BY ALEX VERDUZCO

Digital artwork displaying the feeling of existing in a man’s world from the shared perspective of many women. 

(BRENNA MERRYWEATHER/ Ethic News Photo)

**The information below can be triggering to some and could be a sensitive topic to certain ages**

As a little girl, your imagination runs wild with fire-breathing dragons and damsels-in-distress.

Once you’re older you realize the wolf in grandma’s clothes is just the consequence of being a trusting and forgiving woman. The childlike fantasies dissipate until you realize, you’ll always be a damsel-in-distress in the world’s eyes. Tragic, but beautifully helpless.

Seventeen years old. Not quite an adult, but an awkward and bittersweet age. Abandoning what you once knew and learning to see things for the complexities that they are. Was the man on the street smiling in a polite passing manner or was there something else to it? I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Grocery shopping with my non-English speaking abuela. I grab my last item and head to the checkout line. Not even a full second, before asking if my grandmother had dragged me from the car on the way there. My grandma and I both pause, looking at each other not understanding the strange, overconfident man in his dirt-covered uniform. He repeats his question, gesturing to my black, ripped jeans. 

I had barely walked up, he had to have been watching me from afar. His tall stature would have made him go out of his way to spot my ripped jeans–he had been purposely looking. His roaring laugh provokes the small woman of his wife standing next to him to apologize for his comments. Classic. The red faced, cringing woman embarrassed by her husband’s bad behavior–whose apologetic nature was nowhere in sight. Taught to be ladylike, all I can manage is a scowl so as to not cause a scene.

Leaving my mom in the produce aisle of the grocery store to grab my bagels for lunch and make the trip go faster. I pass the man whose smile lingers and those words leave his mouth. I didn’t think my black t-shirt and jeans would attract any attention. I didn’t have any rips in my jeans and I wasn’t even looking in his direction. Did my glittery eyeshadow catch his eye? I didn’t invite him to talk to me. I didn’t ask him what he thought of my appearance. 

His reaction wasn’t my fault. I wore this outfit to church today, I look my age. Even if I was older, he still shouldn’t have called a stranger that. Especially not a child. Hasn’t anyone ever told him not to say those things? 

Probably not. Patriarchy is rooted in American culture, and it protects men from backlash of their comments and degrading actions towards women. Whether implied as a compliment or not, I wasn’t asking for his opinion, I was just existing in a public place. I didn’t ask for either man to speak to me, I didn’t initiate a conversation or even eye contact. I was not my own person in those moments, they forced their unwarranted words on me. Their unwarranted opinion of my appearance.

This isn’t only applicable to men. Boys are exposed to harmful media and further relay the pattern of female degradation. Sitting in the library, hearing fellow peers describing the physical attributes of another girl. Their shameless manner and snickers after pointing out what they like about her and what they don’t, and their humiliating comments. Not a single word about her personality. Nothing about her goals, or dreams. Nothing about how she makes others feel. Just what her teenage body seems to look like this year. It’s her body, but boys seem to think otherwise.

To be perceived in the male gaze is a horrifying reality. Tied to our appearance, our value in life is based on how we can cater to men. The beauty standard is ever-changing and the fluidity of trends creates an oppressive environment of the image that we are supposed to obey. Girls need to grow up and look like this, but once you age you need to buy every serum that will halt the process. 

Even when women age, in certain states what we do with our bodies is up for discussion. What will ultimately affect the trajectory of our lives is no longer in the comfort of our home or a hospital room, but a court and possibly a jail cell. We are not our own.

Not to mention the horrors of being underage but knowing men are preying on you for your appearance. The fetishization in the media instills paralyzing fear in me, not wanting to ever be alone in a public area. The hairs on my arm standing up when I walk my dog alone in the neighborhood. Checking Megan’s Law for updates doesn’t make my fear disperse, but it’s good information to know. Maybe I shouldn’t be alone in the world.

My short stature prohibits me from seeing past the top of cars while in the parking lot. Good thing my boyfriend was there to usher me into the car before the man noticed me in the dark. He’s heard stories about this man.

Driving away, he comes to the gut wrenching realization of what would’ve happened to me if not for his protection. Though he was scared, the news headlines ingrained in my brain kept me feeling numb. This is nothing new to me. Panic and fear to him is just an everyday feeling in the back of my mind. This was new to him.

As a woman, the cruel reality has been instilled deeply into my being without even batting an eye. Like a reflex. Taking the long route to the car to avoid unknown men. Not wanting to decorate my car in a “girly” manner, so that I’m less targeted as a young woman.

The damsel-in-distress effect. I am only left alone when I’m with my boyfriend. Painted as a helpless woman, unless accompanied by a man. Then, I’m seen as unapproachable, can’t be stalked. I can relax and breathe because his presence gives life to my otherwise inanimate body. I am now viewed like a human rather than a lifeless doll, forced to silence my personality and emotions and play into the misogynistic standard. The princess whose only purpose in life is to be saved by her respective prince.