Because a day just isn’t enough
I grew up in rural NH which plays host each summer to a weeklong event known as Motorcycle Week. Thousands of rotund bikers with their particular lady partners descend upon the region like a swarm of locusts. Instances of sexual harassment per-square-mile immediately quadruple while the ear-splitting muffler farts are a constant disturbance.
All the men wear the same uniform: jeans, black motorcycle boots, and t-shirts. Some dress it up with a leather vest.
I was a senior in high school the last time I was subjected to this Hellish display. A passenger in a car with three friends, we passed by a house on the event route where two rotund Neanderthals were sitting on their porch. They had a large cardboard sign propped up that read: “Show us your melons.”
I said to my friends, “Let’s go to the store and buy a bunch of melons. As we drive back by this house, we’ll launch the fruit into the air and shout, ‘You wanna see our melons?!’”
My friends were game, but with the caveat that we buy a melon tray. Whole melons, they reasoned, would be too cumbersome. So, we purchased a tray of neatly arranged slices of cantaloupe and honeydew.
As planned, three of us launched melon slices while shouting, “You wanna see our melons?!”
The Neanderthals didn’t react. I’m sure it took them several minutes to realize their lawn was littered with melon slices and connect it to what we yelled out the window. Nevertheless, it was a proud moment for me, standing up to sexual harassment.
But it would have felt better to see those men blush and look away. To take down their sign, realizing how disrespectful it was to women. To get back on their overly loud motorcycles and leave town in shame.