How Being a Womyn is Like Being an Art Gallery
I vacillated many times between posting or not posting this. There are so many pressing social issues right now and I am protected by many insulated, synthetic REI layers of privilege. In short, I feel really self-conscious drawing attention to a relatively small issue that I face. Nonetheless, it's something that happens to me and probably most other women in some form or another. It all comes from the same place. Probably, for women with less privilege than I, this kind of issue looks different; the consequences are likely graver than ruffled feathers.
But, I'm also posting this because as my friend Lisa said, the patriarchy wants us to be self-conscious and mute.
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I thought of the perfect metaphor today. I believe our daily interactions often reflect greater realities and are at the very least, not disconnected from larger social realities, which is another way of saying that the personal is political. And, as a particularly sensitive human, I notice my daily interactions more than I suspect is healthy.
Throughout my life, I've paid special attention to criticism that I receive, probably because I struggle with receiving it, and so the moments tend to stand out starkly. To make a long story short, it's no exaggeration to say that the lion share of criticism in my life has come from boys and men. If you are a womyn, you can skip the following paragraph, since you obviously know exactly what this is like.
If you aren't a womyn or female-presenting individual, then this might be interesting! Imagine being criticized for not talking enough and then for talking too much, by the same person! Then, imagine the inevitable confusion that results from being told that you are too sensitive after hearing that you don't visually express emotions enough. And then, on the days when you aren't too fat or too skinny or too fast or too slow, you might be criticized for being too opinionated several days after you were told to have more opinions. Then, imagine this criticism coming from someone you barely know, and the confusion multiplies. Too gentle, too quiet, too weird, too boring, too wild. Should be married, shouldn't have a boyfriend, should have babies, shouldn't have sex. Should be religious, are too spiritual. That the criticism is usually contradictory helps show us its true source: nothing more than an underlying need to control and correct.
And above it all, this lurking thundercloud of 'wrong.' A thick smog of 'not enoughness' with an Air Quality Index of 300. There's an entire weather system set into place even before the interaction, a set idea in their mind of womyn as deficit, as needing to prove something, or worse, as needing to earn her space. I usually enter these micro-climates naively, with no idea of what's to come, just as I'm sure that the other person probably has no idea that they even have a micro-climate. Social control is perpetuated through its invisibility and intangibility. If we don't have the language to talk about it, does it even exist?
My brain and social conditioning has tricked me for so long in thinking that I do indeed owe men something, whether it be a smile, a pleasant demeanor, or an attractive appearance. I certainly still find myself believing that I owe men my kindness.
In the spirit of personal growth, feminism, and self love, I'm very interested in being the "El Nino" to these patriarchal climates. I'm very interested in not entering them at all. I'm also very interested in learning how to better accept thoughtful feedback that doesn't include being told that I don't smile enough, and in accepting compliments that don't feel like life-lines or validation or cookies from an owner.
And, (excuse the preamble) for the metaphor: Womyn as Art Galleries
Womyn are art galleries but we don't hold usual hours. We are always open for critique. Men barge into our rooms at all hours of the day and all days of the year to point out all the flaws in our collection. They stand in groups like herds of grumbling rhinos, or come one by one, running their hands across our canvases and breaking off pieces of our sculptures. They complain about the lighting, eat all of the free appetizers, break into the no-access rooms, all the while keeping a constant stream of criticism. When, by some miracle, the art galleries are finally empty of critics, the grumbled complaints and insults continue on as echoes, bouncing back and forth from wall to wall. There's praise too, but it's a particular type of empty validation that rewards womyn for achieving a certain standard that pleases the male gaze. The echoed voices become our soundtrack.
But, of course it makes no sense in the first place. Art is art. Humans are humans. What an absurd idea that we should point at a painting and proclaim what's wrong with it. The last thing I want to do when I look at art is declare what is wrong; rather, I might want to look more closely for the different layers of beauty and meaning, feel whatever it makes me feel, or simply admire what I don't understand. The last thing I want to do when I meet a human is to figure out what they should change to be better or how they are lacking. What the hell is 'better' anyway? We need to shut down our galleries or reserve them only for private parties, for the people in our lives who will gaze lovingly at our walls and point out the beauty here, here, and here.
But, I'm also posting this because as my friend Lisa said, the patriarchy wants us to be self-conscious and mute.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I thought of the perfect metaphor today. I believe our daily interactions often reflect greater realities and are at the very least, not disconnected from larger social realities, which is another way of saying that the personal is political. And, as a particularly sensitive human, I notice my daily interactions more than I suspect is healthy.
Throughout my life, I've paid special attention to criticism that I receive, probably because I struggle with receiving it, and so the moments tend to stand out starkly. To make a long story short, it's no exaggeration to say that the lion share of criticism in my life has come from boys and men. If you are a womyn, you can skip the following paragraph, since you obviously know exactly what this is like.
If you aren't a womyn or female-presenting individual, then this might be interesting! Imagine being criticized for not talking enough and then for talking too much, by the same person! Then, imagine the inevitable confusion that results from being told that you are too sensitive after hearing that you don't visually express emotions enough. And then, on the days when you aren't too fat or too skinny or too fast or too slow, you might be criticized for being too opinionated several days after you were told to have more opinions. Then, imagine this criticism coming from someone you barely know, and the confusion multiplies. Too gentle, too quiet, too weird, too boring, too wild. Should be married, shouldn't have a boyfriend, should have babies, shouldn't have sex. Should be religious, are too spiritual. That the criticism is usually contradictory helps show us its true source: nothing more than an underlying need to control and correct.
And above it all, this lurking thundercloud of 'wrong.' A thick smog of 'not enoughness' with an Air Quality Index of 300. There's an entire weather system set into place even before the interaction, a set idea in their mind of womyn as deficit, as needing to prove something, or worse, as needing to earn her space. I usually enter these micro-climates naively, with no idea of what's to come, just as I'm sure that the other person probably has no idea that they even have a micro-climate. Social control is perpetuated through its invisibility and intangibility. If we don't have the language to talk about it, does it even exist?
My brain and social conditioning has tricked me for so long in thinking that I do indeed owe men something, whether it be a smile, a pleasant demeanor, or an attractive appearance. I certainly still find myself believing that I owe men my kindness.
In the spirit of personal growth, feminism, and self love, I'm very interested in being the "El Nino" to these patriarchal climates. I'm very interested in not entering them at all. I'm also very interested in learning how to better accept thoughtful feedback that doesn't include being told that I don't smile enough, and in accepting compliments that don't feel like life-lines or validation or cookies from an owner.
And, (excuse the preamble) for the metaphor: Womyn as Art Galleries
Womyn are art galleries but we don't hold usual hours. We are always open for critique. Men barge into our rooms at all hours of the day and all days of the year to point out all the flaws in our collection. They stand in groups like herds of grumbling rhinos, or come one by one, running their hands across our canvases and breaking off pieces of our sculptures. They complain about the lighting, eat all of the free appetizers, break into the no-access rooms, all the while keeping a constant stream of criticism. When, by some miracle, the art galleries are finally empty of critics, the grumbled complaints and insults continue on as echoes, bouncing back and forth from wall to wall. There's praise too, but it's a particular type of empty validation that rewards womyn for achieving a certain standard that pleases the male gaze. The echoed voices become our soundtrack.
But, of course it makes no sense in the first place. Art is art. Humans are humans. What an absurd idea that we should point at a painting and proclaim what's wrong with it. The last thing I want to do when I look at art is declare what is wrong; rather, I might want to look more closely for the different layers of beauty and meaning, feel whatever it makes me feel, or simply admire what I don't understand. The last thing I want to do when I meet a human is to figure out what they should change to be better or how they are lacking. What the hell is 'better' anyway? We need to shut down our galleries or reserve them only for private parties, for the people in our lives who will gaze lovingly at our walls and point out the beauty here, here, and here.
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