This binary doesn't do the situation justice. But before we can get into discussing it, most people ask, "but does that even happen in Auckland?"
As the NZ Herald video showed, daytime, sober, street harassment is not endemic in NZ as it is in NY. But what about at night?
WATCH: What happens when you do the Catcall video in NZ
Associate Professor Annabelle Cooper was right when she said, "Our guys drunk and our guys sober are pretty different groups."
At night in the city, I've been groped, arse slapped, followed, cat-called, whistled at, cheered at, bitched at, kissed by strangers, rated by the group, and asked for my number. It's not just young, stoned dudes outside Maccas. I was once waiting for a bus at Britomart when two middle-aged suits tried to drag me to a party with them.
So yeah, I don't think Auckland men are monks. And yeah, I think we need to talk about it.
The binary of "it's complimentary/it's threatening" doesn't appreciate the complexity of the situation. There are times when I've appreciated being whistled at. There are also times when it's made me sprint down the street.
When it happens during the day, it's just frustrating. I don't need appreciation on the bus; I need to find where my HOP card has sunk to.
But we're talking about at night.
And yes, in one specific situation, I like being whistled at. Only whistled, winked or grinned at, though. Anything else, especially talking to me, is not cool.
If I'm dressed up and going out with my girlfriends, and a guy winks and keeps walking past ... I'll be like, "Aw yeah, I'm wearing these jeans again."
Why is this specific situation OK? Well, to me it feels like a confirmation of my attractiveness, without any further implications. It feel like, "yes, you are attractive, now let me get on with my night." It's a dispassionate confirmation that I don't look like a squashed pumpkin.
It's also because I am looking for some self-esteem in that situation. I've normally put about two hours into making sure I don't look like said squashed pumpkin.
And I'll have left the house on the edge of tears, convinced I look very round and very squashy.
I'm not even looking for a man specifically to acknowledge me. It could be a woman. It could be a granny. It could be a cat. I'm just looking for some reassurance that I don't look like a soggy vegetable.
I know I'm supposed to be confident in my inner beauty. But I'm 20. I'm as self-conscious as a pelican in a tiger enclosure. And twice as vain.
So yes, I enjoy this situation. But it is specific. Any variation eg, if he stops walking or shouts or tries to talk to me, then I get jumpy. More than jumpy, I get panicky, twitchy, and tense my string-bean biceps.
The point of explaining my bizarre inner psyche is because we need to understand how specific each woman's interpretation of street harassment is.
Every woman has her own tangled ball of feelings. Some women hate all forms of attention. Some women love every cat-call, every touch and every gesture. Some women are like me; we like specific scenarios and hate everything else.
This means it's impossible to know what women are feeling in this situation. They could love being yelled at. It could make them don the nun's habit. You'll have no idea what feelings you'll be triggering if you say something. And because you don't know, just hold back, eh? This is deep, and dangerous, emotional territory. Here there be dragons.
On Twitter Verity Johnson: @TheBumbleVee
