In Indonesia, I am often referred to as Lady Gaga. Stall vendors call out to me by this name from behind their street-side collections of fake Gucci and racks of Ray Bans. The first time it happened, I commended myself for obviously looking like a superstar, before realising that The Honorable Ga is pretty much famous for looking exquisitely ridiculous, then checking myself carefully for shoulder pads. After the first few times, my reaction weakened to feeling a little like a spectacle, and has settled since then into a vague acceptance of my self-inflicted blondeness.
If I walk with two female friends through Kuta, regardless of our combined hair colours, skin colour, height, weight, or general sexiness, we are fondly addressed as Charlie's Angels. I don't mind this either, as it makes me feel kick-arse. Basically, when this stuff happens in a country where I clearly have a two month visa in my passport, it feels harmless, like an acknowledgement that we are different but we share some understanding of the world, me and this street vendor. We both understand why he's calling us the Angels, and we all know it's just for fun. No one says it with a sneer or preceded by the kind of throat noise that makes me cringe.
Today I walked through Camden Town to the Camden Lock. It's a wonderful part of north London, populated mostly by people dressed in genuine retro denim and fake Doc Martins. I lost myself in mazes of trinket stalls and shoe stores and rickety street food carts. I bought a soy milkshake then spoke with a delightful young musician from Dublin trying to make his way in the big city, offering samples of margarita flavoured fudge. Oh, London. And on the way back to the train station a man growled and hissed at me from an alley like an animal. Frankly, he ruined my afternoon.
I expect what he meant, like the Balinese street vendors, was, I find your appearance to be notably different when compared to those around you, for whatever reason. He was clearly an asshole, fine. But I present to you a new angle: The Gutless Man.
What I want to know is, why is that okay? It made me cringe, and my guts were tighter than double knot shoe laces. I wanted to disappear. What bothered me -- bothers me -- is the way he felt safe to do it. He might have done it to a hundred girls today, and each probably reacted the same way I did, which was to pretend it hadn't happened. To slink away with insides tied up and curse him, silently.
I was too freaked out to respond. I'm not sure why, though. I wish wholeheartedly that I had turned around and growled back at this man, flashed my teeth, or else boldly hollered something like, Watch out, ladies, there's a disrespectful freak over here who is going to make you feel uncomfortable with the fact you are a woman, and then stared at him in the eyes. I'm almost certain he would have stuck his tail right between his legs and melted back into the damp brickwork. Because he knows he has no right to growl at me; he probably wouldn't stand and fight that point if I raised it with him. He does it quietly, so noone will hear, at my back so I can't get a look at him. He's a coward.
(This bravery thing seems to be a recurring theme for me. Self-reflection required)
The boys on the tube escalators who titter and slap their mates' back and whistle, and the men who call hello from the scaffolding on rooftops, they're all equally gutless, but they're not so malicious. Maybe I'm desensitised or something, but objectification always has been, and always will be, a thing. Hell, I am an active participant (that thing with the kittens and the shirtless men?). But there ain't nothing good about catcalling. All this sneaky appreciation nonsense isn't going to help you. It's just embarrassing. Kindly locate your courage. Once, a boy stopped me in the street and said, I want to make you smile every day. That was nice. Anyway, he looked at me when he said it. Then we both walked away. It was, actually, like a compliment.
I told a guy I know about the growling man, and this was his response.
It's surprisingly accurate. This game men play, of calling out, has that same pixelated video game quality of detachment. Like it's not in the world of real human people because it's just a flash, a moment, and then I'm gone and asshole is none the worse for it.
So here's a new angle. I want to help these poor, gutless men. I want to look at a man when he makes me feel uncomfortable. To tell him, you're being quite disgusting, if I can manage it. I'll hiss back, maybe, and say, You're going about telling me you've noticed me all wrong, mate. Maybe the more girls hiss back, the more these men will check themselves. And maybe I live in a magical land where people can be pleasant to each other all the time. That's okay too.
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