What I’m Thinking When You Catcall Me

“You’re beautiful!” I heard a stranger say as I passed him and his friend the other morning on the way to the gym.

Looking intently at my Spotify playlist, I didn’t even seen them coming. After becoming aware of my surroundings, I realized on this very early morning that I, and these two strange men, were the only ones on this particularly quiet street in the East Village.

Feeling caught off guard, I looked up, then back at him and his friend in disgust.

“What?! You are!” He replied to my unspoken response, chuckling heartily with his friend as they walked off in the other direction.

“Fuck off,” I said quietly, almost to myself, angry that I hadn’t said it louder.

But as I returned to my playlist, I couldn’t quite get myself back into the workout mode. It was only 7AM — I hadn’t showered, eaten breakfast, or put on my sunglasses…I wasn’t quite ready to deal with what has become a completely “normal” part of my routine.

And as I continued walking, I couldn’t help but wonder if my catcaller was still thinking about the situation the same way that I was.

Did he have a girlfriend or a wife? A daughter or a niece? Does he respect women, or does he just not respect women he doesn’t know? Were there other women he had catcalled before seeing me, or was I the first of the day? Would there be others this afternoon? Or how about tomorrow?

But most of all, I wondered if he, or any other man in New York who catcalls me, knows what I’m thinking when things are said in passing on the street, kisses are blown throw open car windows, or lips are licked as I simply pass by a man on the way to the grocery store?

Knowing the general audience of catcallers is probably not on Medium, I doubt this information will ever reach the eyes or ears of such offenders. But even so, I feel compelled to speak up and at least attempt to make people understand what women are thinking when these so-called “compliments” are doled out.

“You’re not flattering me.”

I hear this time and time again from men who catcall: “take the compliment! Can’t you say thank you?”

Why would I say thank you when I’m not flattered?

You are a stranger. Why would I, or any other woman for that matter, give a shit what you think about my appearance?

Compliment your girlfriend. Or your wife. If you don’t have one of those, save your “compliments” for your mother, or your daughter, or some other woman who is far more deserving of your attention than me.

“You would never say that to another man.”

Why, because I have two lumps of fat hanging from my chest and a slit, instead of an appendage of flesh, between my legs, do I deserve less respect on the street than a man?

Why do you feel you have the right to tell me what you think of my body, when you would never turn to a man and do the same?

Is it because you know I won’t fight back? Because I won’t deck you in the face with a punch you so sorely deserve? Do you catcall because you’re a coward who hides behind a masculine facade, preying on women who are alone on streets when you have a male companion by your side?

You may think you’re coming off as bold and assertive, but we see right through you: you’re gutless, and too afraid to have a real conversation with a woman because you know you don’t stand a goddamn chance.

“What gives you the right?”

Why do you feel you have the right to shout your opinion of MY body, MY flesh, MY skin at me at 7 o’clock in the morning?

Do I get in your face when you’ve barely woken up and tell you you’re overweight? Or that you couldn’t be any less attractive to me? Perhaps I should remind you that you’re balding? Maybe women should start telling men their honest evaluations of their appearance? I can almost guarantee you they won’t feel like “compliments.”

“Do you know what it feels like?”

Do you know what it feels like to go out for lunch and have to put in your earphones, blast music, and stare at the ground as you pass by a group of men on their lunchbreak because you can’t bear to hear what they have to say about the way you look today?

Or what it feels like to consistently wear flats over heels because you just don’t feel like being evaluated like an animal in a cage as you walk down the street?

Do you know what it feels like to always have to pack a jacket or sweater to make sure any part of your body that might jiggle or move as you walk, is covered, so you don’t have the listen to the live commentary that comes along with you simply walking down the street?

Have you ever crossed the street to avoid a group of men who look eager to dole out “compliments”?

My walk to work and my lunch break are sometimes the worst parts of my day because I feel like I’m constantly on the defense, wondering what will be said when, how long a stare will linger, or if one of these catcallers will get a bit more bold and do something worse than just talking out of his ass.

“You’re scaring me.”

Whether it’s 7AM, or 11PM, a catcall often comes off as threatening.

When I’m alone on the street and I see two men coming toward me, the first thing I’m thinking is, “What are they going to say?” Mentally preparing myself for what may, or may not, become an offensive exchange.

When you catcall a woman, you’re saying to her, “I don’t respect you.” — as a woman, we’re not just thinking, “wow, what an asshole,” we’re thinking, “wow, I hope he doesn’t turn around and follow me into my apartment.”

Regardless of the intention, a catcall is never a meaningless remark or comment, it’s a serious threat to my body and no matter how I respond, I am almost always walking a little bit faster than I was before.

“Can you just…stop?”

I know this is America and we all have the right to basically think, say and do whatever we like, but by that same token, I have the right to not want to hear it.

So please, cowards, ahem, cat-callers — do me and all women a favor by closing your mouth, averting your eyes and keeping your comments, and your “compliments,” to yourself.