Think of something you do an average of three times a day. Maybe attend class, eat or tweet.
I sure hope catcalling innocent females wouldn’t fall on the list, but by statistical probability, it might be.
I live off campus, and for the past week, I’ve counted up all of the times people have catcalled me during the 0.8 mile bike ride between my apartment and class.
If you add walking around on the weekends to that list, I’ve come up with more than 25 instances of vocal male appreciation of my clothes, legs and general appearance.
That’s an absurdly high number of times I have to reconsider my outfit and my actions: Was I out too late at night? Is my skirt a little too short? Should I take a different route home?
These are things I shouldn’t have to think about, but that give me pause on a daily basis, especially when crossing Nicholson Drive.
There’s something about that road that lends the perfect degree of anonymity to the particular kind of man — and so far it’s been all men — who like to yell at college-aged female commuters.
A couple weeks ago, a man stopped his truck in the middle of Nicholson to comment on my dress. Stopped traffic.
He felt the need, with everyone else flowing around him at 35 mph, to disrupt morning rush hour and whoop at me. I wasn’t in the middle of the road, hadn’t cut him off and wasn’t flipping him the bird.
Yet.
So he had no reason other than my presence to call me out.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen quite as often on campus, unless I’m on Highland Road. Then it’s fair game for all the pickup truck-driving freshmen with some sort of newly realized freedom or who, out of camaraderie, feel it’s necessary to loudly point out my legs.
Other females have noticed this as well.
Speaking to friends, I’ve heard most horror stories happen at night, with a truck slowing down to ask a girl for her number or inviting her to a party.
These stories don’t end with a thumbs up from the callee as she offers up her digits, so I don’t understand what’s in it for the caller.
Instead of chasing success, maybe the appeal of it comes from some twisted adult version of kindergarten recess, when boys and girls used to chase each other across playgrounds for a kiss on the cheek or a fake wedding ceremony.
Then society got a grip on itself and taught girls their proper gender roles while it showed boys success only came after chasing what they wanted at any cost.
Now the go-getter mentality manifests itself in creepy comments tossed to women out of car windows.
A term to better replace females might be objects, since that’s how a catcaller treats the person they compliment.
This is what’s really most demeaning about catcalling. It’s the assumption that I want to know men think I look good, that I am something placed on their daily commute for pleasure.
I’m not a tree with flowers on it or a particularly nice mansion. I don’t exist for the enjoyment of others, and neither does anyone else on the planet.
So before you think someone deserves shouted praise from a road about their looks, consider the fact that they may take down your license plate number and track you down.
But that would be threatening, and I’m supposed to be a delicate, objectified little flower.
So no need to worry.
Megan Dunbar is a 20-year-old English senior from Greenville, S.C.