The story is familiar: you’re a woman walking down the street. Sometimes, you’re wearing a skirt and a tight-fitting shirt. Maybe you’re wearing shorts and a tank top. You smear red paint on your lips and line your eyes with kajal. Some days, you wear dresses or jeans paired with heels. It doesn’t really matter what you wear; you’re a woman walking down the street, cursed to be followed by whistles and catcalls. You feel the weight of the man’s gaze on your face, your chest, your hips, and your legs. You feel scared and disgusted. Saddeningly, you’re a woman walking down the street you’ve walked a thousand times before and you feel resigned to the gaze. No matter what you do, the male gaze follows you like a hungry shark.
You’re so busy trying to remember self-defense tactics and clutching your keys between your fingers (for protection, in case a man decided to act on their ill-guided impulses) that you miss a separate set of eyes following you. It is not just the man that gazes; the woman looks too. The woman’s gaze poses no immediate danger so your brain fools you into believing you’re safe. The true danger lies in the fact that ironically, the woman’s gaze contributes to the invisible patriarchy, and is quick to blame the woman’s clothes for injustice.
No woman is safe; behind the overpowering gaze of a thousand men is the judgmental gaze of a thousand women. They pick at your clothes, move on to your personality, and conclude with a breathtaking condemnation of your upbringing. The comments range from “Look at what she’s wearing!” to “She’s just asking for it”. Neither friend nor stranger is immune to the gossip and the harsh critiques. It is saddening to think that women cannot find comfort even with fellow women for the judgment in the woman’s gaze is a death sentence.
The woman’s gaze is deadly: the 50-something-lady you pass by as you walk down the street is a mother who will scold her daughter into modesty while her son goes unpunished for any present or future wrongdoings. The seventeen-year-old you stand next to on the bus calls you derogatory terms in her mind. The 30-something-woman in your office speaks in hushed whispers with your other colleagues, giggling occasionally, and blatantly staring at your tight-fitting pencil skirt.
When you notice the woman’s gaze and her judgment, your world withers even more than it did with the male gaze. You feel isolated and misunderstood. Slowly, their judgment starts to matter more than your comfort, your preferences, and your personal choices. The repercussions - the body dissatisfaction, the indecision and anxiety you face in choosing which clothes to wear - take years to unlearn. So, let’s be kinder to our fellow women.
Let’s lift them up instead of dragging them down with biting criticism.