Most people wouldn't call a man whistling at a strange woman on the street romantic. Some would even call it offensive. In New York, where catcalling is as commonplace as potholes, this is an entirely different story. Its cultural significance is perhaps best demonstrated in the show "The King of Queens"(1998−2007) — a phrase I doubt I'll see again — when the protagonist Doug pays a construction worker to holler at his insecure wife.
It's not quite that catcalling is a compliment, even. It's that if you don't get catcalled in New York, you just don't look good.
When I moved to Medford, it was strange not to have the reliable idlers endorse my outfits to varying levels of approval each morning. But I didn't recognize the full extent of my nostalgia until they popped back into my life unexpectedly. One afternoon in collegiate New England, a Hummer H3 passed by Olin, windows rolled down, coming from them things too wildly inappropriate for print, and I thought: home. Then the car took off and, poetically, it had a New York license plate.
Of course there are several ways to react to such an incident — you can be terrified; you can be pissed off; you can pretend to be pissed off while really thinking, damn, I look good; or you can take the compliment and play along.
It all comes down to the power of the gaze. The hierarchy functions so: S/he (but usually he) who looks (or shouts) is in control of the situation, while s/he (but usually she) who is the object of the look (or shout) is subordinated. Terrified, you only acknowledge your role as the latter; pissed off, you welcome it. Or you can play dirty to win the upper hand — keep the basic structure of the game, but reverse the attachments of power. Take seduction: The object becomes willing exhibitionist, the gazer, a helpless gaper.
Women who have gotten wind of this generally opt for the last choice, which is the route Miranda famously takes in "Sex and the City" (1998−2004) when she responds to a catcaller's beckon, "You wanna screw? Let's screw!" The frightened man admits he has a wife and apologizes.
To get to my role in this, though, after having found myself at one point or another in each of these situations, I decided my wonder really lay with the callers.
But wondering proved fruitless, so I took the weekend to try on the role.
My first attempt went somewhat awry when I woot−wooted at a middle−aged man in a gas station before realizing that my partner−in−crime whose shotgun I was riding was actually pulling into the gas station.
After that, I stuck with safer distances. As we were skiing, the ski lift seemed a decent alternative — or would have been had I not shouted at a snowboarder who took a painful−looking fall the moment I re−gathered my courage to hoot.
Upon the criticism of my reluctant accomplice, I decided on another tactic. Instead of yelling ambiguous noises, I switched to intimidating phrases. While she approved in general, she said "Yeah, you keep running," was too intimidating, so I moved on to rap lyrics, channeling Drake circa "Fancy" and Jay−Z circa "Excuse Me Miss" as we rolled back into Somerville in her Nissan 200SX. This left Somerville's residents, if anything, confused at why I was asking them whether they were fancy.
And then it happened. I revolutionized catcalling.
At worst, the habit is offensive, at best complimentary. So why not have it be plainly that? Instead of confusing people by yelling things of no relevance, together we complimented loudly every second or so person we saw on anything we thought of.
It's still a work in progress — "nice baby" was a definite mistake, and "I like your legs" sounded creepier than planned — but for the most part, I'm pretty sure I'm good at this.
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