The Function of a Question
From questionable people
This is my inaugural Substack post. Woohoo! To start off right, I’m stealing a tool from my friend Mick Betancourt. “catch a spelling error, win a postcard.” If you find one, please post it in the comments below. And if you need a really good laugh or want to appreciate life a bit more, check out Mick’s Substack here.
Audio version: The Function of a Question
To set the stage for this post, here’s a quote by Gavin de Becker from his book, The Gift of Fear, where he warns us, “The criminal’s process of victim selection, which I call “the interview” is similar to a shark’s circling potential prey.”
It was the summer of 1976, the summer America turned two hundred, the summer of parades and picnics.
My family had been living in the UK the past three years. Dad’s job ended and we’d traded "The Troubles” of Northern Ireland for the small town of Richland Washington, home to nuclear power plants producing plutonium for atomic bombs.
I was nine and the oldest of five. As I remember it was a sunny Saturday afternoon and mom had taken us to the park for a picnic. My brothers and I played tag around the trees and used the corner of the picnic blanket as base. Mom made us PB&J’s and we drank Tang from dixie cups. It was classic 70’s.
After five cups of Tang, I had to pee.
“You’re a big girl,” said mom, which meant she wasn’t going to pack up everything and take all five of us to the restroom at the other end of the park.
I didn’t know the park, or where the restroom was. As I ran through the trees, in the general direction I’d been shown, I felt like a long distance runner in the wilderness. The further I went the more I doubted I would ever see the familiar shape of a park restroom. I stopped twice to ask strangers for directions, each assured me I was on the right path.
When I reached the tree line, I looked down a gentle slope of grass. I found it! Down the hill was a tan square building with a metal roof.
I was happy for two seconds, then I stopped.
Two older women were blocking an old man with a cane and dark glasses. When I happened upon them, they were on the men’s side of the restroom, and it seemed like they had corralled him there. I saw a jumble of arms flailing as he kept trying to get past them and they kept blocking him from moving to the women’s side.
“This is the men’s restroom,” they scolded him, “stay over here!” They were little women compared to him, but they were fierce.
He finally gave up, turned and walked into the men’s restroom.
The coast was clear, so I ran down the hill and into my side. The door was propped open and I saw a middle aged woman washing her hands in a metal sink. When she walked out, I was alone.
I was peeing when a deep gravelly voice ask, “Is this the men’s restroom?”
My heart jumped into my throat. I knew it was the man I’d seen earlier. Why was he here? They’d shown him to his side.
“No, it’s the women’s,” I said, unaware that I had alerted him to my exact stall.
His footsteps moved toward me, his cane tapping the floor, then his dirty black leather shoes appeared below my stall, facing me.
“Is this the men’s restroom,” he said again.
I knew I needed to get out fast. I opened the stall door. The man towered over me. His feet were spread the width of the stall, blocking me, and his arms reached up high.
I saw a small space between his leg and the edge of the stall. I jumped through the hole, saying “No, it’s the women’s,” as I ran for the door.
I was about to leave when he asked, “Is this the men’s restroom?”
I turned and looked at him. His question stalled me like tentacles holding me in place. With his cane and dark glasses I thought he was blind, but I could feel him staring at me.
I answered him, “No, I told you, it’s the women’s.”
“Is this the men’s restroom,” he said again, his cane tapping the bathroom floor as he stepped toward me.
“I already told you, this is the women’s. The men's on the other side.”
He took another step.
I pushed the door open, bolted outside and didn’t stop running till I was at the top of the hill.
When I turned back, he was moving ever so slowly to the men’s side.
‘Whew, that was a close one,’ I thought to myself. Truth is, I had no idea what ‘a close one’ meant. I’d been through bomb threats in Northern Ireland, but this was a different kind of danger.
I ran back to our family picnic, but at nine I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I bet I said something to my mom, but it probably sounded like a blind man accidentally came into the women’s restroom.
Now it’s 2023, and apparently not much has changed. Last week, I was telling this story to a friend when I saw her get quiet and introspective. Then she said, “you know, this thing happened to me a few days ago.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“This guy kept asking me the same question over and over. I felt like that, like he wanted to stall me,” she said.
She told me her story…
“It was midnight when we closed the restaurant,” she said, “my car was five blocks away. You know, I’m always aware when I’m walking, especially at night. The streets are usually empty, so when I saw a person ahead it startled me, and I felt weird, so I moved diagonally to the other side of the street. That’s when he said to me, “Do you need help?”
My first thought was, ‘get to your car as fast as you can.’ My car was only another block - but at that moment it felt very far away. I sped up. He asked again, “Are you okay?” then he crossed the street and followed me. He kept asking, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” I never answered. I made it to my car as fast as I could, locked my doors and when I looked around, he was gone.”
Two stories, decades apart and the same predatorial strategy. It’s not a coincidence and it’s not uncommon. Why? Because we are programmed to answer questions. Like the quote from Gavin de Becker’s book, The Gift of Fear, predators are selecting prey. When they ask a question, they aren't looking for the answer to that question. They are looking for the answer in your behavior, they are looking to see if you will be easy prey.
The good news is we can program ourselves, and our children, to listen to our instincts and act on them, rather than comply with requests that feel off. A good rule of thumb: If it feels weird, it is weird. Honoring our instincts will go a long way toward living comfortably and safely in the world.
This article is a sample of content I’m writing that explores listening to and acting on our instincts. In this case, the answer was RUN.
So beautifully written. And, that picture, wow. Really puts you right there! So important! Thank you!
Very moving Sidse.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.