On Saturday, I had a chat with a pal about his use of the term “too girly” as an explanation for why he didn’t enjoy a particular TV show. He seemed exasperated that I wouldn’t just give him a break and let it roll off my back, as I know him well enough to know he’s not some raging misogynist. Which is true.
On Sunday, I walked past The College Street Bar, where their sandwich board caught my attention. It read something along the lines of: Scooters are for men who want to ride motorcycles but like to feel the wind on their vaginas.*
Yesterday, I bundled up and went for a lunchtime stroll. I was enjoying the sunshine and chuckling at the Patton Oswald standup I was listening to when a man I had just passed suddenly reversed direction and appeared at my side.
Startled, I popped my earbuds out and hoped he was looking for directions, or even just asking for spare change.
“So you’re very attractive,” he started.
“Uh huh,” I said curtly, quickening my pace and casting a longing glance at the sun-drenched bench I’d been heading for.
“You probably get that a lot,” he continued.
Undeterred he informed me, “So I’ve been approaching women in Toronto to try and figure something out – what’s your name?”
“No. You don’t need to know my name. Sorry, what is it you want?” I asked, now well on my way to qualifying for Olympic speed walking.
He told me his name was “Sorcery” then launched into an almost-amusing tirade about how he used to have a girlfriend named Storm who was too lazy to make it work with him and how for years he’s been able to “get” tons of women in Toronto.
“Not just one women, many women,” he clarified.
“Got it. You collect women.”
“Yeah, like a harem,” he said. “You won’t believe me, but it’s true.”
At this point I tuned him out as I was strategically planning my escape from this MRA PUA reddit thread come to life. I walked onto the U of T campus and set my sights a building where I knew there was a staffed front desk near the doors in case I needed assistance.
….and I haven’t changed, so it must be that women in Toronto have changed. What do you think?”
“About why you can’t get dates?”
Just shrug and say you have to go, whispered self-preservation.
But for some reason in that moment, my annoyance, or maybe just plain old exhaustion was stronger than my fear. I was tired from having to ask well-intentioned loved ones not to use “girly” as a criticism and from having to read gross sexist sandwich boards and from a man who thinks it’s his right to “grab women by the pussy” being elected POTUS and from the time when I was 20 and a man in a bar tried to exercise that same right on me.
So I shrugged and said “I don’t know. Maybe too many women have read the Game and are aware of the tactics that guys who consider themselves “pick-up-artists” try to use to manipulate vulnerable women into dating them. Because you come across as one of those guys.”
I didn’t even get into the fact that maybe women don’t like being “collected” like goddamn pogs** before he pronounced my theory “Bullshit!” Asserted that he wasn’t like “those guys” told me he was “the best guy in Toronto” and demanded I give him a real reason.
“You asked my opinion, I gave it to you. Now I’m going to go my way, and you need to go yours,” I said, as he got louder, shout-whining at me to give him a different answer. “I don’t owe you an explanation! I said, (and then, forgotten words drilled into my head by my parents as a little girl in case of attempted kidnapping) I DON’T KNOW YOU!” raising my own voice and looking around for people who might help me get away as I beelined for the doors of the building.
He thankfully didn’t follow me in but continued to shout at me through the doors as I ducked out of sight. “BUT WHY?! WHY ARE YOU BEING LIKE THIS?!”
A young woman and a young man approached and asked if I was ok. The man said “I thought you were maybe just a couple having an argument until I heard you say ‘I don’t know you’.” (nice work, mom and dad!)
The guy stayed with me and checked outside to see if Sorcery was still lurking around. When I explained I wasn’t actually even going to the library, I had just come in to try and get away from this dude and keep him from following me back to work, he said the kindest thing: “I don’t actually like this library anyway.” He said he’d actually rather go to one closer to my office and offered to walk with me.
I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that, as I had just been debating calling work and asking a large male colleague to come meet me (but feeling guilty at the thought of asking someone to make that track). So while I did have a fleeting thought of “what if this guy is ANOTHER creep taking advantage of the situation,” I very gratefully accepted his offer and the chocolate he gave me while we walked and chatted and I tried to stop shaking.
Back at my office I called the U of T campus police to let them know this guy might be lurking around campus.
Which brings us to today, December 6th, Canada’s National day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women and the anniversary of the date in 1989 when a man claiming he was “fighting feminism” separated women engineering students from men and murdered 14 of them at Montreal’s Ecole Polytechnique.
While I might have had some trouble on Saturday articulating why I get hung up on the occasional use of a word like “girly” to describe something negative from a friend I know does not hate women, today the reason feels clearer.
It starts with words, with “jokes” that make women out to be less than men. Less valuable, less deserving of respect. And that turns into too many men, who don’t understand that “it’s just a joke,” thinking they are more than women, that they deserve respect and attention and power and sex and whatever else they might crave from women. And they are baffled and angry and dangerous when they do not get what they think they deserve.
That’s why it matters.
*they weren’t even clever enough to rhyme scooters with cooters. I mean, come on!
**I’m old, what do people collect now?
When I was little there were four cassettes awarded highest rotation on my Fisher Price tape recorder: The Little Mermaid, The Velveteen Rabbit narrated by Meryl Streep, Celine Dion’s The Colour of My Love, and Mozart’s The Magic Flute.
So it was with an eager nostalgia that I got dolled up and headed off to see the latter performed at the gorgeous Elgin theatre on Friday.
While no, “Colour of My Love,” Mozart’s music was as delightful as I remembered, and I wriggled happily in my seat as the orchestra launched into the familiar first act.
We were seated next to the most enthusiastic opera-goer imaginable. She was made entirely of binoculars, delighted, hearty laughter and and “brava!s”. She almost made up for the woman behind us, who wore a bracelet that I’m pretty sure was made of twenty pounds of tiny tambourines, bells and scrap yard metal and flailed about almost constantly even after the woman beside her told her she was driving her insane. Haha. I actually sailed right on past irritation to giggling incredulously at the situation. It was pretty unreal.
Plus I was distracted by the marring of my childhood memories by the crazy amount of sexist and racist garbage being beautifully sung from the stage. I feel like the line “Men are strong where we are weak, they always think before they speak” sung by some ladies defiling an awesome manly temple with their lady feet may have been left out of my Mozart for kids cassette. Or maybe I was just too wee to be aware of it.
There was also a fair amount of uncomfortable shifting during scenes featuring the villainous antics of the “moor,” the princess’ jailor, who has problems controlling his lust and refraining from being just a general jerk.
In the end, the young white, boring couple of wimps whose highest aspiration is to get hitched and Sarastro, the sanctimonious, patriarchal male wizardly Freemason guy with the awesome name live happily ever after, while the evil moor and the Queen of the Night, a “proud” woman who dares to try to get back the magic powers Sarastro allegedly stole from her late husband before kidnapping her daughter for herself are cast into hell (or maybe just fall down some stairs, it wasn’t entirely clear) along with the queen’s lustful ladies in waiting.
And let that be a lesson to you all.
Apparently some productions tone down the racism and sexism for modern audiences, leaving out the skin colour of the evil jailor, for example, which I think I might be inclined to do if I were directing this particular show as I don’t think it actually furthers the story and it would still make sense without it, but others argue that the integrity of the opera would be ruined if these details were left out.
What do you guys think? Would you update a story like this or would you leave it as is and just hope that the audience is viewing with a critical eye? If you have children would you take them to see this show and if so, would you talk to them about the stereotypes and misogyny in it, or would you ignore it and just enjoy the music?