I can’t even recall the first time it happened. I only have the vague recollection of being eleven or twelve, that I was most likely a stomach-churning combination of shocked and upset. I can almost taste the panic just thinking about it, the fuzzy white noise my brain made, the invisible hands constricting my airways when I began to say my age, which if the perpetrator was reasonable (although the act itself determined the former was untrue), would set off a mental alarm. My palms always grew sweaty and shaky, but the moment I heard a superficial “my bad,” my legs flew me to the next street, where I was safe again. And I’m not the only one either, every feminine-presenting person remembers the first time they were bothered by a man who was old enough to be their father, their teacher, or maybe even their grandfather. I had heard so many horror stories, and I considered myself one of the lucky ones up until recently to have never been in immediate danger at the hands of some catcaller.

     My first mistake was stepping foot onto that cursed block. The stretch of poorly lit pavement on Sixth Street from Avenue A to Second never brought me or my friends any good luck, and tonight was no different. It was too late on a Friday (or Saturday, if my poor memory is failing me), and we made the conscious decision to challenge the higher power that had plagued us with misfortune on this same path time and time again. We walked quickly, like a string of ducklings following their mother, although in this case, our mother was the false sense of hope we held onto which stemmed from good karma that we didn’t have to begin with.

     I could sense danger the moment I saw the male figures come into view. They incited fear immediately, and I could tell by the hush that fell over my noisy gaggle of friends that they felt it too. No sooner than the lump grew in my throat, one of the filthy men was speaking. The glass vessel he held and the colorful flowers that protruded from it made him appear harmless, but we knew from experience, that that was not the case. His speech was terribly slurred and his friend’s was identical. I couldn’t tell if my ears were purposefully trying to drown out the remark or if he was just that intoxicated. 

     In that moment I hated New York City, I wished to be born elsewhere. Nasty men existed everywhere, but the misfortune I experienced in dark alleys and train stations on my way home seemed excessive. We had already begun to pass the sloppy pair when my friend muttered an “ew,” in response to the flowers that were pushed in his face. “Men are ugly,” he added, and I agreed lightheartedly. Less than seconds later, a loud crashing noise rang out, followed by some shouting and the feeling of something raining down on us. As my head whipped around, I could feel the glass fall from my hair and my hood.
     There he was, the shattered vase on the ground behind us and flowers clutched tightly in his pudgy, dirt-encrusted fingers. He was shouting so loud that I was deafened, my jaw dropping to the ground below me. His confidante appeared just as awestruck as we were, shouting and flailing about as he asked him why he would do such a thing. He held him back, but they were right, strength is in numbers. With my friends by my side I felt fearless. My safety and livelihood had already been compromised, but the stream of curses that filled the air from our side of the block made it clear that we had won. The flying vase didn’t silence us, not like it would have if any of us had been on our own. It didn’t make men not ugly, it didn’t change my reaction from a “fuck you” once I had processed what was happening, and it certainly didn’t keep me from speaking up to every man that bothered me after that night.