I’ve heard it said recently that sexism is like alcoholism. It’s a flawed simile, to be sure, but it resonates with me. You don’t have ex-alcoholics—just alcoholics who are off the wagon, and alcoholics who are in recovery.
And, yeah, I’ll say it right now. I haven’t always been admirable in this regard.
I like to think that, for a middle-aged white dude born into a family of light-to-moderate means, I’m reasonably woke. But I haven’t always been so, and I can’t pretend that I have.
My friend Amanda counts me as one of her feminist friends. To be completely honest, I’m uncomfortable when she says that—not because I find the term distasteful, but because I remember myself in high school. And also quite a bit later than that. (Was alcohol also involved in this side of the metaphor? No comment.)
I’m not saying this as flagellation to absolve myself. I’m saying this to acknowledge my shortcomings, and hoping to use that acknowledgment to examine where I’ve been, where I wish to be, and how to navigate my way there.
If you find that favorable, well, Yahtzee for both of us, but I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.
Also, speaking of me?
He was a Fred Dursty-looking fucker. Part of the group of friends who sometimes met up at a bar for karaoke. And, yes, my tush is a pretty big one. Just pure probabilities here, of all the places in and around a dive bar where your hands might be, my lovely Erik lumps are over represented. It’s not me saying that, it’s math, yo. Or maybe geography. The most well-intentioned dude around might make contact with m’bum. It happens.
So when I felt myself being grabbed, I turned around. Faux Durst was looking a little too conspicuously innocent. But it was absolutely possible that someone had walked behind me, given me a bump that felt exactly like a grope, then made a quick hard turn to the left, fast enough to be same-as-invisible by the time I turned around. Totally unlikely, but, well, let’s not go accusing people willy-nilly.
I’m a grown-ass man. Literally. I pride myself on my ability to shrug it the fuck off.
When it’s warranted.
And it happened again.
He insisted that nothing happened, and besides it was just a joke, anyway.
No, I don’t understand how that logic plays out, either.
I tried de-escalating by channeling any number of British police officers I’ve seen on telly and in... you know... Britain. “Right, so we’ve had a laugh. Maybe you’re confused, but for the record, I don’t want that, and now you know. So we’re clear now, yeah?”
Yeah.
I removed myself to a completely different area. And in a couple of minutes, there was another honk-honk.
And who came off as the villain here? Who was later shunned by the friend-group? Who was told to go fuck himself because he’d given a ride to three people but then wanted to leave before the others did? Who was being unreasonable because he didn’t accept Grabby Bob’s hollow apology? Who must have actually kind of liked it because he didn’t try to put Monsieur Medallion’s lights out?
(Hint: it’s the person who was judged to not have a sense of humor.)
I know, in the grand scheme, it’s minor.
But that’s as much as I’m ready to tell you right now.
How do we get to where we ought to be? I can’t tell you.
But I can tell you I’m taking it one day at a time.
