I’m so tired. Tired of being sexualized, and then shamed for being sexual. This has happened to me my whole life. I don’t think my story is original. It’s just the remix, my version of the way our culture treats women as objects, playthings, toys to be used and then tossed aside. Catcalling. It even has a name, and we all know what that name means without any explanation whatsoever. Just because something is normal, doesn’t make it right. Ben once told me that tradition is stupidity on purpose. We literally keep repeating the same patterns, and doing the same fucked up shit over and over again. Isn’t that the literal definition of crazy?
We’ve normalized this in our society by forcing women to cover themselves, while never teaching men not to treat women like they own them. Take a look at any school dress code in this country. The rules for women say shoulders are distracting, and measure shorts and skirts with “the thumb rule.” Lest we not forget the Rule of Thumb, and its implications on domestic violence in our society. Do you know what it says for the boys? Don’t wear tees with alcohol, drugs, or curse words.
Side note: Maybe if men can’t control themselves around women’s shoulders, than they shouldn’t be teaching our students, ruling our country, or preaching the gospel. I mean, is this really the type of person we want with access to the nuclear football? Someone who can’t even handle their physiological responses? Just something to think about.
Wary of Men
I am going to come out and be honest with you. It’s not just men. I have been sexually assaulted by women as well, but it’s just been mostly men in my life. It started an extremely early age, and continued to be a reoccurring event throughout most of my life. I learned very young that my “no” didn’t matter. I could say it, and it would make no difference. After a while I stopped saying it, because why bother? I began to dissociate from my body as a protection mechanism, a fawn response that I honed quite nicely over the years if I do say so myself.
That avoidance of emotions was imperative to my survival at the time. However as I ran away from those traumatic spaces, I never stopped to process what all had occurred. I just kept pushing forward. Keep calm and carry on, as the British say. It was until that whole food truck calamity that I was forced to sit and literally do nothing. I couldn’t walk for two weeks, so let’s just say I had a lot of free time on my hands.
Through the help of therapist number three and a ton of fucking self-reflection, I came to realize that this fawning was no longer working for me. It was keeping me locked into this victim mentality. Woe is me! But at this point all the self-worth had been essentially wiped out of my hard drive. The only way I knew how to get what I needed was to embody a Karen, and boy was that ugly.
Shout out to the woman at the customer service desk at Lowe’s who had to hold the space for my completely out-of-line rage that I unleashed on her when she tried to explain to me that I couldn’t get a deposit back on my propane tank. I still can’t figure out why they call it a deposit when you can’t return it. Doesn’t that mean I just bought the damn thing?
Unwanted Touching
Women are taught that we should be polite, even when we feel horrendously uncomfortable in order to “keep the peace.” And by polite, I mean shut the fuck up and pretend it didn’t happen. The alternative is that we get shamed into believing that we caused the problem by dressing or behaving in a certain way. This is a no-win situation, and it forces us to throw each other under the bus in order to save ourselves. And I am saying this as someone who has been on both sides of that equation. Not super proud of that one.
I rather like this whole idea of asking people what they are comfortable with. We seemed to embrace that a lot more with the Covid hit. I kid you not, I have physically blocked people from exiting the bathroom without washing their hands at that bar I used to run. I have mom-scolded entirely too many men who claim that their hands aren’t dirty because they didn’t touch anything. Um, you just touched yourself and I know damn well that you are in fact not clean. You, sir, are at the Grateful Dead bar!
It’s the touching of the lower part of the back when you say “Excuse me.” I can hear you perfectly well. There is no need to touch me. It’s the grabbing a server by the arm because you desperately need your forth Diet Coke. Don’t worry about the 12 things already in the Rolodex of my brain. It’s the assumption that I am supposed to shake your hand or hug you because society deems it appropriate to do. Think about how many times your parents made you hug that creepy uncle, not caring that it made you completely uncomfortable to do so. Because family? Don’t even get me started on close-talkers.
Weary of Men
We women take so much, get hit with so much, that when we finally can’t take anymore, we explode. And then we get called bitches, and we get shamed for our outbursts. It’s not very lady-like, is it? Don’t be so hysterical. I have been called a prude and a whore. Well which one is it? Why is this wrapped up in my reverence, but not in yours? And who gets to decide what is and what isn’t honorable? Hint: It’s the men, but you knew that already.
Some days I feel like we are heading directly into The Handmaid’s Tale, and I don’t think I’m wrong to feel that way. The amount of people that call me selfish for not wanting children is ridiculous, like that is my sole purpose on this planet. I have been asked who is going to take care of me when I am older. Is that the reason you are having children? Gross is the only word that comes to mind.
Women have every right to be scared. I guess I am just tired of feeling that way most of the time. There are those who decry “not all men,” but how are we supposed to know who are the good ones and who are the bad ones? There isn’t exactly a secret handshake, although if there is why the hell you holding out on me? We carry pepper spray, pocket knives, and whistles. We place keys between our fingers. My question to the men is, do you call your friends out on their behavior toward women? Or do you ignore it, and tell yourself that they were just joking? They didn’t really mean it, right? Did they?
The Review
I’m not crying. You’re crying. I absolutely adore stories that follow different characters on different paths, and seeing how the author interweaves their stories so gracefully. And The Exiles by Christina Baker Kline is beautifully done. This is a first for me from this author, and I assure you it will not be the last. Historical fiction is a favorite of mine in books, movies, shows, all of it. Australia was a country that I confess, I never learned much about. I do remember from school being told that people were sent their as punishments for their crimes, a practice that is in our foundational history as well. That’s about it, except for kangaroos.
In The Exiles one woman is sent away for getting pregnant by a rich son. “The woman’s a whore and the child’s a bastard but there’s no word for the man who doesn’t come back.” (Aunt Polly, Peaky Blinders). Another is a young native girl who is gets used like a wind-up toy, only to be discarded when she is no longer useful. The other is a herbalist, midwife, and thief who struggles against understanding why modern medical science doesn’t even consider plant medicines a viable option. That is another conversation, for another day.
She was about to learn what it was like to be contemptible.
Kline illustrates the difficulties of being a woman in a male dominated society, the constant fear and anxiety that dominates our thoughts. Although this book is set in the 1840s, we could sit here and pretend that this same type of fear and anxiety around men doesn’t still exist. It does. The patriarchy still exists. The puritanical ideals still remain supreme. I still look around the room when I enter a building. I know where all the exits are. It’s stressful on the body to be on high alert all the time, but this is my reality.
Mad love, Jenna
Full Disclosure: I won this book in a Goodreads giveaway, but the review is all my own.
