Lessons learned in objectification

I must have been twelve 

Walking down a street in London 

Arm in arm with my sister, 

Granny trailing behind. 

Us caught up in youthful wonder 

Basking In the glow of the city 

Filling our memory banks  

For later games on the farm. 

What I do remember is  

the grown man who walked up behind us 

and grabbed my ass.  

He was gone in a second, but it’s still there. 

I remember we both giggled: 

Two teenage girls, excited 

that some strange man deigned  

to show one of us some attention. 

I remember seeing Granny. 

She didn’t see it as a compliment 

She was bright red and shaking 

Told us to wipe the smiles off our faces. 

When I was fourteen in Florence 

at a religious festival in a square 

I remember hands on my hips 

I remember hands on my sister’s 

I remember turning to see two 

this time. Grown men.  

I remember walking forwards 

I remember they moved with us 

Hands still on our hips. Groins 

pressed into our backs. 

Afterwards, the woman we were with said,  

“they were getting a bit fresh, eh?’ 

I’ve lost track though, of the times 

I stood at the bus stop 

In my school uniform 

On a busy road 

And I heard lorries honk 

Men leering out of their windows 

“Nice legs/tits/ass luv” 

Like I was waiting for their fucking commendation. 

I do remember wondering if they knew 

I was underage, or if they cared. 

Asking, “Do they think this works on women?” 

Then finding out the truth. 

illustration by Caitlin Duncan