Meditation on Why Some Men Get it, and Some Don’t, and How Cool My Son Is

Why am I impressed that a son I raised is so honorable in his attitudes towards and relationships with women? I’m not overly impressed that my daughter is…. Am even I, staunch feminist, so inured to a world in which men disappoint me that when my own kid doesn’t, it’s like a big thing? Maybe. And I lied. I am impressed by my daughter’s fierce strength in the face of a world that casually belittles her on a daily basis, and her refusal to be marginalized as a woman or a lesbian, and the way she walks the walk. And as for my son, he walks the walk too. Am I impressed? Sure. But he’s not at all impressed with himself. He can’t imagine being any other way.

A few weeks ago he called me to talk. He told me that he was giving a lot of thought to what he would call his students, at the ski school where he teaches, and when he finishes his degree in outdoor education. “People have to stop saying ‘guys’ to groups of people that are half girls or women.” I caught myself being super impressed with him for thinking a simple thought I have pondered frequently. He was just thinking out loud – he said he’s thought about it before too, but now he realizes it’s important to take a stand on stuff like this when he’s dealing with kids, because basically, he doesn’t want to perpetuate the language of the patriarchy. So I tried to tamp down my maternal awe and just think, Yeah. Damned straight. (In case you’re wondering, he’s thinking about using “padawan” – the term used by Jedi masters in Star Wars to refer to an apprentice. Seems pretty perfect for a feminist millennial teacher….)

Women have a profound influence on the men of the world. On our husbands, boyfriends, friends, sons, even fathers. They say that men who have daughters are much more generous in their charitable giving. To mention one totally random statistic. Sons raised by interesting, independent women tend to respect women. Shocker. And so on.

But this influence is not automatic and should not be assumed or taken for granted. We only have an influence if we are allowed to by the culture in which we exist. There are exceptions, clearly. There are girls who exist under the thumb of and live steeped in the attitudes of the Taliban who grow up to fight back and claim their power and refuse to own the status quo.  But most of the time, a community closed to diversity of thought will remain closed, and narrow, and people within it will be marginalized, subjugated, killed.

So a culture in which it is accepted that women are “less than” perpetuates the idea of women being “less than” until no one can imagine it being any other way. The myths and false beliefs are perpetuated—that men control women, that men are superior to them, that women do not have autonomy over their actions, bodies, choices, even lives—whether on a grand scale as when gangs of Egyptian men publicly rape women with little consequence, or on a quieter but also frightening scale as when fathers can “own” their daughters’ virginity (and thus sexuality), or when everyone seems cool with the fact that women just don’t make as much money as men. Or that a woman is too _____ (fill in the blank) to: govern, manage, be a CEO, be a rocket scientist, get an education, achieve much of anything, choose what to do with the unborn embryo in her uterus, drive, be a soldier, or decide when she does not want to have sex.

When everyone a child knows, meets, sees, and hears tells him or her, directly or indirectly, that women (or blacks, or gays, or “Arabs,” or the transgendered, etc. etc.) are “other” and “less than” – what do we expect?

When everyone in the room laughs at the dumb blonde joke, what’s a child to think? When no one ever stands up for mom when her husband/brother/father tells her to “Go get me a beer,” are we surprised when her son, at 21, does the same? Or that her daughter meekly responds when she is thus commanded?

My son has not had that many girlfriends. He is fairly picky. I mean, he doesn’t even like the term ‘girlfriend’ – he thinks labels are limiting. (RIGHT?) But anyway, they have all been wonderful. Smart, savvy, independent, quirky, warm women. He has zero tolerance for women who throw themselves at him (he plays guitar in a band so this actually does happen), who devalue themselves, who act the way they think men want them to act – helpless, cute, dumb, fragile. He knows better.

He grew up among women – aunts, friends of the family, me, cousins, his sister, teachers, mentors. He knows who women are. He came from his own version of an insular world, in which it would never occur to anyone that a woman should make 30% less than a man for doing the same job, be the brunt of jokes, or be openly insulted as “ugly,” “fat,” “useless,” “dumb,” or “bitchy.” He is the child who, at age 3, asked who the women presidents were. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I said there were none. Pure confusion.

Last night we talked about Scott Esk, running for state rep in Oklahoma—the guy who would be okay with a law calling for stoning gays. My son said to me, “We all think we’re right. The people who traffic in hate and think stoning gays or raping women is the way to go – they think they’re right. And we think we are.”

But we are right, aren’t we? I mean, as my daughter said once so simply, “How can fairness and love be wrong?” But the point remains. My children are tremendously privileged to have grown up in a world, however small, where hate and fear of difference are not norms, and where women kick all kinds of ass being awesome, and where the women and most of the men talk about women’s issues (and all civil rights issues) as if they mattered… because they do.  Meanwhile, children all over this country and the world are disadvantaged. Girls grow up without enough role models – women who are privileged to be able to claim their power without dire consequences to their spirits, their bodies, or their lives. Boys grow up without role models – men who treat women as equals and respect them. Openly. As if to respect women is something that has to come out of the closet.

Me with my lovely dear son... a few years ago.

Me with my lovely dear super awesome and cool son….

 

Apologies are Sexy

LoveStory poster_thumb[2] (2)Apologies are sexy. They are capable of melting hearts, defenses, sadness, and feelings of neglect or not being appreciated. They show strength of character, and that is always sexy, isn’t it?

As one who has spent far too much of my life trying to “be good” – if not perfect, I of all people know it is completely impossible to be good all the time. Don’t even talk to me about perfection. I’m in favor of doing everything in my power to enhance the quality of life for those I love (though not at my own expense, I have come to understand). I love to deliver a well-timed cup of tea or make a special shopping list of everyone’s favorite foods for when the gang’s home at the holidays. I relish being met at the front door by helpful volunteers when I’ve brought home the bacon in the form of 5 bulging bags of groceries and 6 glass jugs of spring water. Remembering to leave the porch light on for after-dark travelers is a special favorite of mine, and am so grateful when the favor is returned.

But we do forget. Our best intentions, when life happens or a day is particularly sucky, do not always translate into actions.  That’s when a delicious “I’m sorry, honey” can just smooth out the bumps ever so nicely. “I’m sorry I made you late for your appointment.” Or, “Shit, I forgot to replace the toilet paper, didn’t I? I’m so sorry!” Or, “I know you had a stressful day. I’m sorry I was late picking you up. I’ll make it up to you with a nice backrub.”

Wait, no. I’m going too far. Honestly, the apology is enough. No backrubs necessary. An apology all by itself shows understanding and a basic desire to make amends, for no matter how small an oversight. Somehow, the absence of an apology often feels like a defensively stubborn insistence that nothing’s wrong. It’s all about acknowledgment, isn’t it?

An apology not only acknowledges a faux pas on the part of the sorry-sayer, it also acknowledges the other person. The gal who peed only to realize there was not a square of toilet paper to be found. The guy who is exhausted and counted on a timely pick up. Just being seen and understood, after the fact, is enough to erase whatever the “thing” was.

When I see you and care about you, I notice you. I can’t unnotice you. If I have seen you, I am more likely to remember how you take your coffee, and that you like the shoes left by the door. I am also more likely to apologize if I forget and tromp mud into your kitchen. Sincerely, not grudgingly.

We remind our children to “say sorry” and often have to add… “like you mean it.” Sorry is all too meaningless when it is insincere. Sorry is oh-so-meaningful when it is real, and yes, it’s sexy.

Confident people apologize. They have nothing to prove, so “I’m sorry” is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength. This is not hard for a confident person who cares about you to understand: “Even though I fucked up, I know I’m not a fuck-up. I’m not perfect but I love you and feel bad that I forgot to bring you a latte from Starbucks.”

Obviously, apologies are not just for the memory lapses, careless moments, and blind spots of life. They do a world of good when true hurt has been done. Though actions are always more powerful than words, words have weight. “I’m so so so so sorry” while holding hands, hugging, or gazing sincerely into someone’s eyes is a good starting place for mending even an agonizing heart-breach or harmful betrayal.

Maybe the only bad apology, aside from the grudging little-kid kind, is the knee jerk apology. You casually bump into someone on the way to the kitchen, “I’m sorry!” You forget the forks when you set the table, “I’m sorry,” as you go get the forks. I mean, getting the forks is better than, and makes unnecessary, a meaningless apology. The food you just made for dinner burns someone’s mouth. Don’t apologize. You just made dinner. Of course it’s hot. Someone didn’t wait for it to cool down. Other than that, you can’t go wrong with a heartfelt apology, especially to the people you love, who want to know that you are paying attention.

Love Story, released in 1970, is remembered for one line, spoken at the end of the film by Ryan O’Neal: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” As a generation of movie goers sobbed its way through that movie, a terrible disservice was being done to all those people and their descendants. It got people off on the wrong track. Contrary to the hokey line of dialogue O’Neal had to deliver to tear-stained audiences everywhere, love means you are totally cool with saying “sorry.”

Get Sick

I don’t want to talk about what is going on in Washington. But I can’t justify not talking about it. So I’m going to just say some shit and then move on.

Because I do think about it. It enters my consciousness through Facebook, NPR and Jon Stewart. Seriously? How liberal middle class of me.  I read about it, diligently. I hear about it, committedly. I sign petitions, daily. But I realize – beyond my outraged intellect, it is not touching me. Which is wrong.

Why should hearing-impaired students stop receiving therapy that will let them use their voices to demand a better government? Why should government workers who live paycheck to paycheck lose their incomes, default on their rents and have to decide between gas for their cars or milk for their children? How long before they can’t afford either and have to sell their cars? Why should research about outbreaks stop at the CDC (especially while diseases prepare to spread exponentially thanks to global warming)? Why should a few white guys in Washington have the right to be petulant and why should I have the luxury of having my hair colored and cut and my nails done? I can still feed my cats—and myself. My daughter can still go to class—and to parties. The lights are still on—and the dishwasher.

What will be the breaking point when people like me have to turn on NPR to be reminded that poor losers in Washington would rather pout and shut down the government than accept a law that has been legally passed and vetted by the highest court in the union? When does “government shutdown” start to hurt everyone? Enough for the shift to happen. The masses to rise up. The enemy to retreat.

We need to feel the fingernails corkscrewing our upper arms for a wicked pinch. We need to choke on the vinegar forced down our throats. We have to wake up to the flea bites from fleas we cannot repel no matter how hard we try. We need to be sick of it. Just plain sick of it.

http://action.johntierney.com/page/s/shutdown?source=fb_auto_share_shutdown