My First Time Being Catcalled

The first time I was catcalled was not in circumstances I had been taught to fear. I was running alone, but in the middle of the day, alongside a large road. I was tired and feeling bad about myself — covered in sweat and still moving like a snail through the last leg of my run — when a biker whizzed past me on the other side of the road and called out, “Looking good.”

The words struck me. I stared for a second. I didn’t worry about being attacked since he was across the road from me and moving at a fast clip. I watched as he biked out of view, questions rushing through my mind. What had I done wrong? What had I done to provoke his words? I couldn’t think of anything. Why did he feel the need to yell across the street at a girl he didn’t know? Did I know him? I couldn’t place his face but maybe that would explain it. Should I feel insulted? Complimented?

When I got home, I was unsure if I should say something to somebody. I mean, did it really matter? He hadn’t hurt me, not physically at least. So I didn’t say anything.

I told somebody the second time I was catcalled. Again, it happened during a routine moment: I was wheeling a compost bin past a mall affiliated with the farmers market I volunteer at. It was midmorning and there weren’t many people around. I glanced at a man walking alongside a woman to make sure I didn’t wheel the compost bin into him since full compost bins are heavier than trash and quite unwieldy. The woman went into a jewelry store, but the man stayed outside and looked at me, first at my privates, then my face.

“How you doin’?” he said.

I felt my face flush, muttered something, and made every effort to roll the bin faster. The whole thing happened in a flash, and I don’t remember if I looked at him before he spoke or while he spoke. I remember his eyes, not on my face, but on my body. I remember the shiver that ran down my spine.

At 16, I knew it was only a matter of time before this kind of thing began. But I refused to think about myself as needing protection. I didn’t want to think about whether or not to take jobs based on how fast I could get home from them or memorize lists of rules, like don’t live on the first floor or lock the car doors when you get in. I didn’t want to have to think about being a woman in that way.

But shaken, I realized that if I choose to wander down a poorly lit street or if I choose to run by myself, I am putting myself at risk. That I might be catcalled. It’s like, I’d been standing on the cliff before, looking over, thinking I’d be fine if I fell. And now, with a bungee cord of the choices I can make to protect myself around my ankle, I’ve been shoved off of the cliff. While plummeting, I realized just how important the bungee cord was.

I don’t want to insinuate that victims are to blame. They aren’t. But as much as I would like to pretend I live in a world where women and men are equal, I don’t have that luxury. All the girls in my generation shouldn’t have to deal with catcalling as a normal part of growing up, but they will. I will continue to dream of a world in which we don’t, and maybe the more we talk about it with each other, the sooner that world will come.