Igniting that Do Not F**k With Me energy
Aka, the moment I finally spoke up
In the silence of my car, wrapped in the darkness of an early winter evening, I smiled. My husband had diverged from the perfunctory exchanges that had become a staple of parenthood, sending a series of texts infused with the humour I had fallen in love with. It was a small thing, sure. But I collected the moment like I do with all the glimmers that warm my heart throughout the day, and held it close, while I looked out for him to emerge from the direction of the train station.
My peace was abruptly hijacked by a deep booming voice filled with rage. I turned to look where it was coming from. In the quiet, empty side street where I was waiting, a man in his 50s, dressed neatly with grey hair, blasted out venom as he walked on the road. His fury erupted with words I couldn’t quite make out. Had someone tried to steal his wallet? Threaten his life? Was he raging against the system after a lifetime of inequality? (Doubt it, but maybe?)
And then I recognised some words. Something about lines and street signs. He was aggressively pointing.
Oh, this is weird, I thought. I think his anger is directed at me.
I contemplated making myself invisible: staring straight ahead in shock and pretending I wasn’t there, like I had so many other times when I was on the receiving end of a random man’s disdain. Because it happened more than it should. Like when my then-three-year-old daughter and I were leaving a shopping centre, apparently much too slow on a Saturday morning for the very important man with a trolley beelining for his Tesla. Or decades before witnessing a version of the same kind of events unfold with my mum at the centre, smaller than me, baffled and disempowered.
But every single one of those times, I wished that I had said something and not stayed quiet. Because every single one of those times, those men never looked me in the eye. Never spoke to me, but at me, as if I were a thing created as an easy target for their wrath. For the sole purpose of reinforcing their power whenever they felt tiny.
And so, I wound down my car window. I looked straight at him. I didn’t break contact.
I was so curious.
What on earth could have provoked such an intense reaction?
“THAT SIGN SAYS ‘NO STOPPING’!,” he shouted, though his volume, while still loud, dropped a notch as he became aware his soliloquy had a participatory audience.
“Yeaaah,” I said, waiting for more.
It was true. He was correct. I was definitely in the wrong. I had stopped in a ‘No Stopping’ zone, and I knew I risked getting a ticket. But this man wasn’t a council ranger or police officer. This wasn’t a busy road where I was blocking a whole lane of traffic. I wasn’t obstructing any driveways. It was a dead end, with no other cars than my own; a spot I’d seen other locals make use of over the years. I wasn’t in anyone’s way. I wasn’t even in his way.
The cul-de-sac was so quiet that this man had forgone the footpath and was walking freely on the empty road.
“LOOK, OVER THERE!!! We have SECURITY CAMERAS in our apartment BUILDING! We’re working with the LOCAL POLICE to FINE PEOPLE! YOU CANNOT STOP HERE!!!”
“Okay, thanks for the warning,” I said firmly, my words lingering with a hint of a question. I continued to wait for a legitimate reason for the crazed outburst, curious too if the police would genuinely bother with security footage supplied by an entitled local, when they could be doing better things with their resources like, I don’t know, protecting kids from being abused in childcare centres.
He turned away and kept muttering angrily to himself. When earlier he seemed to be walking towards me, he gave my car a wide birth to get to the other side. He gave up much quicker than I thought he would.
“Thanks!” I shouted after him as he kept walking. “Have a GREAT NIGHT!”
That "do not fuck with me" energy, a faint ember from my 20s, is flickering to life again, still nascent but slowly catching fire. It ignites when I’m holding my ground, speaking up for what I believe in, and remembering that my place in the world is just as worthy as anyone else’s.
The energy manifests in different ways. At one end, it’s a kinder, steadier, gentler glow. A reminder to my family (well, mostly to myself) that I’m not here to serve their every whim and put their needs first all the time. What I want matters, too. I do not want to be – and have never aspired to be – a martyr of a mum.
At the other end, it flashes into flames whenever someone tries to gaslight me, and I firmly throw receipts back in their face to establish the facts. It blazes when verbal abuse is directed my way, and the offender is forced to realise how powerless they are when faced with someone who refuses to make themselves small and take their shit.
I bet No Stopping Man will do everything he can to make sure I’m fined, formally requesting security to go over footage of the night to send to local police, and I will happily pay that fine when it comes through. Because yes, I was stopped in a No Stopping zone. But did it warrant such extreme aggression? Fuck no. And just like that little glimmer from earlier that same night, I will hold on to this glorious moment. I might even send him a thank-you note for being an integral figure in reigniting my fire. I bet he’ll love that.
Till the next 3am Huddle
Lizza x