It’s because of her that I finally said something to the hasidic men who harass me in my neighborhood.
“Excuse me?” I walked right up to him.
“THEY’RE NICE,” he shouted, pointing at my chest, as if the problem had merely been a failure to hear.
“Are you married?” I asked him. His face went bloodless. He scurried away like an animal who had been caught making a mess.
The next time I got bolder. When a middle-aged man whistled at me from the front door of a yeshiva, I marched up to him and said, “How many daughters do you have?” He didn’t answer, but he didn’t whistle again.
Since then, I’ve tried to find specifically Jewish ways to address street harassment. “The Torah says a virtuous woman’s price is above rubies!” I once yelled back, although he probably didn’t consider
and Jewish language against these men and force them to examine their behaviors was something I couldn’t do with other kinds of harassers. The phone call, you see, was coming from inside the house.