Catcalling.
I should take it as a compliment, right? There’s a man lusting for my attention, calling out to me about my beauty. He’s just trying to find true love, right? It’s the modern day version of the classic 1950’s relationship, only there are no milkshakes, and the man who’s asking for my hand is driving by in his monster truck, making sexual gestures.
This is the living reality most women face on a day-to-day basis. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s too far fetched to say all women face this type of harassment walking down the street.
Yes, catcalling is sexual harassment. And yes, it can happen to both women and men. However, I can only speak for myself and the other women I know who have told me their stories.I have mentally jotted down some of the worst instances that I have personally experienced this year. These experiences, I believe, need to be shared - not because I want everyone to know what has happened to me - but because I want people to understand what women mean when they say “I was catcalled today.”
As a nineteen-year-old female, I have been followed, whistled at, and winked at more times than I can count. However, these are what I like to consider “innocent enough” gestures. No, they were never innocent, but I felt enough at ease that I didn’t need to escape for my own safety.
Then, there are some not so innocent gestures — the ones where I have to drop my head, look at my feet, and walk as quickly as humanly possible. “Drop your head, look at the ground, and walk away,” is a sentence I now live by because I am now forced to.
Two instances stand out to me clearest.
The first: I was driving home late one night from work. It was around midnight, and I was on the highway leaving Boston. I noticed a car on my left suddenly swerving close to the right lane. It wasn’t until he nearly hit me that I registered this and moved. He now had my attention. From that point on, he rolled down his passenger’s side window, and started yelling inaudible words at me. I immediately slowed down, but he slowed down right with me. Now I knew I was in trouble. At that point, I slowed down enough where I was able to get behind him— only for him to slam on his brakes.
Have you ever heard the stories of women having to pull over the side of the road, only for something to happen to them? He, I can only assume, was looking for me to hit him from behind. From this point on, any of my actions were coming from that inner fear I had. I was no longer thinking, I was just trying to get out. I moved into the left lane, punched the gas, and drove as fast as I could only to be caught up by his truck. I kept my eyes on the road, and he now was pointing at my car, gesturing sexual actions, and then pointing back at himself. His last act was to speed up enough to show me a porn video. And of course, since it was dark, his video was clear to me. Out of final desperation, I called my dad (I know I should’ve called the police, but it really was difficult to process this nightmare). As soon as I picked up my phone, the man slowed down, and drove away. I went home crying that night.
The second: It was nine at night, and I was with two male friends. They were walking a few yards in front of me. I didn’t notice the four men staring at me. I looked past the four men to call out to my friends, only to have my eyes focus on their faces. They were extremely close to me. Now, they knew I saw them, and once again, they had my attention. The four men took this opportunity to call me names such as “baby” “sweetheart” and “sex machine.” I ignored them, and followed that classic advice: “drop your head, look at your feet, and keep walking.” However, they weren’t about to let me get away with it. One of them called me out on it: “Why are you ignoring us baby girl?” “Damn! Look at that ass! That’s right, give us a show! Keep on walking!” I had no choice but to keep on walking. But it only got worse. “Man, we would have sex with you any day— even if you tried to resist! You hear that, sweetheart? We’re gonna get our sex out of you no matter what you want!” They followed me for a few feet. When I finally caught up with my friends, they stopped approaching me. And out of fear, I didn’t say anything. I pretended it never happened.
When I use the word “catcalling”, I’m not referring to the teenager who whistled at me. Although, yes, that happens, and it happens almost every single time I walk down a street, these instances happen in such large quantities, I literally can’t mention them all. The word catcalling has a much deeper, complex meaning than people think.
I now use it in place of “sexual harassment,” because once I explain to the people around me what occurred, they tell me “That isn’t catcalling! You were harassed!” Yes, I know, but these two things should not be separate. Catcalling and sexual harassment are one in the same. They are both disgusting, and equally terrifying. It does not matter what you look like or who you are - male, female, or of any ethnicity - sexual harassment has no preference.
So next time someone mentions catcalling, repeat the phrase “sexual harassment” to yourself.
