Skip to content

If You Cat-Call Me, I Might Cold-Cock You for Real

October 21, 2013

If you looked at my hands and arms, you’d think I got into a fight and lost. And you’d be right, since that’s exactly what happened on Saturday.

Luckily, it was a choreographed fight in which there were no actual connected punches, although I did honestly get tossed into a wall and dropped like a sack of cement onto the ground. It’s the second time this year I’ve been in a film role in which I had to muster up the physical coordination to fall flat on my face in a way that didn’t actually break anything (although I must say, this particular role was the first time where my landing pad was full of rocks and prickers).

Playing B.A.M.F. Katelyn Wittmor in “Hopes End” was, in other words, mostly right up my alley. I got to fight, curse, hold a shotgun (an unloaded one), and wear a button-down mechanic’s shirt that read “Customer Service” on one side and “I Don’t Really Give a Shit” on the other. In lieu of Sephora, I sported dirt and fake blood on my face. If I could only have ditched the contacts for my eight-inch-thick glasses, I wouldn’t have looked that much different from my daily life (’cause, y’know, I always wander around downtown looking like a professional bar brawler).

Perhaps it was my obvious enthusiasm for the role that led me to mostly avoid trouble with a few of the extras. We were expecting more than two would-be zombies to show up, so when four drunken douche-bros from Nebraska showed up at our chosen location in Buttfuck, Colorado Eastern Plains, clearly having gotten lost on their way from the one gas station that was right off the highway, nobody exactly complained that they wanted to be extras.

Of the four women there who had to interact with these guys in some way, I was the only one who didn’t get comments about how lovely my breasts looked in the afternoon sunlight (translated from jackass; the original to my poor fellow actress/1st assistant director/makeup champion went more like, “Damn, I just gotta say, you got some nice tits!”) or how, in the case of my other female castmate, she wasn’t supposed to hold her bow and arrow like a real archer would. Holding it flat in front of her while she was squatted down to reveal her own lovely breasts was, of course, the proper way to go about her business.

When the drunkards had to leave so they could finally find their way to downtown Denver for the true purpose of their journey (a booty call), they got all huggy with the other female cast members. I stood my ground.

“I don’t hug,” I told them. The nicest of the four, the poor bastard I wanted to take aside and reassure that it was okay, there was a chance for him to turn out to be a functional human being, took it in good stride and heartily accepted my handshake. The other three followed his example, though the last hesitated.

“You kinda scare me a little,” he said as I crushed his hand (though he was too intoxicated to properly register that). Seeing as this was the same charming fellow who had tried to give properly lady-like archery tips to the lead actress, I looked him square in the eye, put on my best scowl, and replied, “If it’s only a little, I have failed.”

He hightailed it to his truck pretty quickly after that. The rest of us sighed in collective relief that they were gone and went on about their business, but the incident stuck with me for the rest of the weekend.

It probably didn’t help that I’ve read so much about casual harassment over the past few days. One of my high school friends started a blog, It’s Not a Compliment, that I cannot promote enough. As a woman living in a large city, she has had to deal with too much sexual banter on her way to and from work, then deal with the hurled insults from men who get butthurt that she’s not swooning all over them after they take the time out of their busy day to indicate how much they would like to fuck her.

There is also, of course, the everyday sexism project, which highlights the stupidity women have to put up with in the name of “just taking a joke” or “shrugging it off” or not being perceived as being “on the rag.” And naturally, I highly support both outlets.

Part of this reason is because all I can do is hope (and hope there is no end to this hope) that growing awareness will make some of this cumstains feel ashamed of themselves and realize that they might as well hang a portable neon sign around their necks saying, “Hi, I am a waste of oxygen, and you should let me remain a virgin for the rest of my natural life!”

Because I’d feel bad telling fellow women that the best way to avoid harassment is to give up any vestiges of femininity. To judge by Chief Douche-bro’s reaction to me in costume, I speculate that part of the reason I usually get passed over by dumb fucks who aren’t aware that the trouble they’re having isn’t with women, it’s with them, is that I do dress androgynously and have my face set in a special public-transit bitchface that tends to make people do a double-take and sit anywhere else on the bus or train, as intended.

But that’s not right. No one should have to alter their appearance or any aspect of themselves that they otherwise feel good about just to avoid an action that shouldn’t have taken place to begin with. So let’s all get the word out there that sexual remarks to complete strangers are shameful and that the best way to approach a woman you like on the bus or train is not to do it at all, or say something about her hair, shoes, or the book she’s reading if you must and immediately fuck off if she indicates a lack of interest.

And until that message sinks in, fellow women, you can come sit next to me and let my scowl do the work for both of us. I’ll even supply my own fake blood and dirt, maybe some gloves so I don’t injure my hands this time around.

Advertisements

From → Uncategorized

One Comment
  1. The results stand to reason when you consider research on personal
    touch from other areas. A team from the West Coast might struggle with
    an Atlantic coast travelogue that includes visits to Miami, Orlando, Memphis and Charlotte, for example.

    You generally know the prior season won, loss records.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: