I can tell you definitively, yes. As a waitress, who serves with men, I see the differences every day. I have men, old enough to be my grandfather, even my great-grandfather, touching my arms, wrapping their arms around my shoulders, holding my hands, touching my face, putting their hands on my hips, making awkward remarks. Every. Single. Day.
I’m a born and bred American woman. Red hair and white skin, splattered with freckles. But trust me, being raised by a veteran cop, I can handle myself just fine. Still, there are a good portion of days where just because I’m a woman, I’m scared to f-ing death.
At work, customers see me as a piece of a** they could maybe take home for a night. I carry a can of mace because too many cars have tried following me home at night. On my first date, at 14 years old, the boy I was with stuck his hand down my panties just because he wanted to, even though I tried to fight him off.
Women are absolutely still oppressed in the U.S. Even if you don’t see it.