Shoshana Smith 2

Facets of Feminism

I am a woman, and I am a feminist. I have signed petitions and wept at spoken word poetry; I have attended lectures on female safety and crossed the street to avoid men while walking alone; I have whispered the word “no” into a man’s ear, trying to remove his hand from my bra, and I have listened to him whisper back, “I know you like it, baby.” I know the propaganda, and I know the reality—and I know that many men do not. They don’t understand many of the realities behind our fears, and in the passion of those fears we alienate; we create a shield of anger, shouting without ever explaining, making our hurts their crimes, universally, and never saying why. We become a secret society of angry, injured women. We become sexist feminists.

In 2007 I took a disastrous weekend trip to Indianapolis with a group of three other women. In these three days which included an ice storm, two car accidents, a very seedy motel, and at least one nervous breakdown, the most terrifying moment was meeting a friend of mine in a parking lot.

The original plan had been to meet this friend of mine later in the evening, so when I looked up from fishing for the keycard to our motel room to see a scruffy young man lounging against the doorframe of our room, smirking at me, I was terrified. In the seconds it took me to place him a dozen scenarios ran through my head. Thief. Rapist. Attacker. Then: friend. But not before I had already begun to reach for my keys, my only possible defensive weapon.

My Indianapolis friend is not black, Hispanic, Arab, or even particularly muscular. He embodies the concept of “skinny white boy,” and I’ve been known to out-wrestle him. Chances are he had no idea how menacing he looked to a group of girls. From his perspective, he was waiting for a friend, perhaps even posing a little, with that lounge and smirk. To us, he was a threat. Even afterwards, when I chastened him for taking several years off my life, he laughed, pleased to have pulled a trick, because he couldn’t comprehend that particular brand of terror.

As a woman, it becomes frustrating and even frightening to come up against this kind of ignorance, again and again. It’s hard to understand how someone can be so blind to something that is so integrated in our lives as women in millions of little ways: vigilance while walking at night, not going to bars alone, deciding whether to flip off a wolf-whistler and risk prompting an angry reaction. And it can be easier, more comforting, to wrap that frustration and anger around us like a shield and blame the world outside rather than confronting the problem. It’s easier to hate men rather than educate them; it’s easier to call the boy who didn’t stop when you said “no” a bastard than look at why he didn’t.

In an ideal world, a woman would only tell a man “no,” or “stop” when she genuinely wants a breather; in response, he would pull back, give her exactly the space she needs, and when she feels ready again she would articulate exactly where her boundaries lie and he would respect them. However, we don’t live in that world; instead, we live in a world where “no” only sometimes means no, or maybe the third or fourth repetition is the only one that really counts. Through years and years of sexual modesty being held to the highest esteem, women have been taught to act coy, demure, and not overeager for sex. To match, men have been taught that coaxing a woman out of that modesty is just one more phase of courtship. Even today in the age of the liberated woman, men are encouraged to not be put off by initial rebuffs; instead they are taught to pursue, court, and woo. And even if most women are no longer expected to adhere to dated ideas of virginal shyness, the harsh brands of “slut” and “easy” encourage us to maintain at least a façade of sexual aloofness that must be coaxed away. So then why are we surprised when men can’t tell the difference between the no that means yes, and the no that means rape?

I do not try to excuse men their transgressions. Instead, I try to reveal the world of grays that we have covered with a veil of black and white. When we try to simplify issues of sex in particular, we do a disservice to both men and women, assuming an ideal world where “no” always means no, men always understand what women mean, and women always have the courage to assert themselves in the first place. Sadly, they often do not.

There are certain scenarios—certain situations I have run into as a woman—I can present to my female friends which they will almost all recognize and empathize with instantly. One of those situations is sexual resignation: that moment with a man when, after several attempts to deter or distract him, a woman resigns herself to that hand in her bra, or down her jeans; a decision that it’s easier to submit and tolerate than raise a fuss. I suspect if the man in question knew how grudging his partner’s acquiescence was he would withdraw; however, we never tell them, or at least, never at the time, and thus this becomes another female secret.

Men don’t realize how difficult it can be for a woman to enforce a “no” when facing persistence. This difficulty could stem from any number of reasons: centuries of female submission, the expectation that now that we are “liberated” sexual activity should no longer be demeaning, fear of being labeled a tease, or even simple physical intimidation; whatever the reason, the difficulty exists, and men, from my experience, are drastically under-informed on the subject and don’t realize that while they’re overcoming a coy stage of courtship, their partner has left the game entirely.

This isn’t to say that because men don’t necessarily know these things they cannot be held accountable. But the complexities on both sides of the situation mean that these aren’t problems only women can fix, bullhorn in hand, or only men can, driven by guilt and their mothers’ urgings.

Terrifying a prospect as it may be, women need to hold their ground, and take responsibility for clarity: if you can only manage one “no,” make it a loud one, or, as an article in The New Republic Online suggests, “if the line is crossed … say, “This is rape!”” (Easterblogg). And while women muster their courage, men must stay vigilant for those signs of hesitation, and respect any that arise. Better to ask “Is this alright?” and get an impatient yes in reply than leave a woman hurt in your wake.

This is the true goal of feminism: a mutual exchange of respect and mutual acknowledgement of perspective. Too often men revile or even fear the concept of “feminism,” seeing it as something angry, hateful, and anti-men. The prominence of this mis-definition has contributed greatly to the gap in understanding between men and women. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve had to explain to my male peers that feminism is pro-equality rather than anti-men.

In part, many men—particularly of younger generations—don’t understand the true nature of feminism because they are not even aware that many significant inequalities still exist between men and women. To them, sex discrimination is a thing of the sixties. My roommate once told me of having to spend an entire lunch period trying to convince a peer that wage inequalities between men and women still existed; in the end, he only believed her after double-checking her claims through internet research. This ignorance runs hand-in-hand with men’s blindness to the physical and emotional threats women face just going out on the street. These are not things men have to face, and if no one stops to educate them, they’ll never find out.

However, popular misconceptions of feminism also find roots in reality. So-called “militant” or “radical” feminists take feminism to an extreme that verges on—or even blatantly treads into—anti-men territory and smacks of revenge-taking. These women, nursing the grudges of centuries of inequality, will declare, “All men are bastards,” while, in the same breath, damning a man for calling a woman a slut, or a bitch, calling him an instrument of patriarchal oppression.

Attacked by these accusations, it’s no wonder that men shy away from the term “feminism.” As is too-frequently the case, the zealots of feminism have begun to define the movement, their radical voices rising louder than those of the more moderate majority. Just as the reputations of Christians often suffer from the fanaticism of their more radical Evangelicals, “feminists” has evolved to mean, in popular perception, “band of angry women.”

Not only do these radical feminists damage the reputation of the feminist movement, but they harm those who try and make that reach of empathy and become allies: men themselves. In a personal testimony written for “Achilles Heel,” a magazine for “radical men,” Mick Cooper grapples with his sense of guilt born out of the very fact that he is male. He recalls, “When I was young, I was surrounded by radical feminists who told me that: 'All men are bastards,' … I internalised[sic] these messages and applied them to myself.”

As a woman, I do not want men sympathetic toward me out of guilt. I want a man to treat me as an equal because he believes I am; because as a person—not specifically as a woman, but as a person—I have proven to him that I am worthy of his respect. I have no use for someone who treats me well out of guilt because he has been brow-beaten into believing he must atone for the sins of his forbearers. By those standards women have made no advancements toward equality; I am still being treated specially by a man due to my sex. That is to say nothing for the fundamental unfairness in plaguing these men with guilt—these men, the few who are actually taking the time to try and address sexism—for what they are trying to amend. As Cooper tells it, “Who else but the anti-sexist man can feel guilty for being sexist?” What kind of reward is that for us to offer to those who are willing to try and empathize?

Furthermore, it’s hardly a surprise that, faced with a barrage of anti-male sentiment in return for their alliance, men exposed to these radical feminists end up veering toward “anti-feminist” stances. David Usher, a proponent of men’s rights, speaks avidly against feminism, declaring it to be a way “for women to undermine religion, deconstruct marriage and take over the family” (“The Greatest Father’s Day Gift”). Scarred by radical feminists, he has been driven into a defensive corner, deriding any concept of feminism as “not about equality” (“Feminism at Knox College”).

The truth is, many of the central concepts that Usher so viciously defends go hand-in-hand with what feminism is really about. He seeks to preserve “the same rights to be in the family as we have been granted to women in the workplace” (“Feminism at Knox College”), and those rights—a man’s right to be part of his family—are not ones that should be at all diminished in a egalitarian relationship between men and women. Unfortunately, the radical notions of militant feminism have created such waves that many men have little to no sense of what feminism truly stands for.

The great contemporary challenge for feminism is to find a way to present itself as to not frighten off the men and women who at heart approve of its core ideologies but shy away from its current militant front. One successful method I have seen employed was through a performance group that put on a show titled “Sex Signals.” Put on by Catharsis Productions, “Sex Signals” is a show that frequents college campuses and addresses issues of dating, male/female interaction, and sex in the context of the college environment. Using humor and situations familiar to their audience, the performers crafted a scene in which a young man raped his date without really realizing the severity of the actions: the woman would repeatedly tell him no, then re-encourage sexual activity not long after—so he paid little mind to her last, quiet no. These characters were well-presented as relatable and every-day; members of the college audience could clearly see themselves as the two confused participants, and men in particular could see how, if not careful, they could unwittingly hurt a woman. This performance has stuck strongly with me in the two years since I saw it, and I’ve no doubt I was not the only one struck by its simple effectiveness.

To me, feminism is more than the ability to have a male friend and treat him as a friend, a person, and have him treat me the same way. I do not have to be on guard against him; I do not have to worry he’ll make sexist comments, or try and take advantage of me sexually.

To me, feminism is more than being with a man and trusting that if I tell him I don’t want to move too fast, he won’t move my hand to his crotch five minutes later; and it is more than sitting with him after, should he do that, and explaining to him how such an act is wrong.

To me, feminism is that moment when that male friend understands why what he did was wrong, and never does it again. It’s the moment when my Indianapolis friend stops laughing, and realizes what really happened that night. It’s also the moment when I have the courage to enforce my first “no,” when I have the strength to stand up for myself and not fear the repercussions.

To me, feminism lies in moments of understanding between men and women that have not been discovered yet universally.

I have my own call to arms, for those women and men who want to be respected both as people and members of their sex: I call for you to talk. To women, I ask you: stop shouting, accusing, ranting, and blaming; stop throwing your anger to the wind, hoping it will find someone to berate. A video of spoken word poet Kendra Urdang performing recently made rounds on the internet, in which she says, “I want to give a big “fuck you” to all the men who make my anger possible. I blame all the men who think they are better. … I blame all the men who allow their friends to yell “bitch” and “ho” while thinking they’re not like them. … I blame you for all the times you don’t speak up” (“To Every Man Who Never Called Himself a Feminist”). I challenge you, women of the feminist movement, to not blame those men; instead of passing along a video of a yelling woman that will only provoke a defensive reaction from those it blames, find those men and speak to them. Find the men who don’t speak up among your friends and relatives, explain to them why they should, and ask them why they don’t. And maybe you’ll find something in their “why,” some evidence of sexism that has been directed toward them and you know yourself to be guilty of—and can then fix in yourself.

And to the men, I ask you to not only do the same, but a little more. Don’t just speak to other men, but speak to women as well. Keep them aware of those sexist slights toward men; don’t let the idea of feminism become an enemy to men: don’t let it set unfair expectations about men’s behavior.

Every woman will, at some point, call a man a bastard, just as every man will call a woman a bitch. We’re people, and we’re human. What we need to maintain are reasonable expectations for members of either sex: expectations that ask for open and free communication rather than mind-reading; expectations that concede that name-calling may happen, but that everyone has the right to the same amount of indignation, and “bitch” is no more derogatory than “bastard.”