Let me set the scene: imagine you’re having a really good day. You just got a “job well done” from your boss, you did laundry and you’re wearing your favorite clothes, the shirt that matches your eyes, the beat up shorts that you’ve worn in just right. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and you’re walking around the block just because you can. Suddenly a car pulls up and four men are inside. They look you up and down in a way that makes you feel less like a human being and more like a piece of meat behind the glass in a butchery. You look straight ahead, chin raised and avoid eye contact, unsmiling, in order to minimize contact. Your chest is tight.
“You’re sexy baby,” one of them calls out lasciviously, less a compliment than a declaration of dominance. You don’t respond and keep on walking, head high, and hope they keep driving, but instead the car creeps beside you for long minutes, they are hoping to illicit a reaction. Your heart is racing and you hope more than anything that they’ll just keep on driving. Eventually, when they realize you aren’t going to respond, they drive off and scream, “Whatever BITCH,” at you as they screech away. Heart still pounding, you continue on your way, looking over your shoulder and hoping they won’t return for another round.
Will I get harassed today?
Welcome to my world.
Here’s the reality of being a woman in the current age: every day when I get dressed, I have to consider the implications of my outfit and the feedback it will receive from men on the street. Going out on the weekend becomes an internal struggle between my desire to wear the clothes that highlight the things I like about myself and the desire to preemptively stop the unwanted catcalls made by drunk strangers, who often become aggressive and combative when I deign to point out how unwelcome their comments are.
Strange men have solicited me for sex; I’ve been called a bitch and told to f*** off by strange men. I’ve gotten marriage proposals and heard “damn girl” and “beautiful” and been beeped at and stared at and screamed at and I didn’t ask for any of it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a compliment or an insult, polite or rude as hell – I don’t want it, and I’m sick of keeping my mouth shut because society has tried to program me into thinking I should feel grateful for the attention of all men, as if their admiration of my body is some sort of gift that I should cherish.
Let’s pursue the concept of mutual respect, shall we?
As in, I will continue not to comment on your body parts as though they exist for my personal pleasure, and that simple gesture of respect will be returned.
– Glorious BE
Location: Boston, MA
Share your street harassment story for the blog.
