Tank Tops and Cat Calls.

When I was a teenager, my girlfriends and I used to make it a game to see if we could get guys to stare at us as we walked by. We mastered the art of catching a gaze and directing a lingering gaze well after we broke eye contact. It was great fun at the time. Probably because I felt like I controlled it. Somehow in those days, it seemed I had to fight for the same kind of attention that I no longer seek nor desire. In fact, that attention has readily found its way to me as a hawk seeks and descends upon its prey.

It was probably always there, but I didn't notice it. Not until I was an adult living in a large city. I heard it daily. Cars pulled over so that men could offer me a ride or ask me if I had a boyfriend. Strangers on the street asked me for my number, then acted offended when I wouldn't give it to them. Or they would beg. Both behaviors repulsed me and conversely caused a feeling of guilt to arise within me, almost as if I owed it to them. I knew I didn't, but that guilt was my immediate heart-response.

In its creepier and darker forms, I had strangers follow me for blocks, persisting in their pursuit for my - what? For my affection? For the trophy of myself? For affirmation? I don't know. But sometimes men followed me. Sometimes men made vulgar comments about things they wanted to do with my body.

It was utterly disheartening when one day my girl friend and I were walking with our close guy friends. As we entered the train station, a man made incredibly vulgar comments to me and my girl friend about our bodies. She and I slightly increased our pace and pretended not to be shaken. Our guy friends kept walking coolly on as though nothing happened. Because they didn't realize anything had. Because they didn't hear the comments. Because the man's eyes weren't on them. Because they would never imagine that anyone would be so vulgar. Because no one had ever done that to them. They didn't even hear it. It was so isolating to feel like the men who I perceived as my "protectors" at the time did not even perceive any danger, or worse, that they were incapable of doing so.

After a few years of constant (daily - no exaggeration) comments, cars stopping, cars honking, and me saying "No" more times than a ruthless 2 year-old, my wardrobe started to change. Old skirts that were "just too short" were pitched as were blouses that indicated I had a shapely torso (anything but T-shirts). Shorts were out altogether.

I didn't own a pair of shorts for about 4-5 years. I remember having a near panic attack one day when I was at my college campus. It was a rare beautifully warm day in the spring of Chicago. I wore a long skirt and a matching brown tank top.

In public. I wore a tank top in public. I was hyper-aware of the fact that my bra-straps kept slipping off my shoulders. Then I ran into my Bible professor. We made casual conversation about an assignment or something. I started panicking.

"He's seeing me in a tank top. Not now, bra-straps, not now! Can I pull them back up without drawing attention to them? Why did I wear a tank top?! He probably thinks I am a slut and that I'm obviously in the wrong major as a Bible student. Why is everyone looking at me?"

After our conversation ended and he innocently walked on, I continued beating myself up for what I was wearing. I almost vowed to throw out all my tank tops. Then realized I wasn't reacting to what happened in that moment. I was reacting to the accumulated, then-unnamed feelings of years before.

I realized that I felt like I was prey and predators were waiting to descend. I had to have my defenses up. I had to be proactive to reduce the likelihood of gaining that sort of attention. I changed my entire wardrobe as a result of it. I developed this weird fear of my body and a weird sense of guilt for the attention I felt like I brought upon myself simply by being a woman. I felt I had to do all in my power to reduce the attention.

My mini freakout made me feel like a stranger to myself. It was the start of a turning point for me.

Authority on My Head - The Story of My Hair

1 Corinthians 11:6-10, " For if a woman does not cover her head, she might as well have her hair cut off; but if it is a disgrace for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, then she should cover her head. A man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God; but woman is the glory of man. For man did not come from woman, but woman from man; neither was man created for woman, but woman for man. It is for this reason that a woman ought to have authority over her own head, because of the angels"
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I’ve got to be honest. I don’t understand the “point” of hair. Ever since I was a kid, I figured hair was there because Neanderthals needed it for warmth during the Ice Age for humans to survive. Hey – that was pretty complex thinking for a kid! As I got older, I still didn’t get the point. Hair, to me, was a way to deal with my restless boredom. 

I grew it out long. I cut it short. I grew it out again. I cut it shorter. Maybe I’d dye it if I was trying to preserve the length. My hair was a way of jovial competition with my friends. It was a way to get attention. It was a way to make a joke (like that Halloween when I dyed my hair purple with temporary dye that was not quite so temporary as I thought). I didn’t connect how much my hair meant to my culture until I cut it. In fact, it never meant much to me until I shaved it. That’s right – not buzzed – shaved. With a razor for women’s legs.  

I won’t go into my reasons for shaving my head. It’s convoluted and it’s personal. When people ask these days, I say, “I felt like it.” Which, although it is a write-off, is also true. But I can tell you how it affected those around me. 

There were awkward responses that led to awkward conversations. “Thanks so much for the encouragement, but I don’t have cancer. I’m sorry.” There were a few awkward mistakes. “Thank you, sir! Err, ma’am. Um. Thanks.” There were lots of questions of “why?”, which I responded to fully at the time, but no longer have the energy (or clarity of purpose) to do so. 

By far, the most frustrating response was among male friends. I remember being subjected to the same conversation more than once - about me and my attractiveness, about females in general and their attractiveness, with short hair. It started with the typical “Why?”, then was followed up by the offering of an opinion stated as fact. “You shouldn’t have shaved it.” Or, “You look better with longer hair.” Or, “I dunno, it just doesn’t… Yeah…” 

I would say something about Natalie Portman shaving her head for V for Vendetta. Then they would recall all of the famous women they knew who shaved their heads and whether or not they should have done it, based solely on whether or not they looked attractive and sexually appealing to them with their hair cut short or shaved. Somehow it never crossed their minds that they were minimizing me and devaluing me in this conversation they had around me, in front of me, about me and not about me specifically, but what I represented.

It was weird years later to get a random message from a male friend who I hadn’t spoken to in months telling me that he was just “letting me know that I looked good with long hair” and that he was “glad I grew it out”. It was meant to be a compliment, and I love my friend and I appreciate the intent. But to me it felt like almost entitlement. Like his opinion mattered, like he was right all along and I must have finally realized (since my hair is long now), like it rocked his world so much that I shaved my head that he felt compelled to message me about it because he is finally at peace now that my head-covering, my grace, the “authority on my head” was restored. 

I know him. I know he didn’t intend it that way. Don’t get me wrong – girls also told me how they liked my hair. Some liked it short and “wished they could pull it off”, some liked that my hair looked “fierce”, some thought I looked better with it longer. No one of any gender hesitated to tell me their opinion when I didn’t ask.

But no female seemed so taken aback. No female thought my decision should be based on my sexual appeal to her (and if she did, she never verbalized or even hinted at it). No female felt compelled to message me, essentially congratulating me for finally seeing the light and growing it out. No female seemed so shaken. No female messaged me after months, years, went by telling me how much she felt that my hair needed to be long. 

Why did my hair need to be long if not for the symbol of authority on my head?

"When did you become a girl?"

“So when did you become a girl?” He asked. Not, “when did you become a woman”. Not “you grew up a lot”. Not “you look great these days”. I played dumb, asking him what he meant, even though I knew. He astutely noted, “You have big boobs lol”. 

When did I become a girl? For him, a girl was defined as one with big boobs. I didn’t quite get what that meant for me when he knew me, back in my Sophomore year of high school, before my set came in. At that point was I androgynous? Boyish? Invisible? Apparently I wasn’t a girl, not until I had assets he thought were within his realm of sexual possibility. Thank goodness he took ample notice of my breasts! Otherwise, I may’ve never been a girl. Phew, I was really tired of having no concept of my gender identity until he re-entered my life. 

The conversation denigrated from there. He began to hit on me voraciously via text, and at the time I played along enough not to alienate him, but I set firm and clear lines (as casually as possible so his ego would not be hurt). He told me my chest was distracting. I told him that’s why I buttoned my shirt back up over my bikini at lunch, especially since I wasn’t trying to hook up with anyone. He said he never mentioned anything about trying to hook up with me. Whoops, my newly-acquired “girl” brain must have been confused. 

I acknowledged that it’s good to be clear about intentions and boundaries if there’s any uncertainty in the air – yes, this was before Robin Thicke expressed his wisdom and experience with blurred lines.

His response? “Idk if I completely believe you though”. I made clear, again, that I just wanted to get to know him because I like getting to know people. I didn’t tell him this aspect, but there was added, humanistic intrigue in connecting with someone whom I never actually befriended or knew in high school except in passing. He indicated that he understood. 

Later that week, we tried to hang out again. After a few hours and a few missed texts, he finally replied that he was “drunk and horny lol”. I replied that, in that case, it was a good thing I didn’t come over. He said, “You know you wanna hook up”. I reminded him that I was not after that and asked him, “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to get to know you as a friend?”

“Because I’m hot”… Yes, that’s how it happened. I retorted, “And that’s the only reason I could possibly want to spend time with you?”

That ended the communication though there may have been a passive aggressive status update on his facebook page the next day about people being “Debbie downers” and trying to be psychologists. Maybe he was right. I sure am analyzing it years later, and here are the things that really blow my feminist mind. 

I’m astounded:

1)      That I am not even female until I have a sexuality that can please a man
2)      That my gender identity is determined by others – I might have mistakenly misidentified as a “false positive” years before I had boobs
3)      That once I am determined to be a girl by a man, that I must be magnetized to the raw sex-appeal of said man (even if I barely know him)
4)      That when I state my intentions clearly, multiple times, I am either playing a game (afterall, I am apparently a girl, and we do that kind of thing) or I don’t know what I want (because I couldn’t possibly not want him)
5)      That Robin Thicke did not consult with this man before writing his song, or worse 
6)      That maybe this pattern of thought and belief is only an exaggerated version of the norm

For the record, I have always been a girl. A better question is “When did you become a woman?”, and here’s my answer. I have considered myself a woman on multiple levels at different times in my life, but never so much as in this period in my life, wherein I am claiming my womanhood with pride and gratitude. I hope that continues to grow as I become more rooted in my identity as a woman and as an individual human being.