This is a topic that is near and dear to me. It is my dirty little secret, one of the few I have left since becoming a feminist. It is my shame. It is something I would never dare mention out loud to a women studies class for fear of the ridicule I would face. Feminism as it is today is my main identifier. It is a huge piece of who I am and it encompasses the words I use when I describe myself, so the idea that I might alienate myself from my sisterhood holds my tongue, lest I lose the only place where I have ever truly belonged. But part of being a feminist is being brave against all odds and telling our stories despite the backlash it may ensue. What would we have if Alice Paul stood trembling? Where would we be if Gloria Steinem chose popularity over justice? And while I am not trying to compare myself to these great women, I feel a sense of camaraderie with them. They are my sisters in spirit and it is in the spirit of their ideals that I write this piece.
I hesitate about men. I do not, contrary to popular belief and despite all evidence otherwise, hate men. I do hesitate to trust men, and by extension, I hesitate to trust men within my movement. This is a very unpopular opinion in the current generation of feminists, who believe as Audre Lorde believed; that we can dismantle the Master’s house with the Master’s tools and that men as well as women can pick up the Master’s tools and heave the hammer of justice. I hesitate. I disagree. Can we trust the Master’s sons? Would any other movement place such a huge responsibility on the sons of the enemy? The answer is, only after a long and difficult process of re-education and learning to trust again would any rebel group accept assistances from a former oppressor, and even then it would be with heavily-guarded eyes and a grain of salt. But it can be done. History has shown that the children of oppressors can make amends and become an ally. We tell triumphant tales of the Underground Railroad and the rush to smuggle Jews out of Poland; all fantastic examples of an oppressor’s child shrugging off the mantle of oppression and turning their back on their privilege in order to do what is right.
And still, I hesitate. Why? This is difficult for me to explain. In a way, it would be easier to hate men, but I refuse to give anyone the satisfaction of allowing the Man to believe that I hate all men as a whole, in an all-or-nothing uneducated way that makes it my problem rather than a justifiable anger toward them. I will not allow them to place tags on me that labels me irrational or insane and let them continue to abdicate responsibility for their actions. So I do not hate. I could. I have plenty of historical evidence, statistics, books, and personal anecdotes that would justify such a position. But I do not hate. I hesitate.
But again, the question is why do I hesitate while at the same time admit to a historical precedent of former oppressors becoming allies? The answer is both simple and sad. The men of the world have yet to do something that their historical counterparts did again and again. The men of the world have not made actions towards women to show penance. They have not apologized. They have done nothing to earn our trust and yet they believe through their privilege, that their intrinsic maleness should be enough, that their existence as the Chosen Gender, the Golden Child Who Can Do No Wrong is enough of an endorsement to let them into our ranks.
But, perhaps it should be asked, what have the men of the world done to earn such disrespect from me. What causes me to hesitate to the degree that I do?
I have allowed myself to be a public person. I write on a blog, I protest, and I am unabashedly loud and opinionated. 99% of my detractors are men. Of these men, not one has chosen to argue with me in a constructive way that contributed to civil discourse and not a one has ever agreed to disagree. Rather, they seek to destroy me emotionally. They do not see me as a person with a difference in opinion. I am a Thing, an Enemy that must be called horrible names that only have the power to hurt me because men use these words to hurt women throughout time everlasting. I have been physically assaulted. I have been groped on public buses; I have been unsafe in public places. I have had my breasts grabbed by complete strangers who felt it was in their right to touch me because as a woman in public I am obviously a Thing for their amusement. I have been yelled at when I dare to walk the streets. I have been interrupted when I demand quiet and a safe space because a man’s urge to speak/touch me overrides my fundamental right to be left alone. All of these things have happened to me and to countless other women, the sole difference between our collective experiences being the severity of the incident. These events have all been perpetrated by men, some strangers to me, some well-known to me.
These occurrences are the most seriousness, and due to the seriousness of their nature it is common for them to be excused as outliers in otherwise impeccable male behavior. And I might believe that if it were not for the other, countless reminders I wake up to everyday; little mental Post-It notes that remind me that I am Other, I am Thing, I am Less Than. It is the casual rape joke, it is using words like “bitch” and “pussy” that remind everyone within earshot that the worst possible thing in the world to be is a woman. It is being accused of looking for things to get mad at; it is being told that I am hysterical. It is being called humorless or overly-sensitive or a feminazi. It is having to beg a friend, a lover, a companion to not tell a rape joke, to not use that word, to please be respectful and have them not; or worse, have them use your trauma and your trigger for their amusement and think it all jolly-good fun when you run screaming from the room in tears. This is why I hesitate.
Yet men still say the words that are supposed to inspire trust. “I love my daughter, my mother, my wife, my sister” they say, as if being somehow related to women erases their guilt. They want us to believe that their proxy to women allows them automatic access to our trust and our votes, our money, our movement. It does not. It is a power play using words designed to grant trust where it is not deserved and I am not simple enough to fall for it. I hesitate.
And worse still is the liberal male who has just enough education to be dangerous. These are the men that insist on playing devil's advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject in which they know I am an expert, but somehow still expect me to allow space for their opinions because they have lived a life of privilege that says they are special and male and therefore their opinions, no matter how uneducated and ridiculous those opinions sound, must have merit. These self-proclaimed liberal men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun, and they wonder, why I become upset, why I yell and scream and grow increasingly frustrated with each passing moment. These amateur debaters believe that my emotional display means that I have lost (or worse, I have played into some stereotype about women being emotional and therefore illogical) and that they are the better debaters, because they have managed to infuriate me and my emotional responses to an intellectual exercise proves that my point of view has no solid reasoning. This must be, they ponder, or why else would I have thrown such a fit? What ultimately has happened and what the debaters have not taken into consideration is that this is more than an intellectual exercise for me. To the men discussing women’s issues is akin to discussing time travel or theoretical moral ambiguities. It is not a reality to them; it is another mental Rubik’s cube for them to ponder over safely and without getting upset or overly involved. Such is not the case for me and other women. For us, this is not just a paradox for us to chew over with the other philosophical cud. This is our lives we are fighting for, and no one likes to have their personal war reduced to someone else’s banal amusements. Worse still is when these same men speak about women in a way that is distant and objectifying. They talk about what they have observed as if women were strange butterflies to be pinned and studied instead of people who have legitimate experiences that might lead one, such as I, to hesitate.
There is the unwillingness to learn, or worse, the flat refusal to learn. There is the blatant ignorance, the refusal to see sexism even when it’s pointed out in such a bald-faced way that its obviousness is embarrassing. Even when the willingness to perhaps learn is there, the burden is placed on me to teach, rather than on the ignorant to learn. And if I do acquiesce and agree to teach, I am told by the same smug male that perhaps my lesson would be better received if I was: less angry, more pretty, nicer, calmer, more indulgent, more understanding, used less swearing, stopped using personal experiences, stop using facts and statistics, and never, ever forget to show the ever important male point of view; thus stripping away my expertise and if the lessons do not sink in it is my fault for not being obliging, rather than their fault for being intellectually lazy. And thus I hesitate.
And I will admit that part of my hesitance is a self-defense mechanism. It is an essential tool to help with the day-to-day encounters I have described above. The first thing a baby porcupine learns is how to raise its quills. The first thing a baby feminist learns is how to raise her guard. If I am on guard, if I hesitate and stereotype and distrust, then I reduce my risk of being knocked off balance or being placed in danger. But it’s not just a personal danger. I fear for all my sisters, and every day I wake up in the morning regretful that somewhere in the world my sisters are going through some physical or mental exhaustion at the hands of men (both malicious and clueless). Were this any other fight my careful regard would be seen as a natural response to danger. Only the truly cruel cannot see why a Jew might be cautious in their return to certain parts of Europe, or why perhaps a black man actively avoids certain parts of the United States. We see their survival mechanisms as understandable and we respect these choices. People see this hesitancy as a reminder of a horrible history and an admonition that we must be vigilant and always, always work towards righting past wrongs and slowly becoming trustworthy again. And yet because the world is built on the frail ego of the privileged male any slight, any insinuation that we as women have cause to distrust is seen as heresy and an attack on the status quo.
I’m not saying male allies aren’t important; they are. However, they are only as valuable as they are active. Many are the ally who looks at a violent rape culture and bemoans the fact that “they don’t represent me”. But they do. They are placing an image out that represents you. And male allies are well within their rights to be angry, but they stop there. They need to be active. Anger is merely the starting point. The men need to behave as the feminist label beseeches them to: act, write letters, protest products, rock the vote. It is not feminism to observe the rape/violent/misogynistic culture, become upset over that representation of masculinity, not do anything about it, and then become confused and angry when your female compatriots do not welcome you with open arms/legs. My lack of trust upsets you, your lack of action raises suspicion in me. Why should I trust a man cognizant of the problems and who chooses to do nothing? That man offers nothing but verbal reassurances that no, no there are good men out there. This is not new information. We need more than bland reassurances of the righteousness of our cause. Our cause is just, it does not need approval. It does not need a man telling us what we should do to make him feel better or more comfortable or provide an excuse for his behavior. What my cause needs is help. We are not getting the help, the respect, the action we deserve from the men who mercilessly grab the feminist label in a vain attempt to be seen as more liberal or hoping it will increase their chances of getting laid.
So what advice do I have for the male who does desire to help us in our fight against the various –isms of the world? Is it possible to re-earn the trust lost over years of oppression and defeat? Yes, I do believe it is possible for a man to truly be an ally; truth be told I am engaged to one. The keys to earning our trust lie in education and respect. Firstly, respect that becoming my ally will take lots of time and many, many gestures on your part. If this seems too much like a Sisyphean task, take a deep breath and remember all I and my sisters have suffered through. Understand that we have been hurt by men who called themselves allies before and recognize that the reward for your patience is a great one. Educate yourself in the same manner as a woman would. Do not believe that because you are a man you have a greater insight to the women’s movement or that being a male makes you more objective. All being male grants you is a different perspective that may or may not be totally incongruent with the feminist movement. Instead, read the same books we read, peruse at your leisure the same websites we peruse. Do not assume; instead ask questions and be open to the answers. Fight cognitive dissonance. If something is making you feel uncomfortable it’s probably your brain’s way of helping you recognize your privilege. Do all this and soon there will come a day when gender-neutral pronouns come easier, when calling your friends on rape jokes feels like an obligation to your morality, and you will understand the hard battles won and yet to be won. On that day I will trust, I will be proud to call you brother, and I will cease to hesitate.
