It’s only 9:30 pm and we’ve already been rejected 10 times. I turn to my partner and sigh, “It’s going to be a rough night.” Heads hung in shame and neon vests flashing, we shuffle away from the SciLi to seek more fertile pastures.
The first half hour of our Safewalk shift usually starts this way. We fly from the Safewalk office, vests shining and radios blaring, ready to accompany any lonely Brown students to their destination. Within the first five minutes, we’ve spotted our first target, a single walker making her way down Thayer. “Hey there, would you like a Safewalk?” we ask enthusiastically. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a non-committal “Eh, sure” or maybe even a surprised “Um, Okay!” and we’ll bask in the glory of a job well done. Most often, however, we brace ourselves for the very worst sound a Safewalker can hear — the heartbreaking, morale-crushing “No.” Trying to hide our disappointment, we wish the student a good night and continue on our way, hopeful that the next one will say yes.
But they don’t. They never do. Rejections always come in spurts, sometimes only in triplicate, but once I swear we had up to a dozen. You and your partner stumble down the streets or slump in your chosen stakeout spot, shivering not from the ever-present cold, but from the profound fear that tonight you will be unwanted. You will be worthless. Your heart will be as empty as the trivia sheet you were hoping clients would help you fill. The yellow vests, glinting in the harsh glare of the streetlamps, seem to mock you with their cheeriness, and the big black SAFEWALK printed across your stomach marks you like Hester Prynne. You try to keep your voice bubbly for every new request, yet you can’t shake the feeling that this is all a tragic joke.
Rejections come in many shapes and forms. There is the deaf-and-blind approach, where the would-be clients pretend as if they can’t see or hear you. Really, it’s an insult to our intelligence; our florescent vests can be seen a mile away, and we can see if you’re wearing earphones. Then there is the avoidance strategy, an obvious and awkward detour across the street when you see us coming. It’s like breaking up with someone on a Post-It, cowardly and cringe-inducing. Kindly grow a pair, and reject us to our face. And the list goes on: the You-presume-to-protect-me? sneer, the Oh-this-is-awkward stutter, the I’m-lazy-and-need-Saferide-to-take-me-two-blocks excuse, and the I’ve-just-been-studying-orgo-all-day-so-thus-I-hate-the-world glare (alright, we’ll cut you a little slack for that one). Perhaps my favorite rejection, if only for its creativity, was the kid in chainmail who responded to our request by pointing to his metal-laden chest as if to say, “I’m already safe enough thanks.” I can only hope his armor provides equal protection against both dragons and drunk Thayer Street denizens.
Perhaps the most heart-breaking rejection of all is the “Oh, no, thank you, I’m okay” response, as if you were doing us a favor. We appreciate the thought, but, honey, we’re going to be out here for two hours no matter what. And we’re sure that you’re okay. Let’s be honest, the chances that you’ll be mugged walking from Jo’s to the SciLi is slim to none. While we’re armed with all the protection our radios and blinding vests can provide, Safewalkers are here for more than physical safety. We’re here for company, for conversation, to make that painful walk from the OMAC to Perkins go by a little faster. We will listen to your woes, laugh at your jokes, and entertain you with the most fabulous trivia our supervisors can devise. Think of us as your therapist, ego-booster, and game show rolled into one fabulous neon yellow package.
And that’s all we want to be. That’s what brings us out night after night, in rain or shine. And that’s what, after a slew of demoralizing rejections, makes it all worthwhile again—that one divine “Yes.” With just one syllable, our lives are again filled with purpose. The SciLi becomes an ivory tower, the Rock a coliseum, and the suspicious remains on the sidewalk an artistic display. Our feet float from the ground and our smiles shine as brightly as our vests. So come on Brown, take a chance on us. We’ve got a lot of walking to do.
