About five times a day, a stranger gives me unwanted attention in the form of a whistle, a shout, a honk, or (my favorite) a whisper in my ear. Minimum five times a day, every day, whether I'm wearing a dress or sweatpants. Most of the time, the only thing I can understand is "rubia," or "blonde." Men here act like they've never seen a blonde girl in their life, which is funny because I've seen approximately 1 million blonde Argentines. Like, clearly blonde-ness is not uncommon here, considering that Argentina is a country of immigrants.
In theory, I guess it sounds nice to get a lot of attention from guys without really doing anything. But here's the deal: street harassment is not a compliment. Having a 50-year-old, sweaty, hairy man scream at me in a foreign language from a car window doesn't make me feel pretty--it makes me feel unsafe. Especially when the guy yelling at me is a taxi driver. Or a cop! (Hey, police officer staring at my chest, aren't you the guy in charge of keeping me safe?)
Recently I was walking home by myself when a man asked me, "¿A dónde vas, muñeca?" ("Where are you going, doll?" for my English-speaking readers. Gross.) Just thinking about that makes my skin crawl. You see, dolls are plastic. They don't have voices or thoughts or lived experiences. They don't do anything except look pretty. I, on the other hand, am a person and not an object. I don't exist for the approval or the appraisal of others. Honestly, my appearance is not something that I want total strangers to comment on, ever; it's not a topic of discussion. When men reduce my value to my physical appearance, when they call me "rubia" instead of my name, they are basically treating me like I'm an object.
Maybe you're thinking, "Of course they're not going to call you by your name because they obviously don't know it!" Here's the thing: these guys clearly aren't interested in knowing my name. My name and my story don't matter to them. I'm not going to say that you shouldn't talk to me if you don't know my name--that's not a good attitude for making new friends--but yelling something disgusting at me while I walk past you on the street is hardly an introduction.
Maybe you're thinking, "You're only mad because unattractive guys are giving you attention. If it were a hot guy you wouldn't care." Street harassment is not attractive to me, no matter who's participating.
Maybe you're still thinking, after all of my explanations, that I'm overreacting to a simple compliment. Well, let me ask you this: is a compliment really a compliment if it makes you feel gross and unsafe? Aren't compliments supposed to be, I don't know, pleasant? In this day and age, intention is irrelevant. If someone feels insulted by something you said to them, it honestly does not matter what you originally meant because you didn't communicate it well enough. So before you blame someone for their reaction, check yourself.
I love Buenos Aires. I love Argentina. And quite honestly, the type of attention I get from men here is not much worse than what I deal with back at home. Misogyny, sadly, knows no borders. But here's the deal: I'm not letting it ruin my trip, I'm not changing how I live my life, and I'm certainly not changing my hair color.
