Catcalling Is Ok: Commentary of a Fierce Feminist
I had an enlightening experience in an Italian alleyway that brought about a new renaissance in the way I thought about how men look at me.
As the fiercest feminist you will ever meet, I am here to tell you that: catcalling is ok… sometimes. I know, I know you already hate me but let me explain. My long floral skirt was billowing behind me thanks to a gentle breeze; for the briefest of moments, I felt myself morph into a ditzy American tourist. However, my belief of being someone who embodied grace quickly faded the moment I took my next step with the pressure and gait of a “dude”. I’ve never felt like a true “girl”. I’ve always been an anti-girl: a girl who always insisted that they were a force to be reckoned with. Therefore, I wasn’t a girl at all by social standards. I was someone who would never conform to the demeaning standards of “girlishness”. So, I hated skirts and all that girly bullshit BECAUSE if I wore those things, then I would embody weakness which was the last thing I wanted to be. But I found myself ostracized: outside of an Italian cathedral with a raincoat fastened over my jean shorts. Then I was in a local Italian boutique and decided to try out conformity, which is something that I had never tried before. I picked out a flowy skirt with a slit in the side, and I must admit that to this day, it is my favorite thing hanging in my closet.
“Now turn right on to…” Miss Google Maps said, navigating me through Florence. On the other side of the alleyway, there was a fat Italian cop standing on his tiptoes over his bicycle seat.
“Mama-mia!” He said as I passed.
Without stopping, I smiled ear to ear and continued on my merry way. Could this man have physically harmed me? Sure. He was quite a bit larger than me. Was I conforming to patriarchal Italian standards by wearing something that I ordinarily wouldn’t in order to be socially accepted? Yes, yes I was. I was doing everything that my internal feminist narrative tells me I ought to loathe… yet I felt like a fucking queen when this Italian man “Mama-mia”-ed me. It really was a peak experience.
There was something so Marilyn Monroe about the moment. I felt like a Greek goddess. I felt like I was being appreciated like one of the gorgeous, curvaceous women depicted in world-renowned art. That Italian man’s cat-call felt like a connoisseur’s appraisal of a canonical work. This man knows what a beautiful woman looks like and she looks nothing like Kim Kardashian. His respectful appraisal of a woman walking by was not like that of a crass American man’s; it was much classier than that. However, the hypervigilant feminist in me is suspicious. Perhaps “Mama-mia” is now some dirty sexual innuendo whistled to girls (dare I say it) like me on the Florentine streets. The widely known pop-culture reference could be a cover for something dark and dirty that these Italian men want from me, and other young female visitors.
However, the moment was so… gratifying. I felt respected and comfortable in my femininity. I felt like a true girl, like someone who belonged in a skirt instead of someone impersonating a girl. I was liberated by social expectations that I thought would make me feel belittled. This experience — which is considered to be “oppressive” according to my previous feminist standards — was extremely liberating. By being forced to wear a skirt, I felt comfortable embracing an aspect of myself that I didn’t realize was there prior. I feel empowered by that man’s commentary rather than demeaned. When I wear that skirt now, I feel like a lioness: holding her head high, ready to roar.
