My friends and I joke about “respect women juice” – a fantastical drink that would deliver an instant  sense of respect for women by consumption alone. From childhood, we say, baby boys ought to have respect women juice as a staple of their diet. What would it taste like? Citrusy? Presumably nutritious.

I came across the term on social media platforms, and thought of it repeatedly come puberty and onwards. If such a drink really existed, I thought, then people should chug it by the gallons.

In one class, I overheard a conversation:

“I think on average, girls have higher GPAs than us?”

“No that’s not true, only girls like X, Y, and Z.”

That’s when a girl walked across where we worked. We were usually outside of the classroom for group work time, but it was rare to see other students walking by during class hours.

Then, to the girl: “What makes you think you have the right to walk over?”

They were joking, of course, but they always said everything jokingly. As if adding a snicker at the end of things took away personal accountability for the words said. The girl looked at them, without replying, and continued walking by.

“She’s always so judgemental,” they said. I worked to the side with headphones plugged into my computer, but I could still make out their conversation. I prepared myself for the one adjective all conversations like that led to: bitch.

And what if girls were nicer? One time, as I was taking the metro, I saw a man sitting across from me coughing, and then catching a pool of phlegm in his palm with nowhere to clean that hand. I took out a tissue I had in my bag and gave it to him. He smiled at the gesture, while I quickly returned to my book. Soon he came and sat next to me, and started rambling in a dialect I didn’t understand. I could, however, decipher that he asked for my age and where I was going. Instantly I became aware that I was wearing a dress then. When did we begin to associate bare shoulders and exposed knees with danger? The lesson I learned, so long ago I don’t even remember when, was that my body wasn’t my own, that there were evil forces everywhere, that I must dress a certain way to protect myself. I leaned away from him. Across from me, a women witnessed the situation in silence, a watchful stare peering over her phone. Perhaps she, too, was frozen in uncertainty. My fingers hammered on my phone. Can you pick me up outside the metro station now now now nownownownow to my mother. I waited until the doors opened for the next station, five stations too early from where I was supposed to exit, and walked briskly out right as the doors began to close.

So high academic achievement or a nicer attitude were the two axes upon which girls were rated and screened for respect among one half of the student body. Certain combinations got you an extra tag of “stupid” or “a bitch.” And kindness comes so easily so some girls, that their mothers tell them to act more prickly to avoid being taken advantage of by strangers.

I continued working until the class period ended, and then trudged along to my next class. Perhaps they thought I heard some of their conversation, perhaps they thought I didn’t. I knew my self-image wasn’t subject to their approval, but I knew that there would always be the same, hushed conversations in college, and in the workplace, and among family members. Always questioning a girl’s temperament. There is no such thing as respect women juice, but there are its real-life counterparts. But those are much harder to administer.