I just wanted a little Monday Night Football, some hot tea with cough drops, and a splash of Jack Honey — but somehow, I ended up in a showdown with the 2025 version of the patriarchy in a polyester suit.
I was out with my village for Monday Night Football (hot tea with cough drops in one hand and Jack Honey in another). Should I have gone out while nursing a cold? Maybe. Maybe not. That’s beside the point. I’d been on the sick and shut-in list since Thursday and wanted some good girlie time.
The Eagles had won (y’all know my football day is Saturday — BOOMER), and we were on our way to the second location — six of us in tow. The bar has a long, narrow hallway that opens up into a bigger space where karaoke, bathrooms, and a photo booth are located. We come in with our vivacious energy, see an empty spot at the bar, greet the bartender, and an unknown gentleman — that we’ll call AC, short for Arch Angel (because his name was one of the big three) — orders us a round of shots within the first five minutes. Tucks hair behind ear.
The night is unfolding nicely. I get sucked into a convo with a young 30s WASPy Republican, downing IPAs like water, listening to his voter and family history. I mean, is he even aware that I’m a Black woman? I remember schooling him on the holes in the bootstrap mentality. He wasn’t even aware there are laws against a Black person wearing their natural hair in the workplace. (Chile, don’t ask me how I got there.) Sir, why are you in my face? I use a Michael Jackson song to twirl out of the convo and wedge my way back in between the girls.
The hallway is so narrow that you can feel whoever’s walking behind you sitting on the barstool, and if you’re standing up, you have to play “red light, green light” for the traffic to flow. I’m sure this hallway just barely passed code.
Then comes this late 50s/mid 60s Black man — grey pinstripe suit, burgundy collared shirt, Kangol-style hat, chipmunk-like face. He starts approaching, saying something as he passes behind me. I turn around (because your head is always on a swivel), and our eyes meet. Shyt. He immediately turns back, comes behind me on my right side, puts his hands on my shoulders — I’m now turning around like WTF is happening — and he kisses me on the forehead.
WWHHOOOOOAAAAA! WHOA! What in the ACTUAL fuck!
I instantly lean back, put my hands up, and say something to the effect of, “Yo, this is out of line!” He looks at me completely bewildered by my response. There’s a bit of back and forth, and he leaves.
I am internally irate. The bartender says he does this all the time to customers and that he’s a regular. He can hear us talking about this egregious act, comes back, and begins to explain the interaction.
“You leaned into me, and then I kissed you.” OMG. I am being gaslit right now. Okay, this is happening. I’m like, “That is not what happened,” and I look over to the others, who are now realizing what’s going on. I’m being affirmed — that is indeed not what happened.
What’s interesting is that in that moment, I was acutely aware that I was being gaslit and simultaneously felt myself second-guessing and becoming disempowered. I’ve had a couple of instances of reading a man down and verbally defending myself, but it was the gross intention on his part — that he needed me to be in the wrong to justify his actions — that had me floored. I realized I was now in danger, and if I escalated, he might too.
He sees that we’re not backing down and leaves again — but not before saying he’s a “Wall Street guy.” We have now entered Creepy Cosby territory. He’s using all the plays in the playbook, as if his profession means anything to me. And I know it’s not true — not in that polyester-blend, non-tailored suit.
He leaves again, and you guessed it — he comes back again. This time, he’s still pleading his gaslight-y case and has tacked on an apology. I’ve resorted to ignoring him and giving short responses like, “Okay, got it.” I refuse to say, “I accept your apology,” or that “it’s okay.”
And this is where I become not just angry, but deeply sad. I’m sad that I knew, instinctively, that I needed to “play nice” for safety. I’m sad that out of all the ways to problem-solve, I knew for sure that being quiet and small would stop the interaction. I’m sad that — yes, a few drinks in (which shouldn’t even be part of the equation) — I was at a disadvantage, and the quickest way to end it was through some form of compliance. I’m sad that in 2025, this is still happening on a random Tuesday — and even in this post, some men will still not understand the error of this man’s ways.
The gentleman we met upon arrival asks if I need him to handle it. I don’t give a clear yes or no, but he can obviously see I’m uncomfortable. This man is significantly younger than Creepy Cosby. He pulls him aside, says a little “da-da-da-da,” and Creepy Cosby finally leaves.
Now I’m back to irate — because it took a man for him to leave? It didn’t matter what I would’ve done, huh? FCUK. I regulate myself internally, thank the guy, and ask him, “Hey, what did you say to him?” Not because I was being nosy, but because I wanted to know — is there a set of words I need to add to my arsenal for next time? Because we know there will be a next time.
He says, “Don’t worry about it.” Normally, I would’ve rolled my eyes and pressed the issue — like, “What you mean, don’t worry about it?!” But I knew in that moment, it didn’t matter what words he said. It was because he was a man, and I was not.
I didn’t want that interaction to spoil the whole night, because my Cancer Sun self can definitely sink into the depths of emotion. And yes, if I really needed to get loud, my girlies would’ve had my back. But I woke up with this still on my heart and mind. We are in a time where the shadow parts of society are on full display. We’re seeing women refuse to suffer in silence or subscribe to narratives just because society says it’s the “right” thing to do. Some say my generation is the first to live as self-sufficiently and independently as we do — and yet, there are still old norms that will catch up to you on a random Monday night.
Do I feel a certain way about how I showed up? I do. It’s left a bad taste in my mouth. But more importantly, I’m mad that regardless of how I — Nikenya Hall — live in rebellion against the patriarchy, there are still random moments where it might find me. And that makes every cell in my body enraged.
