Gender & power, or why I sometimes wish I were a 200+ lb man

The other night, after watching my remarkably powerful partner repeatedly launch his bowling ball through the air so it landed with a concentration shattering thud a third of the way down the lane (he was not messing around; this is just how he bowls), I turned ruefully to my friend, "Sometimes, I just wish I could spend a day in his body. I want to know what it feels like to have the kind of brute strength to break things by accident."

I am a reasonably strong woman. I grew up riding horses, which is code for mucking stalls, carrying water buckets, and throwing bales of hay. I practice yoga and I rock climb. Since I started climbing, I don't regularly lift weights, but I'm no stranger to them. I am reasonably strong. But when I want to move something that weighs, say, as much as I do, I have to work pretty damn hard at it. I cannot always open my own jars. I have never thought I was pulling on something with a normal force only to have it fall apart in my hand. I am reasonably strong, but I am not especially powerful, not physically anyway.

I think this sense of natural power is something many men (and some women) come to take for granted, this trust in one's own physical prowess, not in a pound for pound kind of way, but in an absolute kind of way. I'm pretty sure that if he needed to, my husband could just pick up a car. He's pulled me, two other women, and several men, all linked together in boats and inner tubes, through what seemed like miles of river too shallow to raft, too cold for most of us to walk through. He is, by my definition, powerful. And this degree of power seems to be accompanied by certainty, by trust in one's own ability to act.

I covet this type of power on a regular basis. I just want to know what it feels like. But today I wanted it with a different type of desperation, the kind that stems from fear and insecurity and vulnerability. I wanted to feel that kind of power from the inside, with all the certainty and self-confidence that come with it. I wanted this from the kind of desperate and terrified positionality that I wonder if big powerful (men) can ever completely understand.

My friend J and I were walking the dogs this afternoon when, seemingly out of nowhere, a little spaniel charged us. Having encountered this trouble-maker dog previously when it broke away from its owner and charged my dog, snarling and clawing at her face, I braced myself and positioned my body between my neurotic and unforgetting border collie mix and the charging spaniel. The dog was surprisingly polite to our little group and all seemed fine as we turned to try and return it to its owners just a house away.

But Bagel (my dog) seemed to know something wasn't right (or she was still traumatized by the spaniel) because she pulled her epic slip-the-collar-and-roll-over-in-the-middle-of-the-street-tail-wagging-and-all routine. By the time I processed her fear, I turned to see a huge bloodhound type dog heading straight for us. He went directly for J's dog, the smallest and most submissive of the three, and seemed to be trying to bite her over and over again around her face and her throat. I don't know if he is usually an aggressive dog or if he mistook Lola and her screams for prey, or if he thought he needed to protect the little spaniel, and I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but at the time he was a monster and we didn't know what to do about it.

He broke Lola's skin, ripping her ear open, before J managed to wedge herself between them, draping her own body over her little terrier's in an absolute display of reactive altruism. We shouted at the dog to stop. We tried to create barriers and move it away with our own bodies. I wanted to do what I had read is a safe-ish way to break up a dog fight and lift the dog's hind end like a wheelbarrow, but feared he would turn on me or on one of the two dogs in my charge. I wanted to kick the dog, to hurt him just enough to scare him off, but my empathy coupled with my fear paralyzed me and I stuck to more passive measures. My size and pound for pound a hell of a lot fiercer, this was a dog neither J nor I could fathom managing if he turned his aggression on us.

The hound's owner, a large man in his early 30s, showed up just as J got Lola out of harm's way and the big dog turned his attention to the wily former reservation mutt I was dog-sitting. She seemed unfazed, but I was relieved when the owner removed his dog from the situation and it became clear that my gumption wouldn't be tested.

Walking away, I don't know if I have ever felt so helpless. J and I talked about it, both wishing we had been more aggressive, more pro-active in actually forcing the dog to retreat. I don't know what I would have done had the dog attacked Bagel instead of little Lola. I imagine I would have done just as I have done every other time I've worried my dog was threatened; I would have done as J did and used my body as a shield. I am confident I would be able to protect my dog, even if it meant risking myself, but I would probably not have had the power (physical or emotional or psychological) to remove the threat from the situation.

What bothers me about this is that my response would never be as certain as my husband's when I told him about it. His is a certainty that comes with having a degree of physical power that renders one, not invincible, but certainly less vulnerable. This certainty is something that cannot be learned late in life. It is something that comes with always having strength beyond what you "should," beyond what is "normal," and the weight to throw behind it. But, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if it is more than that. I wonder if perhaps it isn't just about having profound physical power, but also about living in a world that focuses on and reinforces and perpetuates your power on multiple levels. That is, I think maybe it's also about gender.

While I cannot speak for all women, it's fair to argue that part of why the particular type of vulnerability  J and I experienced during that dog encounter is especially frightening for and disproportionately experienced by, women, is because we are constantly reminded of our own vulnerability. It is coupled with and exacerbated by structural vulnerability relating not only to gendered disparities in size and strength but to disparate distributions of material and social power over time such that it is imprinted. It is reinforced every time I read an article about women being attacked by men, every time I hear an argument for or against women's rights to healthcare, to child care, to maternity leave, to dress a certain way, etc. It is highlighted when I seek to be empathic and understand the suffering of my fellow women, fellow humans, fellow creatures. In fact, psychologists and sociologists have begun to show that part of women's distinct ways of constructing "risk" - across all kinds of domains (from sports to finances) - compared to men may be attributable not only to gendered differences in upbringing around communication and values and life role expectations, but because of our disproportionate likelihood of becoming a victim of sexual assault, an act that culturally and psychologically compounds multiple forms of vulnerability (see, for example, Gustafson 1998).

So, as much as I still admit to envying the type of physical power that would have allowed me to intervene and protect myself, J, and our group of dogs in a more proactive way, even if I could physically have moved that hound dog, I have learned, I have been taught all of my life, to be aware always of my own vulnerability. And something tells me brute strength wouldn't be enough to overcome that type of uncertainty.

Why we need to quit gendering "success"

Yesterday afternoon, I went to the climbing gym for a quick session. I was working my way up a route near the max of my ability, and exhausted about 3/4 of the way up, half falling, half simply sitting in my harness. Fortunately, I was on top-rope so fell only so far as the rope stretched, as when I looked down in the direction of my belayer, I saw another climber not 10 feet below me, lead climbing on a different route that overlapped with mine and ended on the same anchors. This behavior is a major violation of climbing etiquette - it is dangerous and it is obtrusive - and for a rather nervous climber like myself, it has the especially anxiety-inducing consequence of making me feel that I need to rush through a "project," perhaps forgoing additional attempts at moves I find challenging. I jumped back on the route, climbed until I fell again one move from the top, and when I saw that the man was still climbing just behind me, I asked to be lowered. My partner and I exchanged exasperated looks with neighboring climbers, but didn't say anything to the offending pair. We waited for them to apologize. They never did, and in fact they engaged in a number of other rude violations of climbing etiquette while there, including leaving a lead rope unattended on a route after they finished climbing it. This occupied the route so that, although they were no longer climbing it, others could not.

Perhaps because I had just returned from the American Anthropological Association's annual meeting where I elected to prioritize feminist panels over those that were drug related, I was really angered by this encounter. Contrary to popular advice or wisdom or whatever, however, I was not angered at my own silence. Rather, I was bothered by the two men's oblivion, by their unwillingness to just look about and consider how their actions were affecting the people around them.

The thing is, there have been countless lists floating around the internet lately that highlight the traits of "successful" people and telling women how they need to change in order to be more "successful" themselves. [I've put the term successful in quotes here as it is a problematic concept in and of itself and these articles consistently refer to very cultured and arguably gendered notions of success - financial, material, work-related, etc.] There is even a recent blog post I came across that urges women in academia to practice engaging in assertive or confident, rather than submissive, body language and to learn to take up (demand) more space for themselves.

In many societies, including the US, dominance is associated with masculinity while the act of submission and traits/behaviors associated with submissiveness are viewed as feminine. This gendering of (preferred vs. undesirable) behaviors manifests at multiple levels of society and reifies the relative status of men and women. It shapes gender, contributing to a strictly binary vision of the construct. Thus, how men and women are taught to act and interact from a young age and specific character traits in turn correspond with the hierarchical categorization of gender across society.

Now, as a relatively submissive person (by nature and probably also via my upbringing and culture), I am certainly grateful for the lessons that have taught me to be more assertive, to be more straightforward and open about my needs and desires. My concern with all this discourse encouraging women to adopt traits associated with normative masculinity and abandon those associated with normative femininity comes when I envision a world in which everybody is demanding that the soft-spoke person across the table speak louder. What I don't understand is why the conversation seems to exclude a request that the soft-spoken person's table-mate listen harder. Why don't we, as a society, ask the person who is taking up more than his/her "share" of space to look around and consider whether and how this is affecting others? Why does it seem that the pressure to change is primarily placed upon those who strive to be less demanding to become more so? Why can't thinking of how one's actions affect others be seen as confident and competent? (Arguably, this is where the reification of the gender/submission association has its greatest impact.)

It makes me think of this interview I heard last summer with Daniel Suelo, who has spent the last nearly 15 years living "without money." While he does depend upon generosity and publicly funded resources for many things, he has managed to survive and thrive for all these years without himself directly engaging the cash economy. And he has apparently been largely criticized for it, with a major and common critique being that what he's doing isn't sustainable for the whole society. In the interview, he noted that odds are, in a society as large as our current one, this is true. His way of life is largely dependent upon those who do participate in the cash economy. But he turns this question back on his critics and wonders why these same people fail to recognize that, at the end of the day, the excessive consumerism valorized in American culture is far less sustainable on a global scale.

Ultimately, we need to consider what type of society we want to live in. Is it one in which every person fights for the limited space on the couch or is it one in which every person makes him or herself so small as to take up less than a cushion? It's probably neither. We need people who are acting in the best interest of themselves and in the best interest of others. We need people capable of balancing being relational with assertive about their own ideas. I'm not proposing an end to the call for submissive women (and men) to step up and make their voices heard, to take up their share of space, or to confidently share their ideas. Rather, I'm arguing that we need an equal call for those who are more dominant in nature to look around before taking up so much space, to try listening harder before asking a companion to speak up, and to consider the good of the group in addition to any benefit to themselves. To truly (re)value these various traits in a more equitable manner we will have to de-gender the traits themselves or acknowledge and rectify persistent gender inequalities. Looks like it's back to feminism 101.

Curaçao 2: Stop f-ing staring at me! Traveling (and living) under the male gaze

The island of Curaçao is really rather fascinating and, of course, full of contradictions. It is one of the three islands of the Dutch Caribbean so in many ways the Dutch-influenced foods don't make much sense in the steady 80 degree+ weather. But due to rocky soil and low rainfall, the local cuisine is lacking in the standard tropical fruits one often thinks of when imaging island dining. The little country has its own economic base, sort of, in the Venezuelan oil refineries, making tourism a secondary economy. This means that, while there is certainly a strong tourist infrastructure in the form of beachside bars/restaurants, dive schools & resorts and lovely hotels set in renovated colonial buildings, it is easy to walk the streets - even the markets - in peace. Even the process of buying fruit and veggies at the floating market was straightforward. As a woman traveling alone, I always appreciate a place where I can walk without being hollered at or followed (as much as I love Morocco, this was something that was endlessly annoying, even after months and especially in towns with more tourists). I've always envied the ease with which my male travel friends can move about a new place, never feeling dissected or undressed just for existing in their own bodies. Unfortunately, despite initial appearances, Curaçao proved no better (or worse, I suppose) for the self-conscious female traveler than any other destination.

I honed my international travel wardrobe sensibilities in Morocco in my early twenties, trying on cultural relativism as a way of life and appreciating the skin-covering, flowing clothes for their considerable comfort combined with sun-protection. So, when I travel outside of the United States now (outside of winter, of course!), I typically pack the following - jeans or pants; t-shirts; knee-length or longer skirts or dresses; light-weight long-sleeved shoulder coverings - and mix and match as needed. There persists an element of the issue of cultural relativism, of respecting local dress codes and culture, including more recently, beliefs about tattoos (which I often try to cover when outside of the US or Europe). In parts of western Europe - I'm mostly thinking of a particular summer in Paris - I find that the increased coverage is helpful, but not foolproof, in preventing obnoxious men from yelling from their vehicles. This has served me well in multiple countries and is not too far off from how I normally dress anyway so it's generally easy. 

And at first, Curaçao seemed like it would be an easy place to wear tank tops and t-shirts without the shoulder coverings. After all, local women were dressed in tighter clothing than I and the other tourists (mostly Dutch) I encountered were often sunburned in their post-beach minidresses or swimsuit coverups. So, my first evening on the island, I headed from my hotel across the bridge to wander around one of the historic parts of Willemstad and find a waterfront spot to grab some food and a cocktail. I still don't know who the stares came from - whether they were other tourists or locals - or what motivated them - was it my half-sleeve of vegetables or the fact that I was maybe the only tourist in long pants or was it my being female? I will never know, but the stares were predatory and unapologetic and they were many. The thing is, I hate being stared at regardless of the motivation and it makes me slouch, cover up, and avoid eye contact (all highly effective in every country I've been in). So, I found myself for the duration of my short trip, especially in certain parts of town (none of this was an issue near the beaches and, while uncomfortable, I should make it clear that I never felt unsafe) reverting to this way of walking around. I carried my little linen long-sleeved shirt to throw on while walking around and only wore my shorts when on a tour. 

This experience, while relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things that could harm a person, is one that I can never quite reconcile with the type of woman, the type of feminist, and the type of anthropologist I'd like to be. I want to visit other places and respect other people and what they consider normal. When I lived in Austria, I remember being repeatedly taken aback by the fact people would stare unashamedly at you, especially on the U-bahn, but there was never anything behind it but perhaps curiosity and sometimes an assessment of the coolness (or lack thereof) of my footwear. But, after talking to a couple of Austrians and long-term expats, I quickly learned not to be self-conscious, that this was normal behavior and I wasn't being singled out. I imagine that when I find myself stared at in many of the ways that make me uncomfortable, it is similarly innocuous, and I am reacting from my American sensibility of "It's rude to stare", "Don't stare at people, that's rude". 

But there is something about a predatory male gaze - one that no woman alive can say she's never felt - that I find completely unnerving, completely terrifying. It's why, despite the relative safety of my quaint little town, I detest walking by groups of men. It is not flattering (though I am aware some women would say it is), it feels degrading and while my ability to cope with it varies from place to place, its occurrence seems to be pretty darn consistent, especially in the West (I don't recall ever feeling this way in Japan or Cambodia) and it is something that undermines my ability to fully enjoy my travels, especially in places where the "cultural norm" is to be scantily clad. That's part of what I find so interesting; in Morocco, I found that if I dressed appropriately, while I may get called after or stared at for being an obvious foreigner, there was no predation in it when I was dressed appropriately (had I not been, it may have been a different matter, but I can't speak to this). When I was in Paris a few summers later, however, I felt the need to cover myself nose to toes to feel comfortable.

I remember, shortly after that summer, I moved to Montreal. One evening I was walking with my new roommate and I was explaining how I'd come to almost always dress as I would have in Morocco, finding that, while I didn't always want to be so modest, it made me feel less of a target for the type of male attention that makes my skin crawl. We were talking about the idea that in so many cultures, including in the US and Canada, it is the responsibility of women to be covered if they don't want to be degraded by the male gaze, a fact that persists and still nags me as highly problematic. I can cope on some level with applying the type of cultural relativism that allows me to cover up in another country, but in my own country I feel entitled to challenge the norms. I should be able to walk around naked if I want to and not be the subject of sexualizing, predatory stares, but I'm not. In fact, we live in a world where women are taught that it is their responsibility to avoid rape (it's evident in policies designed to "protect" women as well as when women are repeatedly blamed for their own victimization). I live in a country where my research participants (active drug users) have often done more time for possession than their rapists and abusers for their crimes. 

Mind you, the fact that this same stare coming from someone who identifies as female has never bothered me serves as a reminder that the discomfort that accompanies the male gaze goes well beyond the experience of being sexualized - it's about power and it's about the violence against women (physical, structural, emotional) that is embedded in our everyday lives. Perhaps if we could eliminate the power gap this gaze would take on new meaning and cease to be another tool of violence. Plenty of others have engaged this conversation and have done so more eloquently, more forcefully, and with more biting humor than I, yet we seem incapable of actually changing the culture in any tangible or sustainable way. Perhaps if we continue the conversation insistently, pushing back whenever these dress code policies arise, encouraging young women to view themselves not as asexual but as more than sexual, encouraging young men to do the same. Meanwhile, I'll keep traveling and when I do so, will abide by local dress codes and do my best to be respectful of cultural norms. But maybe when I'm home I'll be the unapologetic one, I won't look down or slouch or cover up because I'm passing a group of boys or men. Maybe that's one step I can take?