Cat-Calling: A Refusal to Cower

Walking closer to the corner of 14th and 5th, the whistles began. I had spotted the group of guys when I was further down the sidewalk, but deemed it unnecessary to switch sides. I didn’t want to over react, plus, I thought it might seem rude. What also convinced me to keep walking on this path was the fact that I was with a friend of mine, who just so happened to be a guy. Foolishly, I added each of these factors together and maintained the course.

We must have been a few stores down when they noticed. Instinctively, I picked up my pace. My friend, having sensed how alert I became, naturally followed suit. Walking at such a rapid pace we still had no choice but to pass beside them. The group was on my left and my friend was on my right. Sandwiched between so many men. Mother’s greatest fear. It was an innate reaction to draw closer to my friend, further from the leering glares and invasive stares. But, close enough that I could still hear their whispers.

Time seems to slow down so immensely in those moments. Eyes fixated straight ahead. An icy expression. Arms clasped. Legs on autopilot. But, I can still remember each second. Even in the dead of night I can recall their lustful eyes and devilish smirks.

After passing, it’s still hard to breathe a sigh of relief. To say I was uncomfortable would be an understatement. I was angry and frustrated, but more pressingly, I was embarrassed. I glanced at my friend, as if to say, “Sorry you had to experience that.” “Sorry you had to go through that with me.” It is something that I am used to, have almost become desensitized to. But I knew, that as a guy, he wasn’t used to street harassment. Or at least not from a female perspective. And I was ashamed that he had to go through that with me.

Neither of us acknowledged it. As we moved further away, a sudden silence fell between us. I felt it was my duty to fill that silence with incessant ramblings. I wanted him to move past that experience, even more than I wanted to forget.

I wanted to ask him why he didn’t do or say anything to help. Why didn’t he glare right back, challenge them to stop whistling? Why didn’t he tell me to switch sides with him, so that I could stand further away? But then I remembered, the scary part is not knowing. Not knowing if they will stop after a few whistles. Not knowing if they will accept your unwillingness to smile.

We naturally ask ourselves, does he look dangerous, unstable? How many are there? We think, maybe I should just give in and smile. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this outfit. And then berating yourself for deciding to walk down this street, at this time. Regretting not crossing the street when you had the chance. But that is absurd. This is a public space and we will not cower from every man who shares the same sidewalk.

What do you think? Should we be expected to fear public spaces?

Rick Genest & Shaun Ross

Photographed by Joachim Baldauf for Traffic

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Method to Making a Decision

How much of our life is governed by choice? When the alarm goes off and the sun is streaming through the window, threatening the sanctity of your sheets, you are immediately plagued by a decision. Do you reluctantly get up to start your morning, or do you fling your hand on top of the alarm clock, fighting for a few more minutes? How much of an option do we truly have in this moment? What factors need to be considered and how much weight do each of those factors carry?

I’m a huge fan of making lists, so when faced with any decision, my immediate thought is to create a pros and cons list. However, I have recently found that creating these pro and con lists are never fully beneficial. Attempting to deduce an arguably complex decision into a series of bullet points neglects aspects of an issue. Attributing bullets to options is attempting to quantify a qualitative experience. The thing is, most decisions involve two options that hold the same value, this is why making a decision can be so difficult.

When deciding whether to attend school at UCLA or NYU, it’s easy to think that these are two comparable options. They share a common value; they will each allow you to receive a higher education, and yet, they are two vastly different universities. Nevertheless, a decision must be made.

Making a decision is rooted in the desire to determine which option is better, but in most cases, there is no better option. To use a term coined by Ruth Chang, each option is “on a par” with the other option. This means neither option is better, worse, or equal to another; instead they hold the same value.

If options hold the same value, who is to say we must chose option A over option B, who is to sway our reasoning and force us to have ice cream instead of cake. The thing about making a decision is that we garner the ability to make our own. And once we have placed our name behind a choice, once we have declared our desire for ice cream, we are orchestrating our power.

When faced with a decision, it is easy to think that one option is the better option, that we must have method and reasoning to support our decision and that failure to make the right decision will have unforeseen consequences. But, when these two options are “on a par” and share the same value, it is not your responsibility to pick the better option, but to pick the one you can support and develop so that it becomes what you make of it.

The cool thing about making decisions is that they are representative of who you are and who you would like to become.

The Fourth of July

We were those ‘young adults’ your parents warned you about. Running through the streets, tripping over each others feet, and snapping selfies as if the memories we were creating were as transient as the drinks in our hand.

We clung desperately to each others arms while attempting to navigate the crowds. On a parkway filled with thousands, there were about 15 of us foolishly attempting to stay together. As was inevitable, we split apart. Traversing through the crowds, the army of 15, became a troop of seven.

Standing beneath a street light we regrouped and refueled. Having arrived to the Parkway just as the concert was beginning, our only mission was to find a spot with at least a partial view of the concert stage. Without consideration for our next move, the lyrical happenings of Jennifer Hudson came wafting through the crowd. “And I am telling you- I’m not going,” finishing with the classic, “And you, and you, and you, you’re gonna love me.”

Immediately thereafter, the announcer declared the next artist to come to the stage would be Nicki Minaj. There was then this massive surge from the crowd in the direction of the stage. Again, clinging desperately to each other, we found ourselves swept into the current. It was actually pretty convenient for us; if you consider our desire to get closer to the stage, yet our reluctance to make any actual moves.

At one point we looked to our left and saw that we had somehow made it into the gated concert arena. Gated, as in the area where most people had actual tickets. And we were just the rift raft that washed in.

We found seats situated close together and rather than being the sensible spectators who sit down, we stood in the chairs, selfishly bettering ourselves.

Our main desire to go to this concert was to see Ed Sheeran, perhaps you’ve heard of him. Once we found our bearings on top of the chairs, a guy with a guitar walked on stage.

I could try to give you a rundown of what happened, but the moments between him walking on stage and his final departure is merely a haze filled with incessant screaming, terrible singing, and perhaps a few tears.

As the lyrics of “Sing” faded into the distance, his unmistakable melodies wafted into the missiles of fireworks. Suddenly his lyrics, “This love is a blaze. I saw flames from the side of the stage,” took on a whole new meaning.

Breathtakingly Diverse Families

Photographer Cyjo has captured such breathtaking portraits showcasing the racial and ethnic diversities of individuals within their families. These images have artfully called into question how we define beauty and our perceptions of identity and culture.

Doyle Family, 2010. Citizenship: American. Ancestries: African, American Indian, Creole, Cuban, French, Irish. Languages: English, Spanish, French. Live in New York. courtesy of cyjo.net

Huang Rierson Family, 2013. Citizenships: American, Belgium.Ancestries:Chinese, All Western Europe except France. Languages: Mandarin, French, English. Live in Beijing. courtesy of cyjo.net

James Family, 2010. Citizenship: American. Ancestries: American Indian, Chinese, Dutch, English, Filipino, German, Irish, Japanese, Prussian. Languages: English, French, Pidgin English (a mix of English, Hawaiian, Chinese, Japanese, and Filipino). Live in New York. courtesy of cyjo.net

Kishimoto Family, 2013. Citizenships: Chinese, Japanese. Ancestries: Han Chinese, Japanese, Xibo Chinese. Languages: Mandarin, Japanese, English. Live in Beijing. courtesy of cyjo.net

Snodgrass Family, 2013. Citizenships: American, Chinese. Ancestries: German, Han Chinese, Irish. Languages: English, Mandarin. Moved back and forth to China since 1999. courtesy of cyjo.net

Mixed Blood - Valter Family, 2010 — Valter Family, 2010. Citizenship: American, German. Ancestries: African-American, American Indian, Bahamian, French, German. Languages: English, German, French, Spanish. Live in New York. courtesy of cyjo.net

Sam Smith: In the Lonely Hour

Let’s call it the “baby bird leaving the nest” effect. This is what happens when that unknown artist you discovered over a year ago is suddenly becoming ridiculously popular and all you can do is sit there and silently watch as they learn to fly, all on their own. And you’re proud, obnoxiously proud, and you want to run around and tell everyone how proud you are of your little bird, but the more you rave, the more annoyed everyone becomes. Besides, they know all about the little bird who learned to fly, they heard about him on the radio, online, and on some Letterman show.

This is Sam Smith, and I am so damn proud. I can’t even begin to describe the sheer brilliance of his voice; it would be a shame for me to reduce his sound to a few strokes on the keys.

His album was released early this week and on a scale of 1 to 10, it is flawless. So take a listen for yourself and let me know what you think.

Her Skirt was too Short

Her skirt was too short.
Her father is not in the picture.
She is not married.
She did not walk down a well-lit street.
She drank too much.
She trusted too much.

Riddled with statistics and studies, The Washington Post has chosen to further perpetuate rape culture in their recent article, “One Way to End Violence Against Women? Married dads.” I failed to make it to the end of the piece before my frustrations forced me to begin this post. In these instances statistics do not matter, color coordinated charts are irrelevant.

I cannot begin to fathom why someone would so ardently believe that it is okay to publish a post detailing the perceived faults of women who have been abused. Believing it is a woman’s fault for the abuse. Believing that a woman’s relationship status is a major component of why she was abused.

Why is it ever acceptable to blame the victim?
Why am I still asking this question?

When an abuser chooses someone to victimize I am supremely confident that they are not questioning whether or not she is married. They do not factor in whether she lives with her biological father.

I simply imagine an abuser sitting in a room right now, laughing manically. They have just gotten away with the most heinous crime and we are sitting here discussing what the woman did wrong.

According to The Washington Post, in order to feel safe, women must rely on men as a protectant from men.

But the thing is women, can’t do this alone. Though women stand in solidarity proclaiming that we must end rape culture, we rely on others for assistance.
We rely on men to teach other men how to respect women.
We rely on family and friends for support.
And most importantly, we rely on society to not disregard the actions of abusive men.

From Orgies to Church Services

In an age where everyone is trying to write some pseudo-intellectual novel, we have this guy, Dan Hoffman, writing about snorting cocaine and gay orgies. The stories are refreshing and simple in a way that’s much appreciated. And he writes so that I feel like I’m living vicariously. Like I too am in Germany for the weekend, having just left my apartment in Paris, contemplating a decision to move to the American midwest.

But, it’s not all leather straps and ass chaps, the blog is titled “Intimate Thoughts,” and despite some of the more unabashed posts, Hoffman manages to slip in an existential crisis or two. And with stories titled “A Wholesome Sunday,” Hoffman aptly provides a wide array of stories.

This truly is one of my favorite blogs to read. They’re a mix of fiction and non-fiction so there’s no way to know whether it’s the stories about church services or all-out-gay sex parties that are potentially autobiographic. But regardless, the stories are bloody brilliant and I only hope he receives the acclaim he deserves.

She Gets It: The Beyoncelogues

I may or may not have been sitting in my room bellowing out everything that is Beyonce when I stumbled across The Beyoncelogues, a series of videos by Nina Millin. She channels the passion beyond Beyonce’s lyrics by reciting them in the form of a monologue. Brilliant.

[sidenote: that “Little BoBo” at the end is spot on]

and for reference: