I wanted to tell him “shut up and sit the hell down.” I wanted to remind him of his daughters, sisters, and mother, to ask him how he’d feel if they were called sexy in a way that made them feel anything but. I wanted to kick the shit out of him. But I stood there on the 2 train at 11:00pm and smiled and nodded, periodically glancing over at the other passengers who fed me sheepish “this is awkward” smiles.

At the first possible stop I switched trains, choosing to tack 10 minutes onto my trip home rather than stay. Smelling the alcohol on his breath, his body swaying back and forth 1/4 beat off time with the trains rocking. Right before I jumped off, the girl to my left mouthed “Are you ok?” I said I was fine, but I wasn’t.

I was infuriated. Infuriated by the fact that I couldn’t go home late at night without someone drunkenly harassing me. Infuriated that this man had the gumption not to stop when I told him to. Infuriated that I didn’t have the courage to ask again and louder, to stand my ground.

On a train full of people clearly on their way to a party, I found it strange that he picked me, a grungy girl in a hoodie, flour-covered jeans for which the name “boyfriend” would denote too much style, and trainers. Maybe I was an easy target. Maybe having Griffin (my dog) with me was an easy conversation starter. But I didn’t want a conversation. I wanted to get home without the fear of someone following me off the train or calling me names.

New York is a rough city, and in it you quickly grow a thick skin, but I’ve never been able to shrug off the harassment, especially when I am travelling on my own. As I walked home from my stop, I couldn’t help looking behind me every few steps just to make sure he wasn’t following. My bones were rattled and my guard was up.

A month earlier my roommate and I were walking home from a bar when we ducked into the doorman building a few doors down from us. A man, clearly intoxicated and wearing a shirt from a local restaurant, had started talking to us on the street. We laughed it off until he took the same turn as us, and then another. He was too close. It was too late at night. We asked the doorman if we could stay there for a few minutes until he was gone. When the coast was clear we ran to our door and buzzed in quickly. He was standing at the church across the street staring up at a marble statue.

And then, just a few weeks ago, I got hopelessly lost in Tribeca in the pouring rain as I tried to evade a hooded man who followed me in circles for 10 blocks, stopping and waiting whenever I tried to hail a cab. As I attempted to blend in with other people on the street, their eyes glued to the sidewalk or their cell phones, hands clutching umbrellas, I realized no one was noticing my clear panic.

This isn’t ok. I shouldn’t have to call friends late at night so I feel safe on my walk home or carry my keys like brass knuckles, the blades sticking out between my fingers. The most annoying thing on my commute home should be train delays and someone playing their music too loud, not drunken men asking me if I’m single and trying to touch my hair. You might say that this is unavoidable. That boys will be boys, especially when they drink too much, or that I shouldn’t be out late alone, or that I should learn how to shrug it off better. I think that this is ridiculous.

Girls, look out for one another and be aware of your surroundings. At my high school, we had a signal we could give at dances if we were uncomfortable. We looked out for each other, even if we weren’t close friends I knew to butt in if I saw that a classmate was in an awkward situation. I wish that we had that in the ‘real’ world. Look up from your phone, engage with the people around you, and if you see a girl who’s uncomfortable strike up a conversation, pretend you’re her long-lost cousin, ask her to go to the bathroom with you, do something.

Boys, grow up. Speak up when you see someone being made to feel uncomfortable. Walk your friend to her door not because you expect an invitation inside, but because it’s the right thing to do. Most of all, stop using alcohol as an excuse for your inexcusable behavior. I like having a glass of wine as much as the next twenty-something New Yorker, but when it’s time to stop, stop. Remember that you have daughters, sisters, mothers, nieces, and cousins that you want to feel empowered and respected, not reduced down to a piece of meat to throw words at and follow home. Think about catcalling like chewing with your mouth open, it’s not cute no matter where you are. Take pride in how polite you can be, how chivalrous, and how kind, not how many chicks you bag on Memorial Day weekend.

Set an example, and others will follow. When we declare a set of behaviors as unacceptable they start to disappear. One day I’ll be able to walk home without looking over my shoulder and clutching my keys like a weapon.