On the Man Versus Bear Discourse / Part One
Late one night, in the mid-nineties, decades before social media and viral everything and the 'Man versus Bear' memes, I went alone to a bar near my apartment. I was in my early twenties then, looking for validation, I think, for my existence; I hadn't yet discovered the confidence needed to navigate adulthood. I was still figuring out how to live on my own for the first time. After leaving the oppression of my strict religious upbringing, I had to keep reminding myself that I was an adult, that I could make my own decisions without asking for permission or validation from anyone else.
I had rented the one-bedroom apartment after having gradually saved up enough for a deposit and the first month's rent from my stash of Fazoli's and babysitting money. I was in debt to Bob Jones University, where I had spent only two years before leaving, exhausted, from working too many hours in the campus dining hall that perpetually smelled of canned peas and moldering trash and spiritual hypocrisy; every cent I'd made had gone straight to my tuition. I had not yet met the guy who would initiate cruel mind games with me and cause me to doubt every single thing I thought or spoke or did; he would come into my life later and would successfully coerce me into obeying everything he wanted me to do, threatening to kill me if I didn't immediately comply. I would end up marrying him, because I was too afraid not to, and would escape his abuse after a couple of years, but when I first rented my apartment, I took pleasure in the details that were all mine to enjoy: the quiet calm when I stepped through the front door, the feeling of the soft beige carpet beneath my feet when I slipped off my shoes, the little kitchen with its smooth white counter tops and bottle of red wine that I had poured into a pretty glass container like a similar one I'd seen at Olive Garden. I could watch Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place without having to explain myself; I could walk to the bank or the pizza place, both just a short distance away. I didn't have to worry any longer about other adults' views on my apparently blatant disregard for the religious trauma disguised as Christ's love that had been figuratively shoved down my throat since childhood.
Several months ago, after thinking about the 'Man versus Bear' choice, I wrote a Twitter/X thread about my experience at the bar and then realized that Elon would not allow me to use that function any longer unless I pay for the privilege of doing so. I abandoned my words for a little while, as the school year came to a close and I caught up on other responsibilities. When I began to research the topic again, I found a great opinion piece in the Los Angeles Times, in which writer Julia Phillips cleverly discusses not only risk evaluation and statistical data from women worldwide, but broaches the subject of women who seek unusual relationships with animals as a means of escaping the drudgeries of the kind of domestic lives that others – usually men – expect of them. I was shocked and slightly terrified to learn then about a 1976 novel entitled Bear by Canadian author Marian Engel, a book that I never knew existed, in which the main character pursues and engages in an oddly passionate affair with a bear. I haven't read this book yet; I don't know if the plot was meant to symbolize one woman's fight against societal patriarchy or if it was simply indicative of a sort of fictional dreamscape. In any case, reading about all of this called to mind that long-ago night when I chatted with a stranger over drinks.
The aforementioned bar had been aptly named The Church for the historic building's past iteration of life. I went there for the alcohol and the dimly lit atmosphere, to admire the old stained glass windows and to make the heavily pierced and tattooed bartender jealous. How I adored his sinewy forearms as he worked; beneath his thin T-shirt were two silver hoops pierced through his nipples. I knew that the jewelry pointed down to a flat stomach and hipbones encased in faded dark blue jeans. I also knew that he wasn't interested in me, that we had in fact spent very little time together at all and that he had probably been annoyed at being kicked out of my parents' house several weeks before I'd moved out myself. The innocence of sitting together in the front room during daylight hours, in view of the large uncovered window, holding hands and having a fully clothed conversation, just wasn't chaste enough for my dad; he had taken one look at the body modifications that were visible and told the guy to leave. After that, the guy wanted nothing to do with me.
On the night at the bar, a man sitting a few stools away began chatting with me and it quickly became evident that my bartender ex didn't care, so I stopped trying to meet his chocolate brown eyes, had a few drinks and allowed myself to relax into the conversation with the stranger. After an hour or two, I paid for my drinks and stood up. I remember this man asking if I was okay to drive; it didn't occur to me until later that I probably wasn't, or that I had rationalized that my apartment was only about two blocks from the bar and that my trip home wouldn't take long. I smiled, said goodbye and stood up.
"Hey," the man said, and I looked back at him; he was staring earnestly at me. "You sure?" he said. "I could follow you home, make sure you get there safely."
He seemed sincere. I was lonely. Maybe he just wanted to talk some more. Maybe I was being rude; maybe I needed to be nicer. This was before cell phones, of course. No one else knew that I was there. Anything could have happened to me that night. In spite of having had several cocktails, I still had enough awareness to know that agreeing to let this person follow me home was a bad idea. Something pinged at my brain, I remember, a hazy sense of urgency that told me that I should leave and go home and lock the door.
As I drove home, I kept glancing behind me to make sure I hadn't been followed, making my way slowly and carefully towards my apartment building, paranoid that a police officer would see me and pull me over. The road was eerie and still, a yawning void in front of me with darkened office buildings and houses on both sides; I didn't see any other vehicles. In my apartment a few moments later, I bolted the door, collapsed onto the couch and slept.
I never saw the man from the bar again. There's a part of me that's always wondered if he was a good person who simply wanted to ensure my safety or if he was a rapist, a serial killer, someone who had planned to kill me and hide my body before choosing his next victim. I have considered the fact that, if I had agreed to his suggestion, if he'd followed me home, if he'd tried to initiate sex, I was not capable of giving consent that night. I wonder if he would have persisted, if he'd have listened when I said no.
"Do you think there's a chance that he was just a genuinely nice guy?" I asked my husband during a recent conversation.
"No," he said. "He was a creeper."
I talk with my daughters often about things like consent, situational awareness, being observant and noticing the small details all around us that others might miss and often do. I tell them that some people are good at showing us only the versions of themselves that they want us to see, that I want for them to not be mistrustful of every person they meet but to trust their own instincts; I tell them, over and over again, that if something seems as though it's not right, that's because it probably isn't.
If I could redo that night, I would have asked an employee to walk me to my car. I wouldn't have navigated the parking lot alone, with its long shadows that obscured the dim street lights, the frigid air tangling with my nervous breaths as I waited in silence for the engine to warm up enough for me to drive. Maybe I would have stayed home, lit a candle, made a cup of herbal tea and read a book. Maybe I wouldn't have gone out at all. Maybe I would have chosen myself.