Dear Mr. Catcall-Dandy

I had just gotten out of a community yoga class.  I was sweaty and happy, proud of the work I’d just put in, and I slung my yoga mat over my back and started walking to my next destination. I had just finished crossing the street when it happened—I heard the electric sound of a car window rolling down to my left, saw the car start to pull forward out of my peripheral vision as it turned at the intersection, and then a sticky-sweet voice from the car yelled at me, “YOUR CAMEL TOE GETS ME RANDY.”

I'd like to tell you something, Mr. Catcall-Dandy.

I’d like to tell you something, but you were conveniently already half-way down the block as your car rode on, probably smirking at the cleverness of your outburst, congratulating yourself on your witticism and playing up whatever fantasy you invented in your mind.

Your catcall is not a compliment, a funny joke, and frankly probably wasn’t even an accurate observation considering the long length of my shirt over my pants and the depth of your line of site from the car to my crotch.

Your catcall is a weak and unexceptional attempt to change your power dynamic, to try and force vulnerability in someone who can’t fight back, to prove you are something big and bad.

Mr. Catcall-Dandy, you have a right to free speech and public places, just like me.  You have a right to wear yoga pants or not, if you choose.  You have a right to enjoy camel toes or not too, it’s your choice. But you DO NOT have a right to my body.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m wearing dress slacks, a peacock costume, pajamas, or yoga pants—you DO NOT have a right to my breasts, my backside, especially my camel toe.

Your catcall is a cowardly form of objectification. 

Your catcall is oppressive and sexist and unrefined.

Your catcall is harassment.

So please, Mr. Catcall-Dandy, please keep it down next time you decide to “get randy.”

#Hollaback!