sociology1

The Sweet Smell Of Security 6

The Washington Post (pre-1997 Fulltext) - Washington, D.C.

Author:

Ruth G. Kassinger

Date:

Nov 8, 1996

Start Page:

D.05

Section:

STYLE

Text Word Count:

836

The amber liquid came in a clear glass vial not much bigger than an extra-strength Tylenol capsule, and it was the chemical equivalent of skunk. The vial was delicate, so that if I was menaced by a threatening stranger, I easily could crush it between my fingers. The liquid smelled three times stronger than natural skunk secretion, so the package said, and was so horrible it would drive off the most determined attacker.

I'd never worried about my safety, although I've always liked a solitary evening walk. But after our first child was born, I suddenly became aware of the vulnerability and the dependence of this tiny being on its mother, who just happened to be me. I decided to look into self-defense.

I ruled out trying to defend myself with my own physical resources: In grade school, the only reason I wasn't the last one picked for a team in dodge ball was that I had the advantage of offering the smallest target to opponents.

In junior high, the field hockey coach instantly sized me up for goalie. A field hockey ball looks like a wooden cannonball, and with the total-body padding a goalie requires, I felt like a pint-size Sherman tank stuck in park. Coach Thursby knew where not to waste athletic talent.

In high school, the gym teachers were delighted whenever I proposed an "independent study" instead of the sport of the season.

A dog for defense also was out of the question. In our neighborhood you have to follow your dog with a pooper-scooper, and with a new baby I had enough to clean up at home without scouring the streets for more.

Sprays were impossible. I knew I'd be the one with a face full of pepper or mace.

The noise-making devices of the era were too large to fit discretely in my pocket. My embarrassment of revealing my nervousness outweighed my nervousness.

This "skunk" product (I think it was called Repulse) seemed like the ideal self-defense mechanism for me. It required no strength, fit in my pocket, and couldn't be used against me.

I did have some doubts. As a child, I'd had an Irish setter who had a close encounter with a skunk, and even after the tomato juice bath, she smelled revolting for weeks. Would I ever actually crush the capsule, knowing my family would want me to sleep outside for a month? What if my attacker was upwind of me and my virtual skunk?

What if he had hay fever and breathed through his mouth? Nonetheless, this seemed like the best option and I bought a package.

I no longer lived with anxiety. I lived with terror. I was terrified that I'd accidentally break the fragile capsule and be condemned to go about in a miasma of mephitis. When I went for a walk, I had to be careful not to put it in a pocket with my key chain or in a pocket that I might inadvertently hit with my arm as I strode down the street. A back pocket wouldn't do: What if I forgot and sat down?

I thought I ought to hold the vial ready in my hand. I didn't think an attacker would wait for me to dig my Eau de Skunk out of the lint, ticket stubs, receipts, and used tissues that fill my coat pockets. But I didn't trust my sweaty summer hands to hold on to it or my clenched winter fists not to crush it.

Deciding where to store it when I got home was worse. It was like taking care of a piece of plutonium: No amount of security seemed adequate. I wrapped it in tissue and bound the bundle with tape. I knew I couldn't give my house a tomato juice bath if the thing broke indoors.

For months I carefully shifted it from shorts pocket to pants pocket to jacket pocket, from shelf to box to drawer. Then one day, I lost it. It vanished without a whiff.

This happened shortly before we had our second child. Then, with a job and two children under the age of 2, I no longer had time to think about my terrible significance to my children. Instead I thought about how little control I had over the people and events in my own house, much less outside it. So, I forgot about self-defense, left my fate to fate, took my walks when I could, and relished the rare 20 minutes of peace.

I still wonder about the capsule. At first I thought that it had gone in a coat pocket to the dry cleaners. I pondered my potential liability, but the cleaners never said a word.

Now I think it will turn up. Some day soon I will see our third daughter, a toddler, careering down the hall toward me waving an amber glass capsule in her surprisingly strong fingers, shouting, "Look, Mommy, look! Look what I . . . "

Credit: Special to The Washington Post