“Mami, pero tu si ta buena!” a tiguerito yells in the first chapter of my book that opens on a scene in Washington Heights. My Mom is pushing a stroller down the street while my sister B. and I walk on either sides and despite her brood, the hoodlum on the street can’t help telling her she’s fine. Even now when I think of Washington Heights, I can’t get the picture of leering men on the street corners out of my head.

I’m currently trying to find a home for a piece called “My Mother Wore Tight Pants” which follows my travel from a culture of tight pants in the Dominican Heights to a culture of long skirts in the Jewish Heights. I went through many phases with those leering men. When I was young, I saw them as an affront to feminism. When I was a teenager, I needed their attention to boost my ego. And finally, when I was converting to Judaism, I was too covered up to have to suffer their gazes.

But my new modest wardrobe hasn’t spared me completely. I have still been hollered at walking down the street in a long sleeved shirt and a long skirt. The first time, I remember looking back at the guy and being mortified. I looked myself over. Nope, still dressed modestly, I noted. But that hadn’t stopped the guy on the street from making me into a sex object. And the guy on the street is always Hispanic or African-American. I’ve never gotten catcalled by a white guy. In fact, in college, some white construction workers nicely pointed out that my underwear was tucked into my skirt.

I really identified with “Black Woman Walking,” a clip from You Tube, that chronicles the daily advances African-American women put up with when walking the streets. It could just easily have been called “Hispanic Woman Walking.”