Can/Make/Do/Think

Dear Sir,

I regret that my response to your comment today in the West 4th Street station could not have been fully fleshed-out and reasoned. To be honest, I was taken aback, and ill-prepared to inform you on the issue of objectification of women in a grand sense. Allow me to make up for my response’s  incompleteness now.

You approached me as I exited an uptown B train to inform me that I would garner much more male attention if I were to grow out the mohawk, grow my hair nice and long, cut out the black clothing, and smile more. I’m paraphrasing, of course, because the blank shock I felt at the sheer insanity of your statement meant that my recall was not at its best.
I hope that you also realize the humor, as I appear to have garnered your attention despite mohawk, wearing black, and also featuring my fuck-off face. 

My response was, as previously mentioned, brief and curt. I will state it here:
I will most certainly give you a call whenever I start giving a damn what random men in the subway feel about my appearance. Until then, go fuck yourself.

As noted, I did not do a good job representing either women as a gender, or myself as a member of society. There was no need to curse at you. However, things being as they are and time machine technology not existing, I must move on.

I feel the need to mention to you a specific and important point, before we go any further: At no point in my selection of clothing today was I in even the least bit concerned with garnering more male attention, and certainly not from random men in the subway. In fact, garnering male attention did not cross my mind once as I chose and put on my outfit. Neither did garnering male attention cross my mind when I chose to get a haircut that thrilled me and made me feel both beautiful and strong. Truth be told, securing male attention is not something that I concern myself with on a daily basis, or ever. I have all the male attention in my life that I need, thank you.

Now, to your comment as a whole.

You urged me to dispose of a haircut and style of dress that please me, in order to garner more male attention. If given the correct amount of time and mental composure, I would have asked you to confirm whether you knew me from Eve. We both know the answer to that is no.
Based on your not knowing me from Eve, we can establish that you are not my father, brother or grandfather. Neither are you my partner or a trusted male friend. This means that you do not occupy a male position in my life that affords you the luxury to make unsolicited comments or suggestions on my appearance. (I feel the need to mention, here, that even these men’s opinions are generally only met with a polite smile, and no further action, as are all unsolicited comments, from people of either gender, regarding my appearance)

I have found that there are an overwhelming number of men who feel they have the right to urge women to change their appearance, despite not knowing these women.

Not knowing me, you were not privy to the feelings of freedom, power, and pride in my appearance I felt and still feel as a result of my choice of hairstyle.

Not knowing me, you know nothing of how amazing, tall, and strong I feel when I wear skinny pants with these particular heeled black ankle boots.

Not knowing me, you miss out on the particular joy I get every time I put on my black wool cape and my black sunglasses, and stride into the world feeling like a combination of a Bond Girl, a Fembot, and a fucking Superhero.

Not knowing me, and this is the important part, you do not know of my struggle with my looks. You don’t know how I was called ugly in high school by some people, and told that all I had to offer was my looks by others. You don’t know how I spent years ignoring, and have only finally started to celebrate the fact that I am beautiful in a different way than I thought I would be, and in a way that makes me infinitely happier.

You have no idea of how hard it is, some days, to go about your life feeling like you just aren’t good looking, like even your best dress doesn’t look right, like since you don’t believe in the outside of you, no one else will either.

You don’t know how infuriating it is to gain some sort of peace in your skin and still, still have random people in the street or on the subway feel that they have the right to reduce you to your looks and then comment on that reduction.

I want to be very clear. You do not know me. You know nothing of me except your own opinion of my outward appearance.

You yelled after me in the subway today that I shouldn’t be such a bitch. 

I wanted to turn around and explain this all calmly, coldly, and methodically to you, while also making you feel about a half an inch tall and badgering you into realizing something that I’ve come to see most men just don’t get.

I am not on this earth to garner your favor.
I am not on this earth so that you have something pretty to look at during the day.
You do not have the right to make suggestions about my appearance, and I do not appreciate it.

I would never dream of commenting on ways you could improve your appearance, because I understand that you are not an object. You are not there for aesthetics. You are a PERSON. And as such, you make your own damn choices about how you look.

Sir, I am infuriated by your gall, and your arrogance, and your blatant exhibition of sexism.

As P!nk says, “I’m not here for your entertainment. You don’t really want to mess with me tonight”.

Thank you for giving me a chance to present this fuller response to your remark. I only wish that you had an ability to see this and meditate on it, instead of thinking only of the bitchy-looking girl who told you “fuck you”

Respectfully,

The girl with the mohawk, black clothing, and fuck-off face in the subway on the uptown side of the B train at West 4th Street today.