11

i wish i had a way to explain to men
what it is like to be cat-called,
but i can't.

all i have
are my words, memories, experiences, feelings -
and we all know nobody's going to take those seriously.

i am crossing the street and a man rolls down his window,
whistles, laughing, calls,
"hey baby!"
he has a moustache peppered with grey
and it reminds me of my father.
i am eleven years old.

there are plenty of men who don't cat-call.
the problem is that instead of getting mad at the men who do,
they get mad at the women who have had enough,
who are asking for help -

because the men who do cat-call will not listen to us.
our voices don't make them afraid like their voices do to us.
i flinch away from male voices not unlike gunshots,
trying to make myself small because i did not ask to be seen.

i want you to know
that i have gone home with men i feared,
slept in the devil's den because he made it quite clear:
i would give on the sheets
or he would take on the pavement.

i am nearing the end of my jog,
approaching my street, and a car pulls up alongside me.
"what's your name, sweetheart?"
and i want to say
FUCK YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME.
FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME AFRAID.
but i can't.

because he is in the passenger seat of another man's car,
and the back windows are tinted so i can't tell if there are more of them.
so i jog an extra mile, trying to shake off the feeling
of his eyes on me, his laughter, belittling,
and i am not eleven years old anymore,
but now it takes reminding.

i don't turn onto my street where the cars can see me.
i have been followed home before.
i am learning.

i am a fugitive in my own body,
kept in the same place as this flame burning inside of me,
this fear, this hatred, this disgust -

this feeling that
IF I WERE BIGGER, I WOULD MURDER YOU.
and fuck you for doing this to me.
fuck you for making me afraid.

but i am small, and i am weak,
and i keep this fire burning out of pure defiance,
because i know you are trying to put it out.

i am twenty-one, out with my dog
and a group of them whistle and call to me.
i lean down and take off the muzzle.

i am bluffing. please work.

and when i don't respond and they start into
"stuck up bitch, fuck you slut, ugly cunt,"
i want to scream and say,

I AM ANGRIER THAN YOU CAN EVER BE.

i am trapped inside a body that cannot defend itself
in the face of advances that i am told its existence warrants.

if i could make you see, i would.

but nobody is cat-calling other men.
and how the fuck has it fallen to the victims
to have to fix it?

what am i supposed to say to the man who leans out of his truck,
calls me "a pretty little thing,"
that will stop him without consequence?

girls are killed for saying no.

and so he licks his lips, turns to his buddy and laughs,
and there is heat behind my eyes - humiliation, helplessness -
and i hope to god nobody ever talks to his daughter this way.

he is old enough to be my father,
silver accents in his hair,
and against my will, once more:

i am eleven years old.