“I count myself lucky if two weeks pass without a cat-call or a disrespectful come-on.”

Today, I was tanking up at a nondescript gas station for the long trek home. I felt that something was wrong shortly after I started pumping gas. I’d developed a sixth sense of sorts over the years, and so I could feel that someone was staring at me. I ignored them, and my silence was interpreted as an invitation. Moments later, the greasiest man you could imagine was standing right next to me, close enough that I got an overpowering whiff of cigarettes. His pick-up line was as crude as it was predictable. I told him that he was being disrespectful, and I demanded that he leave me alone. Between that and the rather furious dog in my backseat, he got the hint and left. When I pulled out of the gas station, I had a pick-up truck nearly on top of my bumper. Mr. Greasy-Pants was behind the wheel.

I wish I could say this was my first experience with street harassment, but it’s not. Just yesterday, a younger man was staring at me so intently that it made my mother uncomfortable. This past month, I was getting gas at a local grocery store when a bunch of college boys yelled at me across the parking lot. Before that, I received similar cat-calls of “Hey, girl!” while I was getting the mail in my own apartment complex. I was followed to my car at the a Gamestop midnight release. I count myself lucky if two weeks pass without a cat-call or a disrespectful come-on.

I also wish that the statistic about how 1 in 4 girls experience street harassment by age 12 didn’t apply to me. I was nine when a man tried to break into my bathroom stall at a public restaurant. I was lucky that an adult woman came in and caught him, and she waited with me in the bathroom while we sent another woman to collect my parents. The restaurant refused to call the police because the man was a “regular,” and he denied my accusations, spitting crude words at both my parents and me. By the time I was 12, I saw his face again. This time, he was on the news and under arrest for raping a girl at a local high school. I could only see myself in the smiling portrait of the victim.

By the time that I was in high school, I was wearing t-shirts and the baggiest clothes possible in hopes of hiding myself. My efforts failed spectacularly, and it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I realized that none of this is my fault.

I wish that my experiences are as bad as they get. They’re not. In truth, I have it easy. Society has forced me to keep my tongue sharp and my skin thick. I am constantly reminding imbeciles that my body is not for their consumption. I have to frequently teach grown men that butt grabbing and lecherous language is disrespectful. Yes, I have it easy. That is why this movement is important to me: I’ve witnessed, firsthand, the consequences of inaction. I know that having it “easy” is still humiliating, terrifying, and degrading. Above all else, I know that unchecked street harassment can grow too easily into worse criminal acts.

– Not Your Sweet Cheeks

Location: Atlanta, Georgia

Share your street harassment story today and help raise awareness about the problem.
Find suggestions for what YOU can do about this human rights issue.