The Hissing of Harassment: A Startled Gringa Reflects on Catcalls in Brazil

By: Brigit Goebelbecker

October 25, 2013

Imagine for a moment: You are walking through the streets of vivacious Rio de Janeiro. The sun is piercing, the air fresh.

“Pssspssspsssss.”

You honestly do not notice at first. The hissing is faint enough that foreigners are rarely attuned to its signal. But you, living here since July, you understand the attention-grabbing intent. New-found cultural instincts draw your head over your shoulder.

Oh, no.

You should have known better, but it is too late. You have already made eye contact with the man in the car. He could be old or young, fit or overweight, fashionable or rugged, white or black, alone or with friends—maybe even with his wife. He could be on a motorcycle inches away or driving a crowded public bus, police car, Mercedes, or a ratty pickup truck with a “JESUS” bumper sticker.

What matters next, though, is his leer. His “pssspssspsssss” was designed to catch your eye. Now, he’ll smirk, wink, waggle his tongue suggestively, or make offensive hand gestures, all the while cackling or whispering ”seductive” phrases. “Beautiful,” “Come here,” “Delicious,” he groans in Portuguese. The really dedicated try the English “I love woman,” raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Brazil teems with men who hiss. I walk to school with my roommate, and they slither alongside us on roads and sidewalks, whether it is sweltering-sundress weather or raining so hard our jackets call to mind potato sacks. Critically, not all Brazilian men act in this manner. Far from it! Brazilians are as warm, beautiful, and lively as their beaches, and I in no way intend to generalize about a population or demonize its culture. Yet, I reflect upon this disquieting experience from a gringa’s bewildered perspective. I experience these catcalls from my context as a light-skinned, blue-eyed American who blends in as Brazilian only when wearing sunglasses under a hood. In my neighborhood back home, rare catcalls are generally understood as unwanted attention. After a few days on Rio’s streets, I could tell I was notably more startled by the hissing, whistling, and honking than the average Brazilian woman. From my perspective, catcalls are street harassment—an unsolicited, even frightening objectification and humiliation at the hands of strangers.

But does my experience cross cultural boundaries? Of 7,762 Brazilian women surveyed, 99.6 percent reported themselves victims of sexual harassment while in the street, public transportation, bars or at work; 83 percent said they did not consider these “compliments” positive; and 90 percent admitted to changing their clothes out of fear of confrontation. In response to feeling violated, however, my Brazilian peers respond passively. I ask Brazilian friends, jokingly, if they would ever dare “compliment” a woman in such a way. Many shake their heads in disgust. Yet others straightforwardly admit to catcalling on a regular basis. I hear from men: “If you honked at me, I would love it!” and “She has been going to the gym and working for that body, so she deserves a compliment,” as well as “You may meet someone special on the street, and catcalls are a way to get her attention.” Similarly, many women shake off catcalls as harmless flattery. Normalized to a profoundly machista society, my Brazilian peers appear unfazed, even while several claim catcalls reveal a “lack of education.”

This tolerance of street harassment leads to warped statistics and inefficient political responses. In Brazil, catcalls can be considered criminal but are generally perceived as too common to merit reporting. In the first nine months of 2013, São Paulo registered two reported cases of street harassment a day. How is it possible I am catcalled more times a day than the entire female population of a large metropolis? In Rio, the government provides controversial, women-only metro cars in a desperate attempt to address a perceived violation of women’s rights. Nevertheless,men heedlessly enter these cars, and activist groups protest the inclination to separate instead of prosecute.

While I engage my friends with probing questions and study the work of these activists, I can do nothing on the street. If I acknowledge the hissing, the harassment intensifies. If I respond antagonistically, I put myself in unnecessary danger. Only if I am with a man will I be left alone. So, I look at the ground, caught off guard again, fuming with confusion, rage, and helplessness as hissing poisons my otherwise sunny adventures in Brazil.

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