I bought my first container of pepper spray at 18 or 19 at the counter of a local consignment store. The black spray bottle had a red switch forced in safety mode, and was stored in a purple pleather case, fastened with a metal button, and dangling from a key ring.
I was working throughout my gap year as a waitress. I’d walk to my car late at night after closing and always shine my phone flashlight through the back window before getting in. Some mornings I’d realize my car was out of gas, my gold 2003 Infiniti QX4 fighting for its life up the hill next to my house, because I refused to fill up my tank at night.
My mother came of age in the South in the 70s and 80s and was spared no limit of harrowing interactions akin to Dateline horror stories. Thus, I was raised to be exceedingly cautious. I was lectured about these late-night fill ups, going on walks by myself, and always keeping my phone on me.
What became abundantly clear to me over time was how these lessons were reserved only for me. My three older brothers were exempt from such lectures, nor expected to be as responsible for their own safety as I was. I, her only daughter, was the exception.
Now 24 years old, I still carry pepper spray on my keys wherever I go, along with a small red whistle that hangs from the same carabiner. My pepper spray is a light lavender, bought in a three-pack I purchased for my boyfriend and cousin and I to share (My boyfriend and male cousin no longer keep theirs on them.) While I have fortunately never had to use it, I feel relieved knowing I have it on me at all times, and when I don’t, I instantly feel defenseless.
Between me and my female or gender nonconforming friends, lending self-defense devices, tracking each other’s locations, and bombarding each other with messages until we get that “I made it home!” text is a love language. Saying “Get home safe” is not an empty gesture, it is a plea with the universe. These habits are usually not a point of conversation, just something we have unfortunately accepted as part of our lives. After a winter Wednesday night spent playing Catan at a friend’s apartment my sophomore year of college, my friend Sophia gave me a black Kubaton attached to a keyring when she found out I didn’t have pepper spray on me for my walk home. My senior year, I lent my friend Anna my pepper spray while she headed from my place to an 8 p.m. to midnight shift at the DePaul University dorms. And, after a distressing encounter on the Brown Line last week, I immediately purchased my mother a new Mace spray. It is not a perfect system—but it is what we know.
These small gestures, ingrained in my being, are the ways in which we keep us safe. If I have no way to give you a ride home, at least I can order you an Uber or follow your location as you ride the train home.
If we can’t trust strangers in a world of normalized violence, at least we can find ways to protect ourselves.
As always, capitalism has found a way to exploit specific necessities. The global self-defense product industry was estimated to be worth 3.03 billion in 2024, and projected to grow to 4.42 billion by 2030. Search for “pepper spray” or “kitty knuckles” on TikTok and you’ll unlock an entire algorithm dedicated to self-defense discourse, instructions, and hundreds of links to products. Search for “self defense accessories for women” and you’ll find stun guns disguised as lipsticks (their slogan: “Safety, with a side of cute”), colorful keyfobs decked out with various dangling devices, and other bedazzled ephemera designed to inflict harm. The adoption of the word “accessories” instead of “devices” or “weapons” in itself speaks to the gendered divide in the way we perceive safety.
The growth of the self-defense product market can most certainly be attributed to internet globalization as well as the #MeToo era. Social media platforms provide a wealth of information to users, including the dissemination of personal experiences of sustained gendered violence via “storytimes” and comment sections, as well as advice on how to protect one’s self. As #MeToo opened up widespread conversations about women’s safety in 2017, self-defense courses specficially designed for women became an increasingly important part of those conversations, especially when we look at the numbers. According to a 2014 study, women who have taken a self-defense course were half as likely to be assaulted compared to women who had not, and other studies have concurred that such knowledge on self-defense makes a woman 50-60% less likely to be raped, up to a year after taking a course.
The self-defense industry epitomizes several significant flaws in our culture. It seems easier to paint weapons pink and teach women and queer folk how to use them than it is comfortable to teach men not to harm. While I am grateful there are people out there, men, women, and gender nonconforming people who are allies to this crisis, who have created platforms, spaces, and products to aid in the larger fight against gendered violence, it is dystopian to know at this moment that they must exist. If painting violence pink is the way to sell safety, I’m glad those resources are out there right now. Until our own societies are ready to reckon with the legacy and practice of gendered-violence, we will continue to defend ourselves.
*Author’s Note: By the time this piece is published, I will no longer own my self-defense weapon. I had my lavender pepper spray taken from me by security at the Art Institute of Chicago on my way to see the Matisse Jazz exhibit with my boyfriend. The woman didn’t check my purse but saw the spray dangling from my carabiner. She said, “I’ll have to take your pepper spray, but I can’t give it back to you.” The Art Institute has a coat and bag check, but no way to store these devices for visitors. I wonder what the Art Institute does with all the pepper sprays it confiscates from young women who need them.