Rape Whistle: My sister gives me her keys to carry and I hang them around my neck. I look down. The most prominent thing hanging on my chest is a huge orange whistle. The label says it’s loud. It screams at me. It tells me not to wear that skirt to that party. It’s the Uber driver in Syracuse telling me not to walk to the bars but to get an Uber instead. It’s the voice in my head telling me to dump my drink after I abandoned it to go to the bathroom. It doesn’t keep men from raping, but it promises it will keep men from raping me. It tells me to yell fire because no one comes if you yell rape. Doesn’t the whistle know? It’s usually the people that you know.

My Fully Charged Phone: I can’t go out if it’s on less than 50. “Where are you?” “Did you get home safe?” I share my location with nearly every single one of my girlfriends. Sometimes I check theirs before I go to bed to make sure they are in a safe space. It’s a superficial comfort because it’s not like there are designated places that people do and don’t get raped. I pretend to talk on it when I walk home alone. It makes me feel as though help is only one call away. That’s not really how these things work but it still feels like a weapon in my pocket.

The Dog: On a hike through the Catskills with my dog, I pass an older man who is alone. To let me pass he positions himself behind a bush. I wish men knew how scary that is. He asks me how my day is going or something to that effect and I answer and return the question. But instead of answering he clears his throat and tells me to have a nice walk once my back is completely to him. I look at my adorably friendly yellow lab and hate him for not being more intimidating. I think of the trick my mother told me she used when she would bring him on runs. As he strained against the leash to greet strangers she would pull back and tell him “woah” as if she were telling him not to attack them. I try to use the trick a few times but I’m not sure if anyone buys it.

Bear spray: Before the hike, I call my mom and ask her where the collapsible dog bowl is. She tells me it’s with my dad’s hiking stuff. I see his bear spray and ask her if she thinks there will be bears. She tells me what to do if there’s a bear. How to keep eye contact and make myself look big and back away slowly. She tells me to use the bear spray, you pull the safety back and spray directly in the bears face. I’m doubtful I’ll see a bear. “Serena,” she finishes, “it works on humans too.” I take it.

All these items tell women that the onus of rape falls on them. That we are meant to protect ourselves and if we don’t rape can’t be prevented. They all play into a rape culture so deeply imbedded in our society. Can’t we just teach people not to rape?

Shouldn’t people understand and respect consent? In the ridiculousness of carrying around a big orange whistle or bear spray or a fully charged phone or even pretending your mild-mannered dog is actually an attack dog, there is a comfort to it.

A little bit of confidence for when you dare live in a body that is for the taking. I hope to one day live in a world where a rape whistle is a fantastical and ridiculous urban myth. But I cannot blame my sister for having one on her keychain. I cannot blame myself for the added comfort of a charged phone or bear spray. It is not a scary time for boys, it has and continues to be a terrifying time for women.