Tuesday, August 6, 2019

It's time to evolve


I’m old enough, just, to remember something of the feminism of the 70s. Reproductive rights, long hair, burnt bras, sisterhood, rock and roll. Movies and TV shows featured single young women with jobs and their own apartments and love lives! And while there were plenty of men who opposed all this modern independence for ladies, some of them were neutral or even intrigued. After all, a woman with the pill in her purse, money in her pocket, and a halter top on is pretty darned sexy. A nature girl with long hair and a guitar and her own set of wheels is pretty sexy too.

Photo by Nathan Cowley
Friends say “Republicans used to be more reasonable” or “Texas used to be a lot more live and let live; I don’t know what happened.” But w­­­­­hen conservatives were reasonable, women didn’t have the right to their own credit card. They didn’t have the right to play sports in school. They didn’t have the right to a legal abortion. They didn’t have the right to refuse sex with their husbands. They didn’t have the right to a harassment-free workplace. The faces of NASA, of science, of medicine, of law enforcement, of business, of sport, were all male. I grew up in a world where none of the people doing things I wanted to do looked like me.

The gains that my mother’s generation made opened a crack in that monolithic man’s world, and women squeezed through that crack and pushed it open wider so that more women could rush in. Progress has been uneven and painful; our gains have been hard won, but the numbers reveal the changes that I have seen in my lifetime, and they are significant.
  • 60% of doctors under the age of 35 are women
  • 25% of US senators are women
  • 23% of US representatives are women
  • 18% of state governors are women
  • 29% of state legislators are women
  • 22% of Fortune 500 board members are women
  • 30% of university presidents are women
  • 34% of NASA astronauts are women
  • 26% of computer scientists are women
  • 32% of professional project managers are women
  • 49% of college professors are women
  • 14% of active duty soldiers are women
  • 39% of private companies are woman owned

You know why conservative men seem suddenly so angry and unreasonable? Because they don’t want to have to compete with women on a level playing field. They want our feminism to be sexy. They want it to be about them. And it really isn’t any more. It’s not just that we’re getting the degrees and the jobs and winning the elections. The numbers above show phenomenal success but mostly not equality, after all. It’s also the side-effects of all this education and success and power now in women’s hands. We’re wearing what we want. We’re eschewing makeup and picking a trip to the gym over a trip to the salon. We’re getting married later or not at all. We’re not deferring to our fathers, brothers, preachers or husbands any more. We’re raising families without men. We’re fixing our own plumbing and tuning up our own bikes and going backpacking and touring Europe without men. So men aren’t just having to compete with us in the conference room; they’ve also discovered that we no longer need them. The social and economic structures that bound us to husband and hearth are disintegrating. Now we mate and marry only because we want to and when. We don’t need to be taken care of and we don’t want to take care of a man either. We want him to take care of himself, and to meet us as an equal in freedom, not in obligation or dependency. Many (most?) of the women I know have chosen the single life. Not because they don’t love men and sex, but because it’s just not worth it. Maybe they had an abusive partner, or an unfaithful one.  I’ve had more than one friend tell me that they just didn’t like being married because it felt like they were losing themselves. It’s good to pay your own bills, make your decisions, to go and do as you like, eat what you like, stay up late with a book and a cat and a cup of tea or get up before dawn and head to Zumba before work and never have to explain yourself, justify yourself, subsume yourself. In a patriarchal society, maybe a mating of true equals is simply impossible. More women are unwilling to make the compromises and sacrifices that traditional marriage demands.

Men don’t seem to be adjusting to this new reality. It’s not just that they have to compete with women in every field of public endeavor. They are adrift in relationship to women personally as well. I think a lot of men have been taught, by family and church and peers and the media, that if they are good men, women will want them and they’ll find a happily ever after. Being a good man is a complicated and pretty much unattainable goal. It seems to include physical and/or intellectual prowess, mastery of all of the manly arts, some impossible mixture of emotional strength and reserve and gentle tenderness. And of course, superior sexual prowess. If the ads on the radio are anything to go by, there are a lot of men who doubt their sexual prowess.

So what is a man to do, who has trained all his life for the wrong race? No matter where on this continuum of masculinity he falls, it’s largely irrelevant to modern women. Some men with intelligence and emotional maturity adjust. They are learning to navigate a changed world and learning to define themselves as something other than “the opposite of a woman.” They are finding freedom in shedding restrictive gender roles and growing into equal relationships.

And then there are the other guys. The ones brought up in strictly conservative families. The ones who were starved of physical and emotional affection as children. The ones of lower than average intelligence who crave structure and authority and predictability. The ones who were abused. The ones who were never allowed to cry. The ones who were always compared to their peers and found lacking. They are adult men but bent or broken, unable to rise to the emotional demands of adulthood but expecting all of the rewards of adulthood nonetheless. They could be angry at the parents and society that failed them. They could seek growth and healing. But that’s really difficult to do. Not everyone can even reach the first rung on the ladder of self-actualization. They may not even see that the ladder is there. It’s easier to blame themselves, to fall into self-loathing and rage and despair. I’ve never yet met a violent man who wasn’t a very weak, hollow man, a shell of a man. I’ve faced down plenty of them. Some of these hollow men seek roles that give them hierarchical status. Some of them manipulate social systems to skew the odds in their favor, with the added benefit of causing harm to others. Some of them turn to outright violence to attempt to subdue and control the world. All of them take personal, real pleasure at one-upping or harming others. It provides a temporary high that dulls the aching void inside. But like any drug, the results are ephemeral. We call these hollow men narcissists and act as though narcissism is the exception to the rule. I don’t find that to be true. In a patriarchy, narcissism is the default setting for men. We only remark upon it when it manifests in the toxic, self-destructive virulence that we see in Trump or in Epstein or in mass murderers.

In a twisted way, the manifestos of violent men and the toxic spew of incels are correct. Women, on our journey to equality and freedom and joy, have turned the basket of patriarchy upside down and shaken everything lose. We won’t crawl back into that basket and we don’t owe men comfort or healing or sex or praise. On the other hand, one only has to read to realize that the self-destructive legacy of patriarchal masculinity has been with us a very long time. At some point, I hope men stop raging and start evolving. It would be a lot more fun.



Saturday, August 3, 2019

One night in Silicon Valley


Some years ago, I was a project manager for a regional real estate company in Houston. I was mostly managing Internet projects, which I really enjoyed because at the time it was kind of edgy and creative. The company decided that they wanted to build an intranet. Since they didn’t have one and didn’t really know where to start, they decided to send me and my product manager, Sandra, to an educational event in California. It wasn’t really a conference nor yet a class. Some tech companies that wanted to improve their street cred hosted a “tour” of their intranets presented on-site by their web teams. Ah, those heady 90's when employers thought nothing of paying for such fluffy junkets in the search for the elusive “new media” magic.

Since Sandra’s parents lived in the Bay Area, she proposed that we stay at her family home to save on travel expenses. I’m always down for getting to know people better so I agreed. She waxed poetic about her old neighborhood and jogging in the California hills. Our company travel agent booked our plane tickets. I packed the usual khakis and blouses and shoved running shoes into the corner of my bag.

Flying was uneventful then. TSA hadn’t been invented yet. We arrived, grabbed our bags, got a rental car, and headed for her family bungalow. It was a typical middle-class California neighborhood with long, low houses trimmed in pink or green or blue, eucalyptus trees and bougainvillea and irrigated lawns. In those days they were probably about a quarter million dollars each.

Her parents were gracious but unobtrusive hosts. Her mom showed me to my room, chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, and then left us to our own devices. As the long summer evening faded to night, we popped the cork on a bottle of chilled California wine and curled up on the couch to flip through all the cable channels, mocking the bad cable porn, and telling tales about boyfriends and husbands, childbirth and jobs, heartbreak and loss.

After the second glass of wine she casually confided “When I was about 10, we went to visit my grandparents. My uncle came into my bedroom and felt me up. I told my mother about it, and after that she stayed in the room with me until we left. She told me not to tell my dad about it because it would upset him.”

In these unguarded private moments, women share their pain just like this. Every woman carries the weight of her friends’ grief as well as her own, and every story that has ever been shared with us is as sharp in our memory as the moment we heard it. In my mind, that cheerful California living room, that white leather couch, Sandra, tall and confident with her hair perfectly straightened and her dark red fingernails, successful career woman and wife of an astronaut, one bare foot tucked under the opposite leg as she sipped her wine and casually shared the darkest moment of her childhood, will live forever frozen in time. And that is how we tell our stories; we deliver them, without drama or fanfare, because our stories have to be told, but lightly lest our shared burden become too heavy to bear.

We spent the next day at Cisco and Silicon Graphics, ate a catered lunch and admired the latest whiz-bang technology and listened to enthusiastic presentations and met teams of women who were paid a lot more than we were to do the same job we were doing. I don’t remember much about it really. I thought Cisco had a weird vibe and their conference room looked like it had been furnished from the second-hand store, but Silicon Graphics was all glass and chrome and rotating holograms and excitement. At the end of the tour, we had a better understanding of how far we had to go than how we were going to get there. We did go home to Houston and built a fledgling intranet and collaborated on several other successful projects, but after a couple of years I moved on to another job and we lost touch.

In the years since, I’ve left Houston, become an activist, met many women, and heard many stories, some far more horrific. I’ve become stronger and sadder. And I want to let you know, dear Sandra, wherever life has taken you in the intervening years, that I still hold space for you in my heart. What happened to you was a crime, and you deserved justice far more than your father deserved to have his peace of mind preserved. I’ll keep working for the day when no child experiences what you endured.