Men yell at me: An evening of existing, running, and violation

Content warning: discussions of assault, harassment, and nonconsensual attention. 

I’m used to being cat-called. 

As most female-bodied persons have experienced, it’s not unusual that people (mostly men) will harass, make indecent gestures, expose themselves, stalk, voice sexualized comments, and whistle on the street toward those entirely averse to their behaviors and actions. 

It’s something I’ve experienced as a child and has continued into my adult years. 

Wednesday night I went for a run — something that has been cathartic and provided release since moving to New York City and beginning an intensive graduate program which requires on average (so far) between 300-500 pages of dense reading.

Having this physical routine has been an effective way to get out of my apartment (and my head) and into the city’s greenery and urban setting. 

My sights were set on the Brooklyn Bridge. 

Outfitted in my running attire — leggings, a sports bra, a long sleeve t-shirt, crew-length socks (which my leggings have to be tucked into), and my running shoes — I left my apartment excited to sweat and witness my new home. 

Very quickly upon entering the Subway (a three minute walk from my apartment) I felt the discernable feeling of someone’s eyes on my body. To my disgruntlement and intuition, a middle-aged, short, pudgy man wearing a work uniform was tracing my silhouette in an up-and-down manner that was violating, objectifying, and uncomfortable. 

As most female-bodied persons know (and have experienced), when something of this nature occurs (as is far too common), an internal back-and-forth occurs where one decides to fight, fly, or freeze. And often, it’s less of a conscious decision and more consistent to an out-of-body experience. 

If you scream and yell, if you say something, you’re deemed crazy and unhinged. If you freeze, questions are raised regarding wanting the attention and your ability to dissuade others. If you fly, well, there’s always the chance that you’ll be followed, harassed, and harmed further. 

In my experience, I frequently opt for starting down the perpetrator in a manner that is clear that their behaviors are unwanted and that I will not resultantly cower. There is the risk that this will only aggravate them and most people will likely not recommend this course of action.

In this scenario the latter rang true — glaring at him only encouraged his perusal of my person. Having felt my anger mounting, I dug my nails into my palms and walked to the opposite end of the Subway platform. 

He proceeded to follow. 

To my luck, the train arrived in that exact moment and I was able to run ahead and avoid getting in the same car as him.

After one stop I had to transfer to a different Subway line (L to A, to be specific). So, I shuffled myself and my anger over to another car. 

Upon sitting down I immediately made eye contact with a man (different from the first) who was staring at me. As he hung from the hand rails, his arms lifted above his head, it was clear from his tight sweatpants that we was not wearing underwear.

Avoiding his gaze (which I could feel like a touch against my skin) I returned my eyes to the bruised and dirty floor.

Very slowly, the underwear-less stranger walked over to my seat and stopped only inches away from my crossed legs, pulled up his shirt and exposed his chest while pulling down his pants to show me his pubic hair and penis. 

Now, we would all have different reactions (especially when faced with something so shocking). And I’ve replayed this instant over in my head, wishing I had chosen a different seat or that I had immediately stood up when he began prowling in my direction. 

But, the blame (which I know deep down) is not on me for his behavior. 

Instead, I froze. My brain slowly processing the firing neurons and signals being sent from my eyes’ photoreceptors. I was startled, overwhelmed, unsettled, and angry over a man, yet again (in an approximately 10 minute period), violating me. 

My adrenaline eventually kicked in and I launched myself toward the other end of the Subway. 

He got off a few stops later and no one around me batted an eye at what transpired. 

A few stops later I exited the Subway platform at High Street, all but a 0.3 mile walk to the Brooklyn Bridge. 

At that point I was so ready to run and release the icky feeling that had been placed on my skin. I walked up the two flights of stairs toward the opening of the Subway station and released a breath and emotions I had been holding — determined to not allow two male strangers to derail my day and plans. 

The second I was completely above ground, however, a man (different from the previous two) cat-called me. 

I let out what I can only describe as something between a scream and a grunt, and continued on my walk toward the bridge with tears burning my eyes, my cheeks tinged pink.

That was all I could do at that point. 

I ended up running over the bridge and back (2.6 miles), to Prospect Park (2.1 miles), around Prospect Park’s outer loop (1.16 miles), and to the Subway stop home (0.9 miles) for around a 7 mile run.

And while this did liberate some of the stress and anger I was holding onto, it did not alleviate the outrage over what had happened, especially in such a short time increment.

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If you’re reading this then I’ve decided to publish this story — as I debated whether these events were something I wanted my name tied to (despite them happening to me). 

Interestingly enough, when I sat down to write about the evening, in an act I had hoped (and was) cathartic, I found myself editing what had transpired in order to be more digestible and reader friendly. I was nervous that using the words pubic hair, penis, cat calling, assault, and perpetrator were too strong. 

But, at its simplest most broken down form, that was what happened. I was assaulted verbally and sexually without the lifting of a hand (which made it all the more difficult to process).

Software training organization SC Training reported (in binary terms) that in 2023 81% of women and 43% of men have faced sexual harassment in their lives. Even more alarming, a sexual assault occurs every 93 seconds in the United States. 

Safety is the bare-minimum that everyone should feel and confront when going out into the world. 

I, just like everyone else (especially female-bodied persons), do not exist as an object to be perused. Harassment is not admiration. It is a disregard for one’s personal space. 

And while it might be an overzealous idea to eradicate verbal harassment (as well as all other forms of assault), these actions should not be treated as a commonplace in society. 

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Lastly, I am okay. Despite this happening to me, I do not want this story at the forefront of this message.

I’m pissed off (which I hope comes across) and wanting more for myself and others facing normalized social injustices. 

Thousands of questions ring in my head. The never ending who, where, what, when, why, and how of daily life and social grievances.

And in the end, sitting and watching a group of dogs play in a pond of water did wonders to wash away the day’s marks.