I Had Planned to Write About Misogyny
I am broken hearted over the misogyny being played out, in the Middle East, and how helpless I feel to help. I listen to and read the stories being told by women, who have escaped, after having been raped, beaten, and tortured, and keep thinking about how institutionalized our hatred of women is, and not just in the Middle East or just by men. The statistics on how women still earn less money than men infuriates me. The notion that so many political races, in the upcoming elections, in the United States, are focused on issues like birth control, abortion, and marriage, none of which should be political, in my opinion, is also maddening. I have been researching misogyny for the last few weeks, planning to write this column, on that topic; but I find I lack the words, though I know the facts and most assuredly have the feelings.
Nevertheless, I sit down at my computer, and I read through my notes, feel distraught, and step away from the sorrow, looking for an escape, which I find.
I turn on the Tavis Smiley show, and begin to watch Rene Russo, speak about Los Angeles, at night; and how she loves driving around the city, when so many of her inhabitants have gone to bed. She made me nostalgic for a city, which had once been my home and has imprinted itself upon me with indelible ink; no I am not speaking of tattooing. Listening to this Southern California native talk, flooded me with warm memories, as she promoted her new movie about after hour crime reporters, she reminded me of the only time that I have ever been in a police cruiser – I was picked up, by two very nice Los Angeles City Police officers, around three o’clock, in the morning, when I had decided to walk from Beverly and Western to the beach at Santa Monica. The officers gingerly insisted, on giving me a ride back to my apartment, which at the time was an office space, over a bank; and lectured me, as they drove, on how dangerous the streets were at night, especially for a twenty something woman, walking alone. They of course were right, and rather kind policemen; but how I love walking cities, even car cities like LA.
As the conversation, on the television ended, I was happy I knew the city of which they spoke, no longer thinking about misogyny, but now feeling a little lonely – thus I put on Jackson Browne, a true Angelino, though born in Orange County, whose music always takes me back to LA, but who also writes about Winslow Arizona, where I once live and pilgrimage through often, and “going down the 95, out of Portland, Maine”, which at the moment is part of home. I wished I had someone to dance with, but alas did not, and thus went to facebook.
I have come to embrace facebook slowly. Accepting that I have close friends quite literally scattered around the world, and that those who are on facebook are the ones I stay most in touch with. I do so wish the rest of you would join me there; but I understand and accept your choice. The downside of facebook, those who partake well know, and for those of you who are not engaged, I shall spare you, as it is of no consequence.
When I am reading my friends posts, on facebook, what I most enjoy and am most envious of, are the comments which speak of contentment. I am always fascinated by people who know where they want to be, what they want to be doing, and how they want to be spending their life – yes, the understanding and search for identity continue to intrigue me, and offers another distraction.
Last Monday, I was walking down E. Houston, in New York City, alone, in the dark, with the proper amount of jewelry for a good Cuban, and feeling not a care in the world. I certainly had no desire to return to Maine, and instead wished I was heading south, perhaps to a quick stop in Philadelphia or Washington D.C., before arriving in South Florida, where so many of those I love live, that are not on facebook. But as I walked into my office, in Maine, and the piles of notes, books, and tapes, which were exactly where I had left them, I thought about how much I have written here.
There is a solitude in Maine, which I can find unbearable; in due course that may change. But meanwhile, between working on the “end” of projects, in this house, and preparing a surprise for the holidays, I do write, though a new day dawns and the page is still blank.
It is a cloudy and overcast with rain showers, which are quickly bringing any remaining leaves to the ground, it will only be in the 40’s the next few days, going down into the 20’s. So I am dressed in leggings with socks and fuzzy boots, an oversized fleece shirt, and drinking my fifth cup of hot tea; yes there is most assuredly a part of me that would like to be having dinner with friends in Miami tonight: I hope you guys have a great time Besos y Abrasaos for all. Instead, I sit at Nour’s former desk, and write, but not about misogyny, it appears.
I write today because I try to update these pages on the first of each month, but also because it is cloudy, overcast, with rain showers – I am rather tempted to add the proverbial smiley face here.
I have taken out the oral history my Mother recorded in 1990, and am finally listening to it, enjoying her company and being enlightened in true delight! In theory, I should listen to gospel while I transcribe her words, but her passion for Cuba, instead call out for Nico Membiela, who my Father gave me, or Los Panchos and Carolos Gardel, also my Father: “I fell in love not with just one man, but with an entire nation.” It is such a perfect line and it captures so much of who she was.
But the tape is turned off, she is for another time; I come back to these pages and my swirling thoughts. The time is ticking away, and for today, I apparently do not want to write about the anguish which dominates the headlines. Instead, I bring up, from the basement, my collection of framed postcards, from women during World War II, which I purchased at the Women in Military Service Memorial, at Arlington, and decide to put it in the office. Happy I have already adorned one wall with my own feminist memorial; but I cannot help looking over this small collection, and wondering why women have had to fight so hard to be treated with dignity and honor? Why do we not even have power over our own bodies? It may be impossible to escape my thoughts; perhaps that is best.
I do not want to be indifferent; and whatever platform I may have, I would be remiss if I did not at least say that we, as a society, need to continue to discuss how women are treated. It is not okay for little girls to be kidnapped and sold into slavery or married off to some old man, who does not and will not ever love them; or for women to be disfigured with acid because of how they are dressed, or shot at for wanting an education, or imprisoned in Cleveland, so that some horrible man can degrade them at will. We must be outraged and we must not forget them or any of the other victims of abuse.
Ah, I see my problem, I am having with words – my words do not offer a solution to this issue. Misogyny is so ingrained in our psyche, such a part of our history, and incorrectly justified by religion, that it feels insurmountable; can that be?
I cannot believe that this is a problem without a solution. How can it be so difficult for us to respect one another? Oh my can you imagine how lovely might the world be, if we simply chose to respect one another? I know, it is the Pollyanna in me.
I need music again, something defiant and powerful, I think maybe a little Mary Chapin Carpenter; I can definitely dance to her alone. This fight is not over, even if there is no clear plan of attack yet. That is all for now.
