New York City
Sarah Emerson is a Brooklyn-based Hawaiian. She writes about animal stuff and loves Spam. You can follow her on Twitter here.
Monday, September 15:
Number of times in one day: 2
1.
Time of day: 8:45 a.m.
Location: Broadway and W Houston, SoHo
Were you alone? Yes.
Was he alone? No, he was with a group of construction workers.
What happened?
What we have here is your classic catcall. A burly, middle-aged construction worker hollered empty flattery at me, a lone female passerby, from his scaffolded pedestal of manliness. He whistled and shouted, “Hey, sweetheart!”
This flavor of catcall is my least favorite on the menu. I hate it because it’s sufficiently veiled behind artificial nicety for a man to make you feel bad when you shun his advances. In spite of that, my rule of thumb is to err on the side of “this dude wants to fuck you,” as opposed to “this dude is just being really nice!,” because better safe than sorry you ever started talking to this guy in the first place.
I felt shaken and angry as I walked away, because despite my unwillingness to engage with him, he’d successfully managed to shove his way into my consciousness (and ruined my morning walk).
While this fellow didn’t physically follow me down the street, his gaze did. That’s the thing with catcalls. They stick to you. The gross, penetrating feeling of his eyes on my body stayed with me for the rest of the morning.
2.
Time of day: 2:15 p.m.
Location: Whole Foods, Bowery and Houston
Were you alone? No.
Was he alone? Yes.
What happened?
I was standing in line at Whole Foods to pay for my lunch, chatting with a coworker. Clutching my shitty array of terrible salad bar items, I noticed that a guy in the neighboring check-out lane seemed to creepily catch my glance every time I looked in his general direction. He was older—maybe in his forties—and sported a sleek man-bun. Holding onto a container of sushi and a bottle of kombucha.
There’s a feeling you get in your gut when you realize you’re being leered at by a strange man. Imagine someone running their hands along your body without your consent. The reaction is like an urge to puke coupled with a strong desire rip their eyeballs out. Yeah, that sounds dramatic and violent (Scout’s Honor, I have never ripped anyone’s eyeballs out), but unwelcome looks can be just as violating as other forms of sexual harassment.
It’s difficult to reject an obscene glance. It’s embarrassing to say “stop looking at me.” It’s impossible to prevent someone from eye-fucking you. Short of stealing my food, there was nothing I could do to evade his gaze, so I waited in line until it was over.
Tuesday, September 16:
Number of times: None
Wednesday, September 17:
Number of times: 2
1.
Time of day: 4:40 p.m.
Location: Outside the Broadway-Lafayette Station, SoHo
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? No
What happened?
Two eastern European men leered at me as I walked to the subway. I have no idea what they said about me in their native tongue (Polish?), but the body language of lecherous old men is universal.
2.
Time of day: 4:40 p.m.
Location: Outside the Broadway-Lafayette Station, SoHo
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? Yes
What happened?
A young, cool, arrogant guy was pushing his bike on the platform, and as I walked by he yelled, “You got a sexy style! Kinda weird.”
I like to think of this as a catcall nestled within an insult nestled within a compliment. Sort of like a rude Matryoshka doll that wants to gawk at your ass. I silently brushed past him, annoyed, but not without reflexively asking myself if maybe I was dressed sexy. Possibly? Let’s see. Today, like most days, I was looking pretty damn normcore. Jeans, sweatshirt, high-tops. Nearly every part of my body was covered. I was sweaty. Tired and bloodshot eyes rested behind my sunglasses. Bitchy resting face out in full force. Hmmm. Not the embodiment of sexiness. Not wanting to waste another second contemplating this man’s definition of “sexy,” I concluded that men don’t need a reason to be terrible.
Thursday, September 18:
Number of times: 1
Time of day: 6:40 p.m.
Location: On the G train
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? No
What happened?
It was the end of a long day and I was slumped in my seat, reading the last chapters of my book. I was next to a group of boisterous, chattering twenty-something German men. The seat next to me was empty. I felt a thump, and looked up from my book to see one of the men sitting next to me. He looked back at his friends and started laughing. Oh god, he was pressing his leg up against mine. What was this? Middle school? Was he going to yawn and reach his arm around my shoulders? Perturbed and deeply embarrassed, I slid over as far as I could toward the window. He widened his legs so that his knee was touching my thigh. Fuck this. I bolted up and walked down to the opposite end of the train car. I had to wait four stops until I was able to escape.
I hated them and myself for being the one who had to give up my seat. For being the one who had to run from their harassment. It felt cowardly, but I didn’t want to dignify their come-on with a second of my attention. All I wanted was to get off that train.
Friday, September 19:
Number of times: 1
1.
Time of day: 8:25 a.m.
Location: Myrtle Ave. and Nostrand Ave., Bed Stuy
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? Yes
What happened?
Usually, my boyfriend and I walk to the subway each morning to ride into work. And being a burly, intimidating tattooed dude, he’s the best catcall deterrent that I could ask for. But today I was alone, no big deal. A man on his bike whistled at me as he biked past. This wasn’t a signal for me to get out of the way. We weren’t even close. No one else was around. The two of us made eye contact, and I watched him turn his head to look back as he rode away. I brushed it off and kept on walking, and fantasized about him falling off his bike.
Saturday, September 20:
Number of times: 1
1.
Time of day: 3:50 p.m.
Location: A store on 5th Ave., in Midtown.
Were you alone? Yes
Was he alone? Yes
What happened?
Wanting to check out a sale, I walked into a popular clothing store in Midtown with my boyfriend. When we split up to check out our respective floors, I was immediately approached by one of the employees. He was nice and attentive, and complimented me on my style. Pretty harmless stuff.
After perusing the women’s section once, I disinterestedly leafed through a rack of pants. Then out of nowhere, there he was again, right at my side. Instead of asking if I needed assistance, he commented on my looks and wanted to know where I was from. Hawaii. What was I doing in New York? Work. Where did I live now? Bed Stuy. Oh, he lived there, too! Had I ever been to this one bar on Bedford? Ughhh. I did my best to politely excuse myself from the scene, and motioned that I was leaving. But he followed me. I walked away some more. He followed me again. Now I was starting to feel panicky, as one does when they’re being pursued. I saw the stairs and made a break for them. When he called out to me, my stomach dropped. He appeared at my side again, but this time with a pen and paper in hand. He thought we’d get along, and wanted my number. His roommates were super cool, and I could come over and hang out with them. “Ummm, sorry,” I said while walking away. “I have a boyfriend. He’s here and I’m waiting for him.” I didn’t stick around to hear his reply.
Once outside, I walked two blocks over to ensure that I was out of sight. I sent a text to my boyfriend, telling him what happened. He showed up a few minutes later and said he wished he was there. I shook my head. Whatever. It’s fine.
Sunday, September 21:
Number of times: None
