catcalled on a monday (maybe)

I am sort of amazed that last week passed without any sketchy encounters that left me with the killing rage and terrible shrinking feeling that often accompany catcalling. Chalk it up to irony. I start this blog and somehow the universe knows, fears patriarchy smashing, and relents...

If only that were how the world worked!

Yesterday, I went to the gym. When I finished my work out, I felt great. Endorphins, sweat, cleared sinuses, the whole deal. As I got dressed to leave the gym, I made sure to put on my sweatshirt inside out. The name and logo of my college are printed on the back of my sweatshirt, and it has been used in the past by catcallers to name me and catch my attention. I may have looked funny wearing my sweatshirt inside out, but these are the sort of things I have learned to do to avoid attention. Hood up, hair up, head down, walk fast. 

Usually, my walks home from the gym are quite pleasant. I enjoy the sunlight and the breeze as I walk by kids getting out from school, older men and women sitting on their stoops. 

When I turned onto my block, I saw 4 or 5 men standing in front of my house. I started cursing to myself and praying, preparing for a confrontation. This is my gut reaction to groups of men, irrespective of age. I steady myself, I brace for myself, for whatever it is they are about to say.

As I approached, they began to speak all at once and I could not distinguish what they were saying. I heard one man apologize for blocking the entrance to my house. "It's all right," I said, as I walked up the stairs. This same man said, "Hunh?" as if he did not understand so I turned around and repeated, "It's all right." 

And then came the transition. Oh, the transition. The shift into the realm of the catcall. What begins as an innocent, "Good morning," or "Hello," that you reciprocate and acknowledge because you like strangers/ neighbors/ people, quickly devolves into: "Where are you going? Can I come? You got a boyfriend? Why do you look so mad? Smile for me, sweetie."

Their voices became a drone of questions I could not pick anything out of. I did not know if they were being friendly or rude. One man asked, "Were you at the gym?" I did not want to talk. I wanted to get in my house, shower, and leave in time for an appointment with my mentee. So I did not answer. Got in my house, locked the door, momentarily felt guilty for being rude.

This is one of my biggest problems with catcalling --- I am usually doing something (walking, talking on the phone, grocery shopping, reading, thinking, existing) when someone interrupts. Someone disrupts whatever I am doing with the expectation that I will engage. I will be interested, I will listen, I will be polite, no matter how much my own goals, autonomy, or self-respect seem to be compromised by the exchange. I am happy to listen to others and to be kind, so long as I do not feel coerced. In much of catcalling, the catcaller presumes to be in charge and the catcallee is expected to listen, laugh, and consent on cue. A degraded, gendered, power dynamic. 

Upstairs in my apartment, I called my mother and told her about the men in front of my house. I confessed I was now scared to be alone in the apartment, scared to take off my clothes and shower, scared to leave while they were standing outside. 

"Maybe they're just talking, Naima. They're just standing and talking the way people do." 

In the shower, I thought about what my mother had said. She was right. They were just talking. I wondered, How did I get to this point? How did I become terrified of men talking on the street?

The answer is clear. Since I was a teen, and perhaps before, much of my experience of public space has been marked by harassment. Between the harassment and all the other ways patriarchy is manifest in life and society, I've got plenty of reasons.

Still, it troubles me that I am so often afraid of the men in my neighborhood. I brace myself before passing groups of men who look like me, my father, my brother, young people I love and work alongside. This reality makes me equal parts sad and enraged. I am usually right in my apprehension --- I have found, over the years, there ain't much I can do without someone attempting to objectify or intimidate me. Can't sit on my stoop, go to the gym, or buy rice without someone (usually a man, usually of color) having something to say to me about my appearance, my gender, my desire, my race.

When I finally left my house to mentor, the men were farther along the block near the corner. Two little girls played near them on the street. The men could have been their fathers, their uncles. As I walked by, the man who had done most of the talking before said, "Take care."

I answered, "Thank you. You Take care," and kept moving.

For all I know, my mother was right. They could be kind folks who meant no harm and intended no disrespect. The truth is I'll never know.