Dear boys,

I am not your toy.
I am not your plaything, your pawn, your pretty little painted doll to push around.

I am not sub-human.
I am not un-human.
I have feelings and thoughts and emotions and fears surprisingly similar to your own.

I am not blind. I saw the once-over you gave me, lecherous eyes scanning every curve.
I am not deaf. I heard the "mmm that's nice," mentioned in an aside to the other guy with you, as though I wasn't even there.
I am not made of stone. I felt your grasping greedy hand reach over to grab what wasn't yours to touch.

I have been catcalled many times, touched in passing, groped and abused, but never - never - never - have I felt dehumanized to the extent that you made me feel today when you behaved as though I wasn't even there. When you acted and spoke as though I was a pixelated woman in a porn reel; unable to hear your commentary, unable to see your glances, or to feel your touch.

You will probably never know that as I walked away from you, head held high, my finger sharp nails dug into the soft palm of my hand until they drew blood, to avoid throwing my steaming chai latte at your face. I bitterly regretted forgetting my pepper spray.
You will never witness the panic attack I had, 10 minutes later, finally off the streets and back inside the building where I worked. There, unable to dismiss the feel of your hand and the look in your eyes from my mind, I finally broke down in solitude - yet couldn't shake the fear that I still wasn't safe.

I couldn't shake the feeling of being nothing more than the sum of my physical parts, the sway of my hips, the shape of my breasts. I couldn't shake the haunting lingering knowledge that a person looked at me and didn't see a person. They looked at me and saw a walking sex object, a less than human, lower than even an animal. They saw an opportunity to slake their lust, a body with nothing that feels; a shell, no soul a-tremble.

And I? I am so much more than a mannequin. I am made of stronger stuff than a store-bought sex toy. I am a fierce heart and a soul forged from steel to survive; and just like you, I am human.

I am alive.

I exist.

I think and feel and love and bleed and cry and laugh and there are those I would die for and those who would die for me. And should you dare try to dehumanize me, I will stand up and I will shout loud enough for the whole world to hear that I am here and I am alive and I will not be made any less than I am by someone such as you

And, in truth, I half pity you. I pity you a culture which has taught you that women are nothing more than objects to be used and discarded at your pleasure. I pity you eyes which view a woman with less respect than you would grant an animal, and a strength wasted in worthless sensuality. I pity you a life lacking in the shared love and mutual respect between equals as man and wife.

But... while I pity you, while I decry and disdain your attitude and actions towards me, I also challenge you. I challenge you to defy them. I challenge you to look me in the eye and see me. I challenge you to remember, when you look at me, that I am so much more than an inanimate object for your wandering eyes to rove.

I am ambitions and I am dreams. I am hopes and I am plans. I am late night laughter and early morning sunrise sneaking over the mountains in the distance. I am the books that have changed me forever and the songs that move me to tears. I am summer night blazing bonfires and winter hot cocoa curled up in my father's oversize armchair. I am awed wonder at the tender touch of a newborn's silken skin and I am sitting silent soaking in ancient wisdom.

I am war and I am peace and I will fight to the death for what I believe in. I am opinions on everything from high heels to heartbreak and I am nothing if not human.

I am every inch a woman, every inch human.

And I dare you to treat me as such.