There's no such thing as a safe space

glimpses of clarity and other strange things

A few months ago, just before I left on my trip to the States, I came dangerously close to bursting into tears at a group dinner.

I had barely eaten all day, and our meals were taking forever. It was nearly 9pm and earlier that evening at a gallery launch I had had two glasses of wine. My head was starting to spin. I was premenstrual, feeling extra sensitive about my writing career or lack there of. I was surrounded by talented people I loved dearly, all of whom had their lives more in order than myself. I felt backed into the corner figuratively and literally, for me to leave the table required people to get up and let me out. I was a half hour’s drive from my home and relying on others for a ride.

I know how funny it sounds to to cry “poor me” at the dinner party after the art gallery launch, but I felt trapped and more importantly so uncertain about my life.

I dig deeper into this near tears moment in public, and others I’ve had, and I find similar themes. I can think of two total public freak outs I’ve had as an adult, and both were connected to undertaking something big I’d never done before. Fear clutched my body as I collapsed in tears in front of Chelsea and Moises while outside of a Durham? Chapel Hill? Salsa club. The three of us were meant to go dancing the night before Chelsea drove me to my new home. I was about to start a new life and job in Washington, DC.

And then there was the night in Melbourne that I burst into tears in front of the woman I was Couchsurfing with. I had arrived in Australia the day before and I wanted to go back to her place to sleep. She wanted me to stay out with her. (There is more to the story, but in short, I was terrified about what the hell I had done to my life.)

Several of my friends have expressed shock that I was so scared about my bus and train trip through America. The general sentiment was “you’re white,” “you have resources,” “it’s your home country,” “you’re smart”(ish),” “you’ll be fine.”

(I must write later about taking this trip as a woman, because while there are more dangers in some ways, undoubted privileges also exist, particularly while being a white, English speaking, attractive(ish) thin, young(ish) enthusiastic woman.)

Several of my close friends thought I was overreacting, but other people I loved dearly thought I was a little crazy and maybe putting myself in danger.

”Alex, if something doesn’t go right and you change your mind and don’t want to do this, you can just stop. It’ll be okay,” my friend Beth reminded me before I left.

My Aunt Sharon in Atlanta was the polar opposite. She recalled her own experiences while riding Greyhound, and thought I’d probably get some good stories from it. She thought it’d be character building.

Big emotions happen over the supper table. I was at dinner in Kentucky with my Aunt Lisa, my Uncle Jeff, my Mom, my brother and his friend Heinz, from Ecuador. I’ll never forget the look of genuine confusion on Lisa’s face as I talked to her about my public transit adventure. Heinz was vocally concerned about my safety. For a moment, everyone around me didn’t seem to understand my bigger vision, and I felt really dumb trying to explain. Compared to Europe and Australia, public transit (and sometimes just travel in general) is just not an interest or a priority in the US. It felt wise to drop the topic.

But other people totally got it and thought it was awesome. Ivey was a little nervous about me, yes, but she also planned out an amazing Google Maps draft of my journey, giving my trip much needed organization structure and also letting her and my family know where I would be at different times.

5 weeks, 15 cities, 8 long distant buses, 3 long distant trains, inner city public transit, and so many Ubers, taxis and rides from friends. 47 hours, approximately 3,161 miles

A friend in the States who has experience with drugs, crime and violence told me “You’ll be completely fine.” He knew a skinny redheaded girl who rode Greyhound buses across the country as a drug mule, and she made it unscathed. “She,” he told me, “was a lot dumber than you.”

As we’ve established in a previous post, my partner was absolutely unimpressed with my trip, and he did everything he could to make me feel terrified about my decision to go. He did not offer to come along, he could think of nothing worse than regular hours on a bus, but he spent plenty of time reading me facts and sending me stats about crime in the areas I was visiting.

I read way too many Google reviews of different bus stations which freaked me right out. An Australian man told me about the time he rode the Greyhound and got mugged outside the Atlanta bus station. I was sharing my Substack story about my grand plans in various Facebook groups, and the responses from strangers really rattled me. I’ve included a few here.

I knew in the grand scheme of things this trip was hardly going to war, and I was able to do it in a way that many people who rely on public transport couldn’t. I had supportive friends and family nearby, and also because of my approachability and openness, people would probably help me if I needed it.

When Wanda the Memphis bus driver heard about my journey she said with a smile, “you got a real nice personality, I think you gonna make it.”

Ivey bought me pepper spray, which I thankfully never had to use. My mom gave me a beautiful gold band Dad bought her years ago to wear on my ring finger as a way to perhaps deter men from hitting on me. I don’t think this worked, but then again how would I ever know? ha!

(Another Substack to come is an exploration on the forwardness of American men compared to Aussie men and how part of me loves it and part of me doesn’t.)

I haven’t taken Mom’s ring off since.

James the bus driver in Columbia, South Carolina was skeptical of my trip. He told me over and over again on our brief ride together, “Get you a gun, girl! I’m serious!” (Several people suggested a gun in fact.)

A woman doing things on her own gets reactions. I have a tendency to be dismissive of other people’s concerns, but I know I am not invincible. I was mugged in DC, on my doorstep, a knife held to my throat. Danger exists. I tell people the greatest privilege of living in my current city is that I can walk around alone at night and feel safe. But then again, not too long ago there was a brawl on the street corner at 3am with two different groups of drunk dudes attacking each other. Someone got stabbed. I feel I’m safer here than most places, and if you look at the crime stats, I probably am. But as a psychologist in a group chat once typed, “there’s no such thing as a safe space.”

I’m the most afraid when I’m by myself. If I did this trip with one of my friends close by, the overnight parts, the 4:30am Uber rides, all the sketchy parts of town, none of it would have phased me. I would have been a little worried, but I would have known someone had my back.

I would love a safety calculator that you could apply to different scenarios in your life to see what the actual risks are. How fascinating that humans get in cars every day, by far the riskiest behavior most people regularly participate in, and yet I feel more scared in an empty old firehouse on a corner street in Montgomery.

I have a memory of leaving my Gran’s house, climbing into my truck to drive away. This was in Bowling Green, Kentucky and I was probably 21 years old, heading to DC or Appalachia or South Carolina; I can’t remember. But I do remember the way Gran’s voice was cracking as she spoke to me.

”I want you to be careful. There are people out there that want to hurt you!”

There is nothing to fear but fear itself, but readers I thought about cancelling this trip because of fear. The closer my departure date, the more the fear flooded me. I dreaded that I was going to end up dead or traumatized. The worry that preceded this trip, especially when others expressed their doubts, fascinates me. I began feeling intense pangs of love and concern for everyone in my life. While on the flight over I wrote the most bizarre note to myself and my loved ones examining my life thus far and the people I loved so dearly. (I’ll spare you that strange sentimental spiel.)

Speaking of tense moments at dinner, last August I attended another dinner with my Aunt Sharon and her friends in Atlanta. I mentioned to the group (mostly folks in their 70s) that I had ridden the MARTA to get from the airport to my Aunt’s place. The woman sitting beside me balked.

”I had a terrible experience once on the MARTA,” she told me, sharply

”I’m so sorry to hear that.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Last week I wrote about making a new friend on the MARTA, Stan. I met him on my final route to the Atlanta airport where I would fly away. Stan and I rode together on the first train, and he helped me catch my second train to the airport around 9:30 Saturday morning.

On my last train ride, a few notable things happened.

The vibe was off on the second train. Individuals sat on every row, only they weren’t really sitting, they were more slouching. Some were lying down. Some people looked rough. I wondered how long they’d been riding. It was clear everyone here was not going to the airport, and they contrasted with the obvious travelers like myself who had luggage.

A man sat near me, looking at the ground and looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. We almost made eye contact several times. I was aware of myself and everyone else on the train. I felt cautious.

At the next stop, three people entered the train. Two appeared to be a couple, both in wheelchairs and their carer behind them. They were all on their way to Wal Mart and they were full of mischief. The couple were picking on each other and laughing, asking about the route changes, and suddenly the atmosphere in the carriage had changed. The man I almost made eye contact with was laughing with them. I was laughing too.

The uneasy silence was broken and I was reminded of the power of laughter and jokes. Every space has an energy to it, and we all have the capacity to shift it.

Readers, this is not the end of my Atlanta MARTA experience. I’m hesitant to write about what happened next, because I’m not sure exactly what I saw. What I’m about to write might be triggering to people, so if you’re sensitive to stories of indecent exposure please stop reading now.

The couple went on their merry way to Wal Mart, spreading joy there, no doubt, and I noticed a man enter the in-between carriage. I thought it was interesting that he did not enter our carriage, he just seemed to be staying in that in-between area. That’s odd I thought. I looked back again, and for a brief moment I worried that he had a gun in his hands?! The man with his luggage sitting closer to that back door stood up abruptly and walked towards me. He must have seen it too. I looked back again, no it wasn’t a gun, but was it, a dick?! Aghhhh!

I looked away again, relieved it wasn’t a gun but also not thrilled that I might have just seen a random man’s penis. But was it? I didn’t want to look back again and confirm. Was he masturbating? Was he taking a leak? I sat frozen for a minute and then casually looked back again, (WHY?!) and he was gone. Just like that. I guess he left the same way he came in.

Was I traumatized? Eh, not really. Should I have done something about it? God, I don’t know. I mean maybe if I was sure. I was almost amused by the irony of the situation, on the last moment of my public transportation journey, the most offensive, confronting thing (might) have just happened to me. I appreciated the uncertainty of it. I could never know for sure what I saw. So if I chose to be bothered, that was on me. I’m going to tell myself I simply imagined a man with his dick out on the train. It was my crazy brain looking for drama before my trip ended.

And that was it, y’all. I got to the Atlanta airport just fine. I looked at all my different train tickets longingly. I thought about fear and the Christian blessing I received from John and Sammi back in Arkansas. I heard the worry in my Gran’s voice from so many years ago. I felt various uncomfortable moments at different dinner tables, when we’re meant to be happy and nice, but we aren’t. I rubbed my Mom’s ring, my new good luck charm, even though I don’t really believe in that kinda thing.

I made it, and I couldn’t believe how scared I had been. I look back optimistically, proud of myself for facing my (probably unfounded) fears, but my partner just says I have survivorship bias. Gosh, who knows. I’m glad it all worked out, and I am so grateful to the new people I know. I’m expecting a plethora of American guests to come visit me down under over the next few years! And now that I’m back to my normal routine, I’m sleeping better and things that used to stress me out in work or my personal life seem less intense.

I want to go back and do it again knowing what I do now, with my blessings and good luck charms and new Substack readers. I think I could have more fun in round two.

Who knows, maybe I will.