I can walk just about anywhere and feel observed. That is what people do; observe. And it doesn’t bother me all that much, but there are times when it is more than that. I feel assessed. And judged. And taken. This is street harassment. However, it has become so normalized that we accept it as a fact of life, and move on. And I don't want to anymore.

Let me explain; I was on the train, alone for the first time. I was minding my own business, headphones in my ears, ready to get off at the next stop when a weathered and fairly dirty old man walked by my seat, stopped, turned to face me and said, “Let me see a smile.” Being the "polite young girl" that I was, I obeyed and smiled. He smiled back with satisfaction written from corner to corner of his mouth, victory edging over the crooked slopes of his teeth. I kept smiling because I thought this was a compliment; it made me happy to be noticed and it made me think I was special.

But I wasn’t special. I was an object. I did what a nice little girl should do; what he said.

We are all expected to be these “nice little girls,” answering when told to, smiling when prompted, looking good when looked upon. And if we don’t do these things, then shame on us for being impolite, rude, and "standoffish."

I was freshly 18 years old when I moved to the city for school. I started to become hyper aware of my surroundings because, you know, that’s what nice little girls are taught to do. I would be walking to class and the one street I had to cross that wasn’t part of campus held men in cars calling out to me saying “hey girl,” and calling me a "bitch" when I didn’t answer them.

When I walked through the city for my internship, I knew which streets to avoid because I knew that walking there would mean having multiple pairs of eyes on me; surveying and judging me like the apple you're trying to pick at a grocery store. I know and have been taught to avert my eyes when I see a man staring because that man will inevitably take my returned gaze as an invitation. When I walk past a construction site during lunchtime and all of the workers happen to be outside, I hear murmurs between two men, and I hear them utter the words “that’s a nice little girl right there” as I walk by.

But the thing is, they don’t even have to say anything to make you uncomfortable. It is the look. The eyes that wander like they own the surface of your body, like they have the right to linger and violate your innocence with a demeaning scan of your body that tells you in that moment that you are no more than a piece of art, and they are the critic.

And I have had enough. Females have had enough. We don't want to avert our eyes, speed up our pace, or adjust our clothing based on someone else. And so I think, "I dare you to look into my eyes, and see the windows to my soul, not the windows to a peep show. I dare you to challenge my independence and freedom with just one sentence. I dare you to call me names. I dare you to try to see more to me than my outer layer. Because the truth is, I am not a 'nice little girl.' I am a student, a woman, a friend, and honestly; a human being. That deserves respect."