The common misconception between human beings is that we are born with a debt to "x" man or woman who we may have never met. We always owe something. Some examples are women having to look a certain way for male aesthetic, men needing to be buff beyond their body's capabilities, students burdened with debt that is proportionally obscene — the list is endless. But because our society prides itself on cultivating negativity, such standards have not just grown, they have flourished under our crumbling infrastructure. The negative impacts of said growth affect everyone. Most popular in the media as of late is the objectification of women in public areas.

Truly, the only way to combat ignorance from these misconceptions is to empathize with an injustice done against someone you care about. That empathy will help ignite the compassion necessary to understand the wrongful situations that occur daily. This article will serve as the first step towards building a bridge of understanding. I'd like to present my awful brush with objectification.

While a social activist, I consider myself to be more of a researcher and reporter. I've lived with an ignorance bar over my comprehension. Nothing "serious" had ever happened to me: I never felt objectified or targeted out on the streets of Dallas. Being a local as well as adept navigator of the public transportation system, I felt comfortable with myself and my environment. I know to sit near the operator, I carry a rape whistle, I never listen to music late at night. The basics should have kept me safe (among other things). I should have remained ignorant to the awful experiences other women were forced to live through. It's amazing how one interaction obliterated my safe, little world.

Around 10pm the city is quiet, dream-like in its near stillness. The sounds of engines echo from the tunnels, lights in skyscraper windows blink out and the late-night sighs of relief signal the end of another good day. This particular evening, I was grateful to have caught the last train home after working the closing shift. As usual, several different crises called for my attention at work. But for once, I solved them quicker than usual, resulting in a stronger urge for sleep. I just wanted to hustle home. My headphones were in, with no music playing of course. I kept my wits about me, fully confident that the universal "screw off" sign of earbuds would deter strangers from approaching me. I thought it was just another night. The city is really quite beaut-

"Hey lil mama, yeah, AYE YOU! Shawty with the slim legs. Girl talk to me. C'mon just turn this way and gimme a smile..."

The incessant demands of an unpleasant voice knocked about in my ears. The station, nearly empty save for myself and this idiot, nearly laughed in my discomfort. Here I was, just wanting to go home, when some dude had to choose the spot next to me on the bench. I wasn't completely unaware of how to deal with people who don't understand personal space, however, this guy was different from your typical station loiterer. He was buff, muscles bulging from a dirty tank top. A small drip of disgust and fear trickled down my back when he leaned closer to speak in my ears.

"C'mon girl. All I want is a conversation. Just you and me."

I wanted to dissolve into the sidewalk. I knew I wouldn't be able to take this guy. I couldn't just up and get away. With muscles like that, I knew he'd be able to pin me in two seconds flat. I kept staring straight ahead, glaring holes into the other platform. He leaned impossibly closer still. I could feel his steaming breath slither up my neck.

"You know what girl, eff you and the rest of them. See, nobody know how to keep up a conversation these days. You think you pretty and shiz? Man you ain't. Lemme tell you something, girls like you make guys like me wanna do drugs."

The blessed horn of an incoming train had never interrupted my night so wonderfully. I jumped on and ran for the nearest empty seat. Thankfully, the cabin I boarded was uncharacteristically full. I felt safe among witnesses when I heard the world's most hated voice.

"Hey lil ma. Look you still pretty. C'mon, talk to me, give it a chance."

By this point, I was counting down the thirty minutes it would take me to get home. Believe it or not, the creep kept sitting in front of me and flip-flopping between what he'd say to get me to talk to him the ENTIRE way back to my home station. If that doesn't serve as a prime example of desperation, then I don't know what does. I would be lying if I said I didn't sprint for my car in a mad rush to get home behind locked doors.

How I dealt with this experience is an entirely different world in it of itself. And while it's taken me a while to shake off this night, my thoughts on being harassed at the train station deserve their own article. If you can relate or empathize at all, please read my upcoming piece on dealing with objectification.