#thisis2016

I photographed my hand print and sent it off.

Local band (and stellar human beings) Positive No had requested that anyone who'd ever been sexually harassed, groped or verbally attacked in a public place such as a street, subway or school, or a business where people come together send them a close-up of their hand print.

The purpose? The images will be used as part of cover art on their upcoming digital single which deals with "sexual harassment, rape culture and the rage of feeling unsafe in places where a human being has every right to be left alone, have their dignity kept intact and, above all, remain safe."

With decades of experience, I didn't hesitate for a moment to submit mine and this morning I was reminded yet again why.

Walking down Leigh Street on a beautiful Sunday morning, I pass a guy who pulls out his ear buds to say hello and begins walking next to me, unasked, chatting pleasantly.

Wow, you walk fast, 
About four miles an hour.
Man, that is fast. Not sure I can keep up.
Most people can't.
How far do you walk?
About six miles.
Whoa, that's far! How old are you?
(mumbles age)
Damn, girl, I'd have never guessed! You look fine. Why do you walk so much?
It makes me feel better.
I could make you feel better.
You're a little young to be talking to me like this.
I don't care about age. You look good! And I got this...

And right there on Leigh Street, as I'm walking four miles an hour with my eyes straight ahead, this man, unbuckles his belt, reaches into his pants and pulls out...

"You can stop right there," I tell him forcefully and put on the afterburners to leave him standing there to zip up his pants.

This is not about my age, my attire, my body or my willingness to engage with strangers. This is about the rage of feeling unsafe in places where a human being has every right to be left alone.

Hashtag aside, this is 2016. Still. How?

Pigskin Proud

I did it for the family legacy.

Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.

Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.

Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."

Click.

So technically, I was off the hook.

But then there was that pesky family history.

Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.

So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.

Want proof?

Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.

With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.

So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.

It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.

You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.

Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.

All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.

As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.

"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.

So I did.

Holy rabid football fans, Batman!

I was a tad overwhelmed at the stench the number of sweaty bodies in polyester jerseys  the sheer number of people roasting in the sun, either watching the field or shopping at one of the many kiosks.

I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.

Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.

But I am nothing if not my father's daughter, so I found a place along the sidelines and watched the players scrimmage under a sunny blue sky.

I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.

Now, that's playing fair.

But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.

Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.