It's Not A Compliment

Yesterday, I was enjoying my stroll around downtown Stockton--as blogged--when something a little more disturbing happened to me.

I was rounding a corner, turning onto a side street to get a few sign pictures, when a man in a pickup truck rolled up, heading in a westward direction (I was walking east). I wouldn't have noticed him were it not for his slow wolf-whistle, which made me look up and see him leering at me as he rolled to a stop at the intersection. My immediate reaction was confusion, followed by a quick, "Oh, hell no!" muttered under my breath as I glared at him from behind my sunglasses and introduced him to my middle finger.

This all happened in the space of maybe ten seconds. It was broad daylight, and he wasn't an actual threat to me--it's not like he was going to climb out of his truck and physically harm me on a busy public street at 2:30 in the afternoon. But I felt threatened nonetheless, and was happy to walk away from him, round another corner one block down, and then meander back to Rosie Pro with the knowledge that he was long gone in the other direction.

When I got home, I posted a status update on Facebook about it; how creepy it was, and how no man should treat a woman like a piece of tasty-looking meat. I'm not a steak, I'm a human being, and I have every right to walk down a city street--day or night--without being harassed or treated like an object.

Imagine my surprise when more than one friend told me I should feel complimented.

Here's the thing--I gained weight in my twenties in part because I felt a need to be invisible. No one notices the fat girl, right? At 18 I was this naive young coed who suddenly had men asking me my bra size and coming on to me in ways I wasn't prepared for. I fell for a couple of boys in that time period that didn't reciprocate my feelings and suddenly being noticed by the opposite sex didn't feel so safe anymore. It's not the only reason I ballooned in weight, but it's a big part of it. And it's an issue I still deal with in my thirties, whether I weigh 220 pounds or 165 pounds.

And I'm getting past it, slowly but surely. These days I work out because it feels good, and because I want to be healthy.

But I digress.

I guess I used to think, when I was heavier, that getting whistled at or cat-called would feel good...but I've learned that it doesn't. Sure, it's nice when I see a man look at me, look away, then look again. There's nothing wrong with a glance, or a friendly smile. Holding a door for me, or smiling as we pass and saying "Hello." But leering at a woman, overtly showing her--and everyone else in the vicinity--that you think she's hot devalues the human being inside. It's not a compliment. It's a show of power. It makes him feel in control and me feel vulnerable. It's so "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane" that all I could do in the split second I had to react to him was flash my middle finger (not my finest moment, but honestly it was a gut reaction made in fear and disgust).

So having people tell me I should feel complimented because getting whistled at means I'm "hot," or "foxy," is really offensive to me. Most of my friends agreed with me; they get it. But those few who don't are missing the forest for the trees--as long as we continue living by that mentality that we need men to approve our looks in order to feel good about ourselves, women will continue to be treated as less than fully equal to men. And I am not less than--I refuse to be less than. I am a woman, yes, but more than that, I am a human being with thoughts, feelings...and the right to be ignored.