Without a word to say for myself

15 May

Tunisia, some seven years ago. On my way home from Arabic class, I walked accross the street market, where people obviously were not used to seeing such an exotic alien as myself. Every few steps there was someone saying “Hey blondie, come here!” The air was heavy and my mood was not getting any better.
“Madame?” Someone tapped me on the shoulder. That was the bloody limit. Could they not just let me be for one second? I turned around screaming. “Leave me the fuck alone, will you?”
Behind me was a little old man, holding my broche in his hand. “Is-is-is this yours?” he stuttered. “I think you may have dropped it.” Ashamed to deep shades of scarlett, I thanked him in my best Arabic, and got out of there as fast as I could, stared at by some merchants shaking their heads. Crazy cats, those foreigners, I heard them thinking. And right they were.
Go figure. Me of all people, with my big mouth about stereotypes. Never judge too quickly, I told myself.
Fast forward to Amsterdam, a night out with my girls. We were having a ball on the dance floor, untill some stupid drunk started spoiling our fun. After asking him to leave us alone not once, but three times, I was starting to loose my patience. Another guy, who was watching the scene unfold from a distance, begged me to come over, baring his gold teeth in a smile. There we go again, I thought. But just like that day in Tunisia, I was proven wrong once again.
“Must be such a pain for you ladies, the shit those guys keep putting you through. Guys should be ashamed of themselves. You can count on my support sister.” And there I was. Without a word to say for myself.

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