Not.
I realize that some men have become so accustomed to sexualizing the very body that I call home—the very bodies that a lot of women call home—that it most often doesn't make any difference to them, but god, does it make a difference to me.
When I turned 13, while I was still learning my brand-new, hormonal body, that was the first time I remember being hit on or catcalled. The man in question was old enough to be my father, at least from my thirteen-year-old perspective, and, at first, I shared a giggle among friends. It was nice to be called things that I thought were compliments at the time: "sexy" and "beautiful." But, the more the interaction went on and the "let me take you home's" ensued, the warning bells were ringing louder than ever in my head. Words that I had heard exchanged between lovers on television sounded dirty and scary falling from the lips of the man before me, like he was far too much of a stranger to me, to be referring to me like that.
I wish that all I took away from that day was to fear strange men and to always listen to Mommy and Daddy, but something else was different. It wasn't just those creepy, walk-a-little-bit-closer-to-your-group-of-friends men I was afraid of.
I was afraid of my own body.
After all, it had gotten me into this mess, hadn't it? Clearly, whatever I was doing was wrong and if I wanted to stop getting this kind of attention, all I had to do was cover up my body and I would be safe, right?
Wrong.
It kept happening and every time I felt a little more creeped out, a little more like I needed to cover myself up. A little more like I was the problem.
Years pass. 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19. I was 19 when it dawned on me that it wasn't my fault, none of it was. It took me six years to realize that there was nothing wrong with the imperfectly beautiful body I was born in, the body that was still growing, the body that would gain and lose pounds, the body that I would grow to love. The very first thing I had when I entered this world was my body. My very first possession, before even my name.
My body is mine.
My body is not public domain or public property. Just because I exist in public spaces does not mean that you get to treat me like an object to call at, sexualize, touch, or gawk at without permission. I should be able to exist, within my own skin, without calling into question: "Am I covered up enough? Am I dressed modestly enough? Am I the problem? Am I attracting this kind of attention to myself, purposely? What am I doing wrong? What should I change?"
So, do you know what gift I gave myself when I turned 20? The gift of self-acceptance.
It is not okay that there are people—men—out there who believe they can do or say whatever they want in regard to my body, but it is not my fault. It never has been. I can exist and function in society, without being a sexual object, despite the many people who want to label me that way. I don't have to be afraid of my own body just because of what other people have tried to make it out to be.
My body can do amazing things. My body has endured the scraped elbows from childhood, the scuffed knees from volleyball, and it will triumph as it marches across the graduation stage in about a year and a half. But most importantly, my body is mine. And I love it, without reservation.
So, the man, the very first man who catcalled me? I never even knew his name. And good thing, too — he doesn't deserve to be any bigger of a character in my narrative than he already is.
