Internalized Misogyny
Fish don’t know they’re wet
You get your balls from me.
That’s my mother talking. She meant it as the highest compliment and I took it as such.
You know, you’re really more like a guy than a woman.
A former five-night stand in Key West; again meant as sincere praise and accepted as such.
I love watching you out-drink the guys in this joint.
The barmaid at one of the Cleveland dives I used to live in and shoot pool as she was pouring me another drink. We toasted.
The messages are murky water we swim in from the time we can understand words. Maybe before.
I’ll never forget how Daddy’s face fell when he got the call from Gramudder (Mom’s mother who was at the hospital with her for the birth of my youngest sister because Dads didn’t go for that kind of thing in those days) saying “It’s another girl”. He looked like someone had just kicked him in the stomach. His fourth daughter; no more tries. He wasn’t going to ever have a son.
When Mom and our new little sister, Jody, came home from the hospital Daddy stood by the bassinet and said, “We’ll call her Jo”.
Jody grew up mowing the lawn, helping paint the house as well as putting up and taking down the storm windows every fall and spring, being great in sports and today she is a decorated and highly respected detective with the Cleveland Police Department. I don’t know if it’s still true but years ago she carried her service sidearm, an alarmingly large Glock, with her everywhere.
Because I came of age in the ’70s my rebellion against gender norms wasn’t all that outstanding. None of us wore bras or makeup. We were all promiscuous and drank and used drugs copiously. We were liberated women.
Except I didn’t like women.
I had one best friend from fourth grade through high school graduation, Bonnie, but otherwise, as I outgrew my crippling shyness, I gravitated to hanging out with the guys. I rejected anything “girly” and took pride in being tough. I didn’t giggle. I definitely rejected anything pink. I painted and drew dark, disturbing, morbid shit.
And all of that was rewarded in subtle ways.
Women can’t win. We’re ridiculed when we spend a fortune on our hair, wardrobes, grooming, and overall appearance. We’re also derided when we show up at the restaurant without makeup or wearing flat shoes. I didn’t hear that derision as I’d stalk around the pool table, kicking ass, talking trash and winning drinks. I may have eschewed makeup and heels but I loved the attention that short shorts and tiny halter tops got me. I’ve always wanted to have my cake and eat it, too.
It has only been in the past twenty years or so that I’ve discovered the warmth of friendships with women. On that day in April 2000, when I celebrated a certain life milestone by shaving my head completely bald to the skin, I only invited women to share the ritual.
Today I have several women with who I share close, loving friendships. I’m more comfortable in the company of women than before in my life.
And still that old snarly, uncomfortable beast lurks.
I’ll toss off that I’m not part of either of the Big Sisterhoods: I’m not a lesbian and I don’t have (or want to have) children. And the truth is that when I find myself among a group from either of those sisterhoods I’m wildly out of place and uncomfortable.
When I see three or four dressed-to-the-nines types walking towards me on the street or laughing in a huddle on the train my inner judgemental monster begins to growl.
What’s with the drag queen eyelashes these younger women all seem to have to wear these days?
If you can’t drive those six-inch heels, Cupcake, don’t wear ‘em!
Did you marinate in the scent?
You do realize that wearing something that tight with your particular body type is, shall we say, unflattering af?
Oh honey, cover those feet!
Even as I admit to that kind of thinking I cringe. Not that confessing lessens the monster’s ire but we have to talk about this. I have to talk about this.
The feminine, the softer, the kinder, the un-male, the less certain, the colorful, the joyful, the chatty, the more considerate, the quieter, the female is denigrated across all cultures. The worst thing a boy can fling at another boy he wants to put down is the word PUSSY!
And it’s not just the boys who are being indoctrinated with this crap.
We believe it. I believe it. I believe I’m not as able, as intelligent, as talented, as driven, as capable, as focused, as strong, as certain as a man. I hide it. I play it off. I say I’m lazy, not ambitious, happy with myself as I am. But really and deeply and secretly the reason I’m not trying to find an editor and/or agent for my novel is because I’m pretty sure that it’s just not very good. And if I leave it sitting quietly on the hard drive I’ll never have to face that.
The water remains murky and filled with lies and here’s the kicker: the lies poison everyone in the water, men and women alike. We internalize these false concepts and then build warped lives around them. All of us; some more and some less. But no one is immune.
I don’t know what to do about it. Do you?
I try to talk about it. Fess up. Ask how you manage. Catch myself when I find myself back in those negative, damaging and false thought patterns. Give myself a break and let it go when I do it again and think about how to do better going forward.
Wear pink once in a while?
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