The Whistles

I’ve been trying to write this post for a few days, but each time I tried to explain how I felt in an even-toned, well thought-out way, it devolved into rant.

And then I realized I was treating my ranting as though it wasn’t an appropriate response to the situation, when instead, I should be focusing on the power my outrage holds.

Here’s the situation. It’s a Friday evening. I look killer because I have a date later that night. I’m walking home, and out of nowhere, I hear the yell. The “Hey girl. Looking goooood. Want my number?” yell.

Later that night, whilst walking around the downtown area of my college town, I hear the sound that I can only describe as a “whistle-grunt.” Anyone who has been cat-called knows what I’m talking about.

I was alone the first time it happened. I turned up my iPod, hurried home, and tried to shake the incredibly disgusting feeling that kind of thing always leaves me with. The second time it happened that night, I was with my date. I had already talked about what had happened earlier and how much I intensely dislike being yelled at by strange men in passing cars. When it happened again, I screamed back “my short skirt is not a fucking invitation” and my date tried to figure out the best way to support me. I said there was no right way. I just needed to be angry for awhile and sort it out.

The next day, I discussed the situation with one of my best feminist friends. When expressing my disdain for cat-calling, she said something to the effect of “I know. It just takes away all your power in that one moment. It’s such a sudden and powerful shift and it’s an awful, awful feeling.”

I couldn’t agree more. When it happens, it’s like all at once, the years of work I’ve put into loving my body-seeing it as a temple I am lucky enough to live within, means nothing. It feels like no matter what I do and how hard I fight for the kind of justice I believe in, to some, my body will always be some sort of public domain upon which they have the right to comment.

It’s also made me analyze the different things that get yelled at me while I’m walking down the street depending on who I’m with. (The whole cat-calling/slurring happens to me on a way too frequent basis) When I’m by myself, it’s almost always a traditional cat-call and the same when I’m with a more masculine looking date/friend/partner. When I would walk around with a former partner who was more feminine presenting, however, we always got the “DYKE” slur yelled from cars of anonymous white men. My real point, however, is that no matter what the situation, it seems my body or my life is still something that people (read: white men) feel it is their place to speak about.

I know there has been a real movement to reclaim cat-calling and I think the women who can turn random comments from random men into something that affirms their beauty and self-worth are truly radical. But I can’t. At least not yet. When it happens to me, I still feel like the 12 year old I used to be. The one who hated her body and didn’t know how it fit into this great big world. I’m not her anymore, and I’m tried of people trying to bring her back.