I have an innate desire to live in a world where we all have equal access to public spaces. I do not want to be harassed by random men on the street claiming that I am hot, sexy, or beautiful. I don’t want to hear that I should smile more. I don’t find these comments flattering in any way, and frankly, they are in direct violation of my personal space.

On the morning of August 28, I woke up bright and early so I could make it to my 8:30 class on time, with a few minutes to spare for a coffee run. I’d been living in the city for about two weeks. During that time, I was bombarded with unnecessary comments from men on the street and also witnessed several other women in the same uncomfortable situation. I can’t help but wish I had spoken up. So, I decided to make a change. The night before, I decided that I was going to keep a log of how often I was cat-called and harassed the next day. I desperately wanted to stand up for myself by actually verbalizing my opinion. Keeping my frustrated thoughts bottled up and wishing the whole thing would go away just didn’t seem like enough anymore. I was tired of feeling powerless in the situation and decided I was going to speak up against at least one person who objectified me the next day.

Whether the intentions behind cat calling someone are harmful or harmless, it makes me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. The fact that most men don’t even realize how it makes us feel, makes speaking up for yourself even more important.  Any way you swing it, the Center for Disease Control refers to these instances as “non-contact unwanted sexual experiences,” which is the most prevalent form of gender-based sexual violence in the United States. Sadly, it is also one of the least legislated against, because so few people speak up about it unless they are physically harmed. It happens so often, that street harassment has almost become a part of  our everyday lives. It feels so implemented in society that both perpetrators and victims may fail to realize that it’s wrong.

With that, standing up for myself became more than just a personal vendetta. Not only was I going to voice how being heckled made me feel, I wanted the hecklers to think twice before doing it to someone else. Between 8:05 and 8:20 a.m. on August 28, my personal space was violated twice. The first instance came from a man in the Union Square subway station, who decided it would be a good idea to step up right next to me and stare directly down my shirt. If that wasn’t enough, he proceeded to give me a creepy smile and mutter something that I’m glad wasn’t fully audible. The second came from a man on 5th Avenue who called out “Hey baby girl!” as I walked by. I don’t even think he got a decent look at my face; my bare — and rather pale — legs were enough to get his attention. The rest of the day proceeded in a similar fashion. At about 4:45 p.m., while perusing Prince Street for a good consignment shop, two men whistled loudly as I walked by, while one muttered words like “daaaamn!” and “fuuuuck!” This was my chance; I was confident enough in my own safety, so I turned around to the two men. This initially shocked the one on the right, who looked to be more along for the ride than the boisterous one on the left. Rather than saying what I really wanted to, which was something along the lines of, “I’m not a fucking dog, don’t whistle at me,” I looked to the man on the left and calmly asked him if he had a sister. He was taken aback, so I repeated the question. “Yeah,” he responded, “I have three.” I asked him whether or not he would be comfortable with men on the street whistling and swearing at her, to which he unsurprisingly said no, “‘cause she’s my sister!” I stared at him for a few seconds before reminding him that I deserve the same basic respect that he gives to any woman, including his sister.

Even though I may not have said what I really wanted to in order to avoid an altercation, I think I got my point across. I realize that this will never be enough to change the world, but at the very least, I felt a sense of personal empowerment. More importantly, I made them stop and think about what they were actually doing. They made an innocent woman on the street feel extraordinarily uncomfortable, and I let them know. If he didn’t want his sister to be treated that way, why am I any different? This led me to think that, collectively speaking, defending ourselves against street harassment could truly make a positive difference. If women everywhere were more inclined to stand up for themselves, it would ideally happen less often. At the very least, they could feel empowered knowing that they reclaimed their space, and just maybe changed one person’s mind.