“One regular piña colada and one virgin piña colada please,” my brother said confidently, showing the bartender his resort distributed conch bracelet to let the bartenders know that he was of legal drinking age in the Dominican Republic. My brother and I had spent the trip bonding with one another. It was the winter of his senior year of high school and I was anticipating missing him.
As the drinks were made, I watched every detail carefully. The ice: crushed; the pineapple: blended; some mysterious packet labeled “coconut”: poured. Our drinks were garnished casually with a single neon cherry and slid to us from the friendly bartender. I realized my brother, Clayton, had been intently reading an article about LeBron James the entire few minutes our drinks were being made.
I asked, “Clay why weren’t you watching your drink?” I sounded angrier than I wanted to.
His answer sent waves over me: “Because I don’t have to.”
Until he said those words, I was happily accepting that the precautions I take as a female were completely normal. I was content to hold my keys between my fingers when I walked to my car, complacent to the idea that all of this was normal. My brother lived in a simultaneous state of bliss and ignorance. While understanding that women DO have to take cautionary measures to protect himself, he didn’t quite understand that the culture built around fear, VALID fear, is a wall that shouldn’t have had to be built in the first place.
Although I am the watchdog, although I am the fearful, there is some sort of pride involved in possibly contributing to women’s safety. I pray for the day when I can look away from my drink and text a friend instead. Until then, I’m satisfied knowing that I am allowed no ignorance in this world as a woman. I’m aware, but I won’t always be afraid.
Kat Carmen ’18
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