A Message to Catcallers

There hasn't been a single day when I've walked home this week and haven't been catcalled at least once. For the first two days it was funny. By the third and fourth, it became expected.

Wait, expected? In what world is it okay to expect to be sexually harassed?

Yes, catcallers. Sexual harassment. You're not being funny. You certainly aren't being charming. There is nothing innocent about it.

What goes through the heads of these men? I don't mean "I'm too good for them, so what are they thinking?" because, honestly, the guys in my age range are usually attractive. Until they open their mouths.

I'd like to give them the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to think that the thought process is something like, "My, that is a rather attractive young lady. I have taken an immediate fancy to her, and would like to get her attention. I'm going to approach her casually and strike up conversation." But, because of some brain malfunction that's attributed only to the Y chromosome, they accidentally say something like, "Yo, sexy! How you doin'?"

I figure it's one of two options: A. They legitimately think that calling to a girl like she's a dog will get them action or B. They like seeing young girls walking alone down the street look uncomfortable, because they think it's funny.

There are so many things wrong with option B, so many ways that it contributes to the sexist attitudes of our current society, that I don't even know where to start.

So don't call me "Red." Definitely don't call me "white girl." Let me walk the three minutes from the subway to my apartment in peace.

If, on the other hand, you're actually an incredibly insecure boy who just doesn't know how to handle a situation, here's a tip. Walk up. Say "hello." Ask my name. It's not rocket science.

Internships and Cockroaches

Survive first week of internship. Check.

I got coffee, delivered things without getting lost, answered phones. Proper intern stuff. I even got to read a few scripts, which is why I’m actually there.

Yesterday, I got put on the scanning project – they’re working on scanning all of the hard copies of scripts into the computer. So, for seven hours, I stood in the back cursing at Oberon.

Oberon is the name I gave the scanner/copier. I named him such because he is temperamental and likes to make an ass out of people. He’s also the jealous type, as every time I tried to step away from him to throw something away -- or, God forbid, eat -- he would get a paper jam and call me back. And, like Oberon, he finally started to cooperate at around Act 4, which for me was an hour before I left.

Every time there was a paper jam, Oberon would beep at the same pitch as my high school alarm clock that used to wake me up at 5 a.m. every day. The one that screamed “Wake up, Carrie! Dream time is over! BEEP BEEP BEEP!”

Obviously, interns are meant to do the grunt work that no one else wants. I’m free labour, after all. I’m not a real employee. But when I’m standing for hours feeding paper into a machine, I can’t help but let my thoughts wander.

Of course, my thoughts wander to, “Shit. What if this is it?”

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

My supervisor is the assistant to the higher-ups She used to be in my position. It would be so easy to become an assistant. The issue is, I don’t want to be an assistant. I don’t want to go through the motions and be in a successful office just to be there. That’s only a step better than standing outside with my nose pressed against the window (metaphorically speaking – the office is on the third floor).

On a completely different note, I killed my first cockroach today. It was a horrible experience that I hope never to repeat. But, hey, check another thing off the list. I’m on my way to becoming a New Yorker.

Day 1 – 22 May 2011, 11:10 p.m.

I’m sitting on my floor mattress in my first apartment in New York City. My hair is wet, Hispanic music is wafting through the window, and I’m wearing the ratty, old “I <3 NY” shirt that I bought on one of the Broadway adventures with my mom in high school.

If you had told 14 year old me that this is where I would be when I was 21, that little annoying teenager would have jumped around like a hyperactive Chihuahua on crack. Now it’s surreal.

New York was the city I wanted to move to because it had pretty lights and musicals and was the first city I went to that was bigger than Boston. Now I’ve been to Los Angeles, San Diego, Berlin, Prague, Rome, Venice, Dublin, Cardiff, and Edinburgh. Now I’ve lived in London. London has my heart unconditionally, and being here makes me realize even more how much I miss it. London is...cleaner. More comfortable. Full of British men who are too awkward and self-conscious to make eye-contact, let alone start cat-calling (seriously, male populace of NYC: come up with a more original nickname for me than “Red.” It's not even my real color).

That’s not to say I’m not happy to be here. When I came down for my interview over a month ago, I couldn’t help but feel a little rekindle of my old teenage Broadway dreams as I walked through Time Square.

And I can check this off my list: live in a crappy apartment in New York. I’m fairly certain I saw my first squashed cockroach on the stairs today. I live with two students who go to Columbia and are majoring in areas so intellectual that I didn’t even understand the titles. They’re also both male and from India. The kitchen looks like the behind-the-scenes of an ethnic restaurant that failed the health exam. The elevator is straight out of a horror movie.

The sane part of me knows that these things should bother me. But I can’t stop smiling and laughing. It’s like I’m already at that point in the future when I can look back on this and laugh. In a completely ridiculous, slightly masochistic sense, it feels amazing to be living somewhere that I know would make my sister cringe. I had a laughing fit in the shower after the water turned from scalding to ice that was so strong that I had to lean against the wall, naked and shaking with laughter. You know, leaning against the wall naked was probably not the best choice in retrospect...

I’m a writer. I can hardly afford food and I moved to NYC for the summer. I’m an intern at a film and television studio. I’m here and I’m doing this.

You know, if I can’t be successful and famous (and if I can’t be Jennifer Lawrence) then this is exactly where I want to be.