As different as all women are, I feel pretty safe in saying that we have all shared one common experience: the catcall.
It doesn’t seem to matter what you look like or the attitude you exude, the jeers are still sure to come by the leering men who stand in the shadows and watch us walk past. If you live in a city, there’s absolutely no avoiding it. You could be a nun and live in a convent, but the second you step out onto the city sidewalk, the mere fact that you are a woman, regardless of your identity otherwise, renders you a sex object for public consumption in the eyes of the men who catcall you.
Some women aren’t necessarily offended by these unprovoked remarks targeted at their bodies. Some consider them compliments, uplifting, an extra shipment overflowing their confidence stock. When an often much-older man comments on my body or behavior without any provocation on my part, flattered and appreciative are two of the last emotions I feel.
First and foremost, I feel threatened. What do you think I owe you for those words? A “thank you?" Thanking a random man for having the ignorance to objectify me is the exact opposite of what they deserve.
We are told to avoid eye contact, to keep walking like we have somewhere very important to be, to never reveal our fear because that makes us vulnerable. But isn’t avoiding confrontation one of the biggest and easily spotted signs of fear? What if instead we looked our admirers back directly in the eye and said something equally objectifying? What if we ate them up like they did us? Would we be viewed as fearless warriors not to be messed with, or would it just be taken as an invitation to step the violation up to a physical level?
Women are forced to ask themselves these questions too often.
The worst part of all of this is that there’s no way to remove ourselves from harm’s way without letting these presumptuous men win. We shouldn’t have to second-guess the outfit that we decided to put on because it’s too flattering and/or revealing. We shouldn’t be forced to walk with our heads down when we approach a group of men on the streets, hoping that maybe they won’t notice us, because the second they do, we are all too certain of the nature of the comments that will follow. We shouldn’t have to clutch our keys tightly in our hands as we walk at a brisk pace, ready to defend ourselves against anyone who might get a little too close.
Recently, I've been thinking about trying something drastically different than my usual make-yourself-smaller approach when I find myself caught in these scenarios. How about instead of passively shrinking away, we make ourselves as equally disgusting as our suitors? Rather than channeling all of your effort into avoiding eye contact, channel your effort into crooking your index finger up your nostril, then see if they still have something to say about how "fine" you are. Or try talking to yourself loudly about your relationships with inanimate objects as you pass by, and wait to see if they still refer to you as a "sweet little mama." If they are as equally persistent and offensive, at least you can find some humor in the absurdity of it all.
Although the streets don't look like they'll become safer for us anytime soon, putting a conscious effort into not letting our cat callers affect our femininity speaks volumes about the spirit of the modern girl.
