From catcalls to discrimination at work, we asked women to tell us about the first time they felt objectified for being female – and the last time

From inappropriate comments to stares on a sidewalk, many women have stories about times they felt objectified – their personality and experience diminished to simply being female. Guardian columnist Jessica Valenti’s new book Sex Object delves into this experience, from her own tales of being accosted on the subway as a teenager. We asked women to tell us about the first time they felt objectified for being female – and the last time they experienced it.

Wendy Davis, 53, former representative in the Texas senate and founder of Deeds Not Words

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Wendy Davis: ‘No matter how credentialed you are, you’re still going to be treated differently as a woman.’ Photograph: Alison Narro

The first time

At my first interview for a judicial clerkship in Texas, the judge, an older white gentleman who had been on the bench for many years, leaned back in his chair, put his two big cowboy-booted feet on his desk and said: “You ain’t going to go get pregnant any time soon, are ya?”

I remember taking a breath and thinking, “How do I respond?” I said: “Judge, you know you’re not supposed to ask me things like that,” and then he laughed and we moved on. Part of me thought “This was a test,” part of me thought “This wasn’t a test, this was a serious question.” He was a federal judge, who, among other things, was responsible for knowing and implementing the law when it comes to sex-based discrimination – and there he was, asking me a question he would never ask a potential male law clerk. It just blew my mind. No matter how credentialed you are, you’re still going to be treated differently as a woman.

The last time

When Donald Trump made sexist criticisms of Megyn Kelly, the Fox News reporter, Erick Erickson (a political blogger with Red State) came to Megyn Kelly’s defense. This surprised me because Erickson had made similar gender-biased comments about me during my own campaign. He came up with the moniker “Abortion Barbie” for me. When this was pointed out, he said his comments were completely different because by referring to me as Barbie, he was complimenting me on my looks. It was hysterical. When it was happening to someone he respected, he called it out and criticized it. Yet he himself was guilty of the same thing.

He said that in referring to me as Barbie, he was complimenting me on my looks

For my own wellbeing and political survival, I’ve learned to let those things just roll off my back. I remember when life-size “Abortion Barbie” posters were put up all around Los Angeles, complete with depiction of a baby in the Barbie’s womb with the Barbie holding a pair of scissors aimed at it. When I attended a fundraiser there, the host was so angry and upset about it that she fought back tears. I remember thinking: “I need to find that indignation in myself too.” I think we need to do more of that in regard to women: when we see there is gender-based baiting going on, we should name it. It does at least bring people present to the fact that it’s happening.

Tracy Clayton, 34, writer and host of podcast Another Round

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tracy Clayton, host of BuzzFeed’s Another Round podcast: ‘I have learned to do what I need to do to get home safe.’ Photograph: Jon Premosch/BuzzFeed

The first time

The first time I felt objectified for being female, I was around 14 or 15 years old. It was in early May, during the weekend of the Kentucky Derby around 1995. The city had exploded into parties and festivals and the streets were jammed. It was the first year my parents allowed me to join the celebration – I had always been too young.

At the end of the night, I was walking down the street on my way home, when a man came up behind me. He told me that I was pretty and asked how old I was, what grade I was in. I told him; I didn’t feel unsafe because I was with friends, and I wasn’t bothered because I didn’t mind making small talk with strangers. The weather was nice, I was in a good mood. He floated me a couple of other innocuous compliments, told me that he could tell that I was smart. Then he said, as he walked behind me, “and I know that pussy is good, too.”

I had been catcalled before, but that was the first time a man made me so aware of my body and all of its parts

I whipped around and told him not to talk to me that way, and my friends and I sped off as he apologized. I had been catcalled before, but that was the first time a man made me so aware of my body and all of its parts, made me feel ashamed for having them, made me want to just disappear into thin air. In that moment I didn’t feel like a person; just flesh with no face, no name. I also somehow knew that it wouldn’t be the last time I would be made to feel that way.



The last time

The last time I felt objectified was just last night. I was walking home from the train in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. It was dark, around 10.30pm. My route home is vibrant; there are lots of people out and about at all hours, but I still keep my wits about me; I keep my headphones in my ears but my music turned completely off. I look over my shoulder frequently, watch the sidewalk in front of me for shadows coming up behind me.

When I saw the two men walk toward me, I cast my eyes downward and picked up the pace. I don’t expect the worst from all men, but I do brace myself for it, so I wasn’t too shocked when one of them half-moaned “nice ass” way too close to my ear. I rolled my eyes, clenched my jaw, and said nothing though I wanted to turn around and shame him until he melted into a puddle of embarrassment. But I didn’t; I couldn’t. I knew that it wouldn’t change anything. Whatever I said to him wouldn’t make him think twice about crossing that line with another woman moments later. I have learned to do what I need to do to get home safe, and thankfully, I did.

Isabel Vincent, 51, investigative reporter and author



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Author Isabel Vincent: ‘I always felt I was never taken seriously because I was a woman in such macho places as Brazil and Nicaragua.’ Photograph: Bill Ray

First time

The first time I ever felt this was on a plane to cover the US invasion of Haiti in 1994 for the Globe and Mail in Canada. I was in my 20s, and sitting on a plane next to a businessman. He said: “Haiti’s no place for a single woman right now.” I was devastated and totally scared. I thought he might be right, but I told him “It’s my job,” and didn’t say anything else to him for the rest of the flight. I was too frightened to be annoyed by the comment; I was going into a situation that I knew nothing about, and bracing myself for chaos. At that time Haiti wasn’t really the best place for anyone. The UN had left, most nonprofits were gone and there was a great deal of violence.

When people don’t take you seriously, they let their guard down and you get much better information

But being the victim of sexism really helped my career covering developing countries. I always felt I was never taken seriously because I was a woman in such macho places as Brazil and Nicaragua. When people don’t take you seriously, they say the best things, their guard is down and you get much better information, if you know how to play it. That’s how I got most of my stories – I went along with the sexism. In Brazil, they called me “menina” which means little girl. But mainly people were so shocked to see a woman in the situations I was in – Shining Path-controlled shantytowns in Lima, favelas in Rio and war zones in Angola – that they would cooperate and welcome me if for nothing else, just the curiosity of it.



Last time

I must be so oblivious to it. I’m older now and I have a bit of a tough reputation as an investigative reporter covering political corruption so I suppose that commands a little bit of respect. I guess I encountered it with my 94-year-old friend Edward, who is the subject of my book Dinner With Edward. He said on one occasion: “Women must not forget who they are and what they are.” By that he meant someone to stand by a man, and to be loved by a man. But he was so elderly and charming and a product of the 1940s that it was endearing. He actually suggested we going shopping for a new dress and I was really overwhelmed. He could barely walk and it would be difficult for him to make the journey to Saks, but he was convinced this would cheer me up so we went! Again, sexist, but oh so sweet coming from Edward!

Saira Nicole, 30, painted lady in Times Square

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Saira Nicole, who poses for tips wearing body paint and underwear, poses for a portrait in Times Square. Photograph: Carlo Allegri/Reuters

First time

I was walking home from school, past the older boys, when I was in third grade. They were just looking, but I could feel their eyes on me. They made little comments, “Hey girl,” “What’s up”, calling me “mami” or “shorty”. I didn’t understand what it was about, but I realized later it had to with my body – not who I was, but my shape as a female.

I felt weird and uncomfortable. It made me want to avoid them. You know they’re looking at you, and you can’t totally understand why. Then, you slowly identify your body in terms of what it represents in the world, and in the eyes of men.

You learn early on you’re getting judged by your appearance, if you’re smart you’re going to learn how to use it

As a woman, you learn that you have a control over men because of the way that you look. And that becomes a tool. You learn early on you’re getting judged by your appearance, if you’re smart you’re going to learn how to use it.

Last time

You know what my job is. People are always touching me inappropriately. Most recently, it was a kid. It hasn’t happened in a while. It was quick – he grabbed my butt lightly and kept walking. Men often do it in the middle of taking a picture with me, so my guard is down. By the time I look back, they’re usually already walking away. I can see them, but they’re already gone. I wish I could say something, but they’re fast.

There was a young girl, she hit me. She smacked me across my butt cheek. It turned into an argument. She said she was going to do it again. And it turned into a fight. She’s said: “Her ass is out, what does she expect?” People really think because it’s exposed they have a right to touch and grab it.

It still hurts my feelings. It makes me feel I’m an object: you see my body, you can see my flesh, that means you can touch it?

Lucy Morieson, 35, academic, full-time mom

Lucy Morieson and baby Atlas. Photograph: Courtesy of Lucy Morieson

First time

As a schoolgirl, I would get the bus home from the tram station, and there was a guy who would sit next to me. He would cross his arms and reach over and touch me with his hand. I’d try and make a fuss about it and he would get sprung. There was the same people on the bus and they would know what he was up to. People would say “Hey, what are you doing?” and try to shame him.

I felt disgusted but also powerless, ashamed and embarrassed. I was probably 15. It never occurred to me to maybe tell someone. That’s disturbing – we were assaulted, me and my friends, and it was just accepted.

We were assaulted, me and my friends, and it was just accepted

Last time

Last week I was walking down my street and there were two guys outside, working for contractors on a house renovation. I was racing home to get to the baby in time for the babysitter to leave, and I glanced up quickly at them and then kept going. Then one said to the other: “She’s too scared to say hello.” I replied: “I’m not too scared.”

I wanted to say “I’m going home to my baby!” but I didn’t want them to be like “Oh sorry, I didn’t know you’re someone’s mom” because it shouldn’t matter if you have a baby or not!

That’s the first time I’ve been catcalled in a year and a half. I used to get catcalled quite a lot, to the point where I was really pissed off about it and would go out with my shoulders hunched, anticipating it. As soon as I was obviously pregnant, it stopped. Completely. I stopped being catcalled but I would get people saying “Congrats!” “Do you know what you’re having?,” “Is it it your first?”. I had that crazy New York street thing where people blurt things out to you, but it was much more positive and it was really nice.

Being pregnant and going out with my son, it doesn’t happen anymore – even if I’m without him, because I look like a frazzled mom. But that also enrages me, it highlights how stupid it is, how unfair it is, how dumb these guys are who say that stuff to women.

The next time I saw the contractors on my street, I had my son with me and they didn’t say anything. I made a point of looking right at them. But they were quiet.