But Wait—You’re Twelve

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store.

I was wearing tight, black skinny jeans and a white beater under a light gray zip-up hoodie and a faux leather jacket.  I was minding my own business walking home, with a leopard-print backpack full of the ingredients I’d need to make a Caprese panini when I got back to my kitchen.  I was hungry.  And I was excited.

I live in a very safe, very young neighborhood in South Philly, crawling with twenty- and thirty-something hipsters.  My street is a popular spot for nightlife on the weekends, with its multitude of bars and restaurants, and the neighborhood is extremely friendly and well-lit.  It feels less like living in a huge city, and more like living in a town.  Because of the demographics of the neighborhood, there are very few families around – which means very few kids.

As I was walking home from the grocery store, I spotted ahead of me a small group of boys who I guessed to be around twelve years old.  There were three of them sitting on a stoop, in their school uniforms, having just been dismissed.  They were singing—well, okay, maybe “singing” isn’t the right word.  They were making screeching sounds in various pitches to what one could call a melody.  I believe this constitutes “singing” to a twelve-year-old boy.  Two older boys – fourteen, maybe? – walked by then, and they stopped in front of the stoop.

“Shut up,” one of the older boys, clearly a friend, complained.

“Yeah,” said the other.  “You guys are obnoxious.  Shut up.  A girl’s coming.”

And I walked by.

“Yeah, I’d like to get that pussy.”

I stopped.  I didn’t physically stop, no.  I didn’t want them to have any indication that the catcall had fazed me.  The boy who said it, one of the younger ones on the stoop, I figured, was just trying to look cool to his friends, and my responding would only give him twelve-year-old street cred.  But in the split second after his remark, my mind stood still and my heart sank as I made the quick decision to walk on, seemingly unbothered.

The group of boys gasped, and I heard one of the older boys whisper: “Dude, what the fuck?  That’s not cool, man.”

And then, from another one of the twelve-year-olds: “Yeah, girl, you got a nice ass.”

When I stopped in my tracks, before I even turned around, I could hear the boys jump up and huddle together.  Clearly, they hadn’t thought out the aftermath.  Obviously, they didn’t think that a woman walking down the street would actually stop; an adult wouldn’t bother with their nonsense, they probably thought.

I turned on my heels, blood boiling, to find the younger boys pointing at one another, trying to convince me of who the culprits were, while the older boys hid behind them, mouths agape.

“You know what though?” I asked, clearly mad, but keeping my cool.  “When you get older, and you talk to a woman like that, it’s never going to work.”

Anger started rising in me, as I thought about all of the men in the entirety of my life who have thought it was useful or worthwhile to hurl lewd comments at me in hopes of either getting in my pants or, at the very least, getting a reaction out of me.  I thought about all of the societal pressures put on boys to posture masculinity.  I thought about all of the confusing messages in the media.  I thought about all of the grown men in those boys’ lives who would’ve slapped them– either in the face or on the back – for saying that to a woman.  And I was incensed.  Livid. Not necessarily at the words that they said to me, but at the idea that we live in a society that allows it – not just a society that is forgiving of violence against women, but a society that promotes dangerous expectations for masculinity.  Was I the victim in this situation?  Sure.  But you know who else was?  Those boys.

“You better get out of that fucking habit now,” I spat, “because that’s fucking disrespectful as shit.”

Ashamed, the offenders looked down at the sidewalk; I watched as their smiles faded into blushes as they realized that they had made a mistake (or, at the very least, that they had gotten caught).  The other boys broke out into an applause, shouting to me, “Thank you!  Thank you! Someone needed to tell them that wasn’t okay!”  And to them: “We told you.  We told you.”

And I want to be pissed off.  I do.  I felt a heaviness in my heart – a solid block for my solar plexus – for the rest of the day.  And later on, when I tried to be sexual with my boyfriend, I held back and had to shake the thoughts out of my head, because I was so affected.  But I see a glimmer of hope here.

Because they knew it was wrong.

Because the bulk of them were offended by their friends’ actions.

Because they sided with me on the issue.

Because they’re young.  And impressionable.  And I said something.

So maybe next time one of them thinks about catcalling a woman on the street, he’ll think twice.  And maybe he’ll remember what happened yesterday, and he’ll think better of it.  And maybe it’ll only ever happen that once.  But a small victory is a victory nonetheless.

So I have some hope that maybe someday, we’ll stop raising our sons to think that violence is a way to prove their worth.

– Melissa A. Fabello

L0cation: Philadelphia, PA

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