3 times I was catcalled as a woman and 3 times I was catcalled as a man
Humans have great spatial memory: every time I've been catcalled I remember exactly where I was. The first time was by the parking lot of a shopping center across town from where I lived, right outside a Kohl’s that used to be a Mervyn’s (I don’t remember which it was at the time of the story). It was about sunset, still light out, not dark enough that I was intimidated. I was by myself, and I don’t remember why; I was probably no older than middle school.
I don’t remember much about the guy that tried to talk to me, his race or approximate age. I’m sure if I saw a man like that now, I’d think he was a child. But to a thirteen year old, even an eighteen year old is practically elderly. I think he might’ve been with a friend or two, hanging out on a bench I was walking by.
All I remember him saying is, “How old are you?”
I didn’t answer, just ignored him and kept walking, like I had already learned to do. I remember thinking about sarcastically saying something like, “a hundred,” but I didn’t.
I was so innocent, I didn’t put two and two together until years later: he was asking how old I was so he could decide if I was old enough to hit on. The correct sarcastic answer was not “a hundred” but “too young for you.” But it was probably better I said nothing at all.
I remember in the summer between sophomore and junior year of high school, I commuted to, of all places, the Twitter headquarters in SF, for a coding program for young women. I remember one day I was wearing a tight skirt, and a homeless man sitting on the ground somewhere between the temporary transbay terminal and Embarcadero said “nice ass” to me. I started wearing pants. I cut my hair. I was the only person who didn’t wear a skirt or dress to the program’s graduation.
I think I was catcalled a few more times over the years, but only one time I really remember, because I wrote a poem about it. I was catcalled as a woman (an actual adult woman and not a girl) years later, after I had realized I was trans and started going by they/them. I was in Berkeley, walking by the theater, and an old guy in a wheelchair said, “Smile, beautiful.”
you called me beautiful
in the dim streetlight
under the cinema marquee
i was wearing a hoodie
pulled up over my short hair
and mens' bootcut jeans
but somehow you could tell
by my face alone
or was it the canter of my walk
that gave it away
i should really thank you, stranger
because now i know
it's not my clothes
or my high pitched voice
or my chest or my hips
but i didn't say anything
i never do
just clenched my pretty teeth
the whole way home
feeling stupid for even trying
to look the way i feel
when all i'll ever be is
beautiful.
(It's not my favorite poem, but I wrote it In A Mood.)
Now for something happier: after transitioning and growing a mustache to solidify my masculine-presenting appearance, I no longer mind at all when men on the street compliment me. It doesn’t happen as much, but I can remember three times I was hit on by men in public, as a man. It helps that I look queer: all three times I was dressed provocatively, short Spandex shorts or, the third time, a swimsuit.
One was someone who came up to me in the library during the pandemic and asked for my phone number, at which point I realized I didn’t have my phone, thanked him for helping me realize, and retraced my steps to the men’s bathroom to find it. I didn’t give him my number though.
Another time was a guy in a car that whistled at me, at the light at the corner of Central and Oak, right by the cinema in Alameda. I waved back at him or gave him a thumbs up or something. When the light turned green he pulled over, presumably so I could go over and talk to him, but I had already left, on my way to whatever I was doing.
The last time (though I don’t remember the exact chronological order) was at the beach, which is why my outfit of just the bottom part of a women’s bikini (I’ve had top surgery, so I’m flat-chested) was appropriate. I was reading a book about walking, while walking through the sand. A man whistled or called out to me, but I ignored him.
Yeah, maybe one day I’ll actually talk back to a rando who catcalls me. Depending on my mood, it might be nice or not so nice. But at least I’ll just take it as a compliment and not a misgendering. The misgendering part really sucks. Maybe it’s 100% that I am living as my preferred gender now, but something tells me men might just have it better though?
The power dynamic is usually different, to begin with. A man who hits on another man risks making him angry, perhaps dangerously so if he’s homophobic. Sure, the homophobe could get assault charges, but in the moment a homophobe doesn’t consider that. The “gay panic” defense, in which (usually) a straight man claims he became violent due to a gay person’s sexual advances on him, has been used to justify hate crimes for decades.
Men who hit on women, though, do it because they know that most women won’t do a damn thing about it. Women could also get assault charges, sure, but the last thing a rational woman (or anyone at a physical disadvantage) wants to do is get closer to a catcaller, lest they become the victim themselves. So that's my hypothesis for why gay/bi men are generally more respectful when catcalling than straight men (in my personal experience). Maybe for some it’s because they’re actually nicer or more respectful or see us as people and not sex objects, but if they were nicer or more respectful enough they wouldn’t be catcalling? They just have more reason to be afraid.
I guess I did transition during the pandemic, so maybe society has evolved since I was a girl. That would be nice. But I doubt it.