About the Time I Was Catcalled

I mean, let’s be honest. It hasn’t only been THE one time. Because men who catcall unsuspecting women on the street are pigs. And there are many.

The first time I was catcalled, I was 13.
Thirteen.
Still proudly wearing mismatched socks and carrying a Hello Kitty notebook.

And some grown-ass, disgusting man — probably someone’s uncle named Larry — decided it was the perfect time to let me know I had “nice legs.”
Sir, I just got my period last month. Please return to the dumpster fire from whence you came.

Since then, I’ve been serenaded on sidewalks, hissed at from moving vehicles, and once — once — barked at like a literal dog.
BARKED AT.
What response did he expect? For me to trot over and sniff his leg?

Sometimes it’s the drive-by:
“Mamacitaaa, que ricaaaa”
Sir, your 2003 Jetta is missing a hubcap. Worry about that.

Sometimes it’s the deeply creative poetry:
“With an ass like that, I’d never leave the house.”
Thanks, Shakespeare. Now rot.

And sometimes it’s just a look — that slow, scanning, leering gaze that feels like it should be illegal. (And, spoiler: it sort of is. But good luck reporting “eyes that made me want to bleach my soul.”)

It’s gross.
It’s dehumanizing.
It’s exhausting.
And unfortunately, it’s only Wednesday.

The thing is, I’ve been catcalled in every mood possible:

• Happy? Boom. Destroyed.

• Sad? Now sad and objectified.

• Neutral? Not anymore.

• Just trying to walk to the store and buy tampons in peace? FORGET ABOUT IT.

I’ve practiced every reaction over the years:

• The stone-cold ignore.

• The dramatic eye-roll.

• The middle finger.

• The sharp, aggressive “DO YOU WANT ME TO CALL YOUR MOTHER?”

• The “talk to me once more and fucking find out” death stare.

And once, just once, I barked back.
No notes. Would do again.

Sometimes I imagine having a small airhorn in my bag just for these moments.
“AY MAMI—”
BWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
Instant silence. Immediate regret. Deep satisfaction.

But mostly? I wish I didn’t have to think about it at all.
I wish I could walk around like a man. You know — shirtless, unshaved, completely undisturbed.

But I can’t. Because I live in a world where “just existing” in a female body apparently sends out some kind of sexual Bat-Signal to every mediocre man in a 2-mile radius.

And it’s not just annoying. It’s scary.
Because catcalling, at its core, is about power.
It’s about reminding you that you’re being watched. That your body isn’t yours. That you’re there for someone else's enjoyment.

It’s about making you small.
But you know what?

I’m not small.
I am loud, fat, hot, brave, tired, and I am fucking furious — and unfortunately for you, sir, my dog already barked at me this morning.
So try me.

If you’ve ever barked at a woman on the street, I hope you step on a LEGO barefoot for the rest of your life.

And if you’re a woman reading this:
I see you.
I rage with you.
I hope you carry pepper spray and the delusion that you deserve better — because you fucking do.