So, I got catcalled for the first time this past Friday afternoon.
I was walking down the street, looking straight ahead, when this adult guy walking past me (I’m seventeen) said, “Hey, sweetheart, you’re looking beautiful today.” I walked several more steps before finally just saying a “Thanks” that was so venomous, it could have melted the skin right off of his face if he wasn’t careful.
Maybe I should have felt angry, or scared, or sad. Instead, I was extremely confused, thoughtful, and somewhat reproachful.
To be honest, it felt like a rite of passage — as in, “I can finally cross that of my bucket list.” It wasn’t like I was shocked that something like that happened — it’s kind of hard to be surprised when you’re catcalled when you’re a girl in a male-dominated society.
The catcall was kind of eclipsed by the fact that a second adult male started following me less than ten seconds later. I made eye contact with him as I turned around and saw him crossing the street so that he’d be on the same sidewalk I was on, his eyes on me. Maybe something in my face scared him off — the determined, murderous, try me expression — or the car keys gripped in my fingers like a knife — but, the next time I turned around, he was gone. Maybe he’d decided against attacking me, or maybe he’d never intended to in the first place. Regardless, once I’d…
