Tag Archives: compromise

December 13, 2011 · 1:00 pm

The first time I do it

The first time I do it… It will be right. It will be smooth and well crafted. It will not take a toll on me that hangs. Tugging down my shoulders keeping my chin from pushing my eyes up to see the layers of building tops touch the sky.

The first time I do it… finally to a man. Finally, to feel equal and stand up to him, to talk back, to call him out. To be assertive. The first time I do it… it will be authentic.

The first time will be quickly forgotten as it will be the first day that I step into that skin. The skin that I have been crafting in my mind. This skin will suit me, it has come from my mind, representing my heart, what I think and feel and especially what I know.  The first time will befinally; and then, yes, then forgotten.

It simply becomes the way that I am. Every day. Not that one significant time that I acted the way that I would love for every woman to act. Every day, for every woman to feel free to act out against any one, especially men. To act out without fear of ridicule because we have the right. Just as one knows they are innocent.. I know that I am powerful. I have the right to be, feel and act equal.

I have the greatest desire to, for the first time… not cow-toe in inferiority, not be afraid of disapproval, not feel dizzy with the conflict between mind and behavior. I won’t care if I hurt his feelings nor will I be concerned with the interpretations of others of me: abrasive, harsh, bitchy, extreme, angry, bitter, cold, childish, pushy, touchy. I will be proud of my authentic assertion, and not ony the first time.

I know that finally, and for the first time, I finally will have found so much of me that I have been searching to know.

The part that woke me up from slumber inside of a relationship where the part of me that makes people laugh had vanished. The part that stands up for the women I know and love. The part of me that loves and trusts her womanhood. That part of me that has come out fiercely and courageously in the company of women.

Only was I able to stand up and confront the pick pocketer and the crafty thief on the bus when it was a woman and her son. Only was I able to take charge that time we were lost out on a mountain and the headlights went out.. when I was with my best friend a beautiful and successful woman. I know I have a Sergeant inside. I know she is there and she is GOOD and she has come around in the presence of women, but she has been trained so well to take her subordinate place in the presence of men.

After the first time my behavior catches up with what I know, I will for the first time stand up courageously without regard to gender. After the first time, I will not ignore the man’s hand quickly groping me on the street (again). I will not be reluctant, worrying about embarrassing him or the woman he is with. That poor old creep who sees me as the parts of my body that he has a desire to abuse will not be ignored by me. Nor will I again be quiet and polite to the man following me, inappropriate with his words about MY body. I will not tell him that “Today, I just want to be alone,” or “Yes, it’s because I have a boyfriend, sorry”.

The first time I do it I will finally be saying goodbye to the path of least resistance.

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November 29, 2011 · 9:26 am

The first time I realised I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was

I have always been seen as the strong one. The woman who doesn’t put up with the usual rubbish, who stands up for herself. I have always proudly called myself a feminist and condemned men who couldn’t respect that as idiots. I have always known my rights and been lucky enough to be raised in an environment where my rights were just as important as any man’s. I believed these things. I thought I knew how to react when push came to shove.

But for the first 25 years of my life, push never really came to shove. Sure, I encountered assholes, chauvinism and general horrible people. But I was lucky enough never to be forced to do something I didn’t want to do, or to be touched inappropriately or to be made to feel awful or uncomfortable in a situation. And even if I were, I believed I knew what to do. I had an unfailing confidence in myself. I never ever questioned that someone like me, someone strong, feminist and educated, might not be able to do this.

And then one day, it happened. And I failed myself. Typing those words still makes me feel sick.

It all started when I flight I took was delayed. I sat in the departure lounge watching the end of the Egyptian revolution on TV when the man next to me started making small talk. He was well dressed and much older. He spoke to me in a fatherly way. I chatted back and he offered me one of his chocolates, which I accepted. We walked to the plane together and were seated apart. To be honest, I was a little relieved. I like travelling alone, and I don’t like making awkward small talk for 9 hours, so it suited me just fine. Besides, some of the stories he’d told me had been a little off colour. I had a row to myself on the plan and drifted happily off to sleep.

I woke up four hours later to find him sitting at the end of my row watching me. As soon as I woke up he moved into the seat next to me and started chatting again. I was uncomfortable. He was in my space and I was trapped between him and the window. But I didn’t do anything.

As he talked, his stories got creepier. He started telling me strange things about prostitutes and massages he’d gotten in China. I started to squirm inside. When would he leave me alone? But I still didn’t say anything. The polite girl I’d been raised to be overtook the strong woman I thought I was inside. I figured he didn’t realise how he was making me feel. I rubbed my neck trying to get some of the tension out of it.

He noticed and offered to rub it for me. By this point I felt frozen inside. I didn’t want him to touch me. Every fibre of my being wanted to scream out loudly and have him removed. But somehow, I just couldn’t do it. I begged myself to kick into action but nothing happened. He started massaging my neck, before starting to move his hands downwards. I stared out of the window and tried to ignore him. I wanted to evaporate more than anything in the world. I couldn’t move, I felt like my voice had been stolen from me. I wanted to use it but I just couldn’t do it. I moved away. He kept pushing. Suddenly, he grabbed my face, turned it towards him and started kissing me, moving his disgusting tongue all over my mouth and caressing my back.

I finally kicked into action. I pushed him away and said no. But I didn’t shout or scream or attract attention as I should have. I was so mortally embarrassed and humiliated that I wanted to sink into the ground. The plane began to descend and he began apologizing. He thought I was interested, he thought we had a connection. I ignored him. He rested his hand on my knee and before I could shake it off, he grabbed me and kissed me again as the plane touched ground. Again, I pushed him away, this time more strongly and said no a little more loudly. He looked around to make sure no one had heard and then told me I shouldn’t have been so friendly. He apologized again, but somehow made it sound like it was my fault. I pushed myself as far away from his as possible, closed my eyes and prayed for it all to be over. I felt like I would never be clean again.

After what felt like forever, the cabin lights came on and passengers stood up to get their bags. He moved off quickly and I stood. Tears of anger, frustration and humiliation burned my eyes. It was over, but inside, I felt like the worst person alive. I was so upset about what had happened and so angry that he had taken advantage of the situation like that but more than that I was furious at myself. How could I have let myself down like that? Why didn’t I do something? Why did I freeze? As I felt my inside slowly unclenching, the reality of what had happened hit me and I started to feel the worst thing of all: guilt. I started to think it was my fault. If I was such a strong woman then what the hell had I just allowed to happen? Not only had I let myself down but I’d let the next woman he tried to do that to down. I’d let all the other women fighting against this crap down.

It’s been a few months since that flight now. I still feel my heart sink every time I think of that incident. I still feel the burn of shame and humiliation. I still feel the intense disappointment in myself for letting it happen. But I’ve also started to realise that no matter what happened, it wasn’t my fault. That lecherous old man was disgusting no matter what. And no matter what I did, he took advantage of the situation. His actions are the revolting ones, not mine. But even though I know this in my head though, it doesn’t change how I feel in my heart sometimes. I still sometimes feel like the biggest traitor to womankind in the world.

I wish I could end this story more positively but it’s an ongoing battle. I wish that man knew how much he’d changed my life and how much he’d shaken my core. He’s probably totally forgotten it ever happened. So, for now, there’s just one thing I hope and pray: that if something like this ever happens again, I’ll react. I’ll scream, I’ll shout, I’ll kick, I’ll punch. I may have let myself down once but I’m hoping this means I’ll never do it again. I just wish I could guarantee that I’ll actually be able to do it…

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November 18, 2011 · 10:20 am

The first time I realised clearly I was asking my partner to absolve me from being white

So I’m a progressive whitie, right. I say all the right things, I’ve spent ages examining my whiteness, feeling guilty, feeling responsible, and at the bottom of that pit, like somehow whiteness is wrong because of everything that’s been accomplished in it’s name. So I’ve done the work right?

I’ve studied it, I’ve lived it, I’ve workshopped it, I stand up often and talk about how white people walk around ignorant of our privilege and how that plays out day by day in small interactions, and the ability to easily access all sorts of things, like constant employment, good service, easy bank loans, unsuspiscious shop clerks, great education, and lots and lots of other things big and small. I’ve examined my own responses to certain situations and realised how deeply ingrained my racism is in how I treat people, my expectations, my language, my practice.

I’ve publicly acknowledged how this shapes my life, how my privilege is only possible as a result of the oppression of black and coloured people. I’ve gotten over naming. I’ve spoken about how race is a social construction (i.e. a story we make up about who someone is based on an arbitrary genetic characteristic), and yet how it is real because of the ongoing impact on people’s lives. I’ve grappled with what to do with my privilege. Should I be ashamed (a la Samantha Vice)? Should I go lie on the beach and enjoy myself and hand over money for printing when asked (a la Andile Mngxitama)?

I rant against the kind of comments that people feel free posting online after articles that touch on race, the ones where white people get defensive, blame others, infer that white people are the only holders of culture and ‘civilisation’ (whatever that means). Who bemoan ‘the country going to the dogs’. I treat everyone with polite respect, and when there is space, with love and friendship doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from. I judge, I examine why I get scared of black people walking down the road, and why I racially profile people based on name / colour / accent…

Hell, I even married a black man! I’m a good whitie, not like those other ones, and I’ll demonstrate it in many ways, taking my partner’s surname rather than keeping my own which gives me a childish thrill when people do double takes. About a year ago, it hit me like a plank over my head that I had assumed that now I was married, I thought my work of dismantling my racism was done. Of course it isn’t, it never is.

And then, in a conversation with my partner in bed one morning, I suddenly saw how what I was doing was asking him to validate my reconstructed ‘good’ whiteness, absolve me of my guilt, shame, grappling, privilege, taking of that privilege. And I have no idea what to do with that. That our relationship can’t just be about the usual man-woman stuff, working things out, the bigger work of being in a relationship, there is no way to escape that race plays a part in that. And I wonder did I marry him cause he’s black, not because of who he is to me? Did he ever have a similar thought? I have some defensive anger about it too, why can’t it just be about two people in love? And then I recognise those white narratives I rant against that try and deny the part that race plays in our lives on a very fundamental level. And then I buy into the race doesn’t matter for a couple of seconds, and then I’m back to of course it does. And then I’m left with but how DOES it matter?

I think perhaps it may be an unsolveable conundrum, another plank come to bash me over the head and demand some further examination, work & thinking. Because truth is, marrying him doesn’t change my skin colour or all the things it delivers and has delivered to me on a silver plate. Absolution doesn’t lie there, and I have no idea where it does, or even if it’s necessary…

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