I am not a victim.
I've probably told this story too often now, but not on this particular site. I ought to go find the write-up on the first mugging that I did right afterwards and just paste it, LOL, but this will be much briefer.
Yesterday at the store I was waiting in line for a toilet with a Hutterite gentlemen of less than angelic bent. He opened the conversation about his love of large tankards of beer. At first, my response seemed to shame him a bit but I confessed to a love of another type of alcohol and he relaxed. Sheesh, alkie much? Damn, I just realized, yeah, an alcoholic in the colonies would be neither rare or funny. One alcoholic elder could toxify the whole village in a scene like that. Hutterites live in large communes. They have individual private family homes but share most of their lives, including meals, with their entire village. Colonies, as they are called, will interact overland with other colonies around the country and in the USA to socialize, spread the marriages out, and trade. You can spot a hutterite for the formal costume they continue to wear. Women in dresses with scarves and very long full skirts, men in jacket, trousers, shirt and brim hat. Men are beareded, women tie their hair neatly away so only a pecular curl shows at the front. I never figured out how they got that little roll. The dominant fabric colour is black but the shirts and blouses will be cut from some kind of cotton print bought wholesale by the colony. One family will usually all have the same fabric pattern and it likely helps them spot each other at a distance. Unlike Amish, hutterites fully embrace modern technology, driving very nice big trucks and passenger vans, high-end farm equipment, and usually toting cell phones (just the men, of course.)
So I was pleased that this old fellow was being sociable and chatted on, wondering what he made of me and my witch hat and loud coloured hair. I'm sure he's had fun describing me over dinner last night! I told him he'd blend right in with the hipster kids these days who are all starting to dress more or less just like he was, with the old-man glasses and hat, the black severe-cut jacket and trousers, the plaid cotton shirt and beard.
When I referenced New York, that he'd fit right in, he commented that he'd be much too afraid to go someplace so dangerous. I told him it wasn't any worse than Saskatoon. Which in fact it isn't. I've felt safer in large metropolises at 11pm at night than I ever do here even in my own back yard.
Which finally brings me to the story. I have in fact been attacked, right in Saskatoon. While I've wanddered the night streets of Toronto, Vancouver, Victoria, Edmonton, and many places in between without danger, thrice I've been assaulted in Saskatoon.
The first time, it was two street walkers assaulting me for being white and dressed too skimpy. They told me that whites had no place walking indian streets and they were going to kill me for looking at them, and they commenced to beating me on my head and shoulders. I went defensive for a moment to think and to protect my belongings from theft when some strangers ran over to stop the assault and explain to my innocent self what the heck just happened. I was unharmed and learned what racism was. I was only 17!
The next time I was in my late 30s or so, and working night shifts cleaning for a pittance. I would ride my bike in to work and back. This night, the temperature was bitter cold and had been warm earlier so the snow and slush and puddles had frozen slick. This was the night that forced me to set up a winter bike with studded tires, in fact. I was slowly making my way across the frozen streets, focusing on balance and keeping the rubber side down when I saw a young man change his direction across the street. I turned up an alley to avoid the pedestrian, as all figures at night are menacing. He started running for me. He chased me up the alley but I couldn't go faster than him because I couldn't see the path and didn't know if I'd sink if I missed the wheel track by an inch. He kept reaching for my coat instead of my bike or he'd have had me. I spotted a streetlight at the end and chose to make a stand there on the street, in the light, on a slick black-ice covered driveway.
So some back and forth, I was doing all the shouting and swearing, he was talking quiet and menacing. He asked for money. I told him I had none for him. (I was holding cash in my purse in the back of the bike actually.) This went back and foth a couple times and he pulled out a knife. I was braver than I'd expect to be at sight of the knife because for some reason I thought I saw only a butter knife at first. By the time I realized it was a large chef's knife well sharpened, the crocodile dundee line was out of my mouth. "That? That's not a knife. Sheesh." Bravado it was, but luck loves me. When he struck towards my throat with a slash, I dodged. Then he tried an overhand, and hit my forearm with his wrist. I think it hurt a bit, in spite of the thick coat sleeve. His eyes went wid. My arm was a rock. Hey, I'd been jugggling full metal trash cans at work ten years! I wasn't weak. On the third stab I just grabbed the blade with my gloves on, reasoning that the damage it could do through my winter wear would be tolerable. In fact, the gloves didn't care at all about the edge and I took the blade. I tossed it at the snow bank but it fell short and skittered on the ice and my bike fell down. So I had to pick up my bike, on black ice, and he fetched the knife back and one of those 3 stabs happened this time. That was the end for him and he let me go and I called police from the theatre.
My third street assault was a few weeks later in the same area by a similarily slight young man, but a different one. This one had two knives but we were in a very public place where stabbing me would be hard to get away with. I was dressed like a troll and convnced him my life was sadder than his. So that was the end of that, and the end of working night shift.
So I told that Hutterite Gentleman that being safe or not is not about where you are, but how you carry yourself. I told him I'd been raised in Ontario and learned how to handle myself in a city. I said, it's just like the woods. You have the wolf, and the deer, predator and prey. I said, there's the fawn, and the stag. The wolf won't attack the stag. It's about presenting yourself as a stag. I told him, they don't just hit everyone, they pick their victim. Don't be a victim, and you won't be attacked.
Now to be sure, I've been attacked 3 times on the street by strangers (all racially related attacks though I don't focus on that part) so "don't be a victim" won't guarantee safety. There's more, like being sure you don't have anything precious to guard from theft (leave it at home or hide it better) and not being a pussy when they do attack, and not being so weak and terrified you can't resist at all.
The simplist advice is don't go out there alone. If you must, though, you should definitely google up the advice on how to not look like a victim. Its how you walk, how you dress, how you track your environment on the fly, how you respond to the presence of other pedestrians, where you position your body and anything you're carrying relative to the environment, etc. It's situational awareness. Know, for instance, that a purse snatcher on a bike can't get between you and the bank wall, so you hold your purse on that side.
Anyway, that Hutterite fellow has no strong need to experience more than Saskatoon's big city excitement I'd say.
Personally, I'm ready for new pastures, urban or rural, so long as they don't get to -30C in winter.
Yesterday at the store I was waiting in line for a toilet with a Hutterite gentlemen of less than angelic bent. He opened the conversation about his love of large tankards of beer. At first, my response seemed to shame him a bit but I confessed to a love of another type of alcohol and he relaxed. Sheesh, alkie much? Damn, I just realized, yeah, an alcoholic in the colonies would be neither rare or funny. One alcoholic elder could toxify the whole village in a scene like that. Hutterites live in large communes. They have individual private family homes but share most of their lives, including meals, with their entire village. Colonies, as they are called, will interact overland with other colonies around the country and in the USA to socialize, spread the marriages out, and trade. You can spot a hutterite for the formal costume they continue to wear. Women in dresses with scarves and very long full skirts, men in jacket, trousers, shirt and brim hat. Men are beareded, women tie their hair neatly away so only a pecular curl shows at the front. I never figured out how they got that little roll. The dominant fabric colour is black but the shirts and blouses will be cut from some kind of cotton print bought wholesale by the colony. One family will usually all have the same fabric pattern and it likely helps them spot each other at a distance. Unlike Amish, hutterites fully embrace modern technology, driving very nice big trucks and passenger vans, high-end farm equipment, and usually toting cell phones (just the men, of course.)
So I was pleased that this old fellow was being sociable and chatted on, wondering what he made of me and my witch hat and loud coloured hair. I'm sure he's had fun describing me over dinner last night! I told him he'd blend right in with the hipster kids these days who are all starting to dress more or less just like he was, with the old-man glasses and hat, the black severe-cut jacket and trousers, the plaid cotton shirt and beard.
When I referenced New York, that he'd fit right in, he commented that he'd be much too afraid to go someplace so dangerous. I told him it wasn't any worse than Saskatoon. Which in fact it isn't. I've felt safer in large metropolises at 11pm at night than I ever do here even in my own back yard.
Which finally brings me to the story. I have in fact been attacked, right in Saskatoon. While I've wanddered the night streets of Toronto, Vancouver, Victoria, Edmonton, and many places in between without danger, thrice I've been assaulted in Saskatoon.
The first time, it was two street walkers assaulting me for being white and dressed too skimpy. They told me that whites had no place walking indian streets and they were going to kill me for looking at them, and they commenced to beating me on my head and shoulders. I went defensive for a moment to think and to protect my belongings from theft when some strangers ran over to stop the assault and explain to my innocent self what the heck just happened. I was unharmed and learned what racism was. I was only 17!
The next time I was in my late 30s or so, and working night shifts cleaning for a pittance. I would ride my bike in to work and back. This night, the temperature was bitter cold and had been warm earlier so the snow and slush and puddles had frozen slick. This was the night that forced me to set up a winter bike with studded tires, in fact. I was slowly making my way across the frozen streets, focusing on balance and keeping the rubber side down when I saw a young man change his direction across the street. I turned up an alley to avoid the pedestrian, as all figures at night are menacing. He started running for me. He chased me up the alley but I couldn't go faster than him because I couldn't see the path and didn't know if I'd sink if I missed the wheel track by an inch. He kept reaching for my coat instead of my bike or he'd have had me. I spotted a streetlight at the end and chose to make a stand there on the street, in the light, on a slick black-ice covered driveway.
So some back and forth, I was doing all the shouting and swearing, he was talking quiet and menacing. He asked for money. I told him I had none for him. (I was holding cash in my purse in the back of the bike actually.) This went back and foth a couple times and he pulled out a knife. I was braver than I'd expect to be at sight of the knife because for some reason I thought I saw only a butter knife at first. By the time I realized it was a large chef's knife well sharpened, the crocodile dundee line was out of my mouth. "That? That's not a knife. Sheesh." Bravado it was, but luck loves me. When he struck towards my throat with a slash, I dodged. Then he tried an overhand, and hit my forearm with his wrist. I think it hurt a bit, in spite of the thick coat sleeve. His eyes went wid. My arm was a rock. Hey, I'd been jugggling full metal trash cans at work ten years! I wasn't weak. On the third stab I just grabbed the blade with my gloves on, reasoning that the damage it could do through my winter wear would be tolerable. In fact, the gloves didn't care at all about the edge and I took the blade. I tossed it at the snow bank but it fell short and skittered on the ice and my bike fell down. So I had to pick up my bike, on black ice, and he fetched the knife back and one of those 3 stabs happened this time. That was the end for him and he let me go and I called police from the theatre.
My third street assault was a few weeks later in the same area by a similarily slight young man, but a different one. This one had two knives but we were in a very public place where stabbing me would be hard to get away with. I was dressed like a troll and convnced him my life was sadder than his. So that was the end of that, and the end of working night shift.
So I told that Hutterite Gentleman that being safe or not is not about where you are, but how you carry yourself. I told him I'd been raised in Ontario and learned how to handle myself in a city. I said, it's just like the woods. You have the wolf, and the deer, predator and prey. I said, there's the fawn, and the stag. The wolf won't attack the stag. It's about presenting yourself as a stag. I told him, they don't just hit everyone, they pick their victim. Don't be a victim, and you won't be attacked.
Now to be sure, I've been attacked 3 times on the street by strangers (all racially related attacks though I don't focus on that part) so "don't be a victim" won't guarantee safety. There's more, like being sure you don't have anything precious to guard from theft (leave it at home or hide it better) and not being a pussy when they do attack, and not being so weak and terrified you can't resist at all.
The simplist advice is don't go out there alone. If you must, though, you should definitely google up the advice on how to not look like a victim. Its how you walk, how you dress, how you track your environment on the fly, how you respond to the presence of other pedestrians, where you position your body and anything you're carrying relative to the environment, etc. It's situational awareness. Know, for instance, that a purse snatcher on a bike can't get between you and the bank wall, so you hold your purse on that side.
Anyway, that Hutterite fellow has no strong need to experience more than Saskatoon's big city excitement I'd say.
Personally, I'm ready for new pastures, urban or rural, so long as they don't get to -30C in winter.