Talk Back
Written in December 2024
2024 has been the year of political clashes, from small scale, interpersonal fights to street brawls. The theme is conflict. As a woman, I know I am expected to be quiet in these scenarios. Men will see my silver blonde hair and soft blue eyes and immediately assume I am an easy target.
I’m anything but.
A few weeks ago, on November 18th, a man made the crucial mistake of thinking I would take his insults quietly. I was at the community center I help to maintain, Bernie’s Coffee Shop on the corner of Wilshire and Fairfax. It was dark already at 5:45 pm, thanks to the crushing presence of daylight savings. My back was facing the street as I jimmied the key in the lock to open the front door. From behind me, a man’s voice called out:
“Is this your coffee shop?”
I turned to face a squat, portly white guy with greasy, stringy hair. His belly, sheathed in a gray t-shirt, pushed against a chipped, frayed belt. His beady, dark eyes took in the neon sign and the leftist posters in the windows around me.
“I help to maintain it, yes!” I said, my tone bright.
“Someone should vandalize it and write ‘MAGA’ on the side!”
I furrowed my brow and cocked my head.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Someone should spray paint ‘MAGA’ on the side of it!” the gremlin man repeated. He turned, his smile smug, to face the crosswalk that would lead him to the other side of the street.
Something in me snapped.
“Alright then, fuck you too!” I called after him.
He turned around and raised an eyebrow.
“Fuck you!” he said.
“Fuck you too, then!” I replied, my volume raising. Heat was brewing in my chest as I finally got the door open.
“You’re a dumbass, this is why Kamala lost!”
I’m not a liberal nor a Democrat. But I didn’t have time to give him a whole lecture about my political beliefs. Plus, I knew he didn’t have the range.
“I don’t give a fuck what you say!” I yelled. “Fuck you too, bitch!”
The light at the crosswalk changed to reveal the fluorescent white figure that would permit this ingrown hair of a man to cross the street. He began to walk across. We continued to trade insults and cuss words, him tossing them over his shoulder and me bellowing them with my toes pointed straight ahead. Heads turned to look at us.
My blood was rushing. He had anticipated a demure response from me, maybe a “Okay, have a nice night, sir!” But he had grossly mischaracterized his opponent, and now I was enraged.
“Fuck you! MAGA forever!” he shouted at me from the other side of the street.
Cars began to fill the space between us, halting at the red light that had allowed this annoying goblin to flee from within my range of motion. He approached the bus stop that stood parallel to my community center, where a handful of other people stood waiting.
“Now look at you, you piece of shit!” I screamed. “You just embarrassed yourself in front of everyone by being a racist asshole. How embarrassing!”
I could see the whites of my spectators’ eyes as they took in this very peculiar altercation.
“Whatever, fuck you, you stupid bitch!” he yelled back.
I saw red.
“DO YOU WANT TO COME BACK OVER HERE AND TALK?!,” I bellowed. “CROSS THE STREET AND COME BACK OVER HERE AND TALK THEN!”
Silence from the fascist-loving, wet blanket on the opposing curb. He looked confused, and I honestly couldn’t blame him. He had clearly done this sort of street harassment before and gotten away with it scott free. This was a first for him. He had not anticipated that the skinny woman with delicate tattoos would be a firestorm, but I was lighting his ass up for the whole street to witness. And I wasn’t done.
He sputtered some sort of reply that I couldn’t make out. It emboldened me.
“CROSS THE STREET AND COME OVERE HERE AND TALK SINCE YOU WANT TO RUN YOUR MOUTH!” I screamed.
My voice echoed off the buildings around us. I’ve always had a knack for projection. My arms were over my head at this point, waving wildly at him.
The man scoffed.
“You’re a woman, what are you gonna do? Watch me punch you in the face?”
I swelled up, imagining myself doubling in height and width.
“COME OVER HERE AND TRY!!!” I roared. “COME ON OVER AND TRY, YOU COWARD.”
He did not come back over and try. He continued to mumble, turning to the other men and trying to garner some support from them. They had heard the entire altercation and waved him off. No male validation for him today.
“That’s what I thought, you coward ass BITCH!” I barked.
I turned on my heel and stomped into the community center. I locked the door behind me. He remained at the bus stop for another minute before disappearing into the shadows like the troll he was.
For days after the argument, I was fuming. Steam might as well have been shooting out of my ears. Many valid points were made against my actions when I recounted them to my friends and family.
“You were alone? Why would you do that if you were alone?”
“What if he had gotten violent?”
“Ugh, you can’t let people like that get under your skin.”
All fair statements. Yes, the risk was high. Yes, I was vulnerable. But I’m also not just any woman on the street. My fully charged taser was in my pocket. Second, I’ve been the de-escalater a hundred times over. I know when someone is a real threat when they are all talk. My opponent was firmly, undeniably in the latter category. Why else would he have fled across the street as soon as the light changed?
And perhaps it was about time the final fuse blew in my brain. Fascists are feeling bold right now. The 2024 presidential election handed them an ego-inflating victory. They think they are untouchable and that these streets belong to them. The foreseeable future is bleak for my community and my comrades. But I refuse to cower.
Hell hath no fury like a lesbian insulted by an ugly misogynist.