There is something terribly conspicuous about the sound of high heels on a sidewalk.

It was one of the first things that I noticed when I came to the Boston area. I had never really lived anywhere where walking was my primary mode of transportation, and I loved it. I loved being outside throughout the day. I loved people-watching and window shopping. I spent hours during my first weeks at Harvard simply wandering around Cambridge, learning how to get from place to place.

However, I had also never lived anywhere where catcalling was so common.

My hometown of Austin, Texas is no safe haven from catcalling. If you walk down the wrong street, someone is bound to whistle at you from across the intersection. However, for me, catcalling in Austin was something that happened downtown on a Saturday night. It was not something that happened during a Tuesday afternoon trip to CVS.

In Boston, that was no longer the case. No matter where I was, there was a chance that someone might roll down their car window and shout at me. Even the man holding the door for me at the coffee shop invariably did so while making some devaluing comment. I felt watched in a way that I had never experienced before.

As a result, I became hyper-aware of my presentation. I took note of my clothing, my makeup, my hair—everything about myself that might attract unwanted attention. And the thing that stood out the most? My heels.

Now, when I say “heels,” I don’t mean red Louboutins. I mean a pair of slightly beat-up boots purchased at a discount shoe store that happen to have a 2-inch cork heel.

These shoes were not glamorous. As a matter of fact, glamour had nothing to do with the issue at hand. It was not a question of looks, but of sounds—more precisely, the particular clomping sound that high heels make with their wearer’s every step.

Of course, catcalling happens regardless of women’s clothing or footwear choices. Unsolicited attention does not discriminate.

Still, there was something inexplicably unsettling about my walk, of all things, becoming a spectacle. Because, when you walk everywhere, you walk everywhere. Every day, as I made my way down the street, I felt like I was announcing my femininity to everyone I passed. My movement itself created confinement. After all, how can you escape something that—quite literally—follows your every step?

My walk was gendered: My walk made me feel unsafe.

Even if the causal relationship between high heels and catcalling may have been partly imagined, its effect upon me was incredibly real. Before I could act or speak, my shoes spoke for me. They did not tell the world anything about my thoughts or values. They just loudly announced that a woman was coming.

I began wearing sneakers more often. Though I made no conscious decision to abandon them, my beat-up pair of heeled boots slowly made their way to the back of my closet. As I walked through Harvard Square in my Converses, I took solace in the fact that my now-silent footsteps did not seem to cause anyone to look up. The semi-frequent shouts and gazes did not stop, but it seemed as though they lessened. I felt as though I had regained control.

Now, I find that my understanding of this control has altered. Because changing a behavior based on a response isn’t an exercise of personal authority at all. It’s a concession—and a concession that I don’t want to make, at that. I like my heeled boots. I like the sound that they make as I walk down a street or hallway. I like having a presence, even if that presence might sometimes make me uncomfortable.

Today, as I write, I am looking down at that same pair of beat-up boots, which are on my feet again after several long months of neglect. It is an undoubtedly small gesture, yet it feels significant. There is nothing inherently remarkable about allowing oneself to be noticed—people do far braver things each day. But this is something. This is a step.

My walk remains conspicuous, and I am still unsettled by each encounter that I have with unsolicited attention. I do not think that unsettledness will soon fade. However, I will not allow that feeling to dictate my self-expression. There is great power in the clopping of heels. There is great power in femininity. And I hope to embrace that power with each step that I take.

Abigail G. Sage ’21, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Hollis Hall.