The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
In the Eyes of Men (Let Me Be) by Marian Hill
I am a woman of confidence. My self-love is physical in the clothes I wear, in the gait I move with. It is a result of my triumph over self-hate, because being disgusted with myself for so long became tiresome. I was not fully realized when I was so verbally abusive to my reflection.
It is a positive, loving, courageous thing of me to be confident, loud, dominating, loving. For I am a woman, but that attitude in women does not sit well with men. They are either intimidated by my strangeness, shy away from my love of self. It puts a fear in them when they realize I am powerful. For others, that are not scared of me — for the ones who enjoy me — I am merely an object in a museum, a shiny gold piece to bid on.
At first, I thought of these men as good people — they complimented me. To a young girl who thought the whole world saw her as an ugly misfit, being called beautiful by strangers was a gift from God. But then time pickled my brain, marinated it with understanding and perspective. I soon realized that these men were two-faced and carried sinful motivation. Greed poured from their mouths, and respect was foreign to them. They are not there to make me feel better about myself. They are there to make themselves feel better by using my body.
I think about “catcalling” like this: being carried by someone is great — you don’t need to use your legs, you feel taller and for a moment you feel important. But imagine a stranger who just asked you for directions grabbing you by your waist, hoisting you over their shoulders and walking for a block. It’s not the same. It won’t ever be the same. Someone admiring my hair or my outfit in a kind way won’t ever be received the same way as a strange, older man telling me that I am, “a very beautiful woman.” The attention makes me doubt myself. I know their eyes do not appreciate me, but instead just stare.
At times, it makes me I wish I was that pudgy sixteen-year-old I once was. It makes me want to crawl back into the skin of that girl who was afraid to show off her body. It makes me put truth to the statement, “all men are pigs,” when I know that is wrong. It makes me forget about the great love I have for my boyfriend. It makes me forget there is one man who I could not ever hate. They want to be recognized and be told that I am grateful for their words. But I am not. I should be made stone-faced with a poisonous tongue to the men that want to be thanked for staring at my body. But I am not.
It’s hard to see my anger when my annoyance with them produces a smile, and my hatred of them pronounces a “thank you.” It’s a reaction in me that society coded into my brain, to be grateful to those who compliment me. In the hours after being confronted I’ve come up with witty comebacks to destroy the men who feel it necessary to speak with sexualizing undertones about my appearance. Many different things to make them realize I am a goddess that has been messed with, a bear that has been poked. But in that second, that minuscule moment in which the vial words leave his lips, I am a shrinking flower who thanks, who is grateful. It’s a temporary, quick acting, Stockholm syndrome. I forget that I am amazing, deserving of respect. I am suddenly made into a woman who loves to be harassed.
I’ve tried to dress differently, less attention grabbing. But that doesn’t work. I am a woman made of curves, made of sensuality, made of attraction. I’m always going to have this body, I’m always going to look this way. In the most mundane pants and shirt combo I am howled at by a gaggle of construction workers daily. And even if a change in wardrobe did work, I wouldn’t subject myself to that. I am who I am; I dress nice, I have a body worthy of a spectacular garment. To be clothed in something less than who I am would be a betrayal of the woman that had risen from the ashes of the life of a girl who hated everything about herself. I am her. I was always her. I never want to not be her. Yet she disappears into the fickle words of strange men who pass me by. I needed her today.
I was approached by a man who was looking for that Equifax building on Peachtree Street. It was practically next to us, but I still told him how to get there. He seemed kind enough. He thanked me, then told me, “you are a very beautiful woman.” I thanked him and moved on. Before that I was planning on taking my jacket off, since it’s begun to heat up outside, but now I fear I can’t. I can’t walk around in my shorts and crop top without covering up it all up with a jacket. It’s hot outside, and I’m sweating. If she was there I wouldn’t be boiling. But now I have to suffer the heat for the sake of my dignity.
I ask myself, who is the problem? Me or them? I want to say it’s them because they are strange men who do not know me, but there are men who I know more than those strangers, and they have done the same to me. I have been inappropriately noticed by long-term travel guides who I trusted my life with in foreign countries, and maintenance workers who I see every day and fix my water heater in my apartment. People who know me just enough to warrant me some personal respect, and should feel less comfortable in telling me these things. I’ve even caught the wondering eye of a few men who married into my family.
After the Equifax encounter, I ran into another female student in my school. She said, “you look cute today.” I gave her a quiet thank you, but something told me to turn around and recount what had happened earlier. Her response was, “travel in packs.” Travel in packs? You mean for the rest of my life, to avoid what men say to me, I must go everywhere with one or more women? I must give up my independence so that men will feel as though they cannot say something out of line to me? Is that what my world must become? I want to be myself without being made to feel inappropriate for it.
So, to all men who have said and will say these things to me — I know I am beautiful. I know I am sexy. I know you want to f*** me. But keep it to yourself. Keep it from escaping your throat. Keep it from reaching my ears. Spare me. Let me be a woman without it involving your opinion of me.
Let me be.
