Struggling to understand the gender war

Apparently, there's one afoot

In Magdalene J. Taylor’s recent chat, she asked about the gender war. I only skimmed the conversation, but it seemed a lot of women were writing things like “I hate men” and statements in support of the 4b movement in Korea, which I’d never heard of and haven’t looked into yet, but judging from the comments and from Taylor’s post today, it’s a movement to withhold sex and relations from men, why I’m not certain. To punish them?

Several years ago, when I first heard the term mansplaining, I wasn’t sure I understood it. Shortly after that, I found myself in a situation with a neighbor on my doorstep who talked incessantly, making it hard for me to close the door and disengage. And yes, he used a sort of know-it-all, advisory tone, as though he and only he could impart this valuable information to me.

I thought, Oh, is this mansplaining? And I decided yes, it probably was.

But before that, I would have chalked him up to someone who talked too much. A person who talked too much. Not someone who talked too much (and talked down to women) because he was a man. There are women like this too, you know. Plenty of them. And I don’t do well with them either.

At a recent dinner party, I witnessed a woman silence and interrupt her husband multiple times. He was elegant about it. He didn’t fight back, didn’t take the space that was continually being grasped from him. He let her talk, each and every time. Once in a while, he calmly and patiently tried to return to what he’d been attempting to say.

Over a taco dinner the other day with my friend C. I said, I think my daughter was tainted by the Me Too movement. She seemed to think most of my male friends were “problematic” (to say the least). She said they looked at her lecherously.

My friend said, well, you have to believe her. She brought up the dad’s friend in the recent (excellent) movie “Good One” who is inappropriate with the dad’s daughter, a high school senior.

C. seemed to believe most men would behave the way the dad’s boorish and predatory friend behaved were they to find themselves in the same situation—and that virtually all are tempted to.

I disagree vehemently. In the movie, the man, who forgot his sleeping bag, asks the girl if he can join her in hers. He’s “joking.” He clearly crosses a line. A bright line. And she knows it.

It seems obvious to me that most men would not do this. C. disagreed.

It got a little heated. She felt strongly about her position. I felt strongly about mine.

Finally, I said, I had a great dad that I loved. A gentle, loving soul. Maybe it comes down to who our fathers were and what kind of relationship we had with them.

She conceded the point, and we avoided coming to blows (kidding).

I found it troubling, and also tiresome. It exhausts me, this.

I wrote on Taylor’s chat, Don’t most of us (women) have fathers, brothers, sons? Do we hate them? God forbid.

A few years ago, I was hiking when a stream of young men on bikes came by. They were polite and careful as they passed me, and then they were on their way. I watched them pedal away, their strength, their enthusiasm, their unbridled joy, and I said, aloud (they were well out of hearing range), “I love men! It’s true! I do!”

I stand by that.

And yet, what a ridiculous generalization. Saying I love men is as ridiculous as saying, I hate men.

Men come in all shapes, sizes, stripes, types, characters, and etc. This is obvious. Some men are good, gentle, kind, caring, curious, open, upstanding, and loving. Some are decidedly not.

Some are rogues, players, flirters, bandits with a gleam in their eye and utter confidence in the women department. I love these men too.

We’ve all met “bad” men (just as we’ve all met “bad” women).

Maybe my gift is that I seem to have been able to sniff them out quickly and easily and avoid them.

My boyfriends have always been wonderful. Loving, caring, and devoted to me.

I only know of one time I was “cheated” on (with my visiting friend, no less!), and that relationship wasn’t serious. Sure, it was tacky that the man I was seeing and my visitor had a lay while I was at school. But, I blamed my friend more than R., who I didn’t care two figs about.

I’m still somewhere between miffed and aghast at what my friend did.

I told C. that my problem, and also what’s kept me safe, perhaps, is that I have tended to choose men who love me more than I love them. Or, I love them initially, but then I hold a part of myself out.

I’m not proud of this. It’s painful, and it’s difficult. It’s cruel too. I’ve hurt my share of men. I’m not proud of that either. Far from it. It pains me.

My father was gentle and kind. He chuckled a lot. He trusted me. He supported me. He bought me “Writer” magazines from the age of 12. He believed in me. He took me to see “Ghandi” when I was in eighth grade, just me, and I was so proud. I also sensed that it was important it was “Ghandi” in particular he wanted me to know. It reflected who my dad was and who he wanted to be.

I don’t understand this man-hating business, and I find it sad and distressing.

I’m a mother of a son, as well as a daughter. I see my son struggling to navigate this world we’ve mined with bombs. I also see him fighting back. He’s not to blame for slavery even if he’s white. He’s not to blame for misogyny, even though he’s male and heterosexual.

Men and women are different. Men are generally protective, women are generally nurturing. Both are both, to different degrees. This is not a truism. Any parent who’s had a boy and a girl knows this. As a toddler, my son spent hours driving his matchbox cars over the back of the couch, fighting with sticks, or attempting to climb the bookcase. My daughter spent hours putting her dolls, stuffed animals, and sometimes fruits and vegetables (coconuts, zucchinis) to bed. She’d make a little bed, lay them carefully down, and tuck them in. Every night. Without fail.

Why can’t we allow each other to be, simply be, who we are?

Since I’m well into middle age, I’m not sure if no one flirts with me anymore because I’m old or because men are cowed into submission, terrified to flirt, lest their intentions be misconstrued.

Flirting is one of the chief joys in life. I was a great flirt, and I loved meeting my match.

Our Guatemalan contractor has a young employee who speaks little English. He’s young, but his age doesn’t matter. I know his type, and I love his type. He’s a natural flirt. He can’t help himself. He’s smart, he’s engaged, he loves women. And he has a keen sixth sense for when a woman, any woman, has noticed him. And I noticed him. It was impossible not to. And he smiles so at me.

Nothing will happen. I’m too old. But it’s like we share a secret, he and I. I know who he is. He knows who I am. We have an understanding. I like men, and he can feel that. He likes women, and I can feel that.

And it’s fun. It’s super fun.

I hope I always have this, this ability to spot a flirt.

There’s a difference between a player who wants to dominate women and a flirt who loves women.

And when it comes to lovers, it’s another conversation. In my experience, men who truly love women and their bodies are few and far between. They’re out there, but they’re rare. That seems to contradict what I said above. But I’m talking about sex now. Men with strong libidos who truly love women and are curious and open and whose chief pleasure is to bring pleasure to women… they’re rare, but they’re out there, and boy are they fun.

Where’s the lightness, the joy, of interaction between men and women?

I’m a tango afficionado. You can feel it in tango too. Sure there are men who are brutish, insensitive. But I don’t believe they’re insensitive to women, particularly. They’re insensitive in general. Maybe they’re not very smart. Maybe they’re insecure. Maybe they’re just oafs.

I can feel when I’m dancing with a man who loves and respects women. There’s one in particular I’m thinking of—J. He’s an excellent dancer who constantly works to improve his skills so he can give his followers the best dance possible.

The best leaders in tango have this quality.

To be clear, for those not in the tango world, tango is a lead-and-follow dance. Many women lead, and many men follow, especially in the San Francisco Bay Area, so it’s not a gender thing particularly. Also, the best dancers know how to dance both roles.

A friend of mine died a few years ago. He died bewildered. He was a gentle, gifted artist. He was also incredibly handsome and sexy, and a classic romantic. He loved women. He looked at women admiringly.

My daughter said he looked at her lecherously.

I said, when a man looks at you like you’re a woman, it’s not necessarily lecherous. It can be appreciative.

I always appreciated the power my beauty gave me. And I used it.

My friend C. the other night did not agree with me on this distinction. She said it’s the man’s duty to keep that out of the eyes. What, appreciation? Appreciation for a stately, beautiful woman? My daughter was not a child when my friend acknowledged that she was a beautiful woman, if he did.

Obviously, only my daughter and my dead friend know what transpired in that moment.

Maybe C. is right, and my friend was inappropriate with my daughter.

But, I don’t believe that.

I do believe he may have looked at her like, wow, you’re a beautiful woman. And I don’t think that’s a problem. I always liked to be acknowledged this way.

C. seemed to think that as a mother, I need to believe my daughter that it felt invasive.

Of course, I understand that perspective.

But I also believe it’s possible for young women steeped in this culture of mistrust to misread or misconstrue a gaze. An admiring gaze is not the same as a lecherous gaze. Not for a second.

I’ve always loved men who love women, who acknowledge them as women, who allow a little play and mischievousness into the interaction. It’s one of the spices of life, for me.

Maybe I’m a dinosaur.