My body always reacts first. My stomach muscles tighten, my fists clench, my heart races. My muscles and organs register the stares before my mind catches on. They recognize the calls before my ears can hear them.
“Hey gorgeous,” the calls say.
“Smile, pretty.”
“Wanna come home with me?”
“I can tie you up real tight.”
Eventually, my mind sets in, and I’m angry, because I have a woman’s body, and for that, I’m unwelcome in public spaces. If I leave my apartment unaccompanied by a man, I’m reminded time and again by men on the street and in the subways that their bodies carry power over mine. The power, which is socially induced and reinforced every generation, allows them to walk alone comfortably at night, and wait for the 2 train unencumbered by sexual harassment poorly masked as a compliment. They remind me that their bodies can intimidate my body. Their bodies can rape my body.
The anger swells as thoughts and feelings of violation and injustice cycle in my mind. I’m angry that I’m sexually harassed by strangers at least once a day. I’m angry that these strangers don’t know or care that their words are degrading, and not flattering. I’m angry that everyone else seems to accept street harassment as an inevitability, and something to work around. Who decided it’s women’s job to work around men’s ignorance? Is teaching men not to catcall even an option?
I’ve become accustomed to responding to my catcallers. Only, in the heat of the moment, my responses are, admittedly, never constructive. I yell back, usually cursing.
“That’s sexual harassment, not a compliment, motherf***er.”
Or, the classic, “Go f*** yourself, asshole.”
The recipients of my wrath don’t seem impressed by my indignation. They walk or bike away, unscathed. The most frustrating part of being catcalled is the anger I’m left with after the moment passes. Even when I respond, the satisfaction of speaking up for myself is diluted by the frustration of knowing these men will never take me seriously. Maybe it’s because I’m cursing at them. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, so expressing anger conveys mental imbalance. Either way, I’m dismissed.
I’m fairly convinced that the only way street harassment will ever change is if governments pay attention to the problem. There should be government sponsored signs in public spaces – on the streets, in subway cars, on buses, even in public schools – specifically targeting men who publicly sexually harass women, telling them that their actions are insulting and unacceptable. I’ve started writing to the NYC Mayor’s office every day, explaining the issue and advocating for my campaign idea. Maybe one of these days, the summer intern who reads my emails will pass one of them along.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to endure the blatant stares and presumptuous comments or commands. I don’t have a choice.
Eva Bilick is a proud feminist living in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @evabilick.
