Two weeks ago, I walked out my door in ripped sweatpants, Uggs (yes, Uggs) and an old t-shirt. I hadn’t showered so I threw my hair up and put on sunglasses, basically telling the world I didn’t want to be seen. I walked down Fordham Road on my way to Walgreens only to find myself waiting at a crosswalk while a group of five or six men hollered at me.
“Hey sexy, why don’t you come over here and let me show you how beautiful I think you are?”
“Look at that fine ass”
and my favorite,
“Come here, sugar puss, let me see those sweet cheeks.”
People started to stare at me, and the only reason I didn’t become super self-conscious is simply because I was in the middle of the Boogie Down Bronx. I wasn’t really worried about anyone staring at me. I ignored them and went on to run my errands. Of course, a half hour later, they were still sitting there. They saw me earlier this time, yelling at me and laughing from all the way down the street. At this point, I was fed up, so I did something my mom wouldn’t have been proud of and walked over to them.
Before I go any further. Let’s just acknowledge that this wasn’t my finest moment. Especially in the Bronx, it isn’t the best idea to confront men who do this. A few weeks ago, a woman was killed for standing up to the men who were harassing her. But I took my chances and figured it was 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning in the middle of the crowded Bronx; what could they do?
Immediately, these men got all riled up, laughing and slapping each other on the backs – so pleased that they had gotten a rise out of me. I walked over and simply told them I didn’t appreciate being yelled at when I’m just trying to run my errands and mind my own business. It was like someone flipped a switch. They were defensive and angry, calling me even worse names now and telling me I was an ungrateful whore for having not thanked them for merely acknowledging “how foxy” I am. They told me I should not have been out in the outfit I was wearing, “doing this to them,” as if my sole purpose that day had been to visually please them. And I was in sweats!
Men defend themselves by saying that our outfits cause them to do this and we’re really to blame because we should wear baggier, less attractive clothes. So I have to make myself less attractive for you? I have to make myself smaller for you? I don’t think so. I don’t plan on changing myself for anyone, anytime soon. I’m not dressing for any man, I wear the clothes I’m wearing for me.
Catcalling and street harassment has been all over the news as of late and it’s finally being brought to light. Men seem to think they are allowed to do this, that they’re flattering us, and most of all, that it’s our fault in the first place because we ‘provoke’ them. The problem all women have at hand is how to solve this. Should we ignore them and pretend like we don’t care? Or does that just perpetuate the behavior? A lot of women believe that ignoring them is the only way to deal with it because the goal of the men who are harassing women on the streets is to get a reaction. They’re looking to make you uncomfortable or to give them a reason to yell more. And it’s because despite everything women do, men still believe they are the superior sex. What’s worse, when we act like we don’t know it (because it’s not true), their testosterone gets the best of them and they become angry and lash out. The only way to solve this problem, in my opinion, is to bring attention to it. Feminism is on the rise, but it is still wildly misunderstood.
A few months ago, when I told a male friend of mine that I am a feminist, he responded by asking, “so you hate boys?” No. I don’t hate boys. I like boys a lot. Some more than others. I just want to be seen as an equal. At the end of the day, feminism really comes down to treating others as you would want to be treated. It just has a different name.