Gender
So, I've been doing this whole inventory of personal beliefs. You know, every decade or so I feel it is important to go into the ol' attic and throw out things that don't work anymore, fix some things that are out of date but still in good working condition and laugh at things that are so outlandish that you wonder what the hell you could have been thinking. I guess this little exercise here is a by-product of my philosophical house cleaning. As you might imagine the reassessment of my belief system now is a much more difficult and labor intensive process than when I turned 10. There is definitely a lot more crap to sift through. Oh, you can put that Santa in the "to keep" pile right next to the straight man who wants to get married, if you don't mind.
This corner over here is where I keep my various thoughts and feelings about gender. The piles are all mixed up and in no particular order as I have no real filing system back here. I haven't really cleaned this spot since I was in the fifth grade and I had begun to feel the sharp playground jabs of inequity. Here it comes- that wavy memory dissolve that will bring us back to an earlier time and place.
Our elementary school playground was a typical Minnesotan wide expanse of lawn dotted with various, outdated death traps known as playground equipment. What was special about our playground was its proximity to the back parking lot which, of course, needed to be plowed from time to time in the winter months. This would create a nice sized snow hill which was widely accepted as the private domain of fifth grade boys. Well, being rather worldly for a small town fifth grader (and an avid reader of books with spunky red headed heroines) I began to think this was a rather stupid practice. I didn't particularly WANT to play on the snow hill. Quite frankly, I found the jungle gym made from old tractor tires to be more inviting but since it was implied that I was not welcome on the snow hill because I was a girl it became my goal to conquer it.
Unfortunately, books on military strategy were not a part of my personal library. In retrospect, I realize that all of those books with the spunky heroines ended the same way. Spunky and too smart for her own good, our heroine would always find herself in a dangerous situation alone with the villain of the story and it would be up to the level headed (yet not nearly as bright) bothers/ fathers/ boyfriends to come and save said heroine from what would surely be an untimely demise. Spunky I was. Well-connected, I was not.
I had convinced a few (maybe 4) of my fifth grade sisters that the hill should be equally ours. We began to pick fights with the boys and every recess we would charge up the hill only to be thrown to the bottom, pummeled with snow balls or occassionally got our faces pushed into the hill itself. This went on all winter long. The few girls I had convinced to join me in the begining left for more entertaining (and less torturous) pursuits. I stuck with it and there were many days in which I was the lone soldier battling up that hill whilst my sisters went to hide from prettier girls who had taken to making fun of their haircuts or clothing choices. Some of these girls- the prettier ones- were allowed free access to the hill and they enjoyed pushing me down the slope with the boys. I never reached the top of the hill. You'll see on the bottom of that pile over there the understanding that acceptance by males is a key to reaching the top of the hill. Right next to that you will see the belief that, in order to be accepted by males you have to be pretty (sexy- in adult terms) and IF you are accepted you must defend your territory against other females. There is only so much available real estate on the hill.
The reason those two beliefs are on the bottom of the pile is that, since then, I have reached a number of conclusions about men. I love men. I love talking to men, I love looking at men, I love working with men. I feel very comfortable with them, and in my artistic domain I feel respected by men. Of course, the cynic in me suspects that that respect is built on a foundation of profanity and technical know-how that is laced with a flirty and suggestive air. I didn't get to climb the hill by being prettier (sexier) than anyone else. I got on the hill by being able to discuss the componants of narrative structure with a wink and a smile and clitoral stimulation as if I was down to serious business. (Which, arguably, I was!) You see, something that I began to foster in the fifth grade was an incredibly low opinion of men.
I didn't think I had a low opinion of men at the time or even since, but recent revelations have shown me just how little I actually think of them. I love them, but I see them as pets. I make excuses for their behavior because of how their brains are wired- and I back it up with scientific evidence- to prove how the male mind is inferior when it comes to certain things- especially when it comes to interpersonal relationships. They don't listen very well, cannot multi-task as well as women, and they sure as hell aren't advanced enough to figure out the many handy uses of the laundry hamper. I'm usually pretty sympathetic to men and feel that they have an incredibly difficult role in our society- but I also don't have much faith in their ability to find their own way. So many times I catch myself leading a man, guiding him toward certain decisions and I catch myself turning into this character, this tiny, pushy character in Jules Feiffer's lovely play "Little Murders". I'll spare the entire context, but at one point this woman begins screaming at her fiance "LET ME MOLD YOU!". So I find myself doing what women have done for centuries...I'm back seat driving. But in my defense let me say this: They LET ME!
Of course, I've also done my best to push most women out of my life. After all, I can't be the prettiest (sexiest) woman in the room if there is another woman in the room. Especially after tipping the scales at 210 when I was pregnant. I have to be the ONLY woman in the room and that is my only guarantee. Throughout my life there have been notable exceptions to this rule, but for the most part I've done my best to distance myself. As much as I patronize men I fear other women. I fear their ability to knock me off the hill by sheer virtue of bigger boobs, fuller hair and a tighter ass.
While I am wondering about my current sense of alienation I have to point my finger firmly at myself. It is what I believe and what I fear that have separated me from the rest of the world. I had thought that I was walking through life with pure intentions and even a bit of wisdom, but in reality there is an angry and hurt woman in me. Lately, I've been feeling more pissed off than I have ever felt in my entire life. Not just righteous indignation- no, that is something it is acceptable to possess- but real fury.
Maybe it is about fucking time.
This corner over here is where I keep my various thoughts and feelings about gender. The piles are all mixed up and in no particular order as I have no real filing system back here. I haven't really cleaned this spot since I was in the fifth grade and I had begun to feel the sharp playground jabs of inequity. Here it comes- that wavy memory dissolve that will bring us back to an earlier time and place.
Our elementary school playground was a typical Minnesotan wide expanse of lawn dotted with various, outdated death traps known as playground equipment. What was special about our playground was its proximity to the back parking lot which, of course, needed to be plowed from time to time in the winter months. This would create a nice sized snow hill which was widely accepted as the private domain of fifth grade boys. Well, being rather worldly for a small town fifth grader (and an avid reader of books with spunky red headed heroines) I began to think this was a rather stupid practice. I didn't particularly WANT to play on the snow hill. Quite frankly, I found the jungle gym made from old tractor tires to be more inviting but since it was implied that I was not welcome on the snow hill because I was a girl it became my goal to conquer it.
Unfortunately, books on military strategy were not a part of my personal library. In retrospect, I realize that all of those books with the spunky heroines ended the same way. Spunky and too smart for her own good, our heroine would always find herself in a dangerous situation alone with the villain of the story and it would be up to the level headed (yet not nearly as bright) bothers/ fathers/ boyfriends to come and save said heroine from what would surely be an untimely demise. Spunky I was. Well-connected, I was not.
I had convinced a few (maybe 4) of my fifth grade sisters that the hill should be equally ours. We began to pick fights with the boys and every recess we would charge up the hill only to be thrown to the bottom, pummeled with snow balls or occassionally got our faces pushed into the hill itself. This went on all winter long. The few girls I had convinced to join me in the begining left for more entertaining (and less torturous) pursuits. I stuck with it and there were many days in which I was the lone soldier battling up that hill whilst my sisters went to hide from prettier girls who had taken to making fun of their haircuts or clothing choices. Some of these girls- the prettier ones- were allowed free access to the hill and they enjoyed pushing me down the slope with the boys. I never reached the top of the hill. You'll see on the bottom of that pile over there the understanding that acceptance by males is a key to reaching the top of the hill. Right next to that you will see the belief that, in order to be accepted by males you have to be pretty (sexy- in adult terms) and IF you are accepted you must defend your territory against other females. There is only so much available real estate on the hill.
The reason those two beliefs are on the bottom of the pile is that, since then, I have reached a number of conclusions about men. I love men. I love talking to men, I love looking at men, I love working with men. I feel very comfortable with them, and in my artistic domain I feel respected by men. Of course, the cynic in me suspects that that respect is built on a foundation of profanity and technical know-how that is laced with a flirty and suggestive air. I didn't get to climb the hill by being prettier (sexier) than anyone else. I got on the hill by being able to discuss the componants of narrative structure with a wink and a smile and clitoral stimulation as if I was down to serious business. (Which, arguably, I was!) You see, something that I began to foster in the fifth grade was an incredibly low opinion of men.
I didn't think I had a low opinion of men at the time or even since, but recent revelations have shown me just how little I actually think of them. I love them, but I see them as pets. I make excuses for their behavior because of how their brains are wired- and I back it up with scientific evidence- to prove how the male mind is inferior when it comes to certain things- especially when it comes to interpersonal relationships. They don't listen very well, cannot multi-task as well as women, and they sure as hell aren't advanced enough to figure out the many handy uses of the laundry hamper. I'm usually pretty sympathetic to men and feel that they have an incredibly difficult role in our society- but I also don't have much faith in their ability to find their own way. So many times I catch myself leading a man, guiding him toward certain decisions and I catch myself turning into this character, this tiny, pushy character in Jules Feiffer's lovely play "Little Murders". I'll spare the entire context, but at one point this woman begins screaming at her fiance "LET ME MOLD YOU!". So I find myself doing what women have done for centuries...I'm back seat driving. But in my defense let me say this: They LET ME!
Of course, I've also done my best to push most women out of my life. After all, I can't be the prettiest (sexiest) woman in the room if there is another woman in the room. Especially after tipping the scales at 210 when I was pregnant. I have to be the ONLY woman in the room and that is my only guarantee. Throughout my life there have been notable exceptions to this rule, but for the most part I've done my best to distance myself. As much as I patronize men I fear other women. I fear their ability to knock me off the hill by sheer virtue of bigger boobs, fuller hair and a tighter ass.
While I am wondering about my current sense of alienation I have to point my finger firmly at myself. It is what I believe and what I fear that have separated me from the rest of the world. I had thought that I was walking through life with pure intentions and even a bit of wisdom, but in reality there is an angry and hurt woman in me. Lately, I've been feeling more pissed off than I have ever felt in my entire life. Not just righteous indignation- no, that is something it is acceptable to possess- but real fury.
Maybe it is about fucking time.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 2:49 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home