When I was little, catcalling confused me. I would see it in movies and TV shows, and it always seemed like the catcallers were proud of themselves. But half the time the woman would be disgusted in response, and the other half of the time she would be flattered. I could not understand it - was it a compliment or an insult?
As I got older, I realized that catcalling was most definitely not a compliment, but rather objectification disguised as flattery. It involves reducing a woman to her body, refusing to recognize her as a complex human being and instead treating her as an object of desire.
But still, even though I knew catcalling was wrong, and that as a feminist I was vehemently against it, I did not understand how it could really be that damaging or how it could be that demoralizing. Until it happened to me.
It saddens me to say that the first time I experienced catcalling was on my college campus. While I do not believe (or perhaps, refuse to believe) that the offender was a member of the campus community (i.e. not a student or faculty member, nor a member of the staff), it is still unnerving to think that this happened on my warm, friendly, inviting college campus. There is no way around the fact that this incident happened at the place I call home. Perhaps what's worse is that it happened as I was crossing the main road that runs through campus, in the area right near the entrance to my residence quad. It was nighttime during the winter, so it was dark out even though it wasn't even that late - before 9 p.m. I was walking on the sidewalk towards the street, and just as I was about to cross, a man in a white SUV poked his head out the window and said, "Hey beautiful." It caught me completely by surprise. I wish I hadn't, but my immediate instinct was to look at him - because if you think someone is addressing you, your natural response is to look at them for confirmation. My quick glance to him ensured that he was talking to me, because he was looking at me. My eyes met his for a split second before I immediately looked away. Once I had crossed the one-way street, not even pausing to see if cars were coming because I was so desperate to return to the safety of my room, I looked back to see if there was any possibility that he hadn't been talking to me. I realized then that I had been the only person walking in that area, so my suspicion came down with crushing reality: I had just been catcalled.
After all this time, I still cannot quite describe the sensation I experienced when I was catcalled. It was somewhere between my stomach simultaneously dropping and lurching, my heart sinking whilst also seizing mid-beat. I suppose the best word to describe how I felt was unnerved, but even that feels inadequate. I have never felt more distinctly icky in my life than when I was catcalled. All I know is that it is a feeling like no other, truly unique to the situation. I know because just a week ago I was catcalled in Penn Station in New York City. It's a place where I suppose I would expect it more than I would on my college campus, yet the same feeling came flooding back, just as clear and sharp as it was the first time. Except this time, I was smart enough to ignore the offender. I turned my head the other way, and pretended I hadn't heard him.
Please, do not catcall. I speak from personal experience when I say that I have never felt worse about myself than when I was catcalled. Even that is hard to admit, because I hate that how I feel about myself can be dictated by someone who sees me only as an object of desire. It makes you feel ashamed for being the way you are, for looking the way you do. You think to yourself, "Maybe if my hair wasn't done or I wasn't wearing any makeup, it wouldn't have happened." Catcalling reduces a woman to her appearance and assumes an entitlement to a woman's body. It takes something natural like innocent attraction and turns it into objectification, dehumanizing the woman and disregarding her agency over who gets to voice opinions on her body. It makes you feel as though someone has invaded your life, like they have entered your personal safety bubble, and that feeling of safety is hard to regain; all these months later, I still have to be wary when I approach that same spot on campus late at night. Catcalling is disempowering, forcing a woman to connect her self-worth to her appearance. Please, keep your thoughts to yourself.
