So I am just going to come out and say it, I hate cat-calls. But actually. As Stevia said very eloquently in her post, “just fucking stop.” It is not a compliment, its not flattering, it doesn’t make me feel fuzzy inside. Just NO. Where does this declaration of such ire come from, you might ask? My friends know that I am a very chill, relaxed person. I don’t get upset easily, and when I do, I usually can talk it out or make a joke, and its all good. Nothing, (except when people say they don’t like NYC), makes me grit my teeth and boil my blood like cat-calling. But, since I like wearing nice clothing and take pride in my appearance, which apparently is an invitation for un-asked for remarks from strange men on the street, I thought I would share with this fabulous blog my best and worst cat-calling experiences and throw in some of the my ways in which I have dealt with the situation to quell the rage.
Before I jump in, a quick mental image: I am a biracial, 23, curvy lady who cannot resist dresses in the summer and a bit of kohl under the eyes. I don’t believe in “uglying” myself in order to feel safe walking around. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, so I am familiar with how to walk safely on city streets and the death glare. Starting from the best, and going to the worst cat-calling incidents, I present a Shout-out to Cat-Callers in the life of Lady Bee.