Grandma Didn’t Raise No Punk

Dear Babygirl,

Pharcyde’s Runnin’ was playing as I dropped you off at daycare that got me thinking about the first and only time I cowered to anybody.

It must’ve been the second or third time I went clubbing with girlfriends. We were at The Boogie in Long Beach when some random guy came up and began gyrating behind us. I politely declined at first but he wouldn’t stop. When I finally said no outright, he laughed it off.

“Come on,” he said playfully as he reached out to lightly caress my chin. His touch felt like he was the type of guy to own a meek, limp handshake.

Now this was the first time anyone had ever put a hand on me without consent. I was stunned… and vexed. First off, who even does that?! I had never seen anybody touch anyone’s chin; it was only something seen on TV or read about in romance novels. Second of all, I took stock of the guy - he was a lanky, sheltered mama’s boy who had no business approaching a group of females acting like a fool. His high-pitched hyena giggle solidified that.

If I have to spell it out to you babygirl, real men (or women) will never touch you without permission, and they will certainly never come up from out of nowhere and gyrate behind no one.

So I did what any respectable woman would do - I slapped him across the face.

Back then though, I was scrawny with no muscle mass and no idea how to throw a proper punch so I kind of missed; it was more like pushing his face off to the side than a good, bona fide slap. The kind you want with force and vigor. But it was enough to send a message.

The look on his face - he was incredulous and incredibly embarrassed.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled back with full intent to hit me, I could feel it. I sensed his rage, saw the slight flare of his nostrils in contempt, eyes wide, bloodshot and drunk with no regard, and it dawned on me: he had been turned down from many women but I was the first to humiliate him publicly. With a firm grip on my wrist and forearm, I shrunk back, because I knew he was going to do it.

Now lets go back to the song - I wasn’t scared. I was nervous because I’ve never been hit before and was so unprepared to scrap, much less with a dumbs hit who had the audacity to strike a woman at the club… who had told him “no” in multiple ways.

A bystander intervened and pushed him back before he had the chance. Aunt Lisa immediately grabbed my shoulders and scolded me, “Why did you do that, Jenny?! You can’t hit people.”

It was a different time back then, a decade well before the “Me Too” movement, and women’s right was not a thing. No one applauded that I stood up for myself. Not that I needed or wanted to accolade. But instead of feeling proud, at that moment, I was afraid my girlfriends wouldn’t want to invite me out with them again.

But Grandma didn’t raise no punk; I knew I did the right thing - defending myself - even if my delivery was a bit… dramatic.

I think about the wisdom I’d like to impart on you because my strategy of plain slapping the guy was not clearly thought out. I was such a reactionary person in my youth and I don’t want that to be you. So many things could have gone wrong that night. So find ways to avert trouble. What he did was inexcusable but should I have walked away when he was getting handsy? It would have been helpful if I was confident in knowing how to defend myself, that’s number one. Assess the situation. Check your surroundings and make sure you have the support of your crew. Apart from Aunty Lisa, who is my ride or die, I didn’t know the other girls well and people won’t be down for you if they don’t know you. Would I advise you to hit someone? Not if you can help it. But sometimes you gotta take a punk out if he disrespects you like that, you know?

Later in the night, I ended up dancing with the bystander for a bit. He was a casual friend of a friend, and a great dancer. Before we broke apart, he pulled me in. “That was aiite, what you did. Good on you.”