Colleen Simard is a Winnipeg writer.Talk about an indecent proposal
By: Colleen Simard
It was rush hour, and I was hoofing it down Salter Avenue with my baby in her fancy jogging stroller.
I was running late for a board meeting. Just as I made it to the Slaw Rebchuk Bridge I heard a car horn beeping to my right. I was wearing sunglasses, not my specs, so I squinted to look at the traffic and see who was beeping the horn.
It was a dark blue, newer SUV. The driver had his tanned arm casually draped out the window. He was an older fellow, wearing a baseball cap and glasses.
He was looking my way and he waved. He looked familiar. Who was it?
I squinted again and realized who it was -- my uncle Kenny!
He must have finally got his residential school money he'd been waiting on and bought himself a car. He'd been without a car after an accident where a woman rear-ended him at an intersection.
Good on him. I always knew he'd do good things with his settlement money.
He ended up turning left, and as he turned he beeped his horn again and waved at me to come over. He pulled over near R.B. Russell High School.
I've helped my uncle out with his fundraising work when he needs it, so I figured he probably wanted to ask me a question or two.
I paused for about 20 seconds while I waited at the crossing light.
I jogged over with my baby nestled in her stroller, trying not to waste any time. As I got to the driver's side window I heard his voice.
"If you'd gone any faster you would have got a speeding ticket," he jokes.
Wait a minute -- that didn't sound like my uncle's voice. My jaw dropped like a 50-pound bannock. It wasn't my uncle Kenny!
The guy I thought was my uncle was a nondescript older white guy. He looked kind of harmless but I wasn't going to take any chances. He had a handicapped parking sticker hanging from his rear-view mirror.
"I thought you were my uncle!" I blurted out. Then I began backing up to leave.
"Are you going over the bridge?" he asked, smiling at me, "I can give you a ride -- just tell me where you want to go."
His voice trailed off as I took off, making my way up the bridge. I watched to make sure he wasn't following me. If he was lurking around I was going to make an emergency cellphone call.
As I walked I was in a bit of a shock. I'd been propositioned while walking with my baby!
Some people have no respect.
That evening, I couldn't get the incident off my mind. Was it something I was wearing that made him think I was a working girl?
No, I was wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt, runners and a baggy army jacket. I had no makeup on, my hair in a ponytail, and the only thing flashy on me was my sunglasses.
Sure, I'm a meathead to think a pervy stranger was my uncle, but it was a mistake that could happen to anyone. Except I'm sure I was picked out in the first place because I'm an aboriginal woman living in the inner city.
Maybe on a bad day -- or 10 years ago -- I would have pounced on that guy and torn a strip off him.
I remember once being harassed by a guy in a car and it got me so mad I walked up and poured my cola on his car. It wasn't a smart thing to do, but I was hot-headed back then.
It isn't always easy being an aboriginal woman. I've met my fair share of perverts, and I'm just an average looking girl. Some of my really pretty friends had men foaming at the mouth and chasing after them like rabid dogs as soon as they reached puberty.
When you're young you always have to be on guard to defend yourself against attacks -- sometimes from strangers, and sometimes from people you know.
It's almost like we're conditioned from birth to accept things the way they are, like we're a sexual commodity.
That pervy guy was conditioned over time, too. If everyone turns a blind eye to the abuses indigenous women suffer then why wouldn't he take advantage of the situation?
He probably thinks trying to pick up aboriginal girls walking down the street with babies is OK. It's sad, because it isn't true.
We deserve more respect than we get.
the winnipeg sandbox