Catcalls Are No Compliment

I will not be grateful to walk down the street unembarrassed. I will not be thankful that today I wasn't shouted at on my walk to school. I will not be told to smile but men old enough to be my father.

Today I'll be discussing catcalling. A feminist edge to the last few posts has deterred some, please do leave if it offends, that is preferable to being complicit in my own oppression.

It has gone on for as long as I can remember. I rarely wait at a bus stop without it, but it has gotten worse. I have been bothered recently, bothered by boys in cars. What do you want? Do you think I will turn around and fall into your arms? Am I expected to declare that I have been looking my entire life for the man I can one day tell my children I met when he shouted at me on my walk to work? I don't like it when they roll down the window, just so they can get a good look. That's when I am gifted a glance at their stupid, smug, empty faces which makes my stomach churn. You see, the same men who shout nice legs also shout slag out the window as I walk.

No, it's not being unable to take a compliment. I love real, genuine compliments, they practically sustain me,

If they looked at my face or into my eyes they'd be silent upon the realisation that I am real. I am human, I hear all their shouts and I see all their gestures. I understand them, despite the fact I don't speak their particular language of moron.

The summer months are coming, spring ahead, so as I pack away my tights and jumpers I have something on my mind. Here come the months of dresses and with them innuendos that don't go over my head.  I am smarter than them and I understand. It took me a while to realise, embarrassingly long, but now I know that it's not me. It's not my tights or what I wear nor the way I stand or walk. It's the same in a coat, in my work clothes even when I wore school uniform.

Mock me, catcall me if you want, it only gives me more to write about. Catcalls have never been a compliment.