Fucking Catcalls; or, The Wages of Visibility; or, I Don’t Give A Shit If You Don’t Like It
Well.
To set the scene: I am fortunate enough to live, with my dear husband, in a condo on a fairly popular beach. I won’t go into which beach, and where, because that’s not really pertinent to the story.
During the summer, I go out to the beach quite often - even after work, on weekdays, since this time of year sunlight persists past 8pm at my latitude. Some days I go with company, some days by myself. I don’t so much go for tanning purposes (I’m heartily committed to SPF-A-MILLION sunblock), but because I enjoy the beach, and the sunshine, and the ocean, and find my time there entirely relaxing and restorative.
Today, while waiting to cross the street to actually get on the beach, I got catcalled. By a slender white girl (teenaged, I would guess) riding in a big white SUV with an unknown number of other teenaged slender white girls. The car slowed down, and the sneering girl in the passenger seat yelled out the window at me, “Hey baby, can I hit that?”
In the hundredth of a second I had to respond, I did what came naturally, as if it were a remark leveled by a teasing friend. I smiled salaciously and called back with an exaggerated “Yeeeaaaah.” And then I laughed. This elicited astonished looks and peals of nervous, brittle laughter from the occupants of the car, which then quickly sped away.
I knew, as I always know, that this couldn’t have been intended as anything other than a sarcastic and just plain mean attack. It’s been years - years! - since I’ve been catcalled like that, with unabashed malice as the motive behind it, so I was a little taken aback. I made my way onto the beach, down to where the quiet surf was beating the sand; I laid down on my towel and folded my arms under my head and thought.
It was gnawing at me.
I get angry when this shit gnaws at me.
I began my initial engagement with fat activism over ten years ago. Why the fuck can these experiences still gnaw at me? Why is it still possible for this to get under my skin, to unnerve me, to distract me from a beautiful afternoon on a beautiful beach? Who the hell do those people think they are, to feel entitled to fuck with my happiness, my choice to be out in public, to go about my life without being made to feel like a lesser being, like something that does not deserve these things? What do they gain by trying to ruin my day?
And then I thought: This is the wages of visibility.
This is what I get for being visible, for daring to go out, alone, dressed for the beach. This is what I get for refusing to hide, for refusing to apologize, for having the audacity to leave my house and live as though I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. To a casual observer, it makes me a target. It makes me a fool. It makes me a pushover, an easy mark, a laugh. People will always want to remind me: You’ve got no right to be so happy with yourself. Fatty.
Catcalling sucks, no matter the circumstances. If it’s sarcastic, it implies that no one could ever possibly find you attractive. If it’s genuine, it implies that your body (and by extension, your sexuality) is public property and simply being outside is an open invitation for commentary. Either way, it’s depersonalizing, and objectifying, and it sucks. I tend to think the long absence of the sarcastic catcall from my own life is likely rooted in my carriage and self-confidence; it’s difficult to effectively tear down somebody who’s obviously not feeling badly about herself, and I expect that my unhesitating reaction to the catcaller today was the reason for the astonished looks as the car drove away. I also think my built-in catcall-avoidance is at least partly a result of my age; women who aren’t so young (I’m only in my 30s, but still) are seen, culturally-speaking, as less sexual, less objectifiable, and thus their fatness is less an affront. For example, I doubt the girls in that car would have catcalled a woman their mother’s age. Given that ultimately, catcalling is always a commentary on a person’s attractiveness, either positive or negative, it tends to take place within a certain set of parameters. Though I was hardly thinking this deeply at the time, my reaction to the catcalling teenagers may have inadvertently addressed both their assumptions of my apparent sexual unattractiveness (vis-à-vis my fatness) AND of my perceived straightness, by my instant response in the affirmative to a sexual advance made by a female, in spite of that advance’s obvious insincerity.
There are so many people - people my size and far smaller - who wouldn’t even consider going to the beach, or wearing a swimsuit in public, for this very reason - the fear that someone will look, someone will say something, that someone will make them an example, that they will be humiliated, that they will be made to feel like they’ve got no right to leave the house wearing anything less than a tent, looking the way they look. And that makes me angry, that we can let people dictate to us what we can do, and where we can go, out of fear of instant humiliation that could come at any time, humiliation that the perpetrator will likely forget within the hour, but which the embarrassed person may carry with her for days, or for months, or for the rest of her life.
Given the choice between restricting my movements and being assured of never being catcalled again, versus going out shamelessly and risking (or demanding!) attention - I will gladly take the latter. I like being visible. Even when I become a bull’s-eye upon which the insecurities and savagery of others are exorcised. Even when I lose time processing and remembering the emotional risks I take just by being myself, time I would have otherwise spent relaxing in the sunshine. When I first began my self-acceptance process, I decided first off that I never wanted to feel afraid of what those people - those who would mercilessly catcall me from a moving car, for example - might think or say about my body again. I never wanted to avoid life out of fear. And I’m still there, still fighting to be fearless.
So I say fuck those people. I’ll be on that beach tomorrow, and this weekend, and for months to come, and if they don’t like it, good, I’m glad to displease them.
They cannot stop me.
once, i was in a run o’ the mill bar fight (no punches thrown, but a bit o’ shoving!). the guys we were arguing with called me a “bitch” or “whore” or whatever the fratboy term for “female” is, and my male friend felt he had to say “don’t talk to a woman like that!” well, the asshole fratboy came back with “that is NOT a woman.”
there has been PLENTY of negativity and rude fuckwads in my day, but for some reason when i get really down on myself, i hear “that is NOT a woman”. it’s really not the most pleasant playback one can have! i’m trying to stop the constant loop - but that one phrase can justify all of my self-doubt in a flash. it’s really hard to decide “THEY WILL NOT GET TO ME” when, well, they DO get to me!
my favorite quote of all time is from eleanor roosevelt, and it goes something like this:
“no one can make you feel inferior unless you let them.”
so when i hear that playback in my head of the shithead at the bar, i try and insert my own soundbite - that quote. it helps :)
I don’t know if you know that you’re my secret internet girlfriend, but OMG YOU TOTALLY ARE.
“and if they don’t like it, good, I’m glad to displease them. They cannot stop me. ”
Love it.
There are so many people - people my size and far smaller - who wouldn’t even consider going to the beach, or wearing a swimsuit in public, for this very reason - the fear that someone will look, someone will say something, that someone will make them an example, that they will be humiliated, that they will be made to feel like they’ve got no right to leave the house wearing anything less than a tent, looking the way they look. And that makes me angry, that we can let people dictate to us what we can do, and where we can go, out of fear of instant humiliation that could come at any time, humiliation that the perpetrator will likely forget within the hour, but which the embarrassed person may carry with her for days, or for months, or for the rest of her life.
Get out of my head, Lesley!!
Seriously, though, you’ve just described EXACTLY how I’ve felt since… well… since I can remember, really. I have to admit, I’m getting much better at it - all thanks to all the wonderful people in the Fatosphere - but it’s still really hard to NOT have those thoughts float across my mind every time I walk out of the house.
I hope, one day (soon? please?), that I can have the same attitude as you. You f*cking ROCK.
this is really, really beautiful.
Catcalls in the UK…
Lesley over at Fatshionista is talking about an experience she had recently on the way to the beach. Her comeback to the catcallers made me giggle, but it got me thinking about ‘fat shame’ in the UK as opposed to the US. I am sure there are…
Great post! I think, too, this is not only a matter of visibility as a fat person, but visibility as a woman. “She asked for it” by her clothing, behavior, or general uppityness is a classic dismissal of any number of crimes against women. Classically abominable, but nonetheless. This is where the burqa comes in–be invisible, or you deserve what you get as a woman, fat or otherwise.
I understand being annoyed when stuff gets to you, but while they don’t deserve our mental energy, it hurts when people are hurtful. If we have to chew on that awhile, it doesn’t make us weak, it just makes us human.
Agh. Cat calls. How painful… and how freakin’ AMAZING of you to have a come-back you were willing and able to use!
You have a right to visibility. You have a right to enjoying yourself in the sand, water and sun.
I have never seen your physical body, but just the fact that you are this brave and this self-loving makes you BEAUTIFUL to me (and lots of other people too, I’m sure). So, bravo to you!
You deserve every iota of pleasure you get from doing your beach thing.
On the flip-side, those poor girls. I just imagine what life like must be for them having to live these minds that have so much hateful nonsense spinning around in them. Ultimately, what they did was about them and not about you… I’ve noticed most people treat themselves far worse than they treat others. They may be torturing themselves constantly about their own imperfections. I wouldn’t trade the self-love I’ve built up for being “thin”. Nuh uh. Thin doesn’t equate to happy… and to me that is the most important thing.
I had this same experience a few months ago. I haven’t been publicly called names or “catcalled” at for years and I guess I just sort of assumed it had ended. I respect myself and people see that and they know I’m not an easy target. But unfortunately that’s not the case. I am pasting this from a comment I made over at www.bfdblog.com about a very similar issue, about a situation that happened to me last winter.
“A few months ago I was walking down the street to my car wearing my snow boots (winter in E. Washington state.) and a big winter coat bundled to my chin and car pulled up at a stop light and a guy leaned out and said “excuse me” in the tone that indicated he needed directions, and when I turned to help him he yelled “THAT’S A HUGE BITCH!” and sped off. I am nearing 30 and I went home and cried myself to sleep.”
Now what I didn’t put in that comment because it wasn’t as relevant to the thread at the time was that before he sped off, I refused to look at him and I flipped him the bird (real mature I know, it was a gut reaction) and he said something to the effect of “sorry honey, I just don’t like to feel suffocated when I fuck!”
this brings up so many issues in my mind and I had gone rounds and rounds about it before I finally let it go for my own sanity. I was all bundled up for winter, and obviously NOT trying to be some sex object on the street in the middle of the night. Just walking to my car after work. Not only was it acceptable to comment publicly on my weight, but the sexual comment really got me too once I started to think about it. His initial response wasn’t sexual in the least, but the moment I refused to give him the reaction he was looking for, he tried to insult my sex appeal. Something that I think is universal for women. and it was just compounded by the universal fear “FAT”! I have great sex, and I know I’m sexy to the right person that finds me that way and even if I don’t have a partner, I have great sex with myself thank you! So the sexual comment didn’t bother me nearly as much as the “that’s a huge bitch” one. I just found it fascinating that somehow it’s acceptable to catcall women, and make explicit comments about them sexually in public but if you were to do it to a colleague at work, or in close proximity in a grocery store, you’d have half the store telling you, you’re an asshole.
Every time I’m out, these days (usually to run the infrequent outdoor errand I just can’t accomplish online - it’s not because I’m afraid of going out, it’s just a pain in the padded ass, because I have to take the bus everywhere, so I don’t like going out unless I absolutely have to, if it’s hot out) and I’m walking to or from the bus stop, I get some ‘brav’e soul - though usually two or three or more - yelling out their window at me as they zip on by.
I live in Washington state, too, and even though it’s very often drizzly and chilly here, I’m usually wearing a cami- because it’s what I’m most comfortable in - and one of my many pretty skirts. I try to look as presentable as I can, given my limited means at the moment, and tend to think I pull it off fairly well.
I know I’ve got jiggly, fat upper arms and for some reason, it’s just never bothered me, that pairing of cami+fat arms - I guess it comes from having lived in Florida previously for over 10 years. I’ve just never felt paranoid about it like other women I’ve seen. I learned down in Florida that if I have to choose between comfortable and more revealing and dripping with sweat all day and covered, I’m gonna choose comfortable and more revealing - even if that means I’m wearing something other people ‘don’t think I should be wearing at my weight’. Obviously, I’m meant to be wearing it, otherwise the company who made it wouldn’t have made it in the first place. And it wouldn’t flatter my figure the way it does. I refuse to cover myself head to toe in a boy scout pup tent covered in some African giraffe print and make myself sweaty and freakign miserable just to please someone else who I DON’T EVEN KNOW.
I found myself thinking a lot of the same thoughts in this article when I was out a couple of weeks ago, running errands, and must have gotten catcalled five or six times while I was out. And I found myself wishing that there was a law against it. I mean, they outlawed sexual harassment in the office, so why can’t they work out something like that for people like me, who have to put up with this crap on a regular basis? It’s just a fantasy, because there’d be no way in hell to enforce it, but … man, I get so tired of people thinking they have a right to make me feel shitty about myself just for having the nerve to want to go out and run my stupid errands in peace.