Good evening,
I just had a conversation with myself (you know how you do – yes, we all do it) that I feel like I ought to have written down, so I’m going to attempt to re-create it.
The scene: Remember that mild exchange with a boy that I stopped replying to last post, from church? I pictured someone from church asking me, ‘Why didn’t you reply to John?’ because although this is unlikely, I want to have a reasoned and prepared response for that remote possibility (you know how you do – yes, we all do it).
Here we begin the monologue:
“Before we start this discussion, are you sure you want to ask me that? Because I could go for days.
“OK then.
“I think of myself as a kind person. I will always try to be kind and thoughtful. I might not always manage, but I try to do nice things for people, and if I think I have been at fault I’ll apologise. So I try to be nice. But here is also the thing. I have an extremely low tolerance threshold for bullshit. And I see it everywhere.
The thing is, I’ve had experiences before, and my friends have had them even worse, where guys won’t leave you alone. So it conditions you to approach every interaction with extreme caution. I’ve had it at church. I’ve had it at uni. I’ve had it even at my brother’s wedding, where a young man first approached my mother, asking ‘Who are those two beautiful girls?’ He was referring to me and my cousin, as we were sitting together playing Drunk Chess (a very fun game, you should try it), and my mum eagerly brought him over to introduce him to us. She was blind to the dead-eye I gave her as my Woman Instinct went full sirens wailing. The first question he asked me was, ‘Do you have snapchat?’ We both answered no, but he would not leave me alone, and kept asking for a hug. It was creepy. But at least he did ask, I suppose. In the end, when I’d had far too much wine, I went against my better judgement and did hug him. (I have previous experience with a guy in a bar who promised he’d leave me alone if I just kissed him, so I pecked him on the cheek and told him to go away. He did not fulfil his promise, and instead then attached himself to me like a limpet-octopus hybrid, until I told him that I didn’t care if he was in the army, I would still punch him in the face. And then I went home. It was a good night.) Anyway, Wedding Guy did miraculously leave me alone after that, but I found out at breakfast that he’d sent dick pics to girls who did have snapchat, so…
“Now, I’m not saying John is going to be anything like Army Guy, or even Wedding Guy. I’m just saying it’s something that is permanently in your mind. Every interaction, as innocent as ‘Hi. Do you have snapchat?’ can lead to a gross/embarrassing/unnecessary/ horrible/dangerous situation. That is quite something to have hang over you for your entire life.
“The only interaction I have ever had with John, ever, is exchanging a handshake. Never spoken to him. I didn’t even know his name. Now, call me old-fashioned, because I know times are changing, but if you haven’t spoken to me in real life, I’m not really up for engaging with you on the internet.
“So when I got the friend request, what honestly went through my head was ‘Why have you messaged me? Is this going to get weird? Is he gonna be creepy?’ I’m in the full understanding that that will absolutely not have occurred to John. Because it’s never had to. He hasn’t had that social conditioning that a) as a guy his behaviour will ever be seen as weird or b) as a girl you’re worried that so much as a ‘hello’ will cause you months of grief.
“So I was trying to be kind. I thought ‘Maybe he’s trying to make friends. Maybe he won’t be weird. Not everyone is weird. Don’t be paranoid.’ See – social conditioning to avoid hurting others’ feelings at the cost (potential) of your own; conditioned to doubt yourself; conditioned to take the path of least resistance to avoid making the situation any more awkward. Men do not have these considerations. They will not have entered John’s head. And I resent him for it, admittedly.
“But as soon as I pressed accept and that stupid message came through, I did another socially-conditioned thing and analysed it. It told me that he had already browsed my facebook wall; it told me that he was a poor conversationalist; it told me that he was trying to impress. And that goes in reverse – if you give me a piece of information which I can tell you have calculated to make you look intelligent and impressive and make me go ‘Oooh’, it does the opposite. It makes me go ‘Eurgh.’
“So I internally debated, aggravated, over this message. It cost me time and worry and irritation and I’m already very stressed. I did what I thought was best and sent a nice message back with a deliberate and blunt close because I didn’t want to talk to him, but I didn’t want to come across as a bitch about it. But he didn’t take the hint.
“This makes me more irritated because he clearly feels entitlement to my time and effort, which I do not owe him. And why am I worried about annoying him, when the possibility of him annoying me hasn’t even crossed his radar? So after a couple more messages, which were also designed to impress me in some way (and I so. Nearly. Sent him a gif of Shania Twain. SO close) I just stopped replying.
“Frankly, ‘I just didn’t want to talk to him’ should be more than enough of an answer. But society demands more, because we live in a patriarchy, and now I’m really going to get into gear.
“It’s not a good enough reason because people – including a lot of women – are conditioned into a male mentality. In our society, male is the default. White male. Any other perturbation is seen as other. Even women. Women are seen as, and treated as, a minority. Do you see how messed up that is? John has tried to keep me talking because he feels like he can, because nobody has ever addressed in film, or literature (certainly no media actually aimed at white men; anything that does is feminine, weak, below notice, no literate high ground… it is chick lit, brainless, banal, worthless and degrading), anything that I’m feeling, or anything that goes through my head. In addition, he has never been forced to consider his actions and the consequent reactions, which are all any woman ever thinks about, because they are automatically accepted as the default for him.
“There has been a lot of attention recently towards the ‘Write yourself like a male author would’ (the satirical line ‘she breasted boobily to the stairs and titted downwards’ will stay with me to my grave as my one true love). But it indicates a huge problem – men think they know how women think and feel, and have absolutely no idea. But they are confident in their ignorance, because they are told they are always right. This is shown in the stupid exchanges like the one between me and John, where I absolutely do not want to be there but he hasn’t even noticed. He wants to tell me stuff, so I should listen and like it. It doesn’t have to work like that, but that’s actually a pretty radical notion.
“I was prepared for the awful ‘Fancy a drink?’ conversation, which I never ever want to see, which is a reason I shut it off where I did. I don’t want to have to deal with that. I wonder, has it ever occurred to John on a night out that perhaps he ought to take a ring which he can quickly slip onto his left hand, declaring, ‘Sorry, I’m engaged’ if a woman will not leave him alone? Somehow I doubt it. But I was even preparing the ‘Sorry, I’m seeing someone else’ defence if he wouldn’t drop it. This is symptomatic of a society which views male entitlement as more important that female autonomy. It’s as if society thinks women can’t possibly have their own views or make up their own minds, but must be attached to a man (How often must we hear, ‘These are our wives, our mothers, our daughters, our sisters’?). I’ve heard ‘Oh, sorry, man’ said to a guy who comes back with two drinks and puts his arm round a girl on the verge of tears from harassment in a club more times that I can remember. ‘Oh, sorry, man.’ MESSED UP. The girl is not considered. She is nothing. She has been claimed, she is property, and the crime of trespassing has been committed, nothing else. You apologise to the owner and move on.
“American Congress is nearly 80% male. In 2014, over 400 restrictions on women’s bodies were proposed (at the time of the news piece I read – see Guttmacher Institute – 21 had been passed). Not a single one had ever been proposed to regulate male bodies. We see American politicians protesting the inclusion of maternity cover into male insurance premiums because ‘it’s a woman’s problem’ (HA. Hahahahahahahahaha). We see uniform policies that regulate girls five times more than boys. On actual BBC Local News coverage three days ago, I was watching a segment on the disclosure of the wage gap. The segment (unlike the data it presented) seemed fair and full of indignation. But at the last minute, the male presenter of the piece made this absolute clanger: ‘So steps are being made to address the wage gap. But, in this time of financial difficulty, who. [Newsreader pauses for enigmatic effect]. Is going. To pay?’ Are you actually joking??? Who is going to pay??? Me and my mum looked at each other, gobsmacked, unable to believe he actually just said that. We both started spluttering, and my dad just had to chip in: ‘Well, for small businesses and stuff, it might actually hit them,’ he said, as if it was a reasoned argument. Oh!! Silly us and our little woman brains!! Me and my mum still sit, goggling. ‘Oh, yes, sorry!’ I said. ‘As opposed to…. All women, ever?’
“Women are seen as other. We may be 50% of the population but if an alien sucked up all our media, what would they think it was? 10%? 20%? We might be 50% of the people, but we’re not 50% of the voice. We’re much less than 50% the land, or the wages, or the homeownership, but we’re far more than 50% of the poverty-stricken, the undernourished, the underpaid, the overworked. Our time not just belongs to everyone, it is a free-for-all, and it is not recompensed. Our emotion is drawn for everyone. But we feel so grossly misheard – or not heard at all.
“So you might think it’s petty of me. You might wonder how I can draw in these world events to such a tiny and stupid thing. But I did not reply to that message because I am entitled not to, and to do that should not be seen as radical or rude, it shouldn’t be a yardstick for my entire underrepresented gender, it shouldn’t draw questions from people, but it does.
“And THAT is why I did it.”
Goodnight.
Yours breasting boobily,
Georgie
In Other News, Shit
My dear Icelandic friend Einar asked me, in his absolutely beautiful way, “Do you know the verb ‘to shit?’”
Almost fell apart at this point, never mind the next bit.
“How do you decline that? As in, to sit – sat. How is that for shit? Every dictionary and every teacher I have ever asked does not have an answer to this question.”
When I could breathe – every teacher!!! – ok calm, calm – “It’s all right, shed your tears,” he told me serenely as I choked – I answered.
“It’s… shat.”
“And then,” he didn’t miss a beat, and I can’t describe why this is so funny – I’m honestly not laughing at him for asking in his second language because it’s so beautiful and amazing and he speaks it like art, honestly – but the way he says it, with wide-open curious eyes and serenity in the face of my laughter… “What about ‘I have shitted’? Would one say that?”
This one honestly gave me food for thought. I’m still thinking about it. if you have an answer let me know…
I have shit? I have shat? I have… had a shit? Who knew shit could get so deep.
thoughtsunqualified 