In North Carolina, I barely got cat-called (although that was pre-breasts) and when I lived in Florence, it happened more often, but still only about once a week. When I moved to Pittsburgh it went down to a few times a month, probably because I live on a college campus. It was annoying and uncomfortable, but it was just one tiny annoying and uncomfortable thing in a huge world of annoying and uncomfortable experiences.
Then, I went to visit my friend in New York City. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been catcalled twice a day, minimum, every day, and I kind of want to kill someone.
I know people who like to respond. They like to shout back sassy things like “Would you say that to your mother?” or just insults like “Shut up douchebag.” But I can’t respond like that because I have this policy where I don’t like to address the type of stranger who thinks it is okay to yell things about my breasts and then call me a b*tch for not thanking him because God knows what he’ll do to me.
So, I put my head down and hug my arms around my chest and walk quickly and do not, do NOT make eye contact, no matter what. It’s the equivalent of ignoring the situation. Maybe if I walk away from it fast enough, I can pretend it didn’t happen, and my lungs will stop tightening, and my skin won’t feel slimy, and my heart will stop pounding.
Sometimes that doesn’t work, though.
Like when I was with a friend (wearing a hoodie and sneakers and a ponytail, not that it matters) and it was dusk and a stranger screamed slurry words at us for thirty full seconds, and no matter how fast we walked, it seemed endless. The poisonous words floating across the night air like buzzing mosquitoes tickling our ears from half a block away, and then a full block away, and then a block and a half away, and we could still hear him and we couldn’t help but think, if he puts this much effort into catcalling us, is he willing to stand up and follow us? But we can’t look back and check, because if he’s there and we make eye-contact he might interpret that as interest.
Or when it was pouring rain (and I wearing denim shorts and Converse, not that it matters) and a man stepped in front of me saying “Hiiiii princess, can I talk to you?” We’ve all done that awkward tip-toeing waltz where you step to one side, and the person in front of you steps to the same side, and then you both step back the other way, and you can’t walk ahead because you keep getting in each other’s way. But normally it’s not because there’s a six and a half foot tall man blocking you on purpose and calling you princess with a disgusting smile on his face that makes you want to throw up and run in the other direction.
I tried to dodge and walk away when a man approached me and said “Hey girl,” (I was wearing a high-necked dress, not that it matters) but when I ignored him he got four inches away from me and yelled, “You’re racist, you’re F*CKING RACIST,” and I could feel his hot breath on my face and my fast walk had to turn into a cross-the-street-while-jogging because all I wanted in that moment was more than four inches of distance between us.
When you’re catcalled every time you step outside, it’s more than annoying and it’s more than uncomfortable. I’ve been in New York for five days and I never want to speak to a man again.
