Luiza Pougy Magalhaes, France/Brazil, SSH Blog Correspondent
The very first time I witnessed street harassment, I was very young. I was so young that I didn’t really understand what a passing taxi driver meant when he called my mom a “yummy mommy”, when he looked right at her and said, “Oh mother may I.”
He was stuck in traffic right by my house; his collar opened all the way down to his chest, his arms out of the open window of his taxi. We walked by, completely unaware of his existence. Upon hearing his words, my mom stiffened, her back straightened, she held my hand tighter, and pulled me closer. I remember how I could feel her discomfort, and how I felt uncomfortable myself. I couldn’t understand why he had chosen to direct those words at her. I remember I wanted to protect her. I hated that man and I wished no one would ever speak to my mother like this again.
Today, I can still feel the terror I felt when he stared as we walked away. Now I know that she must have shared that terror. Probably more so than that; she must have felt violated and disgusted, shameful even – ashamed to be spoken like this in front of her daughter.
While I recall every detail of this particular scene, I doubt my mother remembers it at all. When street harassment becomes a daily struggle, we tend to block it out, rather than have it engraved on our memories. Nonetheless, I have a few stories worth sharing.
A couple of years ago, while wandering the streets of Brazil, I got lost. Knowing Brazilian men, I was very careful when asking for directions. I approached a couple of women, but had no luck. I saw a man; middle-aged, a clean-shaved face, impeccable posture, well-fitted suit, and glasses. Surely a well-educated man like himself would do no harm. I walked towards him with a shy smile. Before I could even say anything, he started calling me things; made comments about my legs, said he would pay money for me. Shocked and terrified, I left; mouth wide-open.
That day I learned that street harassers are not exclusive to certain demographics.
A few years after, I walked by a man with a toddler. The little boy lovingly leaned against the man’s chest. Just as they left my eye-sight I heard a whistle and a malicious comment. I turned around. The man was grinning and nodding, his boy looking at me, wide-eyed. Usually, street harassment makes me angry. Then, I just felt sad. Sad thinking about how this boy would be raised, what misogynistic values would be passed on to him.
Sad to realize that there was still a long way to fix society.
Living in France, street harassment also occurs regularly – once, at a supermarket I go to with frequency. The cashier’s line was long and I got distracted on my phone. The sound of a quiet giggle in my ear woke me from my trance. I turned around. There was a guy behind me, doing obscene, sexual gestures. I pushed him off, screamed at him and his friends – his audience. What really shocked me was that none of the cashiers, security, or general staff – who knew me well, I must say – did anything about it. They just looked at me; frowned faces at the foreigner girl who was making a scene.
That day I realized that people don’t think street harassment is a big deal, that street harassment is not taken seriously.
Months later, walking by my university, also in France, I crossed paths with a student; his gaze fixed on me. He licked his lips, hissed, and growled when we locked eye-contact. I called him a creeper and continued my way. He freaked out; started yelling that I “better watch out and have some f***ing respect, bitch.” In disbelief, ashamed, and also terrified, I picked up the pace and pretended like I wasn’t the one he was yelling at.
That day I realized that harassers see their victims with such tremendous inferiority that just the thought that they could stand up for their selves, pushes them over the edge.
You would think that years in the receiving end would have made street harassment any easier to deal with. However, I still feel the same terror that little girl felt when her mom was catcalled by that taxi driver. I feel my back straighten and stiffen just like hers did. I feel uncomfortable, violated, and ashamed, just like she must have felt. After all this time, I still don’t understand why the taxi driver stared, why the man commented, the father whistled, the boy hissed, the guy gestured. And to be honest, I don’t think I ever will.
Luiza is a 20-year-old from Brazil who considers herself a citizen of the world. As a teenager she moved to Singapore and now she studies International Business in France.
