The first time I got catcalled
The first time I got catcalled I was about 11. Me and my cousin, who was 12, were walking down the street. A car full of men passed by. They honked. And, although 17 year-old Paula knows a bunch of 30 year-old men honking at two girls is not only disgusting but scary, 11 year-old Paula liked it. She liked it. She liked it because she was at that point in life when she just wanted to grow up, grow up so fast. Because she thought that that was what made a woman. Because thatâs what she had been taught. Because she was starting to feel insecure about her body. And she tâhoughtâ that meant to beâ âbeautiful, to be sexy, to be appreciated.
The second time I remember being catcalled I was 13. It was a sunny day. I was so happy. I was just walking to a friends house. We were going to make a project for school. I was bringing my brand new laptop. I felt so good. And then a small truck passed by. And slowed down when it reached me. And the man driving started shouting things at me. I donât even remember what he said. 13 year-old Paula didnât know why but she felt awful all of a sudden. She felt the urge to lower her head and walk faster. She felt so bad, the smile âscapingâ from her mouth. Sâhe didnât know what was it, but she was felt upset, almost guilty as if she had done something wrong. 17 year-old Paula knows what it was. 13 year-old Paula was feeling objectified for the first time. â ââ Â
The last time I got catcalled was yesterday night. I was walking down the street, coming back home from a party with some friends. An old man with almost no hair in his head was standing in front of a bar. And I could see it coming. I could see it in his eyes. I could see the worlds about to come out of his mouth. And then I passed by, and he said it: âWhat a delicious little buttâ He sounded proud. And I just walked by. I always think of come backs. But whats the point? The scary thing is Iâm already used to it. The scary thing is all my friends have similar stories. In the mall. In the street. At the beach. In the grocery store. And they are all used to it. And we shouldnât be.Â
But Iâm not writing this for myself. I already know those words donât define me. Those words donât measure my worth.
Iâm writing this for 11 year old Paula. Iâm writing this for my 13 year old sister and all her little friends.
And Iâm writing this for the boys. So they grow up to be better men. Men who donât degrade women this way. Men who have a little bit more of self respect, who know themselves to be better than that. Better than shouting, whispering, whistling, honking at strangers down the street. Â
Iâm not a cat. So donât catcall me.