Walking down the street is not one of my rights. Who knew?

Last week, in celebration of the 90^th anniversary of my voting rights, I baked a fabulous chocolate cake.  On Saturday, a kind gentleman reminded me that I’m still second-class.  When I responded angrily to his catcall, he condescended to explain just what rights I do have.  “Like you got the right, sweetheart, dressed like that.”

Like what?  A person?  In a tank top and jeans because it’s comfortable.

So I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Suck your own cock, motherfucker!”

And he’s probably laughing about it right now with his cronies, who are wondering, “Why’d she get so angry?”

You see, I get catcalls all the time.  I get hit on whenever I take the bus.  It even happened the next day when I was walking to the grocery store—the telltale once over and “Hiya, honey, how’s it going?”  Well, it’s not going anywhere with you sir, saying as you’re about thirty years older than me, sweating like a pig and smoking.

I’m left to refine my scare tactics, perfecting them one asshole at a time.  Next time, I promise I’ll have the presence of mind to walk up to the car, say “Smile, sweetheart,” and snap a picture to post on Hollaback.  And I’ll introduce myself.  The object doesn’t have a name.  And she’s not forward, smart, or funny.  The object is a replaceable vagina.  The object must become the subject.  The object does not demand respect; the subject commands equality.

And, this subject wants to know, why assholes, do you do it?  What makes do you feel so entitled to my body that you would yell at me as I do something as mundane as walk down the street?  It does nothing to impress me.  In fact, it makes me want to cut off your balls, feed them to you, and suck your liver out through a straw.

Thanks, sir, for telling me what my rights are.  Next time, though, you’ll need to produce the Bill of Rights to show me exactly where it lists what I am allowed and not allowed to wear or say.  My great-grandmother fought hard so I could vote, a right I now take for granted.  In a hundred years, maybe my great-granddaughter will be able to take for granted that she can walk safely down the street.