Adventures in Not Moving for Men
Experimenting with standing my ground.
Wellington, 2017: I sit beside a middle-aged man at the front of the bus who is taking up too much room. A classic case of man-spreading. I place my groceries at my feet and sit comfortably: shoulders back, hands in my lap, feet planted firmly on the ground. I am not taking up any space beyond my seat, and yet my left arm and leg are pressed against the man’s, uncomfortably close.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look at me. I keep my eyes forward but I can tell he’s surprised. He shifts in his seat, trying to spread his feet further apart, but I keep mine firmly planted on either side of my bag so he can’t shove them out of the way.
I spend the next half hour pretending not to notice as the man wriggles beside me, shooting me furtive glances when I don’t move. He is counting on me to be uncomfortable with our close proximity — and I am — but I want him to know the discomfort too.
And so, it begins.
I had heard about men overseas who would walk straight into women if they didn’t scoot out of the way fast enough, and it intrigued me. Women across the world were experimenting with the phenomenon by simply… not moving when a man encroached their space.
The women I pictured were strong, confident, assertive. All things I wanted to emulate in my life. Since high school, I had been living with a “fake it until you make it” mindset, tricking myself into a false sense of confidence when inside I was usually a bundle of nerves and anxiety.
This was no different. At five-foot, I am often (literally) overlooked. I armed myself with a glowering expression — jaw set, brows slightly furrowed — and an edge to my walk. I began walking with purpose, paying special attention to the people coming towards me or sitting beside me on public transport, and choosing to stand my ground rather than flinch out of their way.
London, 2018: I’m walking to my local supermarket in Clapham. It’s Sunday; in a few hours the shops will close for the day and people will settle into their evenings as they prepare for another week of work or whatever it is they do. It’s overcast but warm: what my sister calls a “non-weather day”.
There is a man walking towards me and, directly behind him, a young couple with a pushchair and small child. Between them, they take up the whole footpath. The man is walking on the right-hand side of the footpath while the young family is walking on the left. I’m walking on my left and, if neither of us moves, I will collide with the man.
I am not going to move.
I’ve never understood why Londoners don’t walk on the left. Their lives would be so much easier if they walked on the same side they drive on, but they insist on darting and weaving between each other on Tube platforms and busy streets. I stick left.
As the man walks, he stares me down. Does he know what I’m doing? Has he seen the resolve in my eyes? Perhaps he just doesn’t like my dress.
He is not going to move.
We gain on each other and, as we pass, he shoves his shoulder into mine so hard that I lose my balance. I’m as far left as I can go, and I stumble off the curb onto the road. I don’t fall, but the movement knocks the wind straight out of my lungs. There are no parking spots on this section of road; it goes from footpath to road to oncoming traffic. Luckily, there are no cars or buses coming right at this moment.
I turn back to the man, ready to confront him. He has stopped in the middle of the footpath and is staring at me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He has just caused me to stumble into the road because he couldn’t move three inches to the left, and yet he looks angry with me. No, that look is more than anger, more than defiance. It’s hatred.
I hold his gaze for a few seconds that feel like minutes. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, can feel my blood rising, clouding my head. But the look on the man’s face scares me. If I confront him, I don’t know what he’ll do.
I try to direct all of my anger into my glare before walking away. My breath catches in my throat all the way to the supermarket, where I make a wide berth around the other shoppers so I don’t accidentally bump into one of them.
I am afraid.
Every experiment needs rules, of course. I make exceptions and I assess my impact on the world.
I readily move out of the way for men who are elderly, disabled or injured, carrying something heavy, or have small children.
Once, I sat next to a man on the Tube who flinched away from me when my arm brushed his. Later, I heard him tell his friend that he “just doesn’t like being touched”. Fair.
I extend the experiment to everyone I pass. This has caused me to knock elbows with countless women, but there are two things that differentiate these encounters from the ones I’ve had with men: (1) They almost always apologise; and (2) I never feel afraid when it happens.
London, 2019: I’m on a bus travelling to meet a shuttle that will take me to the airport. I’m returning to Italy for a long weekend, and my carry-on suitcase is tucked away at my feet. Like I said, I’m five-foot. I have short legs.
A man sits beside me. Between me and the suitcase, I’m already squeezed in tighter than normal, but I’m not taking up any space outside my own seat. I refuse to make myself smaller for this man so, when he sits down and spreads his legs and elbows, I don’t move. It’s a routine now, a game.
This man presses his leg against my leg. Sitting forward slightly, he rests his shoulder and upper arm against mine. I have become part of the seat for him to lean against. The sun is beaming outside and we are both wearing short-sleeved tops. His hot skin presses into mine as we both act oblivious to the discomfort.
If nothing else, I’m stubborn.
After a while, the man introduces himself and holds out a hand. I shake it — partly out of habit and partly because I’ve been taught to be polite, even when I’m uncomfortable; a woman’s discomfort is usually in her head, after all. The man holds onto my hand for longer than is appropriate. I wrench it from his grasp and he uses that moment to take back a few inches of arm room that he doesn’t need.
“Are you going to work?” he asks.
“No,” I reply.
“Home?”
“No.”
“Where are you going, then?”
“Airport.”
“Oh. London City?”
“Yes.” I’m going to Stansted but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Are you going on holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“Italy.”
“How long? One week? Two?”
“Just for the weekend.”
There is silence. A beat. Then:
“You’re so beautiful.”
He almost whispers it and I’m busy looking out of the window and praying my stop will be soon, so I pretend not to hear him. I can feel his eyes burning into me. His bare arm is still covering mine.
The bus pulls into my stop and I leap to my feet. As I move past him, the man tries to take my suitcase, saying “Let me help you with that”. I yank it away from him and loudly say, “No, thank you.” I half expect him to follow me off the bus but he doesn’t.
My skin is still crawling when I board my coach and head to the airport.
Every woman you know has stories like this; many have stories worse than this. Stories of being made to feel uncomfortable, unsafe, even hated for taking up space. It’s an issue exacerbated by race, sexuality, disability, and gender non-conformity.
As a cis, pākehā woman, I carry immense privilege every time I walk down the street. As an able-bodied person, I am privileged to be able to carry out this experiment in relative safety. As a single, queer femme I am lucky enough not to have become another headline about a homophobic attack.
Sometimes I wonder if the non-white men I pass are doing a similar experiment where they refuse to move for white people. All power to them, if they are.
As a woman, I am constantly aware of my surroundings, of the threat the man walking towards me might pose. As I approach this man, I clench my jaw and square my shoulders. And my pulse hammers, my breath stutters, heat rises in my cheeks. What if this is the act of defiance that inspires violence?
Usually, the encounter is anti-climactic. We pass each other, and my breath returns to normal. But, as a woman, there’s always the question lingering in the back of my mind: What if?
