I stopped going to work as I was so scared of the commute (Picture: Jamie Windust)
Living on the Northern Line seemed like a great idea when a group of female friends and I were choosing our first place to live post-graduation.
After a small jaunt through the local park, we would emerge right at the end of one of the capital’s longest underground lines.
For the first time, London was at my doorstep – but that excitement was swiftly replaced with fear.
So much so, that I stopped going to work as I was so scared of the commute.
At the time, my gender expression was deeply inspired by the power of the ‘80s and the confidence that androgyny provided me with. But being confined to a small Tube carriage often became an oppressive experience – especially when I was in proximity of anyone who didn’t agree with the way that I looked.
People would stare, point, or whisper – even taking photos without my consent. This became a daily occurrence. Every morning and evening when I’d travel I braced myself, not only for the rush hour queues but for my safety and privacy to be invaded.
Soon, if it was dark or getting late, I’d avoid getting the Tube altogether after being verbally assaulted and followed.
When it had happened, there’d usually be a scattering of people on board, but they either kept their heads down or were asleep. This seemed to just be the way things were.
It made me feel invisible and hyper-visible all at the same time (Picture: Jamie Windust)
No one would look up, or check to see if I was doing OK. Headphones firmly in, it became commonplace to be ignored.
Even during the peak of rush hour the seats either side of me would be empty as people would not want to be associated with the visibly queer person on board.
It made me feel invisible and hyper-visible all at the same time. It was dehumanising, and yet, before too long, it didn’t feel abnormal. Though it didn’t get any less terrifying.
As a non-binary person, the public discourse around ‘what it meant’ to be non-binary had manufactured a societal atmosphere where strangers felt it fair game to poke and prod at me to work out what I was.
Their curiosity was no longer just something they would keep to themselves, and I realised that public transport gave them a chance to unashamedly do just that.
Over time it took its toll, and I began to stop going out. I didn’t leave the house, and if I did, I didn’t get public transport. This meant I turned down work that required me to travel and social plans with friends too.
As such, my mental health suffered and my friends noticed a difference in me. I didn’t want to put them through the second-hand embarrassment of being witness to the street harassment I encountered.
Over time it took its toll, and I began to stop going out (Picture: Jamie Windust)
I finally felt like there …read more
Source:: Metro
