It was seasonably warm for early September in Connecticut. The sun, still high for late afternoon, created a mirage on the asphalt. A burst of burnt rust and pale yellow leaves began to float down, getting pinned against the windshield wipers. The intersection of Francis and Stanley Street is busy as ever in the late afternoon at Central Connecticut State University. The campus buzzed with students rushing out of class. Traffic stretches out as I leave the parking garage, cars bumper-to-bumper, waiting for the stoplight to turn green. It was a chance snap of my head out the window, and there you were, only a few feet away. I heard the lyrics of pop music projecting from your phone. Dirty blonde hair matted on your forehead, sweat glistening off your torso, a royal blue t-shirt, depicting the school’s blue devil mascot in your right hand. Your breaths, sharp but steady, fell into the rhythm of your sneakers slapping against the pavement. My gaze lingered on your toned abdomen, trespassing into something private. Your eyes cut sideways and landed on mine. With hands on your hips, you glared, a look meant to shrink me, to remind me I was out of line. Like a child reprimanded, heat rose to my face, a mix of guilt and defensiveness.
In high school, it was the boys at the track who thought nothing of letting their eyes linger on my uniform of spandex and a tank top. Or now, when I run along the shoulder of a busy road, the heavy weight of men’s eyes following me, their stares slow, unashamed, paired with car horns and catcalls. I was forced to drop my chin and pretend not to notice. To suffer the burden of their male gaze, their entitlement.
Waiting for the light to change, I tasted your power, but I was guilty of nothing more than noticing. A second too long, a slip of curiosity, and I’m the one cast as an intruder. And yet, what your dirty look didn’t account for is that my eyes carried no threat. My gaze did not compromise your safety. It did not follow you home or cling to your skin like a violent warning. You run, without shame, without second-guessing how much skin you show. Your glare told me I had crossed a line, but the lines men cross with me are blurred and excused. I do not feel guilty for staring at you. I am not guilty because my fleeting glance is not the same as objectification. Women have spent far too long policing themselves for rules that men do not follow.
Driving home, my embarrassment had given way to defiance. Hands tight on the wheel, a resolve settled into my bones. Maybe you caught me, but you didn’t shame me, because I know the difference between a look that threatens and a look that simply sees.
Jessica Eaton is a student at Central Connecticut State University, majoring in English with a minor in Writing & Publishing.
What an excellent contradiction laid out by the only sex that can claim objectification. Superb!