some disjointed thoughts about catcalling, though I don't think that phrasing is very cat-centric

Over the summer I was leaving a corner store when a very young man almost ran into me on his bike. He stopped short, and we looked at each other for a very brief moment while my heart worked its way back down my esophagus and he (probably) assessed my in-one-piece-ness and whether or not I was going to yell at him. As he biked away, he called out his apology (which I believed and believe was sincere since I generally operate under the assumption that people do not leave their homes in the morning with the intention of mowing me over on the sidewalk) and then: “That’s a great dress!” It was a great dress. Is. I did a good job picking it.

Same street, further down. There is a woman I see sometimes as I surface from the train at 116th. She is, in a word, magnificent. She looks like someone painted her. I don’t know a way to keep describing what she looks like without being reductive, but the thing that most people would probably notice first is the expanse of her hips – it is a great expanse. The first time I saw her, something audible tried to get between my teeth.

“You could fall empires,” I wanted to whisper.
“The tides, they search for you.”

But I didn’t, because I’m not a fucking asshole. So I understand the impulse, when faced with the female form, to voice awe. I also understand, though, that I do not have the right to insert myself into her day by commenting on her physicality. I do not assume that her presence in front of me is a question I need to answer. She does not need or want my validation, and she is certainly not asking for approval by walking by me. She doesn’t have to smile because I think she’d look prettier if she did. She doesn’t have to acknowledge me at all. She doesn’t owe me one single thing. Nothing.

I also understand - it is not about awe.
You feel powerless, inadequate. I understand. But you're wrong.

The only thing worth saying out loud about what's in this picture is how much stuff is on the floor.
We are slow-at-furniture-buying humans. Okay?

Same street, still. Outside the cute bakery. I’m listening to voicemail (who leaves voicemail? I hate it so much) and weaving through the slower-moving of humans on the street when I hear someone call me a “big-legged white girl” and loudly wonder what my name is. He stops on the sidewalk and turns to watch me walk away, which I know because I gave him this look:

And then kept walking, phone still attached to my head.

My thoughts are that, they are that “I like your dress” is not “I want to ___ all your ___, *****!” I think of the grays in between, the insidiousness, the overtness, the anger. It’s easier for me to hear about having my “___ ____” than it is to have the word “big” applied to any part of my body, because the former I can easily identify as violence and the latter directs my analysis to myself. There are compliments (which actually belong in a place nowhere near or touching this conversation), and there is aggression, and there is the inability to differentiate between the two, and there is violence and assertion of power and there are many many well-written articles that are written about male gaze and rape culture that articulate the thousand years of oppressions that have led us to today.

This, obviously, is not one of them. But it's what I'm thinking about while I should be answering emails. So, do me a favor and pretend you emailed me and this whole thing was me answering you.