How Can Women Defend Themselves Against Stalkers?
By Eva Liddell
“Politics is not like the nursery,” wrote Hannah Arendt. As we sit around waiting for the next shooting rampage we must admit that neither is the United States. It has always been brutal and violent. Taking away fire arms would not remove its inherent character. Outlawing language would not remove its racism or its sexism. Our attempt to be “normal” in the American environment, our political correctness, our trust that the State will save us in times of personal peril may be our greatest ill.
In early April this year a man walked into an office of the University of Washington and killed his ex-girlfriend and then shot himself. She had been stalked by the guy for over a year. She filed one report to the police for a restraining order which was useless because nobody could find him. She wrote an email to her office coworkers, “I have a stalking issue,” she wrote. A stalking issue? The young woman could only describe in the gentlest terms that she was probably going to be murdered. This is political correctness gone suicidal. What prevented her from writing, “Dear Coworkers, some guy is trying to kill me, and I won’t let him and you’re going to help me because I don’t want to die.” We know the reason. The same one that made people tip-toe around the killer at Virginia Tech.The Virginia Tech killer did a number of things before his rampage that could have been dealt with. If the account is true, he took pictures of girls in the classroom, up their skirts. As far as normality would permit they were allowed to be “offended.” What would have happened if one of the girls had gone over to him slapped him in the face, grabbed his camera and stomped it to pieces? Her angry reaction would have been deemed not normal. I guarantee it.
In the early nineties I was living in a condominium complex in a town in California. It was a big place, eight hundred and fifty units, swimming pools, tennis courts, nice landscaping, a mixture of working class people and professionals. I worked at home on my graphic business at night and painted during the day. One night I was coming home late from a trip back east carrying two heavy suitcases. A pleasant looking guy who told me he was enjoying the late evening air asked if he could help carry one of my bags. He left it with me at the door and waved goodnight.
One of the things I enjoyed about that place was its security. I slept with the door ajar although the chain was usually bolted. I needed the air, my windows were usually blocked off with art work and canvases. A week after that trip, around five in the morning somebody started pushing my door in and kicking it. “Let me in, I want some tin foil because I’m baking a turkey,” he yelled. It was the guy who had helped me with my bags. “Get the hell out of here you crazy bastard,” I yelled at him hurling more obscenities. I called the police. They arrived two hours later. They took a report. They told me to keep my door shut and locked at all times. They left.
A week later he was back. Ringing the doorbell over and over, pushing and kicking the door. He yelled crazy incoherent things. I called the police again. They came over an hour and a half later.
The scenario repeated one more time. The police told me they couldn’t find the guy. There was no description of anybody like that living in the complex.
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