Unwanted Public Conversation and Street-side Interaction
Having grown up with access to American television, and having attended an ‘inner-city’ public school, I find myself with indignant, urban catch phrases racing through my mind at points of public turmoil. A basic one would be the title of this week’s post. See above. Because you don’t. You don’t know me, sir. Youuuuoowwwnknowwwwwwwme. It is the older and more urban version of “You’re not my father!” which, considering some of the things men say to me on the street, I should certainly hope not.
Street-side sexual harassment is infuriating on all levels: that a man would assume his attention is flattering, that you should be singled out, publicly, by a heavy-breather on the B train, that the tacit anonymity agreement of the sidewalk is broken, with raucous shouting about pants. It is degrading, to women as a whole, and subsequently humiliating to all men. It is low-grade terrorism, sociopathic in that the perpetrator has absolutely nothing to lose – he is utterly shameless. Further issue I will take with cat-calling belongs in the footnote of an early 90s self help book: women, it seems, are prone to analyze communication. We will happily and compulsively dissect anything – the movement of an eyebrow, a Freudian email mistype. What does it all mean? It doesn’t. The world is too disorganized to understand properly. Furthermore, it’s not about you. Or me, in this case. The lewd communications of the street are issued with no thought of the recipient, like dialing a ‘555′ telephone number. On a payphone. With no quarters.
Here is the best example, lately, of a remarkably under-prepared young man, using an outdated and wildly inappropriate slogan, (Union Square Christmas Market, near the fleece earmuffs:)
“Once you go black, you never go back!”
I’m sorry?
Now this is just not true. Am I personally married to a black man? No. Did this guy think he saw the glimmer of a wedding ring, with a diamond in the shape of Africa? Am I wearing a t-shirt that says: “I exclusively date men with skin tones Pantone 470 and darker? Hey! Maybe I just broke up with my Congolese boyfriend and am dating his adopted Ukrainian brother! And FURTHERMORE, how does he know I am not a German tourist, with a minuscule grasp of the English language? To me, that sentence could mean something about gangrene, the frigid temperatures – once my pinky finger begins to darken, it will have to be amputated? My career as a cellist is over? How does he know I am not patiently waiting for the date of a gender reassignment surgery for my black girlfriend to become a man so we can be married in the state of New York? How do you know I am not just a figment of your imagination? Whose to say what is real and what is not?
Lately, on Franklin Avenue:
“Hello love. Wanna slice of pizza?”
Actually, sir, more than anything. But it just so happens that I am on my way to the gluten-free meetup group, where I will be cornered by a close-talker with a soy allergy, energetically discussing the benefits of millet flour. So yes, more than anything I would love to eat a slice of hot, greasy, pizza with you, thank you for asking.
Originally published at glassesglasses.org
