Girls Are Made From Pepsi

Hey girl, hey!

Source: fanpop.com

Hey pretty lady. How’s it going? What’s your name, sunshine? Where do you live? I like your pants/shorts/skirt/top. Damn! They’d look better on my floor. What did you do last night? Were you with your boyfriend? He better keep an eye on you, sugar pie. You can sit next to me, princess. I only move for the beautiful ones. Give us a smile, honey. Does your lip ring hurt? I could still kiss you, you know*.

The above is an amalgamation of the depressing, belittling, degrading and positively quitodian comments that I receive, you receive, your mother’s received, and basically any woman with a vagina who’s shown above the ankle in public. It doesn’t matter what age you are. These sleezy salutations could have started at 12, and are more than likely escalating in your 20s. Perhaps it was the mailman. Or maybe the train driver licking his lips and thrusting his groin in your direction. Was it an elderly and seemingly honest man at the bus stop? Unlike intercourse, you don’t always remember your first. You don’t, because the occasions area all so similar, the perpetrators all displaying that same, leering look, that incidents blur and warp and fade into the recesses of your memory. I know mine have.

I like to consider myself from the Pollyanna school of thought, but unfortunately, the moment your body develops any sort of figure, it just doesn’t stop. And by it, I mean every day street harassment. The extent to which one experiences unwarranted attention may spiral, stagnate, contract and plateau depending on individual circumstances. But it always happens. Again. And again. And again.

What we’re talking about here is not just those blatant comments that get hurled from you in a car full of stereotypical hoons (the Australian equivalent of North America’s jock). Nor the unwarranted ass gropings, the licking of the lips, the insults hurled back from men rejected, completely and utterly scorned. The definition of street harassment is problematic, and changes from class to class, community to community, age group to age group, and of course, gender to gender. Street harassment has become so publicly acceptable that it’s practice is not so often identified, and is often repudiated as a compliment. It could be in the form of a loud, and frankly quite frightening, car horn whilst out running. It could be a long, lingering stare at the bar as you order a drink with a cherry in the glass. Maybe a stranger singing to you on a train ride home, as you have an inner monologue with yourself about never ever ever ever ever ever wearing tube tops in public again. Defining street harassment is so difficult because if a woman is seen as attractive, well then, she’s clearly asking for it. Same analysis applies if said woman is dressed in a provocative manner. Now, I’m not going to get into the whole Slut Walk saga as that is a blog post unto itself, so let’s just assume that we are all aware of how the global protests started and what was involved. See exhibits a, b, and c, to get you up to speed.

The reason I raise the issue of street harassment’s fuzzy grey area, and find it so difficult to define or even claim that it’s boundaries are illusive, is not because I want to get into an argument about white girl problems and bemoan my inherent middle-class whiteness. The reason is, because as a young girl, I was taught that attention from men=good. In my prepubescent mind, the male gaze in all forms was the ultimate form of validation. I hung out with a group of girls who were raised this very same way, and unfortunately, when you play with fire you often get burnt. I, like them, craved male attention and thrived on receiving it. Desperate measures were taken to ensure we were awarded our daily dose, and for that I wish I could sit young Camilla down and tell her she’s worth more than that. Not to sound like a university educated twat and gender studies snob who’s been spewed forth from the university system to enlighten the world with my feelings about equality, but I know better now. And I wish other girls did too. Unfortunately, attention always = good (in the mind of an impressionable young teen who hasn’t reached self-actualisation as of yet, at least). I mean, shouldn’t we be thankful that we’re being noticed? Feel validated that our bodies are being appreciated? And if not so, then shouldn’t we stop dressing in such a manner that evokes provocative comments?

In the words of Elle Woods, I object. I come from a place in the world where 45 degree centigrade summers are the norm (that’s 113 to you northern folk). Our weather alternates between being STINKIN’ HOT and BLOODY UNBEARABLE. It is for these reasons, and I would also like to thank climate change for this situation, that come September, I break out the denim cut offs, show my mid-drift and wear bikinis (although not really lately, I’m more of a one-piece kind of gal these days). Not because I am clearly wanting to intentionally wear boner material, or illicit responses from the bored and dejected males of my neighbourhood, but because if not I may get a heat stroke and offend your nostrils with the stench of my body odour. My clothing is worn out of practicality. In winter I wear coats and big wooly jumpers. Ya dig?

This is not so easily understood by those who see a woman’s limbs as saturated with sexuality. To me, my body is intrinsically just a body. It gets me from a to b, it functions properly (most of the time), and does some pretty amazing shit, like re-growing bones, changing colour, and perhaps one day it will be a vessel for a tiny human. In a History of Sexuality, Focault says we’re in a society of sex, a society focused on objects and targets. Which is why sometimes (and not all the time, which I’ll get into in a second), if a dude talks AT me in public, I get pretty defensive. Oftentimes, I’ll use my best bitch face to repel any unwanted advances. They don’t always work. At first, they’ll whistle. They’ll ask, they’ll probe, I’ll reply in monosybillic responses, they’ll question further, ad nauseum, as if to say “You, female, pay attention to me, man, within this public domain”. I don’t even have to do anything, and they’ll continue having a conversation with the side of my face. It reeks of entitlement and power-play.

Sometimes though, a dude gets it right. This happened to me the other day, and it should be printed off and used a guide for Approaching Ladies in a Polite and Respectful Manner. Firstly, he approaches me, tentatively. He says ‘hello’, then apologises for disturbing my lunch. After I node and smile, he then goes on to say I look nice, and he thought he’d like to talk with me because of said nice appearance. We have small chit-chat about the weather, shopping, etc, and after I seem vaguely disinterested, he tells me to enjoy the rest of my day, smiles, and leaves. I mean, it’s not really that hard, is it?

I’m hopeful about a day when a girl can walk down the street without bare arms, ankles, shoulders, seen as an open invitation, or as Meg so politely puts it, “sweet hetero pussy”.  I don’t feel like it’s my job to ensure I don’t get harassed. It shouldn’t be. But for some reason, it is. And I don’t really have any more ADSJFOEYPUNWOW’s or !!!#$#%@)#%*’s left in me to describe the frustration anymore.

*All of the examples I’ve given throughout this post have been experienced personally.