The other day, I was at a theater event for the amazing San Jose Repertory Theater. If you live close enough, and have enough money to get tickets, I strongly suggest that you support them. They present consistently good work that borders on genius at least a couple times a season. Their new work, particularly, is often striking; for instance, they produced the world premiere of my favorite play, Las Meninas, which was a historical speculation on a possible love affair between the wife of France’s Louis XIV and an enslaved African dwarf who was brought to her at court. I don’t see evidence of it having been produced since, which is, in my opinion, a travesty. The Rep has really good deals on ticket prices for students and teachers, too, by the way, so check it out.
I arrived early for the show. My fiance and I went to the bar to have drinks with some acquaintances of his from his hometown, who I’d met before, but only briefly. We were also joined by a woman who owns a vineyard in Northern California, which she works herself. I knew her a little bit through the memoir poetry she publishes occasionally online under a psuedonym, and we’d exchanged emails, but I’d never met her before.
She — let’s call her Joanne — was glorious. She was six feet two inches tall, tan and broad-shouldered. She wore a hand-made coat, pieced together from scraps of bright fabric, over black slacks. She held her head down at a forty-five degree angle, which made it easier for me to look her in the eye. My fiance said that it made her look a bit dismissive. Her mouth had a natural downturn. When she greeted us, she skipped the conversational niceties about the weather and the play we were about to see, and started talking immediately about the sexual subtext in a book of poetry written by a mutual acquaintance.
I liked her immediately.
Now, my fiance’s friends are good folk, and I’ve enjoyed talking to them the few times that I’ve seen them, but when the conversation turned to feminism, I wasn’t surprised to see the male half of the couple start to stir in his seat. He crossed and uncrossed his arms, and spent a lot of time clearing his throat. Joanne spoke very bluntly about something that had been running through the feminist blogs — I think it was the video of the honor killings that was featured on I Blame the Patriarchy, and which I linked to the other day.
Toby set down his drink with a loud clatter and said, “You know what really bothers me is we never talk about how men are affected in third world countries. Men are circumcized too, you know.”
My fingers froze around my glass. Likewise, my smile froze.
It’s not that I’m non-confrontational in person, but well… it’s never fun. I have a whole set of submissive behaviors which I learned to emulate in college, because I found it made people more likely to listen to me, and less likely to get angry at a woman with opinions. I smile and I say “umm…” a lot, and I generally act like a ditz while I ramble through a complicated political thought, as if to suggest — hey! I just thought of this, and if it’s coherent, then it’s probably a fluke. I do this with most strangers I meet. It’s like the heavy makeup and frilly dresses I wear, partially in apology for my large body. There are a lot of ways in which I don’t conform to femininity’s norms, being fat and opinionated and - frankly - smart. I have survival strategies to compensate for that.
My smile frozen, I cut my glance over to Joanne. She met my eye and laughed. She threw up her hands. “I can’t handle this,” she said to Toby, with a tone that suggested ‘this’ translated to ‘your assininity.’ “I’m going to stretch my legs.”
I smiled and ducked my head and started in with my, “Well… you know, it’s just that if you really look at the surgeries of female circumcision and male circumcision… umm… it’s kind of misleading to call it circumcision at all, you know? Some anthropologists call it female genital surgeries, because it’s pretty different. The thing is…”
And the shy thing, the break-it-down simply thing, the I’m not threatening see-my-head-tilt thing — seemed to make the information non-intimidating enough that Toby accepted it. I even heard him repeat the argument to someone else later, which is usually a good sign. So, score one for that.
But me, I was developing a healthy admiration for Joanne.
“I really like her,” I said to my fiance as we drove home.
“Hm,” said my fiance. “She’s kind of… grumpy.”
“Really?” I said. “She didn’t strike me as grumpy.”
“Maybe she’s kind of grumpy with men.”
I thought about it. “I think she’s just grumpy with ‘what about the men?!’”
“Not just then. I felt like I had to watch myself with her.”
“Huh,” I said.
We got home. We went about dinner and television and work and whatever else. I kept chewing on the afternoon’s events. Later, I phoned an activist friend of mine who lives in NYC. As I repeated the incident, I figured out why I’d been thinking about it so much.
“I really love grumpy women,” I said. “I love it that she can just throw up her hands and walk away. I love that she doesn’t NEED his approval. I love it when feminists can say ’screw you, we’re working for ourselves.’”
“Repeating yourself is part of being an activist,” said my friend.
“Oh, I know,” I said. “But… I just really respect women who are sick of it.”
“Why? Is it because it suggests she’s already done it a lot?”
“No… I’m not sure…” I considered. “It’s because…” I trailed off, thinking.
This is what I wanted to say to my friend on the phone, if I could have found the words in time:
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