When you call me out on the street with messages like “Hey, Honey,” “How you doing, babe,” or “Smile for me,” I am not flattered; I am unsettled. You make me feel small, even though I try so hard to walk with my head held high.
When you yell at me on the street all of my body goes stiff. I do not know your intentions. Will you hurt me? Will you act on your words? A catcall, while usually just a few words yelled, feels like more. It makes my skin crawl with disgust. It makes me feel ashamed that you would think so lowly of me. It feels gross, like you assume you have a right to speak to me in a way that I am being reduced to an object in your eyes; a piece of flesh to yell at and watch.
You, sir, make me feel unsafe in my own skin. You make me feel objectified, belittled, and dirty. You take the liberty of speaking to me in a way that no one should speak to me, like I am your object, your plaything. I am not your anything. You assume that you have that right; you assume wrong.
I urge you to reconsider your actions. Imagine your daughters, mothers, or sisters being reduced to a whistle on the street. You have no right to reduce me, or my fellow women, to an object.
I am not your anything. Your baby. Your honey. Your object to ogle at. And you are wrong to assume anything different. I am mine.