A Waking Nightmare

I wake up sweating. My restless sleep eventually gives way to consciousness. I’m annoyed before my feet can even touch the ground. My forehead is sweaty, but I’m clutching on to the covers curled into a ball. I let out a sigh so exasperated that my boyfriend stirs next to me. He pats my arm and groggily asks, “what’s wrong?” My frustrated and not yet fully formed thoughts mumbled about being attacked by a man. I leap into the confused details, but it is his turn to sigh. He has heard several different variations of this dream. I’m being chased, being attacked, being violated in some way. He sleepily rolls towards me with his eyes still shut as mine, alert with adrenaline burn into his eyelids. He innocently inquires, “Why do you have so many of these dreams?”

Belvedere Advert, 2012. 

My boyfriend is sweet, caring, and sensitive. He is an ally. He listens as I articulate the ways in which a woman has to walk in this world. He hears me. He believes me. He sympathizes with me. Yet, he has no idea what I am talking about.

He is lacking the context of the world in which I exist. Mine is a world that operates in the underbelly of his. He strokes my back when I tell him about being thrown and locked into a toilet stall by a man who liked the way I dance and wanted to lay claim on me, while an ex-boyfriend unknowingly stood outside the door…

Or about when my colleague grabbed my arm and pushed me onto a chair so that I was suggestively eye-level with his erect penis…

Or when an old high school flame pinned me up against a wall forcing his tongue into my mouth. The room, full of former classmates and friends, silently ignored my pleas.

I was 11 years old when a boy first grabbed my ass. He couldn’t have been older than eight, and I’m sure it was on a dare.  He smacked my butt and ran. Neither of us knew how to deal with the situation, yet we played our societal parts perfectly. I said nothing and he did it again.

Bloomingdale's Advertisement 2015.

Working my way back to my pre-pubescent childhood, he has heard some of the dramatic stories that pepper my life.  He sees them as a collection of unfortunate isolated incidents. He doesn’t see the daily violations that link them into an unending reality. My reality is full of colorful incidents that are too exhausting to tell. The wandering hands and lurking eyes that make my skin crawl as I hug myself a little bit tighter.

Even our allies can’t understand that those incessant small violations build off of each other to create intangible and somewhat unidentifiable fear that lingers in every woman.  The subtle backhanded compliments that are meant to keep me quiet, while men flex their entitlement. The power that they’ve carried for centuries and rooted so deeply in their identity, they can’t see it. The comments that I actively try to immediately repress from my memory, because I have better things to concern myself. Yet, it is always there. It may be dormant for a while; it is always lurking beneath the surface. We can’t escape it.

I have to continuously, and carefully, negotiate my place in this world. I am constantly assessing my situation -- eyeing up the people around me, or calculating how much time I have before the sets, wondering if they will protect me if something happens. The sad truth is that there is not much that I can do if I happen to be on a quiet street and a man comes walking toward me. It might be nothing. It might be an ally. But, it might not. I’ve run into both. This is why I have trouble sleeping. This is my constant reality. There is a pervasiveness of sexual oppression and dominance over women, which bleeds my waking into sleeping consciousness. It is something that I can’t evade. It is my waking nightmare.

1945 Fleet Week.  
Sailor George Mendonsa: "When I saw the nurse, I grabbed her, and I kissed her."Nurse Greta Friedman: "I did not see him approaching, and before I know it, I was in this vice grip!"

In my feminist’s imagination, I sometimes fantasize approaching an unsuspecting man while I am walking with my female crew catcalling him, ‘hey handsome, can I talk to you for a minute?’ ‘Damn boy, lookin’ good!’ His face shocked, while the compliment washes over him before it leaves its mildew of violation all across his body. I wonder how many interactions it would take before he no longer wants the unsolicited attention - before he wants to hide from the world. Feeling vulnerable and on display like an animal at the zoo; their existence is solely for the pleasure of others.

I would like to think we women are better than that. But if history can tell us anything, it is that humans want to dominate others. We try to rise to the top by holding others down. I look at this election season and it more of the same. Somehow, people are shocked by predatory ‘locker room talk’. But if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think women are shocked at all.  I think they live in the same world that I do. We live that reality every day. We feel those words assaulting our bodies, every day. It’s our dirty little secret that we carry heavy in our hearts. It is our waking nightmare that we can’t escape in the light of day.

You shoot me because you are scared.

Draped in a uniform of authority

Armed with a gun and reinforcements

Power in a twitch of an index finger;

You are scared of me.

You choose the bullet over backup.

I sit strapped in the passenger seat;

A child’s innocence shattering in the back.

Your gun is drawn,

But you are scared of me.

Even after the bullets fly,

I terrify you.

In you, I evoke a rush of terrible emotions,

Even before I can remove the safety belt.

These straps weren’t designed

To protect from this kind of impact.

From me, you soothe your conscience

Retreating to a narrative that restores your virtue.

I bleed out in the car,

Yet you curse me.

I bear the brunt of your bullets

And your blame.

You have not yet realized,

That you will not be punished.

Forgetting that your badge of honor

Will shield you from accountability.

You will not be asked  

To take responsibility for a black life

You are a man sworn to an oath

To protect and serve.

To protect you from you fear

And to serve a reminder

Of my place in society.

Femininity is NOT weakness

When Hillary Clinton was running for office, some commented on her fashion, or lack thereof. Hillary dressed in predominantly dark pants suits. She was trying to do everything she could to make America forget that she is a woman. Questions, comments, and queries regarding fashion were never directed to her male competitors.

Showing one’s femininity is considered a weakness that is not suitable for high powered positions. America was distracted by her lack of femininity while at the same time undermining her capability as a strong leader because her womanly proclivities. I understand her dilemma. I dare say that all women experience this double standard. Unfortunately, there are few prominent females that can serve as examples, and they always endure the harshest criticisms.

Respect is earned by working hard, but it’s naïve to think that is the only quality that is noticed. I always feel like I need to be twice as good to gain the respect men receive. Therefore, it seemed to reason, that the way to mitigate this double standard, was to dull the apparent differences between me and my male counterparts. I, just as Hillary Clinton, fell in to the same gender-neutral-clothes-wearing trap.   I used to have a visceral reaction to all things ‘girly’ or pink. It personified all of the things that I was trying to evade. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned or wore anything pink until I was in my mid-twenties.

Femininity is, of course, more than just what you wear. Unfortunately, it is often limited to intangible descriptions such as maternal instincts, tender-hearted, soft, etc. The strength in a woman’s power is in its subtleties that are often overlooked and underappreciated. It doesn’t have the same in-your-face aggressiveness which sometimes overpowers the testosterone-filled workplace.  It is more than a just complement to machismo that creates harmony.  But the very nature of its elusive qualities makes it hard to perceive in its own right, let alone appreciate it.

Over the past two years, I’ve had a change of heart of how I identify with femininity. When I look around me, I see girls unconsciously being forced to make the same decision – embrace their femininity or to be taken seriously.  It breaks my heart to see their path being chosen without them understanding its implications.

I choose both.  I no longer try to hide the fact that I’m a woman. (Let’s be serious, I wasn’t fooling anybody and attempting to do so was only harming myself.)  I realized if I don’t make a stand to change how femininity is perceived, then who will? So, I choose to wear pink while boxing; I choose to wear skirts when I’m leading meetings. I choose to let myself be me. Now when I pass girls on the streets, I give them a knowing smile and hope they find their way. There is strength in femininity, and we should feel empowered by that, not ashamed. 

A Letter to the Racially Curious Stranger

Dear Curious Homogeneous Stranger,

I know my mixed features and ambiguously noncommittal brown skin intrigue you. I can see your eyes running inventory over my features, trying to figure me out.  An astute observer can recognize fairly quickly that I don’t check just one box on census forms. Either way, we invariably play a sometimes-too-lengthy game of ‘what-are-you?-No-I-mean-where-are-you-from?-No- I-mean-what-is-your-origin?’

My ethnicity will be compared to any place home to vaguely brown-skinned people. I can see the curiosity building as you list off all of the countries you know. For good measure, you may even switch into a different language as if you might trick me into revealing my true identity.

I see the bewildered and slightly disappointed expression when you discover the truth. “But you don’t look Ethiopian”. I see you are trying to reconcile my face with your previous experiences with mixed race people, but I assure I do not look like the other mixed raced girl that you randomly met once at a coffee shop, nor am I related to her. Still unconvinced, you prod me into persuading you about the legitimacy of my ethnicity, demanding a family tree history, complete with names, hometowns, and professions. I do this in vain because I still won’t fit in your narrow conception of race. Please note that your curiosity is no longer mildly amusing but offensive despite your good or innocent intentions. Furthermore, please understand that the world is not always black and white, even though, ironically, I am.

Sincerely,

Racially Ambiguous

What is International Women's Day?

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to be amongst ministers and high-level government officials attending the 14^th annual Delhi Sustainable Development Summit. The conference showcased a host of highly recognizable names, including Kofi Annan as the keynote speaker.

 

As one of only a few women in my office, I am always acutely aware of the gender disparity around me. Upon first glance, I was excited to see so many young women attending the conference.

However, once the conference began, those women disappeared. I realized that those women were the organizers; the women behind the scenes. They introduced the sessions, welcomed the speakers and moderated the discussions. They were in essence, transition women. Their value was held in their ability to make sessions to run smoothly, rather than to share their knowledge or experience. Their superficial presence was an attempt to placate gender advocates with a thin façade of allowing women to be present without actually participating.

A feeble attempt to include gender sensitivity in the conference was to include a gender panel discussion. Seemingly an afterthought, the session was in the afternoon of the last day with five of the six panelists being men. It was clear from their presentations that there were just as surprised to be presenting, as we were to hear them.

There is something incredibly frustrating about International Women’s Day. Perhaps it’s the patronizing way that the day is honored. It reminds me of the older man in my office, telling me that I’m beautiful. I feel like I should be flattered, but its delivery rubs me the wrong way.

I asked around the office about the significance of the International Women’s Day. What is women’s day? What is the purpose? My admiring colleague told me “It’s a day that men sleep under the bed”. While others told me that “it’s just a reason to have a party.” Their incredulous stares made it clear that the intention of the day has nothing to do with promoting women’s equality.

Nonetheless, Addis Ababa was a flurry with events throughout the city. My organization, not to be outdone by the potential PR buzz of International Women’s Day, is hosting its own event.

My organization will invite dignitaries and their wives to plant trees. Admittedly, I work for an environmental think tank and re-greening initiatives are a part of our mandate. However, I must admit that I was disappointed with the superficial and uninspired attempt at promoting gender equality. Here we are, an environmental think tank, with a plethora of evidence indicating how the adverse effects of climate change and environmental degradation disproportionately affects women.

As if that weren’t compelling enough, we are surrounded by examples of those effects on a daily basis. We live in a city where women walk 5-10 kilometers a day down the mountain with several kilos of firewood on their back. We live in a city where pollution from burning plastic and exhaust hangs heavy in the air. We live in a city with nearly no green spaces for its 4 million occupants.  We live in a city with landfills that house hundreds of residents within its confines. The effects of poor environmental management have palpable consequences on women and our response is to have a photo opportunity with an ambassador’s wife planting trees.

It feels like the Delhi conference all over again. Women are in the room but not in any empowered capacity. I’m disappointed that at 2014, we are still having the same conversations about gender inequality, yet not at all surprised since this is the superficial approach we take at addressing the issue. 

It is another missed opportunity.