I’ve never once heard any of my male acquaintances complain about being holla’d at by some ladies. Their walk home from the bar is but an inconvenience, as depicted in Aziz Ansari’s skit in Master of None, in which a male’s and female’s experiences of a walk home are juxtaposed next to one another. The poor man steps in dog shit. The woman is followed home and forced to call the cops. While that is a rare exception, I would argue that as a woman, I fear that exact scenario every day — and you know what really doesn’t help with this irrational anxiety? Being catcalled literally anywhere and everywhere.
I figured that if I ever catcalled, my catcall would have a purpose—some sort of direction. I thought my lines would be witty and, at the very least, put a smile on my catcall-ee’s face.
I hate being catcalled. It doesn’t make me feel flattered or respected, even if those were the intentions.I feel degraded when a man tells me to smile.Why would I walk around smiling all day? I would look like a fucking freak. I can feel gazes that burn holes into my innocent booty, and stares that speak louder than words, but the actual action of catcalling merges my world with that of somebody else—one I do NOT want to merge with.
I get frustrated when guys, especially the nice ones, don’t understand why catcalling can be so upsetting. I began to wonder if they would enjoy it the way they seemed to think we women should. So I grabbed two girlfriends and the keys to my car, and set off to catcall some men in San Francisco.
The Experiment
We started our experiment feeling cocky as fuck. I thought that the three of us would be able to somehow manifest all our badass girl-power feminist energy to come up with the perfect catcall algorithm. We were surprised at how uncreative we were while brainstorming pickup lines.
I figured that if I ever catcalled, my catcall would have a purpose—some sort of direction. I thought my lines would be witty and, at the very least, put a smile on my catcall-ee’s face.
In reality, the first time I catcalled — from the safety of a car — my left eye kinda cocked out at a strange angle while my right eye struggled to stay on the road. My voice cracked while I locked and loaded two targets — two boys in front of Escape from New York pizza — and shouted—nay, shrieked—“Hello! How are you doing?” I’m pretty sure I managed to spit on them from 10 feet away. I gave them a smile, a snort and then a wheeze before driving off. My friends have since informed me that I sounded like a grandmother asking her two kid neighbors if they would like to come in for some cookies and lemonade. (Not in a creepy way, I hope.)
After that, I mostly stuck with a simple one-worder — “Damn!” — to convey my emotions. That way, even if it came out sounding weird, maybe they would assume I had just run over a pothole or something and was consequently yelling “Damn!” in response to something totally unrelated to them. That would be good.
Even from our little safety haven — we decided to catcall from the car because one friend noted that “the safety (she) feels in the car must be similar to the safety a man feels in his body” — we were putting ourselves in potential danger. The stoplight at Stanyan and Haight brought us car-to-face with a group of six young-adult men. Now I’m not saying that they were particularly intimidating — they reminded me of “trust fund kids,” with the intentionally ripped holes in their jeans — a good type to catcall, we figured. They enjoyed our whistling, “Hey cuties!” and the sexy tunes blasting from the radio. We didn’t enjoy the fact that as the light turned green, the whole group started sprinting toward our car. We sped off, leaving them in a trail of our girl dust. We were a little shaken by the encounter and thankful that we had chosen to do this experiment in a car.
My favorite responses were the bluntly honest ones. One dude was walking down the street, eating a slice of pizza. I was a little alarmed by how quickly he was walking and how well he was simultaneously wolfing down his New York–style pizza and not tripping in his flip-flops. We yelled, “Hey baby!” and whistled, but my friend in the front seat took it a step further and asked, “What are you eating?” He held it up and said, “Pizza.” “Is it yummy?” she asked back. He gave her a blank look and slowly nodded his head, trying to pretend as if this were a normal conversation. “Enjoy!” she yelled, as the light turned green and we drove off. Flabbergasted, he spun around, but we were already gone.
Turns out I hate catcalling as much as I hate being catcalled.
The best part about catcalling is the element of surprise. A catcall can occur when and where you least expect it — like when you’re in your PJs getting the mail or while taking the kid you babysit out for a walk in the park. You can be catcalled at any time. Isn’t that exciting? One man learned this lesson while walking out of his local market, with bags of groceries in his hands. It didn’t matter that he was wearing sweats and sunglasses, or that he was double our age with a dad bod. He was a prime target.
“Damn, what are you doing later?” we shouted at him. He looked down at his groceries, then back up at our car, his eyebrows burrowed. “I’m cooking dinner,” he responded. So honest, so pure, so innocent. He reminded me of a confused puppy that had gotten dizzy from chasing his tail. “Yeah, you are!” [Whistle, whistle, whistle].
Turns out I hate catcalling as much as I hate being catcalled. I don’t like invading people’s space, and I don’t like having my space invaded. So the whole interaction — so short, rushed and tinged with restrained sexual hormones — isn’t my favorite. A compliment is different, but a catcall isn’t meant to make someone feel good; it’s meant to make the catcaller feel good, as if the patriarchy needed the confidence boost.
