I was sixteen when I saw a boy hungrily staring at the way my skirt involuntarily pulled up as I bent down to retrieve my books from under the table. I was in my school uniform.
I was seventeen when a teacher threw a shawl at me in class, asking me to cover up. I was already wearing a cardigan.
I was eighteen when a random mutual friend of mine grabbed my ass multiple times in the middle of the road, in front of everyone. He said my ass looked inviting in that dress and that perhaps he was drunk. It was a very pretty dress, and I wished I was drunk so that I could have punched him.
I was nineteen when a friend of mine saw me and passed a comment, saying that “Whatever she wears looks raunchy.” It was a formal dress that I wore to a work meeting that very day.
I was twenty when a group of friends got together and started objectifying me verbally, exploring the different possibilities and positions of how they would take turns and “do me” on every fixture and furniture possible. I stood up for myself then, and I got labelled as “sensitive”.
Since when was standing up for my dignity considered “sensitive”? Women with curves are seen as meat and men with certain attractive physical attributes are seen as men who have multiple partners. The most bitter part? It has become a commodity today that people unknowingly follow.
Sexually objectifying someone can result in nasty and sour residue emotions that can cost one’s self-respect for a lifetime, ultimately defining them as a person who can only offer sex. It’s never wrong in wanting to be confident in our own skin, but it is wrong to degrade someone who already feels comfortable in theirs. Puberty taught us to be insecure, at the same time teaching us to accept ourselves for who we are eventually. Cover up, society.
