Had a Real New York Moment™ tonight

[exiting the subway]
Some teenager: Hey sexy.

[ten feet out of the subway station]
Guy in his 30s: Have a good night, beautiful.

[rounding the corner to my block]
Some old dude: Smile, precious. Show them pretty teeth.
Me: Oh FUCK you.

I don’t tend to read a ton of feminist stuff on the internet, but I saw one thing the other month that really stuck with me and I’m going to paraphrase it now: a male college student was taking a class on gender. One day in class the professor drew a vertical line down the center of the board and wrote “men” on one side and “women” on the other. The professor then asked the male students what they did on a daily basis to prevent themselves from being raped. Between all of the men in the lecture hall, they came up with two bullets and they were things like “wear clothes” and “don’t wander into dark alleys.” After about five minutes the men had nothing left to say, and hadn’t come up with any more ideas. The professor then asked the same question of the women, and they filled their side of the board over the next 45 minutes. “Avoid eye contact,” “cross the street,” “hold my keys just in case I need to defend myself,” etc etc etc. I wish I could find a link to wherever this story is, but I can’t remember where I read it — regardless, the thing that stuck out to the guy who wrote it was how much time a woman has to spend in a state of defense on a given day.

I bring this up because I’m in a weird place tonight. My heart feels heavy, I’m generally lethargic and no good for being around people. All I wanted to do when I got off the train was trudge this ass home. My arms were crossed. My eyes were down. I was probably frowning without realizing it because I’m apt to do that. Of course none of that should matter, but I say this to illustrate that I was not inviting conversation. I was not sitting at a booth with a sign that said, “Reach out to me. I’m dying to know how looking at me makes you feel.”

But the mere fact that I was there, on a sidewalk, in a public space, made three separate individuals feel entitled to throw out innuendos like confetti and it’s just exhausting. And I know it’s well-worn territory, and I know the most irritating people you met at your small liberal-arts college loved to talk about this shit, but there really aren’t the right words for how awful it made me feel. How I’m not even allowed to have my own shitty moments in this world because a fucking stranger is entitled to interject. And convention calls for me to walk away and pretend I didn’t hear it — to just absorb that energy like it’s something I had coming.

This is why people get old and angry. Too much of this.

Do I think those men meant to make me feel unsafe? No. Do I think that, had this happened on a different night, I might not have dropped an F-bomb on a 70-year-old? Absolutely. But do I think that, even for a minute, myself, or your sister, or your girlfriend have any less of a right to be on a fucking tract of pavement without presenting a five paragraph essay as to why we are a peer and not a pork thigh on a hook? Suck my dick.

I’ve been wanting to talk about this for a long time but never knew how, and here it is, perfectly encapsulated. Thank you, Christine, for putting together the words I never really could.

That being said, there’s one point on which I’d have to disagree. Do I think those men meant to make me feel unsafe? Yes. Absolutely.

I say this because of a simple fact: of the men that make passes on me day-to-day, how many of them think they actually have a chance? The much-older men, the men that whisper things as I walk past, the men that stand by and call things out, the teenage boys on any given corner that react in groups, the guy on the elevator who tries to make small talk and then throws in the unsolicited comment, the cat-calling subway conductors, the police officer that winks and says “Be safe, sweetheart” out of the blue in a way that makes me feel less safe than I felt five seconds ago, the men that leer even when I’m not alone, the men that creep closer in subway trains when they’re already only inches away, and worst—the everyday guys, regular kids and adults, who think they’re brightening up my day by paying me a compliment (a simple “you look beautiful” from the teenage cashier at rite aid or the “damn I love that dress” from the outgoing Starbucks barista)—who make me feel equal parts uncomfortable and inexplicably guilty because surely they didn’t mean any harm, right?

But that’s the thing. These guys do, knowingly or not. They seek to harm by the simple fact that these comments are not made in actual pursuit of something with me; they eject these words into the atmosphere out of sheer insensitivity, because they feel they have a right to say them, and most of all, because they want to see me react. The guy that says “God you’re sexy” as you walk by isn’t trying to get you to date him; he says that because he feels he has ownership over your projected image as a woman. That he has a right to comment on you or your body. And he does this purely to make you uncomfortable.

This is the answer I’ve come up with after years of asking “WHY”. If I see an attractive man, I would never presume to say or do things like this, so why is it that men feel they have a right to say/do things like this around me? But the sad part is not that it happens to me, but that women, day in and day out, have to face this no matter where they are. By making these passes and paying these unsolicited “compliments”, strange men invade their right to privacy and peace and make the outside world feel hostile purely because they can.

I don’t know what my point is in saying all this, but I just needed to get it off my chest and not feel crazy for feeling this way. It just sucks. It fucking sucks because I have to smile sweetly and act surprised and grit my teeth and say “Aw thank you!” like these things don’t creep the fuck out of me, because I’m a lady, and to reject a compliment would be ungracious.

Fuck this game, man. I’m with Christine. Suck my dick.

I agree with you on this one, girl. It’s exactly how you said it - these comments are made to see how you will react and to make you uncomfortable. The sheer fact that young girls - I’m talking 12-13 - get this treatment on a regular basis tells you clearly that it’s not because they actually want to get with you. I don’t know about you guys, but when I get comments and stares and leering thrown at me, my natural instinct is to shy away, avert my gaze or hang my head, and slink by as if nothing happened (because my mind takes it as a threat?). But I don’t do that. Not anymore. At one point in the time I’ve been smart to think about these things, I realized that it was my reaction that gave these men pleasure - and it was that particular reaction that made them feel good. So over the years, I’ve just taught myself to go against my natural instinct. When a man (unless he’s overtly dangerous) makes a comment, leers, etc, I walk even in taller, look straight ahead, and strut like a fucking fashion model, as if I’m more comfortable in my own body now that he’s commented on it. They hate that.