decide it means nothing.

They don’t see the tears on their victims’ cheeks.
The ones streaking their fear-ridden faces,
Yet still decide that their cries to “Stop”
Mean nothing.

That the screams for help

Piercing through the air,

Tainting the oxygen with wails of sorrow,

Of fear,

Of reluctant acceptance

Are nothing.

A bear is just a bear,

But a man can be anything.

A stranger.

A friend.

Someone you trusted.

That’s what they don’t understand.

Women don’t choose the bear

Because death seems pleasing.

They choose the bear

Because at least the fear makes sense.

Because when a bear hurts you,

No one asks what you were wearing.

No one asks if you led it on.

No one asks why you didn’t fight harder.

No one calls you a liar.

With a bear

The damage is visible.

The damage is believable.

But with a man,

The damage lingers.

Quiet.

Unseen.

And sometimes,

They still expect you

To apologize for it.

To accept the blame

For the disgusting actions

Of the very beings

Labeled as protectors of their kind.