Naming the Unspeakable Harm of Street Harassment: A Survey-Based Examination of Disclosure Practices

Abstract

Street harassment may be considered an “unspeakable” harm on account of the routine silencing and trivialization of victims’ experiences. Disclosing street harassment is vital in making its harms visible and in working to transform social and cultural attitudes. Despite a recent resurgence of interest in street harassment via online activist groups, there is scant research on disclosure practices. Drawing on findings from an online, mixed-methods survey with 292 participants who have experienced street harassment, I examine disclosure practices using an intersectional lens. I argue that disclosure is an epistemological process, through which a limited and partial understanding of street harassment is produced.

Keywords

disclosure street harassment LGBT

Street harassment is one of the most common forms of sexual violence, with higher end estimates indicating that 90-100% of women have experienced it at least once in their lives (Johnson & Bennett, 2015; Lenton, Smith, Fox, & Morra, 1999; Nielsen, 2000). Although a diffuse array of experiences fall under the banner of “street harassment,” definitions commonly include actions such as staring, ogling, wolf-whistling, unwanted verbal comments, following someone, car-horn honking, and groping, while some definitions also include sexual assault and rape (Gardner, 1995; Logan, 2015; Vera-Gray, 2016). What constitutes street harassment is highly context-dependent, with these practices perhaps best understood through their function, rather than form (Fileborn & Vera-Gray, 2017; Vera-Gray, 2016).

While street harassment is typically conceptualized as a form of gender-based violence and sexual terrorism (Davis, 1994; Kissling, 1991), it is also deeply implicated within systems of power and oppression relating to race (Davis, 1994; Fogg-Davis, 2006; Nielsen, 2000), sexuality (Fogg-Davis, 2006; Mason, 1993), class, and (dis)ability (Gardner, 1995). These systems of power, and the lived experience of street harassment for those situated on different, multiple and intertwined structural loci, cannot be disentangled from one another. Thus, street harassment must be viewed through an intersectional lens, which situates experiences and impacts of street harassment within multiple interlocking systems of power that do not “add together” in a simplistic way (i.e., they are more than the sum of their parts) and cannot be reduced or isolated to singular categories of analysis (Brah & Phoenix, 2004; Crenshaw, 1991; Davis, 1994). This approach does not seek to construct hierarchies of oppression (Davis, 1994) or to categorically organize and delimit lived experiences of street harassment. Rather, it aims to de-essentialize and de-center our understandings of street harassment as a purely gender-based phenomenon (though this is certainly not to say that gender is irrelevant or unimportant—rather, this approach asks us to understand gender as also shaped in and through factors such as race, class, and sexuality), while drawing attention to differentially located, contextual, and fluid experiences. Intersectionality may also be employed to examine how privilege can work to shape experience and the ways in which we may be simultaneously located on axis of privilege and oppression (Levine-Rasky, 2011).

Despite the apparent commonality of street harassment, these disparate experiences of harassment and invasion in public space are often dismissed as “trivial,” “minor,” “insignificant,” or even “complementary” in nature (Gardner, 1995). To this effect, Deidre Davis (1994) has termed street harassment “the harm that has no name” based on her analysis of African American women’s experiences. Davis argues that the construction of street harassment as trivial works to silence women, in turn reinforcing “the invisibility of street harassment and its effects” (p. 153). Such silence, Davis argues, causes women to doubt their interpretation of their own experiences: they are framed as unreliable narrators and may “become complicit supporters of a system of sexual terrorism” (p. 153). In this respect, street harassment is rendered an “unspeakable” harm—though who it remains unspeakable for is shaped by intersectional location and in particular race, as Davis’s analysis deftly highlights. Yet, even in the face of this persistent trivialization, the harms of this behavior have been well documented (Logan, 2015), ranging from objectification (Bowman, 1993), restricted movement through public space (Dhillon & Bakaya, 2014; Johnson & Bennett, 2015; Laniya, 2005), fear and reduced sense of safety (Lenton et al., 1999; Macmillan, Nierobisz, & Welsh, 2000), emotional and affective harm (Kissling, 1991; Lenton et al., 1999; Tuerkheimer, 1997), and spirit murder (Davis, 1994).

Naming and articulating street harassment as harm is, Davis (1994) notes, “the first step in making the harm visible” (p. 153). Since the publication of Davis’s work, the development of Internet activist sites such as Hollaback! and the Everyday Sexism Project has gone some way to both naming and making visible the collective harms of street harassment, although whose experiences are able to be named and made visible through such forums is shaped in and through structural loci, with White, heterosexual, middle-class women arguably most able to take up these spaces (Bates, 2014; Fileborn, 2014, 2016a; Kearl, 2015; Wanggren, 2016). Even so, we know surprisingly little about disclosure patterns for street harassment, the factors that influence disclosure, and the outcomes of disclosure, particularly outside of online activist contexts. Davis’s work suggests that it is vitally important to interrogate processes of disclosure, raising questions regarding how those who have experienced street harassment come to understand it as harm worthy of articulation. What are the contextual and situational factors that shape whether an encounter of street harassment becomes “nameable” as such, and which experiences are positioned as “worthy” of being shared?

Understanding these decision-making processes has implications for how street harassment comes to be understood and constructed as a harm or problem requiring response: while disclosure renders street harassment visible, disclosure practices also work to construct boundaries around which of the diverse and diffuse categories of street harassment come to be named and made visible as harm. As street harassment must be understood through an intersectional lens, so too must practices of (and responses to) disclosure. That is, decisions regarding what to disclose, in which contexts, to whom, and whose experiences become visible through naming cannot be disentangled from structural location(s).

Following Campbell, Greeson, Fehler-Cabral, and Kennedy (2015), in the context of this article, disclosure refers to “the act of informing someone about an assault [or incident of street harassment], most typically an informal support provider” (p. 825). Disclosing experiences of sexual violence (broadly defined) represents a vitally important first step to seeking help, emotional and tangible support, and in “making sense” of one’s experience (Campbell et al., 2015, p. 825). Disclosure is essential in bringing to light lived experiences of sexual violence, broadly defined. It can serve an inherently political and transformative purpose (Ahrens, 2006; Orchowski & Gidycz, 2012). While I remain cautious of creating an imperative to speak out, if individuals are unable or unwilling to disclose their experiences, it may be difficult to generate substantial social change. Indeed, this silence is too readily filled by misperceptions about the nature and impact of street harassment, notably that it is a “minor,” “harmless,” and “trivial” occurrence.

While there is a wealth of literature on disclosure, virtually all of the research to date has drawn on the experiences of those who have experienced what might be considered more “severe” forms of sexual violence such as sexual assault or rape (see, for example, Ahrens & Aldana, 2012; Lievore, 2005; Orchowski & Gidycz, 2012; Sabine & Ho, 2014; Ullman, 2010). Although street harassment is also situated on the continuum of sexual violence (Fileborn, 2013; Kelly, 1988; Vera-Gray, 2016, 2017), in many respects, it is contextually different to other iterations of this violence. For example, in contrast to other forms of sexual violence, street harassment is predominantly perpetrated by strangers rather than partners or known others. Street harassment is much more likely to involve fleeting and brief interactions in public or semi-public spaces and features a much broader and diffuse array of behaviors including potentially ambiguous interactions such as staring and unwanted conversation, while the impacts of these experiences are often cumulative rather than (though sometimes as well as) discrete in nature (Davis, 1994; Fileborn & Vera-Gray, 2017; Gardner, 1995; Vera-Gray, 2017). Thus, it is unclear to what extent the extant literature on disclosure applies to street harassment, and there are likely differences in disclosure practices and experiences between these contexts.

This article seeks to shed light on the factors shaping disclosure by examining findings from a mixed-methods survey with people who have experienced street harassment in Melbourne, Australia. I argue throughout that disclosure must be understood as a curated, epistemological practice: it is the means through which street harassment becomes known and knowable. As prefaced in this introduction, I argue that disclosure practices are not neutral. Instead, they are shaped by and through the intersectional positions of participants and the discursive construction of street harassment. Findings from this project present methodological implications for undertaking research in this area, as well as practical implications for supporting those who have experienced street harassment.

Method

The data analyzed in this article stem from a mixed-methods study undertaken in Melbourne, Australia. The broader study sought to examine experiences and impacts of harassment and potential and current justice responses to street harassment. Given the general lack of research on aspects of these topics, this study was designed as an exploratory, pilot project to provide initial insight into these issues. A social constructivist perspective informs this work. That is, knowledge is always partial, situated, and fluid, and I do not claim to uncover any universal “truths” about street harassment and disclosure. As I seek to examine participants’ experiences through the lens of intersectionality, it is likewise important to locate my own position as a researcher. I am a White, cisgender, heterosexual, well-educated woman, who resides in a wealthy, Western country. I am thus situated within an extremely privileged social-structural location.

Procedure

An online survey was run using the Qualtrics survey platform. The survey consisted of fixed and open-text response questions on experiences and impacts of street harassment, bystander intervention, disclosure practices, understandings and perceptions of justice, justice responses, and demographic information. In relation to disclosure, participants were asked a series of fixed response questions regarding whether they have ever told anyone else about their experiences of street harassment; to whom they disclosed; how often they disclose; how soon they disclose after an incident; whether they disclosed their most recent, typical, and harmful/serious experiences; how comfortable they feel disclosing to particular recipients; and how likely they are to disclose to particular recipients in the future. Open-text response questions enabled participants to provide further details about responses to disclosure, factors influencing disclosure, and any other comments about experiences of disclosure. Responses to all questions were voluntary. No incentives or rewards were offered to participants. The study received ethics approval from the La Trobe University Human Research Ethics Committee.

Participants

To take part in the survey, participants were required to be aged 18 years and above and to have experienced street harassment (self-defined) in Melbourne, Australia. Recruitment efforts included sharing the survey link through social media sites (Twitter and Facebook) and through the email lists of relevant organizations including sexual assault centers; lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender/transsexual, intersex, and queer/questioning (LGBTIQ)+ organizations; and street harassment lobby groups. This project sought to be inclusive of people of diverse gender and sexual identities, people of color, and people living with a disability, and this was reflected in the sites targeted for recruitment.

In total, 292 participants were recruited to the survey. The majority of participants were cisgender women (79.5%, n = 232), with smaller numbers of cisgender men (7.5%, n = 22), transgender women (2.1%, n = 6), genderqueer (3.1%, n = 9), genderfluid (2.4%, n = 7), and nonbinary (2.1%, n = 6) participants. A further 10 participants recorded their gender identity as “other.” Participants reported diverse sexual orientations, with 46.2% heterosexual (n = 135), 18.2% bisexual (n = 53), 10.6% queer (n = 31), 8.6% pansexual (n = 25), 6.5% lesbian (n = 19), 3.4% gay (n = 10), 2.4% asexual (n = 7), and 4.1% recorded their sexual orientation as “other” (n = 12). Although recruitment efforts sought to reach individuals from diverse cultural backgrounds, the majority of participants were White and from an Anglo-Saxon background. Table 1 provides an overview of participants’ self-described cultural background. Approximately one-fifth of participants indicated that they lived with a disability (17.5%, n = 51), with the majority indicating that they did not live with a disability (80.1%, n = 234). Most participants were aged in their 20s and 30s, and Table 2 provides an overview of participants by age.

Table 1.

Participants’ Self-Described Race/Ethnicity.

Race/ethnicity	Number of participants
White	87.7% (n = 256)
Did not respond	5.1% (n = 15)
Mixed race	1.7% (n = 5)
Chinese	1.4% (n = 4)
Indian	1.0% (n = 3)
Vietnamese	1.0% (n = 3)
Asian	0.7% (n = 2)
Indigenous Australian	0.7% (n = 2)
Indonesian	0.3% (n = 1)
Maori	0.3% (n = 1)
Total	N = 292

Table 2.

Participants’ Age.

Age group (years)	Number of participants
18-19	5.5% (n = 16)
20-24	21.6% (n = 63)
25-29	30.8% (n = 90)
30-34	21.2% (n = 62)
35-39	9.2% (n = 27)
40-49	9.2% (n = 27)
50-57	2.4% (n = 7)
Total	N = 292

Analysis

Quantitative survey data were analyzed using SPSS. Basic frequencies and cross tabulations were conducted to examine, for example, how many participants disclosed, and to interrogate relationships between disclosure and demographic variables such as age, gender, and sexuality. Qualitative survey data were analyzed using a thematic approach (Braun & Clarke, 2006). An initial reading of the qualitative responses was undertaken to identify emerging themes and to identify and refine codes. This process was then repeated, with responses coded and sorted into Excel spreadsheets. Codes were developed based on themes identified within the data, as well as using predefined codes based upon the study aims and research questions (e.g., “responses to disclosure”), with the latter tending to form “higher level” codes and the former tending to consist of subcodes.

Findings

Do Street Harassment Victims Disclose?

Participants in this study overwhelmingly did disclose, with 95.5% (n = 279) of participants responding “yes” when asked if they had ever told someone else about their experiences of street harassment. However, participants did not disclose every incident, with 57 participants (19.5%) indicating that they disclose every time they experience street harassment (Table 3). Participants were most likely to have told someone about their most significant or harmful experience (self-defined, n = 234, 80.1%), although the majority also told someone else about their most recent experience (n = 185, 63.4%), and their “average” or typical experience (n = 160, 54.8%). These trends were consistent across participants from different demographic groups. However, due to the small numbers of participants in some demographic groups, and particularly in terms of racial and cultural diversity, these findings must be treated with caution. That is, these findings tell us about the ability of (predominantly) White, middle-class women and, to a lesser extent, sexuality and gender-diverse people to share their experiences of street harassment in at least some contexts. We cannot and should not assume that this privilege extends to those occupying different social and cultural locations.

Table 3.

How Often Participants Tell Someone Else If They Have Experienced Street Harassment.

How often participants disclose	Number of participants
Every time	n = 57 (19.5%)
Most of the time	n = 85 (29.1%)
Some of the time	n = 87 (29.8%)
Infrequently	n = 48 (16.4%)
Never	n = 0
Did not respond	n = 15 (5.2%)
Total	N = 292

When participants disclosed, they typically did so in the immediate aftermath of an incident. The majority of participants (n = 161, 55.1%) indicated that they tell someone else immediately after experiencing street harassment, while a large minority (n = 80, 27.4%) said that they tell someone within 1-3 days afterwards. Fifteen individuals said that they waited up to a year to tell someone, while three responded that they delayed disclosure for more than a year. Again, these trends were consistent across participants from diverse demographic groups.

Disclosure Recipients

Participants most commonly disclosed to informal sources, with friends (n = 275, 94.2%) and partners (n = 206, 73.8%) the most common recipients of disclosure. A substantial proportion of participants also reported having ever disclosed to family members (n = 163, 55.8%), acquaintances (n = 109, 37.3%), and colleagues (n = 107, 36.6%). Notably, gender and sexuality diverse participants were less likely to disclose to family members. The majority of transgender, nonbinary, genderfluid, and genderqueer participants had not disclosed to family members, in contrast to 39.1% of cisgender women and a large minority of cisgender men. Due to the small number of participants, these results again need to be treated with caution. A large minority (n = 84, 28.8%) of participants indicated that they had disclosed experiences on the Internet, and readers can refer to Fileborn (2016a) for a more detailed exploration of online disclosure. In contrast, relatively few participants reported having ever disclosed to formal sources, such as the police (n = 47, 16.1%), a health care provider (n = 38, 13%), or counselor (n = 65, 22.3%). Very few participants (n = 22, 7.5%) indicated that they had disclosed experiences to strangers.

What Influences Decisions to Disclose?

While the overwhelming majority of participants had disclosed experiences of street harassment to others, most did not disclose every experience. Drawing on qualitative survey data, I move on now to consider factors that influenced participants’ decision-making processes about disclosure.

Perceived Severity

The perceived severity of street harassment influenced participants’ decisions to disclose in complex, and often disparate, ways. Although the perceived severity of street harassment shaped decisions to disclose, there was no agreement among participants regarding what “counts” as more “severe” or “harmful” iterations of street harassment (see also, Fileborn, 2016b). For example, some participants indicated that physical forms of harassment were more harmful, while others found more “minor” forms of harassment (e.g., staring and unwanted conversation) more harmful. Contextual factors, such as time of day or being alone, can also shape the perceived seriousness of harassment (Fairchild, 2010). Such conceptualizations of harm reflect Kelly’s continuum model, which is underpinned by the notion that there is “no implication of linearity or seriousness [with the exception of death],” and work to resist “simplistic notions of seriousness” (Kelly, 2012, pp. xviii-xix). This is not to suggest that street harassment is likely to be experienced as more harmful than other iterations of sexual violence, such as sexual assault and rape (though it may be). Rather, it is to suggest that we cannot make simplistic, hierarchical, or universal claims as to the harms of a particular experience. In addition, the harms of street harassment must be understood as interconnected with other experiences of violence across the life course (Kelly, 2012).

Perceived severity was the most common theme in participants’ responses regarding what influences their decisions to disclose, with more than 100 written responses touching on this. The mundane, “everyday” nature of street harassment meant that it was not seen as “worthy” of sharing with others: harassment was a routine part of daily life that did not warrant further comment. This was reflected in the following comments:

Unfortunately because it’s so “normal” and there seems to be nothing to be done about it . . . it feels futile. (34 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

It happens often enough that sometimes I just can’t be bothered telling someone about it when it happens. (33 years, genderfluid, gay, White, no disability)

For the first participant quoted here, her reluctance to disclose experiences of harassment was tied to the perception that there was little that could be done in response to street harassment. There is a sense of resignation: harassment is an insurmountable facet of existing in public space, and this is no doubt reinforced by the general absence of legal or policy-based responses to street harassment (Fileborn & Vera-Gray, 2017; Kearl, 2015; Nielsen, 2000). For the second participant, the routine, frequent nature of street harassment made it emotionally laborious to disclose: the emotional labor required in disclosing can outweigh the perceived harm of the incident and the potential benefits of disclosure. Such responses must be understood within the context of street harassment being normalized as a routine occurrence, as is the case with other forms of everyday intrusion (Kelly, 2012; Stanko, 1985; Vera-Gray, 2017). These routine intrusions take place in a context where only the most extreme forms of gendered and other violence are recognized as such (e.g., in legal frameworks; Kelly, 2012; Kelly & Radford, 1990; Stanko, 1985), resulting in women (and, in the context of this study, LGBTQ+ people) (re)framing their experiences of intrusion as “nothing” or unworthy of further discussion (Kelly & Radford, 1990).

For another participant, her decisions to disclose were framed by the banality of the experience in conjunction with her emotional or affective response:

How “typical” it seems, I suppose, and how much it pissed me off. i.e., Groping angers me more than a car honk, and happens less . . . so I’d be more inclined to tell people about that than car honks. (28 years, cisgender woman, pansexual, White, lives with disability)

The banality of routinely experiencing street harassment meant that it was only “worth” disclosing if there was something particularly noteworthy or unusual about an incident. In these instances, decisions to disclose were determined by the apparent “entertainment value” or “newsworthiness” of an experience:

If it’s just the daily stuff, like someone muttering abuse at me, or wolf whistling, I don’t bother. If it is something that made me scared then I tell my social circle. Sometimes I [post] stuff on Facebook if it makes for either a funny story or cautionary tale. (42 years, cisgender woman, pansexual, White, no disability)

This participant’s comments illustrate that the nature of an incident shapes who is told, as much as whether or not she will disclose. The mention of disclosure as a “cautionary tale” is particularly notable here. This participant implies that other women and LGBTQ+ people may be able to avoid street harassment by learning from her experiences or potential failure to adhere to the safety “advice” provided to women (Gardner, 1995; Stanko, 1985, 1990). In this sense, disclosure is functioning as a performance of what Liz Kelly terms “safety work” (in Vera-Gray, 2017), communicating to others how they may seek to avoid street harassment through an internalization of responsibility for one’s safety and well-being, rather than a focus on the actions and choices of perpetrators.

Decisions to disclose could also be shaped by the perceived impact or harms of a particular incident:

I don’t often feel emotionally scarred from the less severe street harassment so I don’t feel a great need to tell people. But if it was particularly bad or severe I would definitely tell people. (26 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, Vietnamese, no disability)

This participant’s comment suggests that decisions to disclose can also be mediated by victims’ needs. In this instance, this participant did not desire emotional support for less “serious” forms of harassment, so there was in turn no perceived need to disclose. In contrast, some participants commented that they shared more “serious” experiences due to a need for support or to “debrief.” However, this is complicated by the routine trivialization of street harassment. As Davis (1994) notes, while women may internalize the belief that harassment is trivial or complimentary, rendering these acts unspeakable, “they can still suffer extreme consequences” (p. 153). This is particularly so in relation to the cumulative nature of street harassment: individual incidents may indeed seem innocuous or “trivial,” but the collective weight of these experiences come to be greater than the sum of their individual parts. Feeling “safe” or emotionally unharmed in the face of harassment may itself be a function of privilege. As Kern (2005) argues, “living in the city with confidence and security” and the subsequent ability to feel “at home” and “safe” is a function of class and racial privilege (p. 358). Given the relative privilege of most participants in this study in terms of both race and class, this arguably contributes to their ability to downplay the potential threat or harms caused by street harassment.

In contrast, other participants indicated that they were more likely to share “everyday” experiences of street harassment rather than more serious, harmful or traumatizing encounters. For example, one participant who was digitally raped in a public space commented that

I didn’t tell anyone about that for years and years because the whole thing was scary and confusing . . . I think I never really talked about that because it felt personal. Whereas I always tell stories about the every day kind of street harassment I experience because I think it’s important to have it discussed. (23 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability)

Another participant remarked that

These days I often vent about the low-grade stuff on Facebook, but most of the more threatening stuff I actually don’t mention to anyone at all, or I will bring it up only when it’s long in the past. I’m still in the closet to a lot of people, so some stuff I won’t discuss at all except at trans support groups. (38 years, transgender woman, asexual, White, lives with disability)

The first participant’s remarks illustrate the importance of locating disclosure practices within the individual’s lived experiences of violence: sexual violence can be seen here as a cumulative process that contextualizes and informs how future experiences are lived and interpreted—though this must also be understood as taking place in conversation with dominant discursive productions of sexual violence and the material/embodied harms of these experiences (Fileborn, 2016b). For this particular individual, comparatively “less serious” experiences of violence become speakable as harm. For the second participant quoted here, their reluctance to disclose experiences of harassment over time was related more strongly to their identity as a transgender woman, in conjunction with the severity of the harassment. This participant would not disclose homophobic or sexual harassment experienced in the past when she presented as male, as these experiences were “bringing up issues I didn’t want to talk about with people.” As this participant was in the early stages of gender transition, this limited who she was able to disclose experiences of harassment to, as a disclosure of harassment would also require disclosure of her identity as a transgender woman.

Disclosure as Political Action and Praxis

Disclosing experiences of street harassment could occur as an overt form of political activism and consciousness-raising (see Fileborn, 2016a for a discussion on disclosure in online spaces as consciousness-raising; Wanggren, 2016). Disclosure was a means to draw attention to the lived realities of street harassment and to enable others to locate their own experiences of harassment within a broader system of power relations, rather than as an isolated occurrence:

I always feel the need to voice it in frustration, sometimes I tell it to help relate and support others or to talk about the issues surrounding street harassment and encourage others around me not to take it. (19 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability)

Disclosing their experiences enabled participants to challenge and contest men’s use of street harassment as an expression of power:

It’s important for me to remain strong in who I am to disclose the harassment and take power back over my own identity and agency. (42 years, cisgender man, gay, White, no disability)

Importantly, this participant’s remarks frame the loss of power experienced during an act of harassment as a temporary and fluid one. Reflecting Cahill’s (2009) theorization of sexual violence, the act of street harassment can be read as a temporary negation of subjectivity. Speaking out provides a means to reclaim or reinstate one’s subjectivity: to reaffirm oneself as fully human. However, it is notable that this participant is located within a relatively privileged position as a White, cisgender, able-bodied man, though he is simultaneously disadvantaged in his position as a gay male, and this is reinforced and (re)produced by and through experiences of homophobic abuse. We must question the extent to which this participant’s location enables him to “take power back”: power that may be systematically denied to other participants to greater extents. These comments sit in particular contrast to those made by women and gender-diverse participants who, as the previous comment illustrates, tended to focus their efforts on supporting others in their acts of resistance.

Disclosure also functioned as a means of disrupting dominant narratives of street harassment. Such narratives arguably contest constructions of street harassment as a minor, trivial occurrence. One participant reflected on how her understanding of the “unremarkable” and, hence, unutterable nature of street harassment shifted over time:

The belief that it’s routine and unremarkable made me less likely to talk about it when I was younger—I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Now I feel like it’s important not to keep quiet to make people aware that it happens. (32 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

Disclosing street harassment can be conceptualized as a political process. While this participant did not expand on her particular reasons for this shift in her disclosure patterns beyond noting her desire to ensure that others are made aware of women’s experiences, her comments suggest a political awakening and, potentially, a retrospective re-interpretation of past experience (see also, Ahmed, 2017). Yet, the ability to share and have one’s experience heard is not shared equally. As I have noted elsewhere (Fileborn, 2016a), participants also commented that online activist spaces, for example, were geared toward the experiences of White, cisgender, heterosexual women. People of color, LGBTQ+ communities, and those living with disability either believed they were excluded from activist spaces or had direct experience of being excluded from these spaces. While this does not mean that individuals from these groups are unable to disclose as a political act, it may circumscribe opportunities and spaces for doing so or result in disclosure not being heard and valued in the same way when it does occur.

For others, disclosing street harassment enabled them to give voice to the collective experiences of those who are targeted for harassment. It is a way of bearing witness and of acting in solidarity:

It’s so usual that I don’t always see it as worth mentioning. This question makes me realize how important it is to mention it, because if we don’t share our experiences, every experience, then we don’t develop an understanding of how pervasive it is, and our support of each other’s experience is not as effective as it might be. (51 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

This participant’s comments draw our attention to the potential dangers of not talking about street harassment due to its “everyday,” mundane nature. Mundaneness here functions as a silencing act. It also functions as an isolating act: as this participant highlights, nondisclosure may prevent the offer of mutual support and recognition of shared experience.

However, for one participant, nondisclosure provided an avenue to resist and contest men’s power:

I don’t like making harassment a big deal because I don’t want it to feel like something that can actually harm me. Like, if you talk about it a lot, it seems like it’s more powerful. (23 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

Thus, for this participant, not disclosing provided a way of minimizing and containing the harm of street harassment, highlighting the complexity and individuality of disclosure. For this participant, not disclosing was a means to deny perpetrators’ power (although an alternative reading here is that this participant is simply refusing to acknowledge the level of power and control that perpetrators wield). Such comments nonetheless remind us not to make simplistic assumptions about the benefits of disclosing or of suggesting that we should or must disclose as a means of reclaiming power (Ullman, 2010). In this instance, not discussing street harassment may be a political act.

Responses to Disclosure

Mixed Responses

Twenty-nine participants reported that they had received mixed responses when disclosing street harassment to others. One participant said that responses ranged from “everything from ‘oh my god, I hate it so much’ to ‘are you sure?’ to ‘it’s a compliment’” (27 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, lives with disability). The nature of the response received was highly dependent upon the context of disclosure and the identity of the person disclosed to. As one participant succinctly put it: “it depends on the context of the conversation and how wonderful/cunty the person is” (25 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability). Notably, participants commonly mentioned the age and gender of the disclosure recipient as contextual factors shaping responses (though race remained largely invisible in these responses):

Guys are usually shocked, as if they’ve never imagined the impact that it has. Older women are often dismissive, and launch straight into advice about how to avoid it or handle it differently in future. . . . Women my age are most receptive, because they’re nearly all had experience with it. We band together and we look after each other, and we laugh off these incidents. (24 years, cisgender woman, pansexual, mixed race, no disability)

The notion that older women were unsupportive of disclosure was a common theme in participant responses. One participant mused that she was unsure “if this is a generational issue” (27 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability). Likewise, male friends, partners, and colleagues were typically identified as being more likely to respond in unhelpful or unsympathetic ways, and some participants indicated that gender was a key mediating factor in deciding whether or not they would disclose, and this point is unpacked further throughout the ensuing discussion. Participants often attributed this to gendered differences in experiencing public spaces. That is, men (particularly White, cisgender, heterosexual men) generally do not experience public sexual harassment as a common, systematic intrusion in their lives:

When I tell men, they don’t really get it. They’re usually vaguely sympathetic, but they don’t understand what it really feels like. I told a male friend I was doing this survey, and he took the opportunity to tell me that some guy complimented him on his arse once. Once. (31 years, cisgender woman, queer, White, lives with disability)

As such, they did not have a shared or common point of experience with women or LGBTQ+ people from which to relate or make sense of these groups’ experiences when they disclosed. This may also be related to the routine dismissal of women’s experiences of gendered violence that women “overreact” and misinterpret encounters with men in public space. Women are framed here as unreliable narrators of their own lives. In contrast, female and LGBTQ+ peers were presented as more likely to have shared experiences of, and attitudes toward, street harassment, generating a common basis from which to respond “well” to disclosures.

While the perceived severity of the harassment influenced participant decisions to disclose, it also appeared to mediate responses to disclosure. It was not always made clear what constituted “serious” harassment here or whether participants shared understandings of notions of seriousness:

Depending upon the seriousness of the harassment the responses differ. Most of the time I tell the story as a story—kind of in jest—particularly the public transport stuff. Most responses are supportive. (42 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, lives with disability)

This participant’s comments suggest that the response received is also mediated by the way a disclosure is made: the tone and framing of the incident points toward the “appropriate” response from the audience. It points to disclosure as a co-constructed process, with the recipient taking cues from the storytelling devices drawn on by the person disclosing.

Responses to disclosure could shift over time, suggestive of disclosure as a curated process. Participants learned over time who was likely to provide supportive responses and made selective decisions regarding who to tell about their experiences:

When I was younger, people just shrugged it off. My family tried to change MY behavior to keep me safe. . . . As I grew a circle of feminist friends I had a more positive validation of my experiences. (45 years, cisgender woman, lesbian, White, no disability)

This selective process of disclosure was particularly apparent for participants who received positive and supportive responses upon disclosure, and I move on to consider this now.

Supportive and Validating Responses

The majority of participants indicated that they had received responses that were supportive or validating of their experiences, with 169 participants indicating that they had received such a response upon disclosure in the past. While it is certainly encouraging that participants reported receiving positive responses to disclosure, this did not occur out of sheer happenstance. Rather, participants indicated carefully selecting to whom they would disclose. As one participant noted, she

tend[s] to pick who I share these experiences with fairly carefully. The female friends I share with are very supportive, and always have their own examples of similar things. My family is very supportive. (30 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White/Aboriginal, no disability)

This curative process raises some significant questions and likely implications for those disclosing harassment. For example, what are the implications of this process for those who do not have sympathetic or supportive people to disclose to? It also suggests that participants may have gone through a process of “getting it wrong” and disclosing to unsympathetic others or, at least, testing potential recipients to gauge whether they will be sympathetic or not.

While a substantial number of participants reported receiving positive and supporting responses to disclosure, it was largely unclear from their comments what constituted a supportive or validating response. For example, one participant said that she usually received “solidarity and support/comfort” (25 years, cisgender woman, queer, White, no disability) when she disclosed to her friends, while another said that their disclosure recipients were “supportive and comforting” (18 years, genderqueer, bisexual, White, lives with disability). However, it was unclear precisely what it was about these responses that made them “supportive and comforting.” Others provided slightly more details regarding what a “supportive” response entailed. For example, empathetic responses from other women and LGBTQ+ people were commonly mentioned as a feature of supportive responses. Another participant found responses validating when there was “just general agreement that the other person was acting like an idiot” (38 years, cisgender man, heterosexual, White, no disability). Another highlighted the importance of “checking in” with the victim and “enquir[ing] about how I felt or how it affected me” (30 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability). However, on the whole, the features of supportive and validating responses to street harassment remain unclear.

Shock, Disbelief, and Anger

A large minority of participants (n = 67) discussed receiving responses that expressed a level of shock, disbelief, or anger. Ahrens, Cabral, and Abeling (2009, p. 90) have labeled such responses as tending to be “egocentric” in nature, in that they shift attention from the victim’s experiences toward the disclosure recipient’s emotional and affective response. Certainly, there was some evidence to suggest that these types of emotive responses were functioning in an egocentric manner. This type of “egocentric” response appeared to be particularly likely when disclosing street harassment to male friends or partners. As one participant said,

Men are sometimes surprised, sometimes get defensive (like you’re accusing them . . . which, unless they are doing it themselves, really shouldn’t even come into it!) and I’ve had partners think that by telling them that I was asking for protection. (25 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

In such instances, the shock and anger expressed by these men appear to be related to a lack of awareness and recognition of women and LGBTQ+ people’s lived experiences. The comments here demonstrate a more overtly egotistical response, with other men’s behavior read as somehow implicating themselves (“like you’re accusing them”) or interpreted as a request for their protection or involvement. Such responses can be read as a form of masculine performance, a way of fulfilling hegemonic masculine roles such as “protector” or “predator” (see also, Fileborn, 2016c). It was not always clear from participant responses, however, whether these emotive responses were experienced in a positive or negative way.

Indeed, there is perhaps an important distinction to make between those who respond in shock or anger as an egotistical response and those who respond in anger out of a shared sense of frustration in routinely encountering public sexual harassment. For instance, one participant indicated that if she disclosed to female friends, they “understand and respond with like disgust and horror” (24 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability). Another said the responses they had received involved “anger from women, mostly—in the form of rants that connect all the sexism and bullshit” (27 years, currently cisgender woman but genderqueer, queer, White, no disability).

Dismissive and/or Blaming Responses

Responses to disclosure that were dismissive, or assigned blame to the participant for their own experience, were also common, with 108 participants reporting having received such responses. For example,

Sometimes people tell me to learn to take a compliment, or “why didn’t you walk away/move to a different part of the tram.” Some people say: “Well you are pretty damn gorgeous, it comes with the territory.” Some people roll their eyes and tell me to get over it. (21 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, lives with disability)

The particular type and context of harassment also shaped the perceived potential to receive dismissive or blaming responses upon disclosure:

If a guy yells something about my body out of a car, I don’t tell people. In my experience, if it’s “complimentary” then people think it’s bragging or shouldn’t be complained about, and if it’s derogatory (fat bitch!) people instinctively weigh up whether it’s an accurate description of my body. (34 years, woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

This participant’s comments illustrate how the misconception that street harassment is intended as a “compliment” can function as a barrier to disclosure: disclosure becomes reframed as “bragging,” rather than the sharing of a harmful, unwanted experience. Such responses also ignore the extent to which seemingly “complimentary” forms of harassment can rapidly escalate into hostile or aggressive ones if the “wrong” response or reaction is provided (and, in such circumstances, there is no “correct” response to be given) and constitute unwanted intrusions into women and LGBTQ+ people’s lives—rendering women in this instance as sexual objects to be commented on and appraised—regardless of their perceived “complimentary” nature.

Some participants explicitly identified men as being more likely to respond in a negative, blaming way—although in the majority of comments, the gender of the person making such comments was unclear:

Their gender: discussing street harassment in general with men who are not my friends tends to get responses of “you should be flattered!” or “they don’t mean anything by it,” so that’s made me wary of sharing my experiences with guys I don’t know really well. (31 years, cisgender woman, queer, White, no disability)

Again, the potential to receive dismissive or blaming responses directly informed participants’ decisions regarding to whom they disclose an experience. As one participant said, “whether I feel I will be believed and whether I feel it’s worth the potentially negative reaction” (26 years, cisgender woman, pansexual, White, lives with disability) influences whether she discloses. Likewise, having actually received a negative response from someone in the past shaped the likelihood of disclosing to that person again:

If they’re one of the people who says I should dress differently to avoid it, I probably won’t tell them, just because I’m tired of trying to argue with them and teach them that victim-blaming is not ok. (23 years, cisgender woman, asexual, White, no disability)

This participant provides some insight into the potential consequences of having to determine whether a recipient will be supportive or not. This process of receiving negative or dismissive responses is again described here as a form of emotional labor: the emotional, and in this case, educative work that accompanies disclosure, and this is likely to be compounded for those who experience harassment or micro-aggressions on multiple fronts (Davis, 1994). The sense of fatigue that this participant expresses suggests that emotional labor is one factor shaping the decision to disclose.

Self-blame and internalization of responsibility functioned as a barrier to some participants disclosing, although this was less commonly identified in comparison to the potential to be (or actual experience of being) blamed by others:

I would often not tell people if I felt I had let it escalate by being too polite, I was embarrassed by my own silly politeness. (36 years, cisgender woman, heterosexual, White, no disability)

Shared Disclosure

As noted earlier in the discussion, a large minority (n = 78) of participants indicated that disclosure was met with a sharing of experience and mutual disclosure. This was particularly the case when disclosing to female friends and members of the LGBTQ+ communities:

If I tell friends (especially anyone who is under any category but “straight White cis man”), there is usually a period of commiseration and then another story in exchange. (25 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability)

Being able to share experiences could provide emotional support and aid a sense of moving on from an incident of harassment. As one participant said, in sharing experiences with her friends, this helped to find “humor in how stupid men are to make us feel a little better” (25 years, cisgender woman, bisexual, White, no disability). Another said that “swapping harassment stories sometimes makes for good conversation” (19 years, genderfree, queer, White, no disability). This point further reiterates the notion that disclosure is a form of storytelling: disclosure is framed here as a form of entertainment or an “amusing” anecdote. However, this is not to say that these participants are necessarily seeking to downplay the harms or significance of street harassment. Indeed, humorous or “amusing” anecdotes can function as a powerful narrative device. Humor can be used as a way of subverting power relations between the harasser and harassed, with the harasser (potentially) reframed as a “joke.” Vitis and Gilmour (2016) term this the “subversive and transformative quality of humor” (p. 11). Humor, they argue, can be operationalized to generate “community across difference through a shared ‘getting’ of the social, cultural, and political context that makes jokes both successful and necessary” (Vitis & Gilmour, 2016, p. 11). In this sense, the use of humor in disclosure can be understood as a form of resistance, enabling participants to bond or commiserate with regard to their shared experience and to bear witness to one another’s shared experience of subordination while critiquing and exposing the power relations underpinning harassment (Vitis & Gilmour, 2016).

Importantly, one participant indicated that she had disclosed her experiences of harassment because “my friend shared a story. Otherwise I wouldn’t talk about it” (51 years, transgender woman, lesbian, White, disability status not specified). Disclosure can help to open up or create space for others to disclose. Given the potential for negative responses to disclosure, as discussed earlier, an initial disclosure from a friend may signal that they are a “safe” person to disclose to: their shared experience of harassment signifying that they are likely to be supportive and receptive to disclosure. Signifying “safety” may be particularly important for transgender individuals, who face the possibility of an inappropriate response to disclosure on account of both the trivialization of harassment and their gender identity. It illustrates disclosure as a relational epistemological practice: we come to know experiences of street harassment because of the disclosure of others.

Discussion

This article set out to explore the disclosure practices of those who have experienced the “unspeakable” harm of street harassment, an issue that has received limited attention in research to date. Findings point to some notable similarities with the disclosure patterns of those who have experienced other forms of sexual violence as well as some points of departure. Notably, the vast majority of participants did disclose at least some of their experiences of harassment, with most disclosing to friends, family, and partners. This aligns strongly with existing research on sexual assault disclosure, which suggests that most victim-survivors do eventually disclose (Ahrens, 2006; Ahrens et al., 2009; Ahrens, Campbell, Ternier-Thames, Wasco, & Sefl, 2007; Jacques-Tiura, Tkatch, Abbey, & Wegner, 2010; Orchowski & Gidycz, 2015; Sabine & Ho, 2014), with informal sources most commonly the recipients of disclosure (Ahrens et al., 2007; Campbell et al., 2015). However, it is important to reiterate that participants in this study occupied positions of considerable privilege, particularly in terms of race. These were overwhelmingly the experiences of White women and LGBTIQ+ people, and this whiteness positioned participants in comparatively powerful locations when it comes to the entitlement to speak and be heard. Whether such “overwhelming” disclosure would occur with a more diverse group of participants remains open to question, and this cements the importance of future research on this topic seeking out the experiences of (particularly) people of color. Disclosure could also create the space for other women and LGBTQ people to share their own experiences; disclosure, in some cases, begets disclosure, a phenomenon documented in existing research on sexual assault disclosure (Ahrens et al., 2009; Ahrens et al., 2007; Ullman, 2010).

However, while there were similarities in terms of who is disclosed to across these bodies of research, this does not mean that disclosure is occurring for the same reasons or in the same contexts. For example, the general absence of criminal justice responses to street harassment means that those who have experienced street harassment do not have access to legal recourse, making disclosure to police a fruitless endeavor (although participants also expressed a reluctance to report to police for reasons similar to those cited by sexual assault victim-survivors; see Fileborn & Vera-Gray, 2017). Street harassment also differs from other forms of sexual violence in that it is typically perpetrated by strangers in public spaces. This opened up the possibility for participants to disclose to individuals who, in other contexts, are more likely to be the perpetrators of sexual violence (e.g., partners, family members, friends).

Likewise, most of the participants in this study disclosed in the immediate aftermath of an incident, consistent with sexual assault disclosures (Orchowski & Gidycz, 2012). In contrast to sexual assault disclosure, very few participants engaged in overt self-blame, although this may also be a function of the sample characteristics, discussed momentarily (Ahrens, 2006; Jacques-Tiura et al., 2010; Lievore, 2005; Sabine & Ho, 2014; Ullman, 2010). Only a small minority of participants had never disclosed any of their experiences, and further research is required here to more fully examine reasons for nondisclosure of street harassment and the implications that this may have.

The findings presented here provide insight into disclosure as an epistemological process: the means through which we come to know street harassment and which/whose experiences become knowable. Participants’ disclosure practices suggest that “what” becomes knowable about street harassment, and who is able to know, is shaped through dominant constructions of street harassment and the positionality of both the disclosure maker (and, as highlighted above, the whiteness of the disclosure makers in this study) and recipient. While the majority of participants did disclose, they were highly selective regarding who was told and in which circumstances. As I have argued throughout, disclosure can be understood as a curated process. That is, participants made careful decisions about to whom a disclosure was made, which experiences they would disclose, and how the narrative of disclosure was shaped. Disclosure is both selective and performative. As a result, disclosure practices produce a particular, limited picture of what street harassment “is.”

Notably, the perceived seriousness of an incident could play a crucial role in participants’ decision-making processes. Many did not disclose due to the perceived triviality, commonality, and banality of street harassment, and this is a notable point of departure from sexual assault disclosure which, while unfortunately a still-too-common experience, is less likely to constitute a mundane or “boring” element of women and LGBTQ+ people’s lives. The “everydayness” or pervasiveness of street harassment can function to silence those who experience it, with incidents that are perceived as more noteworthy, entertaining, or unusual more likely to be shared. However, some participants actively resisted this silence, disclosing experiences precisely because of their mundane nature. Indeed, this reflects recent feminist online activism, with sites such as Everyday Sexism seeking to give voice to the previously invisible or unnamable harassment encountered by women and LGBTQ communities (Fileborn, 2014, 2016a; Wanggren, 2016). Disclosure can thus function as an explicitly political act; participants disclosed as a form of consciousness-raising and a way of drawing awareness to their lived realities (Fileborn, 2016a; Hyers, 2007; Ullman, 2010). Regardless of whether participants were more likely to disclose “serious” incidents, trivial incidents, or otherwise, the effect here is the same: a partial, selective picture of street harassment is constructed through these disclosure practices.

However, some of the likely complexities of disclosure remain unaccounted for here and were not explicitly articulated by participants. The dominant framing of street harassment as a gendered practice may have implications for those who experience forms of street harassment that do not sit as neatly within this frame. For example, this dominant framing may exclude forms of harassment mired in homophobia or transphobia as “not counting” and, thus, not being named as such (see also, Fileborn, 2016b). This is not to suggest that these experiences are not also gendered, but rather that the particular iterations of gendered performance and power, and the ways in which these are shaped by and intertwine with homo and transphobia, are not well accounted for within dominant framings of harassment. Different disclosure practices may occur depending on the “type” of harassment in play. It was unclear, for instance, whether participants engaged in different disclosure practices if the harassment they received was underpinned by homophobic, transphobic, racial, or ableist undertones, in comparison to more overtly gendered and sexualized harassment. The exception here was one transgender participant, who only disclosed harassment in spaces such as transgender support groups, suggesting gender-diverse individuals may be particularly restrained in terms of who they are able to disclose to. The racial dynamics of harassment likewise remain largely unexamined here, and to some extent, this can be accounted for by the predominantly White sample. Previous research on the disclosure of sexual assault and intimate partner violence highlights the reluctance of women of color (and Aboriginal women in particular within an Australian context) to report the violence of men within their communities, to avoid contributing to the over-representation of these men in the criminal justice system or the myth of the Black male sexual predator (Day, 1999; Larsen & Peterson, 2001). Participants in this study did not explicitly raise such concerns, yet it is plausible that they shape decision-making processes when disclosing street harassment. There were likewise silences regarding how perpetrator identity may shape the “types” of experiences disclosed. When asked about the identity of perpetrators, a small minority of participants explicitly indicated that men from minority racial and cultural backgrounds were “more likely” to engage in harassment, suggesting that the actions of these men may be particularly salient in shaping the disclosure practices of White participants, who may engage in an “othering” and distancing of men of color by drawing on cultural constructions depicting them as the “dangerous other.”

In line with sexual assault research, participants reported receiving mixed responses to disclosure (Ahrens & Aldana, 2012; Ahrens et al., 2009; Ahrens et al., 2007; Fehler-Cabral & Campbell, 2013 ; Lievore, 2005), although positive responses were most common (Ahrens et al., 2009; Ahrens et al., 2007; Ullman, 2010). However, these positive responses occurred because of the carefully curated process engaged in by participants, with participants selectively disclosing to those who could be trusted to respond “well.” Consequently, this limits who comes to know (or is willing to know and understand) others’ experiences of street harassment. While it is not the responsibility of individual victims to overcome others’ resistance to and trivialization of street harassment, this selective disclosure may nonetheless limit the transformative potential of disclosure by delimiting discussion to those who already understand the harms of this behavior. This likewise reflects research with victim-survivors. For instance, Fehler-Cabral and Campbell (2013) reported that their adolescent participants would disclose only to friends they trusted, though they simultaneously feared victim-blaming responses.

Unfortunately, there was also evidence to suggest that participants had received victim-blaming and dismissive responses to disclosure in the past, a commonly documented aspect of “negative” responses to disclosure (Ahrens, 2006; Jacques-Tiura et al., 2010; Lievore, 2005; Sabine & Ho, 2014; Ullman, 2010). Notably, heterosexual, cisgender male friends, and partners were often cited as responding poorly to disclosure, particularly in comparison to female and LGBTQ+ peers. This echoes existing research, which has fairly consistently observed that male partners respond to disclosure in unsupportive ways (Ahrens et al., 2009) and are less likely to be disclosed to in comparison to female peers (Orchowski & Gidycz, 2012). As Ahrens and Aldana (2012) note, research suggests that men can be unsure of how to respond to disclosures, and this may help to make sense of participants’ experiences disclosing to men. Deidre Davis (1994) takes a more critical approach to men’s responses to street harassment, arguing that it remains “invisible because it is not a harm men suffer, and therefore it is not a harm men, or society as a whole, recognize” (p. 152). Davis’s claims are reflected in Linning’s (2017) recent research with young men, finding that her participants’ “privileged positions in the gender hierarchy has effectively rendered street harassment invisible to them” (p. 46).

Finally, these findings present important implications for research practice, in providing support to those who have experienced street harassment, and for broader educational efforts relating to sexual violence. Given that participants held diverse understandings of what constitutes street harassment, and harmful forms of harassment, this highlights the importance of asking descriptive, behavioral questions in efforts to document experiences. The use of probing questions is likely needed to draw out experiences that may be considered too “trivial” or “mundane” for the participant to share in a research context. It also suggests that we cannot make simplistic assumptions about the ethical implications of talking about street harassment, particularly regarding the extent to which different “types” of harassment may be upsetting or re-traumatizing to discuss in a research setting.

Given that many participants reported experiencing poor or unhelpful responses, disclosure recipients may not always be well equipped to respond in a supportive way. It may be helpful, for example, to generate resources and public education to help community members (and particularly, cisgender men) develop the skills to support individuals who are disclosing. However, in other instances, “poor” responses to disclosure were driven by an adherence to myths and misperceptions about street harassment and victim-blaming attitudes, rather than a lack of appropriate skills to support disclosure (though these may co-occur). This suggests a continued need to challenge the misplaced notion that street harassment is “complimentary,” “minor,” or “trivial” in nature and to drive broader political and socio-cultural changes in the systems of power and inequality that underpin this violence.

Limitations

As this study drew on a self-selecting convenience sample, the findings discussed here are not generalizable or transferable to other settings. The disclosure practices and experiences of these participants are not necessarily “typical,” although they do provide important initial insight into disclosure of street harassment. The majority of participants were White cisgender women. They were typically highly educated and articulate. Many also indicated that they were involved in political activism and were highly attuned to current issues pertaining to sexual violence and gender and sexuality politics. As such, participants may have been more likely to identify, name, and disclose experiences compared to the general population. The disclosure practices documented here are those of a relatively privileged demographic group, and it is vitally important that future research works to examine the disclosure practices of more diverse groups.

Conclusion

This study is one of the first to examine the disclosure practices of individuals who have experienced street harassment. By examining the practices and experiences of participants, this research has provided insights into disclosure as an epistemological practice, shaped in and through complex structural interactions, contexts, and the routine trivialization of street harassment. As Ahrens (2006) poignantly argues of the silencing and nondisclosure of rape survivors, “their experiences and perspectives are concealed and our ability to identify the causes and consequences of rape are obscured. Such silences thereby obstruct our ability to engage in social change” (p. 270). Given the extent to which street harassment is trivialized and under-recognized as a form of harm, disclosure can function as an important means of challenging and disrupting the myths and misperceptions that all too readily fill the silences surrounding street harassment. The findings explored here suggest that for the predominantly White and privileged participants in this study, street harassment is not an “unspeakable” harm in an absolute sense. The structural location of participants facilitated their ability to identify, name, and speak the harms of street harassment and, perhaps most importantly, to be heard when they do. Nonetheless, it is a harm that remains difficult to name at best and one that is known and knowable in fragmented, partial ways. It is vital that we work to open up space for the full extent of street harassment to become visible.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the two anonymous reviewers, whose insightful feedback has greatly improved upon an earlier version of this article.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: Funding for this project was received from the La Trobe University Transforming Human Societies Research Focus Area.

Author Biography

Bianca Fileborn is a lecturer in the School of Social Sciences, UNSW, Sydney. Her research examines the intersections of space/place, culture, identity and sexual violence, and justice responses to sexual violence on the margins of dominant definitions.

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