Courage in a Can of Mace

by Patricia Perkins

This is the story of the can of mace.

I was in New York City in 1970, leaving the next day for my first trip to Europe. I was alone. I was afraid, but a man I thought I was in love with had jeered at me and said that I was too dependent to go to Europe by myself.

"I'll show him," I said, and bought airplane tickets.

But in New York, I had second thoughts. I called my mother and she reassured me. "You'll be fine, sweetheart," she said. Yeah. Fine.

I walked into a little store on Times Square that sold tobacco, newspapers and gadgets.

"Do you have some kind of personal protection? Like a spray can or something?" I asked.

The fellow, a squinty-eyed sour-faced New Yorker, reached under the counter and brought out a little black cannister, about the size of a pocket hairspray.

"Mace is what you want," he said, handing the can to me. It was a little longer than the palm of my hand.

It had these silver words on it. "Not for sale. For Police Use Only."

"That will be $10," the guy said as I stared at it. I paid. I put the can of mace in my backpack and got on the plane for Europe.

I took Icelandic Airlines because they were selling tickets for just over $300, while the major airlines had a sweetheart deal where they all charged over $700. And they wouldn't let Icelandic land at any of the major airports because it wouldn't go along with their deal. We landed in Luxembourg.

I checked into the Youth Hostel there and by the next day, had found someone to hitchhike with to Heidleberg. Those were the days when you could hitch everywhere, both in the States and in Europe. I mostly carried my can of mace in my backpack, in a side pocket that would be accessible if I needed it.

There were times, though, when I felt unsafe. Getting into a town at night and having to walk through darkened streets to the hostel, I would put the can of mace in my pocket. If I felt REALLY unsafe, I took off the cap and put my index finger on the nozzle. I went everywhere I wanted to go, whenever I wanted, without a qualm. I got into cars with strangers for two and a half months. The closest I came to getting raped was in a truck in Austria in a wicked snowstorm. I was traveling with a Canadian girl from Vancouver and the trucker pulled out a magazine with pornographic pictures and pointed to them, nodding lasciviously. We frowned and looked shocked that he would imagine such a thing.

Right about then, the truck went into a skid and ended, nose down, in a ditch. The trucker made it clear that we needed to clear out, since he wasn't supposed to have hitchhikers. So he said. We had been thinking the same thing--that it was just about time to bail.

When I came back from that trip, I put the can of mace in my purse and carried it everywhere. Sometimes, I'd be crossing a park just at dusk in Baltimore in a sketchy neighborhood and then the can would assume "ready" position, in my hand, cap off, finger on the trigger. I never got so much as a wolf whistle.

I hitchhiked to Alaska the next year, my can of mace in my backpack. Back in New England, I got a job as a feature writer on a newspaper. I drove all over, into the urban slums and into the rural slums. I never had a qualm. I had my can of mace.

In 1978, I quit that job and sold my car and took off again for Europe. Only this time, I planned to go around the world. I had the same green backpack and, in its customary little pocket, my can of mace.

In Istanbul, I stayed too late at the Pudding Shop one night, talking to Alaskan friends I hadn't expected to see in Europe, much less TURKEY. It was late when I started back to the hostel, later than I usually let myself prowl the streets, mace or no mace. But the hostel is only about 100 yards from the Pudding Shop, so I started across a deserted street.

Next thing I knew, I heard the sound of pounding feet and two pairs of hands lifted me by the elbows up off my feet. I didn't have my mace with me, but even if I had, I couldn't have reached it, the way they were holding me. I did have on my Vibram-soled hiking boots, though, and I started kicking and screaming the minute my feet left the ground. I didn't know what they had planned, but I was going to do some SERIOUS damage before they got to it.

I felt a hand reach under me for a quick feel, and then they dropped me on my butt on the pavement.

I learned something about myself in that one minute those guys had me up in the air. I learned that I would not be a passive victim, ever, that nobody could sneak up on me and grab me and expect me to freeze in fear. In fact, my fear translated directly into FIGHT. Had the months I'd carried my "weapon" taught me not to be passive? Or is it just part of who I am? I don't know.

About a year later, I was living in Bhaktapur, Nepal with a farming family, working for a German economic development project as an archivist. I was shaking out my old sleeping bag, planning to give it a good airing. I hadn't needed it for a few months while I lived with the family. I heard a clatter down in the street and there on the ground was my can of mace, which I had forgotten entirely.