Not All Men

It’s Monday. I’m going home at 6pm and a middle aged man and a teenage boy are the only people left on the bus with me. I consider the fact that because the driver is also a man I am the only person left on the bus with the correct genetic makeup for boobs. I’m automatically scared, scared because of my own anatomy. I wonder how old I was when I realized that my own body was going to be the cause of the constant anxiety and fear I feel in situations like this. I get off at the last stop and the older man smiles at me while following me up the street. His smile drips, drips, drips and my heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. He turns off down another road, but I run the rest of the way home.

Not all men.

I’m at home on a Tuesday, beginning to plan the travels I want to go on next year. I dream of wandering the streets and meeting strangers. I just can’t wait to escape the city I’ve lived in for 17 long years. But… my mum is hesitant. She’s forever worried about the danger that being a young girl traveling alone can bring. I’ll be alone and she’s scared. Surely I’m invincible. I feel invincible. But I know, I know this danger is real and I can’t help but think to myself, if I feel unsafe in my own city, how am i going to feel in a strange place with strange men who don’t speak the same language as me? If I was my brother planning this, I would probably just be wondering if European girls are going to be hot.

Not all men.

Wednesday is a beautiful sunny day but I’ve always been told that I don’t have a “nice enough body” to wear a bikini on the beach. Ever since I was 6 years old I’ve thought that having tummy fat was ugly. That skin that doesn’t have a perfectly golden glow is undesirable. I amble to a clear patch of sand in my one piece and I can feel pairs of eyes latching onto me. Hairy men in speedos who I don’t look twice at eat into my body with their stares. I’m a piece of meat. I am a piece of meat? I am here for their amusement. Please don’t let me be eaten alive.

Not all men.

Thursday night two friends and I are walking to our god damn school dance when we hear “Jesus look at you! You sluts heading to a pole?” These words snarl out of the mouth of a respectably dressed man and we stop in horror. Shivers roll up my back in fear. It’s dark. We are alone. What. Do. We. Do??? One of us pulls the finger back. I can never be sure how quickly a sexist man can get angry so we walk quickly away. We’re angry, so so angry. But also so… deflated. I wonder if we deserve this shame.

Not all men.

Sitting on the internet, Friday night and scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed:

“Haha, good job at the game today bro. You RAPED them!”
“Damn with tits like that, you’re asking for it :P”
Another sexist comment…
Another sexist comment…
Another sexist comment…
I’m shrinking and shrinking and shrinking and I want to CRY because these boys don’t realize how small they make me feel with just pressing a few keys. I see these boys on the streets, I talk to these boys, I laugh with these boys. Dear GOD, dear GOD i hope these boys don’t think actions speak louder than words…

Not all men.

Three rules that have been drilled into me since I was young run through my mind at 1.30am on a Satur… Sunday Morning:

-Don’t ever talk to strange men
-Don’t ever be alone at night in a strange place
-Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger
I break all 3 of these laws as I pull open the taxi door. Making light conversation with the driver, he doesn’t see my sweaty hand clutching the small pocket knife I keep hidden on me at all times. He doesn’t even realize the fear I feel at his mere presence. He cannot comprehend it, he never will. How easy would this 15 minute car ride be if I was born a boy?

Not all men.
It comes to Sunday, another snoozy, sleepy, Sunday and someone has the AUDACITY to tell me not all men are rapists. I say nothing.

I’m a 17 year old girl.
When I am walking alone and it’s dark, it’s all men.
When I am in a car with a man I don’t know well, it’s all men.
When men drunkenly leer at me on the streets, it’s all men.
When a boy won’t leave me alone at a party, it’s all men.
Not all men are rapists. But for a young girl like me? Every one of them has the potential to be.

Not.
All.
Men.

My sister, Sierra, found this on tumblr and shared it with me. The writer does an excellent job at articulating how as a women I know it's Not All Men who perpetuate sexism, violence against women,and who make public space a dangerous place for me as a women to occupy.

I recently got in an argument had a discussion with my 24 y/o brother who was frustrated with "being painted with the same brush" as men who are sexist and oppressive when he himself is not. He challenged me saying, "if people are going to assume I am sexist or oppressive simply because I'm white and male, then what's the incentive" for him to make sure that he is not. I had trouble articulating my thoughts with him aside from saying that it's the right thing to do, and that as a women I'm judged every day due to sexism, and we don't always get to decide how people see us or perceive us to be.

One of the differences being that my safety is constantly in question and top of mind, while his feelings may be the only thing to be harmed. He routinely walks home from work in the exchange and downtown to Wolesely and West Broadway at 2 am. An experience he finds calming, enjoyable, and freeing for me is experience filled with anxiety, concern for my safety leaving me hyper aware of my surroundings, going out of my way to stay on well lit streets, and switching to the opposite side of the street to avoid other groups of people. I'd like to think I'm overreacting, being more cautious then necessary, but on more then one hundreds of occasions I've been yelled at, grabbed, and made to feel uncomfortable and unsafe.

I remember one evening leaving Old Market Square after closing down the Jazz Festival and finishing my volunteer shift. I started walking towards my apartment at the corner of River and Donald feeling content with the evening, the fact that at 2:30am it was warm, people were milling about, and I was going to meet a friend and have a beer. As I approached portage avenue a man came up to me and started talking to me. I kept walking while being polite, making it clear that I was headed on my way. I wasn't scared until he grabbed my arm. He grabbed my arm forcefully saying something along the lines of "you're pretty, you're alone, and we should get to know each other."

I'm not small by any means, but I remember feeling terrified. Easily overpowered. I managed to yank my arm out of his hand, kept walking forward and he lost interest. A minuted later, shaken up, I saw a cab and jumped in not wanting to take any more chances that evening. I hoped in the back and as I was giving my address realized the male cab driver was accompanied by a male friend whom sat beside him in the front seat. Again, I immediately felt unsettled, outnumbered and that there was the potential for danger. Was I safer on the street? Or safer in a cab? The ride was short. I hopped out blocks before my apartment, figuring I would take my chances in my own neighbourhood. I remember getting home to my apartment, double locking the door, sliding down to the floor with my back against a wall...and I still didn't feel safe.

As this writer eloquently says, its Not All Men, but every man has the potential, and sometimes I'm not willing to take the chance so that someones feelings don't get hurt.

With anger and frustration,
Delaney C.

Women In Power, Women in Politics

Last night I went to an event called ‘Women in Power.’ I wasn’t sure what to expect outside of knowing that there would be wine (yey), some presenters, and that it was a political event. I arrived, talked with some women who shared their experiences, and my confusion as to why we were there. When the presenters started it became clear that we were there so that we could be encouraged or groomed into entering politics in some way, and that the need for more committed, dedicated women who were willing to take the chance and run for office (at any level) is huge. Not shocking to me, knowing that women are severely underrepresented in all levels of politics even though we make up of a little more than half of the population. I’m still confused as to how I ended up on the guest list, but I am going to take it as a sign, that I need to get more involved, which is something that I have been entertaining for a while.

The first presenter was Minister Theresa Oswald and as she was speaking, about her own experience, and experiences that many women in positions of power, in politics, experience, it seemed a bit like a stand-up comedy bit. When she detailed the challenge of juggling many roles, of being late as you drop your kids off at school having stayed up late baking a perfect batch of cookies for their bake sale, while on the phone to ensure your parents’ home care has been arranged and they are being looked after, while trying to at the same time ensure that your constituents are represented and the budget you are trying to pass is a strong one, while having to work harder, show up before and stay later then your male counterpart, go home and run a household, raise your children, and maybe if there is time afterwards and you aren't too tired, have sex with your husband laughter erupted. She discussed her first experience with politics began when she was dating the then Minster of Education, and had the thought “I don’t want to be sleeping with the Minister of Education; I want to BE the Minister of Education.” Much to my amusement she also mentioned the importance of comfortable footwear and the absurdity of wearing heels which are a form of footwear I have sworn off forever.

For me, it wasn't funny, although I can understand her intention was to keep the conversation lighthearted. It was soul crushingly depressing. Because it's not funny, it's not comical. For me, that's the reality that I will face if I want to be successful outside of my home, if I want, one day to enter into politics...and who do I have to look up to? The statistics are depressing and the female role models are few and far between because the barriers for women to enter into the political realm are vast and they are steep.

One women I spoke of, who is an entrepreneur and single mother said that after fighting all day, to be heard, to be acknowledged, to grow her business and take care of her family she fights tooth and nail and that she is too tired to attend additional committee meetings, or task forces and just does not have the energy at the end of the day to focus on the bigger picture. Another woman explained that when she had started teaching in the 1970s her colleagues had to resign if they got pregnant, and would need to re-apply and hope they got hired back if they were to take any type of leave. Theresa Oswald spoke of being the first female sitting cabinet minister to become pregnant and no maternity leave policy being in place. I thought of my own experience and even though my father was helpful, understanding and an active feminist, my mom was still alone. My mother still had to fill in the gaps, have her pension and her career suffer, give up her individuality and independence and in turn was titled ‘mother.’ I want more than that. I don’t want to ever stop being Delaney in order to be a mother. I don’t want my title to be so simply reduced to one word that replaces everything else that I have worked up to that point for, while my partner (if there is one) is able to hold on to all of his titles, attributes, and accomplishments while adding one more badge of pride, ‘Dad.’

I shared stories of the covert sexism and misogyny that I had faced in University while participating in student politics. Talked about we are subconsciously taught to behave and think a certain way from the day we are born, and how over the last few years I had been un-learning, un-packing, and re-learning some of the messages so engrained. Why is it necessary to sit back and wait for my partner to propose to me in order to enter into a new chapter of our commitment together? Does it not make more sense that it is a conversation we are both involved in, both participate in and agree to. It seems to that conversation (or lack of) can and will set the tone for our marriage if there is to be one.

In speaking with my partner after returning home, who is by the way caring, compassionate, and generally very understanding of some of the struggles and frustrations I face, but still privileged in that he is a man and will never have to endure some of the treatment that I have, asked what some of the speakers identified as barriers for women entering politics. I told him that I didn’t need a political speaker to spell the barriers out to me. I knew. I know. I know what prevents women from getting involved an engaged in politics, in positions of power. Because I’ve felt them, and experienced them first hand, and every time I do, it’s a reminder that there is no gender equality. That I may have the right to vote, wear pants and work outside of the home, but that every damn day I have to fight to show up and be heard. Have to fight harder, longer, and more eloquently to be valued and respected. Have to make less mistakes, be more sure of myself, and that even so, my physical appearance and how well I take care of my family and my home will always be more valued then my ideas, my opinions and what I have accomplished professionally. That my brothers, and my partner will be respected and valued simply by being present, but that more will always be expected of me because I have boobs.

It’s bleak out there. It’s going to be, and is tough. It’s a man’s world and that is a fact. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t connect with other like-minded women, that I can’t continue to challenge my own ideas and understandings, and that I can’t continue to show up and fight every day so that maybe one day a girl will be able entertain the idea of a political career and have plenty of role models to choose from.

Fighting back,
Delaney C

Down, down, down, down.

My heart is angry and hard this week, although if I’m being honest and realistic its been that way for a while now.

Since I started realizing and becoming aware of how little I matter to society, and to people around me. How as a women all signs point to me being less than, and only being assigned value as I related to someone else. How my body is not my own, but how others (typically white men in a position of power) get to have more say over my body and what I get to do with it then I do, and have the right to access over it. How I can’t enjoy a solo bike ride without a man yelling at me from his car window “nice tits” as if I asked for his commentary on my body, and how I have to qualify that experience by saying “I wasn’t every wearing anything low cut” to prove that I wasn’t “asking for it.”

This week a man whose name was Elliot Rodgers killed six people, and sent seven more to the hospital because he wanted to seek retribution against women who had rejected him. I’ve read a bunch of thoughtful and articulate articles on the issue and I’m not going to attempt to write my own. I am angry, ANGRY, that in 2014 this is still going on. That there are people sympathizing with him, posting comments, tweets, responses stating that it was the fault of the women who rejected him and that at least one of them should have slept with him and not been so stuck up. As a women I shouldn’t have to sleep with anyone who wants to sleep with me, or anyone at all, because my body (and what I choose to do with it) is MY decision. I shouldn’t have to say “I have a boyfriend” to ward off unnecessary flirting or advances, I shouldn’t have to have three alternative escape plans running through my mind while walking home alone at night, I shouldn’t have to politely listen when men tell me that “you’d be prettier if you smiled” or worry that the dress I’m wearing might bring unwanted attention even if it’s the dress I want to wear that makes me feel good.

I’m enraged that my generation (and many others) denies that misogyny is an current issue, and denies that we continue to perpetuate a “rape culture” of violent masculinity without addressing that as a society we comply to these standards. We chuckle with little boys are aggressive and domineering, we tell little girls to be dainty and delicate and that when a boy teases you or picks on you he likes you and allow these little girls and little boys to grow up into adults where the same holds true. Where my chances of advancing as a professional will be thwarted because of my gender even if I am skilled and talented at what I do, and where my individuality, safety and security will be compromised every damn day because I am a women.

This is not the world I want to live in. This is not the world I want my sister to live in. Yesterday my heart was so heavy, my mind to frustrated about the INJUSTICE that continues to be perpetuated in our ‘civilized’ society that I wanted to give up fighting. But I can’t. Because I am strong enough to say no, courageous enough to call people out, and determined enough that I will not accept this treatment…on the streets, in bars, in my workplace, from neighbours, friends or strangers…and hopefully by speaking out, and showing other women and girls, men and boys that this behaviour, this way of thinking is completely unacceptable they too can speak loudly, step in when it is happening, and we can move towards a society that values women as individuals, a society that protects and advocates women's rights, and act as allies against those who don’t.

Vehemently,
Delaney C

“a woman is like a tea bag, you cannot tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”