Dear man in the blue truck,

Hi! Do you remember me? I never know if men like you yell at me because you do it all the time or because you saw me and decided to single me out. Either way, I hope you remember me, because I certainly remember you. You were the first man to catcall me-- but, in case you were curious, you weren't the last.

I was walking home from school. I was carrying my baritone saxophone with me. I was alone. You were in your truck with your friend. You slammed on your horn and hollered out the window at me. You laughed when I dropped my instrument. You sped away-- and then you came back, and you whistled at me again. I was terrified that you were going to follow me home.

I was also 13 years old.

Men like you haven't stopped catcalling me since. It hasn't mattered how old I am or what I'm wearing, where I am or what I'm doing. When I was visiting New York City last summer, something I had been looking forward to for months, a young man in Central Park called out that he liked my collar (referring to my necklace) and asked what I'd let him do to me. There was a family with toddlers nearby; can you believe that?

Somehow, it's at its worst when I'm working. On Tuesday alone, over the course of a five-hour shift, I was catcalled four times. I hand out maps in Downtown Annapolis for a living; somehow, to a disturbing number of men, that makes me an ample target for catcalling. And yes, it is targeting, and no, saying that you'd love to have sex with me (in much, much cruder words) is not a compliment.

Do you know what I wear to work, man in the blue truck? I wear khaki pants and a navy polo two sizes too big for me. I wear tennis shoes. I wear a baseball cap. I wear the same clothes as every 40-year-old dad in the area. It's not attractive. I've often wondered why anyone would say anything to me when I'm in my uniform, but I've figured it out. You say you're complimenting me. You tell me to take it easy. But when it is remarkably obvious that what you're doing is not "being complimentary," it's street harassment, how can I take it easy? When a 30-year-old man yells at me to blow him at 9 o'clock in the morning on a Sunday, when a man a full foot taller than me whistles at me and walks way too close for over a block, when I am in the service industry and am compelled by the expectations of my job and of society to be polite and not talk back, how can I take it easy?

What you do is not complimentary. It's either a performance of your heterosexual manhood for your friends, who whistle along with you, or it's a show of gendered dominance. It's not for my benefit, at all; I know that, to you, hollering at me is just a way for you to show what a "man," man being defined as someone sexual and dominant and powerful, you are. It's not a compliment (I can't say that enough). It's a display. And, to me, it's terrifying. Man in the blue truck, why can't you understand that?

I've been forced to hear time and time again about everything you and all the men like you would like to do to me. Man in the blue truck, I think it's finally time I got to tell you everything I'd like for you to do.

I want you to record the things you say to girls on the street, then play it for the people in your life, especially the women. Play it for your mother. Your girlfriend. Your aunt. The woman in the cubicle next to you. Your wife. Your grandmother. Your daughter. Better yet, why don't you do it in front of them? Then you can tell me if they ever, ever look at you the same way again. I want you to feel the complete shame only a personal connection will ever bring you. I want to see your face get red and hot. I want you to cry because, for the first time, you've realized that all women are people, too, and I want you to be ashamed that it took you so long to humanize half the population, and it took not empathy, not maturity, but guilt for you to do it.

I want you to look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself all the things you say to me. Imagine you're walking alone down a small street. An empty street. Now imagine a person twice your size leaning out the window of the passenger side of a massive truck. And this person is leering at you, shouting every disgusting thing their mind can think of, and they see you not as a person but as a body. I want you to feel your stomach twist, feel your eyes burn, feel your heart seize when you realize that this person could easily just get out of their car. They could chase you down-- and you can't outrun them, no matter how fast you go or how hard you try-- and they could grab you and they could do anything they want to do to you. I want you to feel what it's like to be on the other side of this power dynamic. I want you, for just a moment, to feel helpless.

(But I would never actually-! you may now protest, but know this: when you catcall, the woman you're targeting doesn't know you or your intentions; they only know what you say. And if you would say the things you say, there's not a small chance that you could do them, too.)

There's one final thing I want you to do. It's more important than the other two, more realistic, and, frankly, it's the one thing I care about the most. I want you to stop. And I can guarantee every other person you harass wants the same. At best, your catcalls are irritating and unsettling. At worst, they're threatening. Regardless, they are unwanted.

Man in the blue truck, I hope you don't catcall anymore, I really hope you don't. I hope you've grown up and realized that nothing good comes from even whistling at a woman. But, if you haven't, I want you to know one more thing.

Every time I get catcalled, I see your face. I can hear your laugh. I feel the pit in my stomach as if I was still 13, still jumping at the sound of your car horn. That's your legacy, man in the blue truck, at least to me. I can't help but wonder how that would make you feel.

Sincerely,

Mairin