Dear Internet,
Imagine this: a girl is walking down a Manhattan avenue early on a cloudy morning. She's on the phone, but is talking using headphones because if she held the phone up to her ear it would get drenched in the sweat from her recently finished run. Her hair has frizzed in the humidity, pony tail half fallen, remnants of mascara that her makeup wipe missed the nights before ashy under her eyes. Her shirt is darker than it was when she left the house, a different hue from the wet of her sweat, and her walk is wobbly from today's awareness of tomorrow's sore legs. She is speaking to her mother, when a man steps in front of her path, attempting to stop her. "Hey pretty," he growls, "come on over."
When this happened to me this morning, especially in the wake of a pipe bomb that went off just blocks from my home last night, I felt like my skin was covered in spiders. It was like someone had stepped inside my body without my permission, or had put me blindfolded on a roller coaster with a vertical drop nobody had warned me about. My voice wavered as I spoke to my mother, my steps quickening on the pavement towards a soon-to-change walk sign at the nearest cross walk. I wanted more than anything to be anywhere else in that moment, but there I was, frozen as I willed my body to scurry away from the man's outstretched, grimy palm.
This is what it means to be a girl in New York City. It doesn't matter what you're wearing, or what time of day it is, or what situation you happen to be in. If you're alone, or even with a friend or two, as I was a few days ago when a man announced to us that he was going to "fuck you and then fucking kill you" as he chased us down a few blocks of our normal walk home, you are a target for catcalling.
When you google the word "catcall," what comes up is a definition: make a whistle, shout, or comment of a sexual nature to a woman passing by. But this definition doesn't seem like enough to me. A catcall is much more than a simple whistle or shout. It goes far beyond a compliment (as some have told me I should take these catcalls) into the realm of the invasive. It takes an ordinary moment to the extraordinary, feeling as if somebody has crawled under your skin and made themselves a home there without your permission. It sinks your heart into your toes. It makes you want to turn around and fight and run for your life all at once. It's the most unwelcome feeling in the world, and I've heard these types of sentiments about catcalling from everyone I know who's been catcalled.
There is not a woman in this world who, when asked how she met the love of her life, will respond "Well, he shouted that my red lipstick made him know exactly what he wanted to do to me from a street corner, and in that moment I just knew he was the one for me." (Yes, I've had that screamed at me on the street.) So why do men still catcall women? What is it about screaming obscenities that they know will make women uncomfortable that's fun for them? Do they intend to invade the woman's privacy, or do they genuinely think they're giving a compliment?
In my opinion, it has nothing to do with the woman at all, and has everything to do with the man wanting to boost his ego. How low does your self esteem have to be before you feel comfortable screaming a sexual obscenity at a stranger walking past you on the sidewalk to get their attention? I can't imagine that the man who told me I was pretty and to come over to him this morning actually thought that it would work out for him. On the contrary, he may have been so desperate for attention that he thought that stepping in my path and saying something he knew could upset a girl in a big city would get him noticed. I once walked past a drug addict on the street as he begged me to give him my wallet. When I refused to look his way, he screamed that the skirt I was wearing, that was blowing in the wind to reveal the shorts I was wearing underneath, made me look like a major slut. He knew this wouldn't get him the money he wanted--why would it? But he had to believe that saying something like this to someone he didn't know would get him noticed, would get a rise out of a stranger purely for his own enjoyment. And as unfortunate as it is, I don't think catcalls will ever stop. There will always be some guy out there hoping to get a rise out of a girl just to see what she'll do, just to see if maybe he'll finally be noticed.
But as women, how can we minimize the catcalls we get? The short answer is, we can't, really. The best we can do is refuse to give them the satisfaction of the acknowledgement that they crave. Instead of hiding under big sweatshirts and hoping nobody yells about the exquisite bodies and minds we are hiding underneath, we must go out in the sunshine in the vibrant colors of the clothes that make us feel the most ourselves. We must wear our skin as if it were a satin glove that cannot be bothered by the touch of those that don't deserve it, and let our hair down as we have always wanted it to be. We must walk the street free of the fear that we don't belong there, and hold our shoulders higher than those who will try to make us feel small. We are bigger than them. We are stronger than them.
So hey mister, why don't you move your ass over.
This is my goddamn street, too.
-mk.
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