Michelle Bernard - Cork City

The Sharp Edge of Comfort

As my friend, Lauren and I left The Beggarman, a local pub, the cool night air and dense overgrowth of plant-life on the walls and trees reminded me of the miniscule Texas town that I grew up in. Dale, Texas, consists of two neighborhoods and a lone, drive-up liquor store named Tabertown that also contains some oddball groceries such as milk and Reeses. I did not know if the name of the store was appropriate or not because I didn’t know what a “Taber” was, but I didn’t care. At eight years old, all that had mattered to me was how I quietly I could crawl out my window, and walking by myself for hours. I couldn’t reach Tabertown on my 3 a.m. walks anyhow.

I zipped my jacket all the way up to my throat, though I wasn’t cold. Even with Lauren by my side, and it only being just after ten, I felt uncomfortable and unsafe every time a man, or worse a group of men, passed by. I liked to believe I could take on any person and kick anybody’s butt in a fight. However, with my hundred pound body, I doubt I would stand a chance.

Now in Ireland, even though people have said it is a safe country, I get nervous walking two hundred feet alone to the corner-store, Centra. I wonder when everything changed. Maybe it was when I left the tiny town for the big city, when I started to grow up.

As an adult in Ireland, I wish I did not have to worry. Walking alone in a park, near a starlit river, must be beautiful. I missed walking alone late at night. I missed the cool Texas air on my skin and how the moon happily lit every path I decided to take. I wanted to walk around at night in my pajamas and spin around, breathing in the magical midnight air.

I missed the days when forgetting to wear my shoes and monsters living in my room were my only problems.  In the middle of nowhere, I was safe. If I wasn’t, a tree was not that hard for me to climb. For once, being small and light would come in handy, by making me the bigger person. That, or I knew where all the butcher knives were stashed.

My pocket knife would come in handy, here in Ireland. I could flip it in my hand on lonely walks, and enemies would know that I am armed. Better, I could hold it softly in my palm, disguising the blade with my forefinger, and if I were to be attacked, they would be unprepared for the knife, and I would get away. My life away from home revolved around the possibility of death and getting attacked.

As I thought of attackers, I remembered my daylight walk to my apartment in Cork from some tourist-y gift shopping earlier that day. A man stopped me on Grand Parade, he tried to get my attention by calling me spiritual.  I laughed, because he was far off. Also, I did not want to speak with him because I had just seen one of these men bothering a poor woman for money in an alleyway. Luckily she escaped fast. I tried to walk away, but he persisted.

“I am a monk. I meditate….” He had my interest for a moment, but instead of telling me more, he skipped ahead to asking for money.

“We are looking for donations. Could you spare some money?” he shoved the fundraising book in my face. I could tell half of the donation amounts were written in the same handwriting. He had not even told me what the donation was for, and I was already annoyed that he pulled me over in the first place.

I tried to be nice, “I really can’t right now.”

I attempted to leave again, so he grabbed my arm and begged, “Please, just some spare change.”

Now, I was prepared to grab one of the Hurley sticks I bought for my nephews and smack him right across the face. Bothering me for my well earned money was one thing; grabbing me was another. I gave him one last chance. “I only have my card,” I lied. He let me go. He probably saw me gritting my teeth and eyeing the Hurley sticks.

Soon, I was back in my little groove and began to sing a song I had forgotten the lyrics to on my way back. Many people laughed, but I did not care as long as they weren’t touching me or threatening my existence. I laughed with them. Some of the strangers talked to me, but mostly I was walking alone wondering why it was so hard for a woman to wander anywhere by herself.

I said good night to Lauren, happy to have had her company and some personal conversation along the short journey. I could not tell if she was exhausted or if she were reminiscing during our conversation as well. I wondered if she missed walking alone at night, too.