Watch it, Bitch(2019).

When I was a kid, I loved the feeling I got taking Metro-North to the city with my mom. It was my escape vessel, whisking me away from the tedium of Westchester suburban life and to the luxurious, exciting, magnificence of New York City. Perhaps, I'm secretly harboring leftover romanticizations of that train ride, but I still love riding the, albeit overpriced, Metro-North train, as it now whisks me away to the company I love and then back to the home I love more. However, last Friday night I found my commute soured by a man who verbally harassed me for having a conversation on the train. Not a loud one, not a strange one, but for having one at all.

Maybe I should've taken it as a sign when he didn't move his things for me and my friend to sit in the 5 seater he occupied with his wife. But, as I proceeded to tell her the story of a volunteer event that had somewhat gone awry, the man interrupts me to say : "Do you know that you've been talking for the past 15 minutes?" ( insert comment about my expression/reaction) "Have you ever commuted on this train before? Do you see all faces on the people around you?" You know some people just want a quiet ride home."

For a moment, I am in shock, unable to register the magnitude of disrespect I've been shown. But I quickly deliver my comebacks. "Grand Central to Harlem is 10 minutes and we haven't reached Harlem. , so I've been talking for 5 minutes. Yes I commute everyday , how dare you have the audacity to speak to me that way! This is a train and a public space. I can speak as much as I want to. If you want a quiet space, feel free to go home. Feel free to move seats, but I do not have to be quiet for you." Outwitted by soundness of my declarations, he comes back with:" It's just something about the sound of your voice . It's really high" . It's more than personal now.

And then, the situational irony hits me. During this entire exchange, I did not use profanity. I do not raise my voice. I was watching my behavior. He is attacking me and I am watching my behavior. Yet, I still carefully control my next response. I know that if for a second, I allow my anger to manifest itself, I will have lost my credibility in this fight. Once my anger is too visible, too audible, nothing I say would matter. The people around me will hear and see The Angry Black woman - A stereotype, a trope, a source of entertainment, not Tabitha, not a young woman, and not a human being. There would be no empathy or outrage on my behalf because somehow in the minds of those around me, this is what I , the angry black woman deserved.

I deserved this man's vitriolic diatribe. I even deserved it when he told me to "Watch it, bitch", leaning forward as his wife physically restrained him.

Maybe I had overestimated the impacts of Me Too movement and the support I thought I should've received while publicly being berated. I thought we were all standing up for women getting harassed this year. I was wrong. And I was alone in this, as confirmed by the crippling silence and amused expressions of the man and woman seated across from me. I confronted the man sporting a grin in my direction. "I'm smiling because I had a good day", he told me exchanging looks with the woman next to him. Yet, returning that same smug grin, he said goodbye to me as he left the train. Neither of them had been disturbed at the site of an old man attacking a young woman for the sound of her voice or threatening her for standing up to him. They didn't care. They were having good days. They would return to their respective lives in Pelham, basking in their privilege and moral apathy, laughing about the crazy girl on the train as they passed dinner rolls around their luxury dining room sets.

I found my way off the train uncontrollably sobbing, releasing the waves of frustration and anger that had built up inside of me. That night, I left that man on the train, but for days after, I carried him with me. I carried his words and the inaction of the onlookers as I choked back tears on my morning commute, sighing to find relief from my anger. I wondered if I should talk less, if at all, praying that if I were to so much as call my mother to pick me up from the train station, that another stranger wouldn't find issue with the sound of my voice and make me the target of his degrading comments. As I look back on the incident, I realize that not once did that man ask me to be quiet or to even lower my voice. Each sentence was designed to embarrass, to hurt, and to belittle me. But despite the inaction of the people around me and the brazenness of this man, I did not deserve that. I deserve respect and I will yell it to the mountaintops and the deepest corners of the internet because today, I'm reclaiming and amplifying my voice.

To Pelham man and woman

I know that if someone had spoken to you, or your daughters, or your sisters like this , you would never have sat by idly enjoying the scene of harassment play out like an episode of the Real Housewives of Westchester. You may look like the kind of people with "I Stand with Her" bumper stickers on your minivans, but for some reason(I know why) you didn't stand with me. And that's okay, because I will stand for myself and any other her who needs me to.

To a woman who gave my attacker a dirty look:

You are my saving grace. You were on your way off the train and made it a point to glare at him. It was a small gesture, but I needed you and you, in your subtle way validated me and condemned him. Thank you.

To the man's wife

Seeing you restrain him with each verbal blow, I can't help wonder how many times have you held him back? How many times could you not? I am a stranger. You are his wife. I can't imagine what you've been through.

To the man who harassed me:

You are the embodiment of entitlement, privilege, and the corrosiveness of a patriarchal society where hateful white men hurl blows to whomever they feel is threatening their comfort, their status, and their dominance.

This train does not belong to you.

These airwaves do not belong to you.

My voice does not belong to you.

You will not cut me down because I am big branch in a tree whose roots are named Rosa, and Susan B, and Oprah, Maxine, and Michelle. And men like you will always try to silence us, but you never will. My way is paved by thousands of women, whose shrill voices call me to walk with them in strength and courage and dignity. This bitch, will watch it, And when I see men like you, I will not bite my tongue. I will not lower the pitch of my voice. I will speak emphatically and boldly and I will not be silenced.