Like dialects of a language, the way in which women get
objectified is unique to each of the regions that I’ve traveled, but the basic
message is still the same. I’ve been bowed to in Argentina, stared at in China,
told not to worry my pretty little head in my own back yard, used as currency
for a dance club entrance, whistled at, proposed to, taunted, and followed. And
I absolutely consider myself one of the lucky ones.
There is a new, show-stopping word that has been added to my
vocabulary since I began working in the Israel-Palestine conflict:
normalization. It signifies acceptance of the current reality, and most
Palestinian activists are very wary of cross-cultural collaboration because they see bridge-building as a subliminal agenda for normalization. (e.g. Don’t talk to us about becoming friends
until we ourselves have the same access to water treatment facilities as you do.) While this one word could provide content for
my blog for as long as I’m here, I bring up normalization not so much in the
context of the conflict as with respect to offenses committed so consistently
and unconsciously against the largest minority in the world - women. They have
become so normalized that to identify them as unjust draws perplexed attention
to the unraveling of the tightly woven wool laying over our eyes
for eons.
As this weekend we celebrated International Women’s Day, I
have compiled a couple of questions and comments to some of
the men of this region. I will preface that my critiques are addressing some of
the barriers and challenges, but they are by no means the whole picture. I have
yet to write an open letter to those gentlemen who have welcomed me warmly into
their country, offered directions, Arabic coffee, and boundless hospitality. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to address the following...
- I can hear you. I just do not want to get in your taxi. You’ll note that I am perfectly capable of walking considering my quickening pace; and flagging a cab doesn’t seem too much of a problem either considering the gesture I have just produced for you. Therefore, I implore you to conclude that I do not require your services at this time and you may stop honking, following, and shouting at me, and drive on to procure clients elsewhere. Simple economics of supply and demand. Starbucks failed here and moved on. You can, too.
- Just because we twirled about on the dance floor a bit (I admit I tried to leave room for the Holy Spirit, but apparently He occupies a different space entirely here) does not necessarily mean that I now belong to you. And to be frank, I am intimidated by your instant and somewhat unexpected level of commitment as I still cannot even pronounce your name. To be clear, dancing with another the incredibly attractive man at the bar is not intended as a personal affront to your manhood. But assuming that I am interested, perhaps we can have more than two dances together or go for a coffee before I come home to meet Mother? (Survey: Norman Bates, or local culture? The jury is still out as I have yet to commit to a 3rd dance...)
- Speaking of Mother – God rest her weary soul – what would she say if she knew you were wandering the streets beckoning to young women with your comb over flapping all over the place? I cannot imagine a scenario in which she would deem this respectable, and I am sure she would be just as curious as I to know from where this culturally acceptable habit derived. Tell me honestly - how will it impact your overall well-being to know where I am from? I am not a lost and delicate butterfly flitting from one burly branch to another , so please do not shake your stick at me.
- When you stick your face in my face and say “Mmm, good!” I first must assume that we can get past the obvious acknowledgement that I am not a hamburger billboard. If we can make it that far, I would like to inquire – to whom should I relay this message? Are you congratulating me on the DNA swivels that sprung into my curly locks and the overflowing cups passed directly from my mother’s bosom (so to speak)? If that’s the case, I certainly wouldn’t feel right taking all the credit. But shall I take a bow? I first and foremost want to thank my parents for making this all possible. Perhaps I’ll send them a “congrats on the successful consummation” card? Maybe I’ll just save these compliments up like a Starbucks coupon: You’ve receive an official stamp of approval on your offspring’s physical assets by yet another dirty old vagabond. Two more and turn in her birth certificate for a free latte! I know my father is proud of my work and my character, but what he really loves is a free hazelnut cappuccino on the coattails of my international sex appeal. Prrrr.
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