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.

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.

What About the Girls?

The pavement on 135^th is pulsating with competing stereos. The street is blocked off for the entire width of the neighborhood. This Summer Saturday morning is dedicated to the annual celebration that is Harlem Day. Vendors line each side with everything from bootlegged DVDs, African art, black power propaganda, the usual suspects of fried food, gourmet cupcakes, a voter registration booth, and a live ESPN radio broadcast. The traditional Harlem character was mixed in with a sprinkling of gentrification.

Too early to eat fried food, a crowd quickly gathered around the ESPN sports commentator, Stephen A. Smith, who was spouting off the usual sports stats. Sitting with the quick-witted analyst was a white man who looked slightly uncomfortable under the curious scrutiny of a swelling pack. After a brief introduction, we learned that he is a program director of the local lacrosse league. He spoke about the need to encourage urban youth through a team sport like lacrosse to create tomorrow’s leaders. Through lacrosse, which is an admittedly upper middle class sport that is often confined to the New England states, he believed the transformative power of this unconventional team sport. As a former lacrosse player, his words spoke to me and I was proud to hear this public endorsement, especially in Harlem.

Unfortunately, within a few minutes it was clear that his words of encouragement and enthusiasm were targeted for adolescent boys, not girls. Immediately enraged, I whispered to my boyfriend, “What about the girls?” Fully aware of my athletic past, he shrugged and told me that I should ask. I waved off the suggestion, as I didn’t see this as an opportunity to agitate gender disparity norms during this festive day. Besides, the middle-aged men who surrounded me would surely be annoyed with my slighted inquiry. My indignant attitude shrunk back to its previous anonymous and silent audience member status, listening to a show that is designed to keep me in the shadows.

 

Sensing my discontent, my well-intentioned boyfriend, offered to ask the radio personality for me. Further fueling my feelings of marginalization and alienation, I wanted to scold him that I was not a damsel in distress that needs a man to do her bidding. I can stand up for myself.

The scene played out in my head. If I had asked the question, I imagined men grumbling under their breath or walking away while the analyst makes some lowbrowjoke at my expense. The fictional scene played out again, except this time my boyfriend asked. While still generally ignored, he was heard. A few eyebrowsraisewhile the analyst directs the question to his guest, who flusters around for a politically correct answer without actually saying anything of substance.

Why were the scenes so different? I’m not sure what is worse: the fact that my predictions could be right or that I had them in the first place. Instead of immediately asking the question, I was acutely aware of my audience and how my defiance would be perceived due to my gender.

Uncomfortable with this incongruence in beliefs and actions, I could feel myself trying to rationalize my reticence. A progressive gender equality endorsement is weighted heavier when it is coming from a man in this testosterone-filled audience. My question would be too loaded and make people feel uncomfortable.Accentuating the disparity between me and the dominantly male audience, it would bring them acutely aware of what I had been feeling since I had arrived. While if a man asked, there would be different implications.

Women are immediately written off as bitter feminists when questioning the status quo. There is an implicit assumption that she is adversely affected by some clichéd sad story and is now lashing out and is overcome by her emotions. The legitimacy of her argument is overruled by her gender.  Conversely, men’s motives for gender enlightenment are rarely analyzed.

Hesitant to be pigeonholed as a feminist, I am often reluctant to speak my mind. Feeling conflicted between my desires to assert my feminine independence with wanting to engage men to join our cause through proactive supportive actions. Years of repressive culture has ingrained in me that I am inferior in ways that are beyond my consciousness.

Looking back at my subliminal influences, I gained my first impressions of gender relations from the media. Through movies, I learned how a woman’s value is intrinsically linked to their physical attributes, their happiness is defined by their relationships (or perhaps more notable, the lack of relationships), and their success is measured through their maternal capabilities.

Those influences played an indirect role in my silence that day. Through this systemic marginalization and alienation, I had become unknowing accomplice that bolstered the status quo. As I walked away, contemplating the importance of challenging the current state of affairs weighed on me. My comfort in conformity is overshadowed by my unremitting marginalized dignity.

I will be an active participant in my life instead of the passive recipient that I am expected to be. I refuse to allow myself to perpetuate this cycle of alienation and indignity through soundless inaction, instead I vow to engage the system at every level and challenge its inequalities, one question at a time. 

Work It Out

Sweat drips down my face as I determinedly race on the elliptical. As means of distraction from my discomfort and fatigue, I flip through the channels on the television that is propped in front of me for that specific purpose. I cursorily look around the gym and notice the women on other cardio machines looking as tired as I feel.

We all look the same: restlessly trekking on these machines while secretly people watching and counting down the minutes. My pace decreases, so I refocus my attention on the screen ahead and search for the inspiration to continue. Commercials are on every channel. Brawny Paper towels: a calm youthful mother easily cleans up countless spills created by her well-intentioned but oblivious family. Smiling faces of her husband, children, and dog all gravitate towards her while leaving a trail of chaotic mess.

Next commercial. Ziplock bags: a suburban family barbeques in the backyard, with dad dutifully stationed at the grill. His complete attention is on the grill, unknowingly throwing meat into the trashcan until his wife swoops in and catches a steak on a plate.

The not-so-subtle gender norm reinforcing commercials are just as endless as they are exhausting to watch. Media bombards us with images and messages of unrealistic expectations. Women are expected to always be one step ahead and gracefully handle any catastrophe at a moments notice, in heels, with polished nails, and perfect makeup. How did our expectations of women become so out of control?

Women have been forced to carry an increasingly heavy burden on their shoulders. We are silently being crushed under the weight of these demands. Increasing demands confuse our priorities and motivations. The technological era has tricked us into believing we can be productive beyond our actual capabilities.  By trying to have everything, we are not fully engaged in anything. The quality of what we are able to commit ourselves to is limited. Our attention span is compromised and our decision-making capabilities severed.

Overwhelmed by choices, we are terrified to make decisions for fear of shutting the door to other opportunities. We have been brainwashed to believe that our wealth of options enable us to have more freedom.

When we can have anything, what do we really want? If all things are held equal and without judgment, can we really sort through the plethora of options before us? I think most of us go through our lives without actually asking ourselves, what do we value?

There is an assumed life path: go to school, get a job, get married, have children, and preferably in that order. Despite the options available, when it comes to the important decisions, we follow this prescription. We would never expect to follow a one size-fits-all plan for our clothing, yet we do it for the fabric of our lives. Amidst all of those options, we need to become more intentional on how we spend our time. As technology was meant to ease our lives, options are meant to enable us the freedom of choice. Unfortunately, we have encountered that the existence of these additional resources have the potential to be counterproductive.

Even being an independent intentional woman, I still feel myself slip in the trap of society’s gender restrictions. The inspiration didn’t come to me that day at the gym from the propped up television, but it did make me dig deeper. My workout made me refocus my efforts, not just in terms of physical fitness, but my motivations and goals. I cannot and do not want to be that fictional woman that our media portrays as “successful”. Like the television propped up in front of me, those commercials illustrate how we are distracted from allowing us to really delve deeper into what we really want. The pressures are self-perpetuating, and the more we placate those expectations, the more we will be sucked into this mirage of womanhood.

We need to recalibrate our thinking to acknowledge the unrealistic pressures on women; equally, women need to manage their unrealistic expectations to have it all. Rosie the Riveter is an iconic image that invokes femininity with strength. We are powerfully fierce creatures, but we are still human.