It was early evening, just after the sun set, around 7 PM on Fall night in Brooklyn. My then-boyfriend and I were walking through the crowds outside of Atlantic Terminal.

I saw a young woman, walking alone, get approached by a man with a clipboard. “Heyyy!” he said, “Do you know about …” The sound drifted off, we were mixed together in the crowd. From a few feet away, it looked like he was another young activist, approaching street-goers.

Then something inside me perked up, started listening, alert.

“No thanks,” the young woman said, and kept walking. At 6’4” or taller, the man stood easily a foot over her. He strode quickly and looped around in front of her, placing his body in her path,

“What,” he said, more aggressively. “You don’t want to do this?”

His insults turned aggressive and derogatory. The clipboard began to look like a prop, a flimsy excuse for a street pitch of inappropriate measures. He was inviting her to something — propositioning her to join something? — and began saying more alarming things to her. My ears caught drift of a proposition based on her looks,

“You’d be perfect for this, you have just the right type of body…”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never done something like this before…”

Everything in my body said make it stop.

I looked over at the woman who was trying to walk, clearly uncomfortable, and as a pedestrian, from three feet away, I asked her:

“Do you know this man?”

No, she shook her head.

“Do you want him to leave you alone?”

She nodded, shielding her eyes from him. She was clearly trying to ignore him and walk away, hoping to avoid an altercation. Perhaps by not paying attention, she wouldn’t have to deal with it much longer. (I know this technique all too well.)

Hundreds of people were streaming by around us, oblivious, heading in their own directions, rushing in and out of Atlantic Terminal, headed on, headed home. There’s nothing like being lost in a crowd of thousands to feel helpless and alone.

I stopped and looked at the man and stood tall. “She’s not interested. You need to leave her alone.” I said, loudly, firmly. My tone takes on the same deep tone I’d use when giving a command to a puppy, or when setting a boundary that I need to make explicitly clear.

I stopped and looked at the man and stood tall. “She’s not interested. You need to leave her alone.” I said, loudly, firmly.

At first, he brushed me off and ignored me. He kept circling around, stopping the woman, getting in front of her, petitioning her.

“You need to leave her alone. She said no, thank you.” I said again, as clearly and loudly as I could.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, stepping back slightly, looking at me as though I were inconsequential.

“Are you two even together?” He looked back and forth between the two of us, looking for confirmation of my involvement. He thought he was targeting a single woman, alone on the streets. Were there two of us?

Then he noticed my boyfriend to the side, and looked at him, “Wait, are you all together?” He looked dubious.

My boyfriend nodded, not speaking. (He told me later he was curious why the man looked over to him first to find approval, male to male, versus listening to me. He didn’t want to speak up and voice power unless he had to — the real truth is in listening to women’s voices. I am grateful to him).

I looked at the woman and said discreetly, “Walk with us.”

We walked together for the rest of the length of the block, the man trailing, trying again, and then eventually falling off.

“Where are you heading?” I asked quietly. “Are you crossing up here?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Great, we’ll cross with you. Just keep walking with us.”

We walked together until we were out of the crowd and in the clear. “Are you all good to go on your way?”

“Yes, thanks.” she said, gratefully.