feminism

I've been spending more time out in the suburbs lately. D.Jack lives out there; not far out, really, but far enough that I always say things like "When do you want to head back into Ottawa?" and not to make him laugh.

When I'm out there, I'm kind of fascinated. We walk through the huge park, we walk by the river, we walk on the train tracks. It's all so quiet and dark. The houses aren't big, not necessarily, but they're far apart. I've been in urban areas long enough that going to the strip mall near his house feels like ethnography.

Last night we went to the strip mall to play pool. I'm just learning how. I'm terrible at it, but I don't mind being terrible in front of D.Jack. I like the mix of talking and doing. I'm getting better, make a good shot now and again. A satisfying smack of the balls, the cue ball whirling in place after.

We finished our last game before D.Jack finished his last beer. We moved to the bar, I got some water, we chatted, watched the TVs flicker, soccer mostly. We nodded hello to the guy kitty corner to us. Handsome black guy with a nearly shaved head, slim. He nodded back. He left, came back with some Subway.

One guy joined him. Couldn't really tell you what he looked like, particularly. Had a bad angle on him. White guy, dark hair, worn maybe kinda longish. Hunched low to the bar.

Another guy joined them - on the other side of Mr. Subway. White silky shirt, probably a soccer shirt. Skin more pink than the hunched guy, he had short dark curly hair. Broad and meaty through the shoulders. A cleft chin and wide set dark eyes. Thick eyebrows.

D.Jack was almost finished his drink. My water was nearly gone.

They got talking about Al Gore, and the recent sexual harassment allegations against him. Being where we where, those guys looking like they looked, I purposefully tuned them out. Or rather, tried to tune them out.

It was hard; I was unsuccessful. I tried to keep my attention on my own conversation but it was spotty. I finally lost it altogether when White Shirt's voice went up a half decibel.

"When a girl says 'We shouldn't do this,' that's not no." He curled his lip and shrugged his shoulders to emphasize the point. "'We shouldn't do this.' That's not no! Am I right?"

I turned to D.Jack and said, "Well then. That's my cue. I'm gonna go piss." I turned on my stool and slid off.

The guy's voice faded as I walked away. "I mean, what's she doing in the men's washroom anyway?"

I sat on the toilet and fumed. Thought about all the things I could say to him. Thought about whether I would say them. Took some deep breaths to stop the heartbeat in my ears.

When I got back out, D.Jack has his hoodie on, was getting off the stool as I walked towards him. The bartender teased D.Jack a bit, said "Lovely to meet you again, Megan." I was surprised, but thought it a nice gesture.

We passed behind White Shirt. I thought about catching his arm and asking him how many girls he thought he'd probably raped, with an attitude like that. He'd say none, of course, but I thought it maybe might shake him up just enough. My courage failed and the moment passed.

I waited till we were about 2 steps out the door to explode into a rant. D.Jack let me go, let me blow off the steam.

"It was interesting after you left," he said as I was winding down.

I snorted. "I bet it was."

"No," he said. "Not like that."

I raised my eyebrows, doubtful.

"No, really. The guy closest to us, he turned to the guy who was talking and said 'You know, I bet a lot of women wouldn't agree.' and then he kind of gestured at you and said 'Like that.'"

"He did?"

"Yeah. Maybe because it was because I'd just opened my mouth to say something. But your exit was noted."

"And?"

"The guy just shut up."

"Huh. I had no idea they'd noticed me in the first place."

"They had for sure. And Patty making a point of saying goodbye to you when we left. That was a message too, I think."

I was shocked, frankly. I was not expecting to find an ally in a suburban pool hall.

Let's face it, I'd pegged them all as Not My People as soon as they sat down. When that guy started on, it was an easy flip to my knee-jerk hatred of sports-loving suburban yobbos who say stupid sexist shit because they can and no one calls them on it.

It made me happy, too.

Sure I could have said something myself, maybe should have. But to that guy, I'm pretty sure I'd be easily dismissed. Getting cut down by his buddy two stools down? Not so much. He may think twice about saying shit like that again, even. Not because of me, not because I obviously didn't agree with him, but because one of His People might call him on it.

And it gave me hope.

When I poke my head out of my bubble, I often despair for the world. I feel unwelcome and out of place; I read and hear shit on a regular basis that I think is frankly appalling. I thought that guy was just more of the same. I thought all his friends were too, by virtue of looking how they looked and sitting beside him.

But maybe the friend's response wasn't an isolated incident. Maybe that friend is just willing to take that kind of a risk in his group - because standing up against the status quo is a risk in any group. Maybe White Shirt will think twice about saying something fucking stupid like that. Hell, maybe he'll even question the belief behind it.

Maybe he won't. I don't know.

What I do know is that if there's one ally out there, there's more. Maybe the borders I've drawn around My People could be more permeable than they have been till now.

Oh, I am feeling so giddy and inspired right now. J. is probably at home writing her own blog post, possibly about how I grabbed her arm on the way out of Whip It and shook her hard and said "It was so fucking good. That. Was so. Awesome."

I want to round up every teenage girl I can find and make them watch this. I want to say to them "See, look at how great it is to love something and get good at it. See how that totally cool looking guy is just some dweeb? And look at how she's not going to just listen to his flagrantly stupid excuses. Look at how she's found this awesome family of women who love her."

And the acting is good and the story is tight and everyone looks hot, but kind of normal hot, at least for movie stars, and they dressed the 17 year old in reasonably modest clothing, which I totally appreciated.

All in all, it gets my vote. I might even watch it again. Which, from someone who sees about 6 movies a year, is high praise indeed.

Like Zoom, coming to call myself a feminist was more of a process. I can't remember when I first heard the word, though I'm quite sure that as soon as I heard it, I knew it was me.

When people ask me that question, which is rare, since in my circles, it's rather assumed that one is and probably always has been, but still, it happens sometimes, I hem and haw and think "Oh, well, there's no one, oh wait-"

I don't remember a lot of my parents' early fights. Traces.

The thumping feet of three scattering children, blue velour. The wallpaper pattern blurring to streaks in my peripheral vision as I ran up the hall to the room I shared with my sister. My mom, red-faced, grabbing her keys, gripping them white-knuckled to her chest, turning her back and fleeing from the kitchen out the mud-room door.

I remember a few sentences from one of the big ones, mom standing by the dishwasher, the cupboard where the chequebooks and bank statements lived wide open.

She was saying she wanted her own bank account.

My father was demanding to know why she wanted one.

Well, he had his own.

That was different.

Really?

Of course.

I remember being baffled by this. I had a bank account.

Mom had taken me when I was 5, the signature on my account printed in uneven block letters with a backwards e for nearly two decades.

I had my own money, seemed a fortune, and I was proud of it, already saving it for something good.

If I was big enough to have a bank account, surely my mom was big enough to have a bank account. That wasn't right. Not right.

Last week was the week of the explaining hand.

The explaining hand is something that we all do every once in a while. You know, you’re standing around, arms loosely down by your sides, or maybe folded across your ribs and someone says something, something maybe a little off, or maybe a little ludicrous, or maybe skates across the surface of a topic you’re passionate about and suddenly you’re telling them how it really is, and your right forearm has extended itself at 90 degrees from your body and your palm is facing up, maybe tilted in a little, your fingers might be together or they might not, but you’re moving your palm emphatically in beat with your words, punctuating the important bits with a short chop of your hand down and away from your body.

I have been known to apply the explaining hand liberally, particularly when I get my drink on. Most often, people will haul it out to make a point, and then put it away again. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a good hand gesture.

But it can be used for evil.

The first time I was on the receiving end of this last week is a primo example of why you must watch yourself and your appendages. I was in a conversation with a man who was staring at my breasts at the same time that he was giving me the explaining hand. He was also very obviously dumbing down what was already a very simple concept for my benefit. And using a patronizing tone. Obviously, he must have been thinking, perhaps subconsciously, if her brains are in her tits, which they must be, because I can’t stop looking at them and what I know about myself is that I am a very deep person and thus what I really care about is a girl’s mind and so whatshername’s brains must be in her tits but her tits aren’t very big, so she must not be smart enough to understand this very esoteric concept about which I am talking.

On an individual level, whatever. I don’t really care that this guy didn’t think I was bright enough to catch his drift without a monologue on his part. When boys do that, I just sit tight and take a vacation until they stop, murmuring “Mmmhmmm. Ah. Oh. Huh. Right.” until they stop. Probably not a good way to solve the overall problem, but I’m not going to fight that battle with someone I’m probably not going to see again.

The problem is that it’s not just one man and one woman. Most of the time I see the explaining hand whipped out, it’s a man whipping it out for someone he thinks is less powerful than him. Or is trying to prove is less powerful.

I’m not saying it’s a conscious thing for an explaining hands man. I’m not saying that all men do it. I’m not saying that every time a man does it, he’s trying to reinforce his position of power in the world. I’m definitely not saying that women don’t do it, possibly for the same reason.

I’m just saying.

Seems to go along with the whole privilege thing. Like the guys who sit on a bus seat and take up more than their fair share of the space bubble.

Which is why it was kind of funny for Ian MacKaye to bring it out at the Evens show.

But that’s another post.