Colleen Viana reflects on her experiences with catcalling and opens an important discussion about street harassment
On any given day, there are three things I fear while walking the streets of New York City:
- Pigeons (better known as rats with wings)
- A sea of tourists (though less of a fear and more of an annoyance—if you work in SoHo on the weekends you’ll understand)
- Catcallers
The inevitable “damn girl!” or “what’s up, beautiful?” while at first complimentary, is enough to ruin your walk to work, the bodega, the bars, or hell, even the laundromat. A shout-out to your derriere can even cause more frustration than those relentless pigeons, sadly. It wasn’t until recently that I started contemplating the pragmatics of these very uncomfortable situations. The other day, for instance, I had to stop myself from looking back to shout, “YOUR MOM’S CHEST HAIR” when asked “where did those luscious locks come from, sexy?” It’s a constant reminder to pick your battles; but when is enough, enough?
There is no way to easily confront being sexually harassed; that is essentially what catcalling is, believe it or not. It’s a conversation that is easily avoidable, often uncomfortable in the same manner as experiencing it. They are not moments we wish to recount, yet it happens so often that this unhappened conversation needs to start happening.
So here is my story about the first time I can recall being catcalled, and not liking it (but when do you, really?).
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