Bricks and Broken Chairs

At age 15 after fleeing my family home to escape the increasing violence of my father, I was followed and harassed by two adult men in a beat-up old car.

People have always confused me. Why would anyone intentionally want to make another person feel unsafe or uncomfortable?

I was 15 years old and had just fled my parent’s house in tears to escape the increasing yelling and family violence. It was only about 6:30 pm when I left, but it was winter in Tasmania, Australia, and it was already dark. I was determined to reach the safety and comfort of my dear friend, who lived a few blocks away. She had told me that if things got worse at my house, I could hide there for a few hours. I was walking with my head down to try and hide my tears. I was thinking about my parents and what had happened. Distracted, it took me a moment to notice that a car was slowly following me.

When Home Does Not Feel Safe

Appearances were important to my family, and on the outside, things appeared normal for our upper-middle-class nuclear family. My father was a specialist in his field of marine piloting. He changed jobs often, and my family was always moving. So far, I had lived in three different states across Australia and attended nine other schools. My mother did not feel the need to work due to my father’s high income, but no matter how much he earnt, it never seemed to be enough for her. As a result, most of my parents’ arguments surrounded my father’s job and money.

My parents never considered the impact their bickering was having on my younger brother and me. They never hid their fighting. Instead, all their marriage grievances were played out in front of us like a bad theatre show. As the oldest child, I exhausted myself doing did best to play peacekeeper, but things got particularly bad during my mid-teens. During this time, the fierce arguments and threats of divorce had started to morph into something more sinister and less predictable. Lately, my father had taken to smashing up furniture around the house.

The first time it happened, it was shocking. My father picked up one of the wooden dining room chairs from around the table and threw it across the room. The savage impact broke off one of the legs. My father’s anger was now having a physical impact on our home. The next day ashamed of losing control, he spent the morning repairing the broken chair, carefully mending it back together with glue. It took him a few hours to make the repairs and he did seem generally sorry. My father was forgiven for his outburst, however, a few weeks later it happened again. My father lost his temper and smashed the same chair he had spent hours repairing. It became his strange ritual.

After screaming at my mother, he would smash the chair. The next day there would be shame and guilt, so he would repair it. I always thought it was better he was smashing the chair rather than my mother, but it was still a violent coping mechanism that made the rest of the family feel like we were always walking on eggshells — scared of upsetting him and setting him off.

A Poorly Timed Laugh

On the night I ran from my parent’s home, it was just after dinner when my parents started arguing. The tension continued to build until sure enough, my father had grabbed the ritual chair. Only this time he smashed it with such force into the floor, it pulverized beyond repair. The broken chair’s sad existence finally ended.

As a witness to the final death of our dining room chair, the whole thing was just so surreal to me. How could my usually reasonable father release such anger on the furniture as if it was somehow responsible for all his problems? The stunned silence was replaced by my poorly timed giggling at the absurdness of the whole situation.

I did not mean to laugh I think it was probably a reaction to the anxiety and fear. But it did not matter because my father’s anger was now directed at me for mocking him. He started screaming at me, “How dare I laugh at him.” I turned to my mother for support, but she was also upset and perhaps relieved that the rage shifted from her onto me. Now both my parents were yelling. I retreated to my bedroom, but they followed me. Sitting on my bed, I laced my shoes and grabbed a jacket. I pushed past them and exited through the garage door. As I walked up to our driveway, I shot a text to my friend so she would be expecting me.

The walk was not far. It would only take me about 10 minutes. I started down the hill, unable to control my tears but hoping that no one would notice because it was getting dark. It was winter and cold, but at least it was not raining. I was only about eight houses away from my home when I finally noticed the car following me.

Street Harassment In Australia

My experience of being harassed and followed by strangers as a teenager is sadly not that unusual. Australia is generally regarded as a safe country with a low crime rate, but girls and women often do not feel safe while out in public.

Gender-based street harassment is defined as unwanted comments, gestures, and actions forced on a stranger in a public place without their consent. The victim is targeted because of their actual or perceived sex, gender, gender expression, or sexual orientation. The purpose of street harassment is to cause humiliation, and fear, and to assert dominance over a woman or young girl.

A recent Australian report surveyed 500 young women, asking about their experiences with street harassment. It was found that 95% of the women reported that the perpetrators of the street harassment were men. Disturbingly, like myself, one in three young women said they were first harassed between the ages of 11 and 15.

A Car Follows

The car was an older sedan with faded white chipped paint in poor condition. It also had a severe problem with the muffler as the noise drew my attention to it. Turning, I saw that it was following slowly behind me, and despite the darkness, the headlights were off. Puzzled and unsure of what was happening, I stopped walking and waited for the car to pass. Noticing that I had stopped, the car instead pulled up alongside me. Inside the car were two men, probably in their early twenties. They were both leering at me. The passenger was leaning over the driver, slightly splashing his open Jim Beam and Coke container over his hands. In a slurred speech he asks me. “Where are you going and why are you crying?”

Sensing danger, I avoid his question instead of replying with what I hope will be magic words that will make the men leave. “I’m only 15 years old; please leave me alone.”

I start walking again even though I want to break into a run, quickening my pace as I move past them. The driver makes a joke or comment, resulting in them both laughing. Then, undeterred by my age or fear, likely even encouraged by it, the men resume their slow chase as the car creeps behind me. In between their laughter, they are also calling to me and commanding that I get into the vehicle that they will drive me safely to wherever I want to go.

My answer is shouted back at them, “No, leave me alone!”

My eyes are darting around to the houses and yards surrounding me. Hoping there is someone to notice my distress and help me. But it’s so cold that everyone is snuggled up inside their warm homes. Even my shouting has failed to draw any attention. It’s a quiet road with almost no traffic, there are no other cars with drivers who might help me. I do have a mobile phone on me, but it means digging around in my bag to find it and I don’t want to take my attention off the car for a moment. Assessing the situation carefully I realize no one can help me right now, that I am on my own.

I consider running. Up ahead at the end of the street and half a block to the right is a cluster of shops including a small supermarket which while closing soon should still be open. If I can make it that far there will be people and I should be safe. However, it’s a long distance to cover quickly and I know I can’t outrun a vehicle. The car is inches behind me as the engine revs and pulls away. My relief that they are leaving is dashed as the car pulls into the driveway I am crossing forcing me to step into the driveway of a darkened house. My pathway is blocked by their car, forcing me into a confrontation.

Fight or Flight

Everything happens so quickly. I can’t think only react. The car’s headlights are blinding and the engine is still running. The driver is not making any movement just staring at me and leering. Meanwhile, the passenger is starting to move to exit the car, but he is drunk and fumbles with the door handle. As the passenger struggles, it grants me time enough to find a weapon.

My neighborhood is in an old suburban area with lots of elderly residents. Many of our neighbors are getting old and it’s hard for them to maintain the properties. It just so happens that the yard I am trapped in is one of these run-down houses. It had once been a short and tidy garden wall built with large white bricks. After years of neglect, most of the wall has already fallen down. Large loose chunks of brick and mortar remain littering the overgrown yard.

I grabbed the largest chunk I could confidently lift. Holding it threatening above my head, I was surprised by the ease with which I lift it. As a teenager, I played lots of sports and was psychically quite fit, but I also have the benefit of the surge of adrenaline that pumping into my muscles gives me the extra boost and courage required.

My Father’s Lesson

My father never learned to control his anger. It was something I also struggled with, but right now the rage that burns inside me can be released. Armed with the brick I step in front of the car aiming it directly at the windshield. I am scared but I have become a monster to protect myself. I know I have done nothing to deserve this. I just wanted to be left alone. How dare these grown make me feel so scared and helpless! But now I have a brick and it is their turn to feel fear.

“Fuck off you bogan cunts! Or I will smash your shitbox of a car!”

Swearing is pretty natural for an Australian teenager and I use the worse words I know, hoping they and the brick are intimidating enough. I take another confident step toward them. No one is going to hurt me tonight.

Crazy Mad Bitch

The drunken passenger has stopped trying to exit the car. He and the driver are just staring at me in shock. They start screaming that I am crazy. The half-full Jim Beam can is tossed at my body, splashing my jacket and shoes. However, my threats of violence have worked. The driver is backing the car away and the gross men are leaving. As the car turns to pull away they continue to shout that I am

“A crazy fucking psycho bitch”

Waiting until I can no longer hear the car, I drop the brick. My hands and body are still trembling from the unpleasant encounter, but I am also somewhat proud I got myself out of the situation. I felt brave for standing up to those men. Angry has its purpose in the world, but it is not meant to be used to smash up dining room chairs. My friend’s house suddenly seems very far away and it’s so cold. Returning home feeling slightly more myself I wonder if I will ever have the courage to stand up to my father.