Angela Davis and women's voices silenced

Tonight I attended a movie screening of "Free Angela Davis and All Political Prisoners" at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. I recommend the movie as an introductory resource to anyone interested in learning more about this courageous female philosopher. Because I use this blog as an outlet for my expression of personal experiences and because the internet is full of resources about Angela Davis, I will go no further into her philosophy or story. This entry will be about the public discussion that followed the film.

I was among the 40% of people who stuck around for the discussion. I suspect that a good number of attendees were there for a class and had gotten all they needed from the movie. I found the discussion quite engaging and it introduced me to many topics that are new to me and that I hope to explore through some of Davis's writings. However there was one topic raised that I am familiar with and have spent a great deal of time discussing and externalizing. The specific topic is irrelevant but in case anyone is wondering it was about the education system in the US. Someone wanted to know why so many people in their 20s had never heard of Angela Davis. A woman behind me expressed her own frustration at not being taught these histories that are such important lessons and which are crucial to building a nation of independent thinkers. I thought, "Here's my chance to say something, to be a part of this discussion instead of an observer." I raised my hand (as was the accepted form of signaling that you had a contribution to make). The professor turned his gaze to me and was about to give me the floor when a white middle aged man stole the stage beginning his sentence with "If I may interrupt.." The professor allowed it. The man continued to sloppily explain what I had carefully planned to articulate, that the system of standardized testing and the consequences for not meeting state and federal requirements don't allow primary education teachers the freedom to teach much more than what the students are expected to demonstrate on the exams.

At first I was disappointed. I couldn't restate what the man had said, I didn't have much left to offer on the subject. I lowered my hand and the discussion continued. As I sat there replaying the senario in my mind I became enraged that I had been passed up in favor of this man. That my contribution was silenced and made redundant because I had the courtesy to wait to be called on and he had the uninhibited voice of a privileged man.

The irony of this happening in a discussion about freedom, class, and social movement only increased my level of outrage. I left the hall at the close of the discussion and failed to contain sobs of anger and fear before I reached my car. I'm angry at the man who spoke out of turn. I'm angry at the man who facilitated it. I'm angry at myself for submitting to the oppression. And I'm angry at myself for allowing my emotions to run rampant and control me instead of me controlling them. It makes me feel like I deserve the label of the hormonal emotionally unstable woman that men have constructed and that women, like me, submit to.

I fear that I will never have a voice in front of men. I fear that every time I try to have an intellectual conversation with a man, I will have only a part of his attention while the rest of his attention is undressing me and having his way with my ass and tits. I'm afraid that I'll live my whole life without ever communicating a clear message that is heard in sincerity. 

Man-Hater (for a day)

I try to surround myself with strong independent women; some of them lesbians, and all of them (i hope) feminists. I hear the term "man-hater" come up in conversation occasionally. It's usually paired with "lesbian"; "lesbian-man-hater". It's always used in a defensive context, "Call me a lesbian-man-hater, but...".

Clearly these women do not hate men, I wouldn't be friends with them if they hated any social group. They didn't make up the term "man-hater", its a term that scared men use to label women (lesbians) who vie for more power or independence than the men are comfortable with.
But when I here the term "man-hater" I can't help but internally reflect. "Am I a man-hater?"

No, absolutely not. I LOVE MEN. I love men so much it has been detrimental to my focus professionally. I have made so many sacrifices for the men I love and have devoted so much of myself to relationships that if I was just a little less attracted to men, I would have made so much more progress in my career.

But hearing "man-hater" always throws me back into a memory of the day that I truly hated men. All men. It was the first time that I felt such a deep disconnect from the gender that I couldn't live without.

It was a Saturday and I was getting ready to leave for a new job I had starting on Monday in Indianapolis. My mother got a phone call from a friend and as I watched her face I knew something terrible had happened. I listened to her half of the conversation as she sat down, too distracted to maintain a standing position. Her friend, Kathy, had committed suicide.

The news of her death was shocking and woeful,  and as we put the pieces together, I began to realize that I had been the last person to speak with her before she ended her life. I had been teaching a dance class for several weeks at the University. Kathy had missed last week's class and I offered to let her take a make up class with me on Thursday. We planned to meet at 4pm at the studio and when I got there, the studio was dark. I set up the sound equipment and began going over my lesson plan. After  ten minutes I began to feel uneasy, and decided to call her to make sure she hadn't forgotten about our appointment.

"Hello?" she answered. She sounded upset.
"Hi, Kathy? I was just wondering if we were still on for today?"
"Who is this?" she asked. I was taken aback by the question, but it was the first time that I'd called her so I just figured she hadn't saved my number in contacts yet.
"This is Jeanette..."
"O, I'm sorry, its not a good time right now. I have to go." She spoke quickly and didn't allow me to ask any questions about rescheduling not that I had many options between Thursday and when I was leaving on Saturday.
"Ok." I said and she hung up.

I looked at my phone. It was an odd conversation to have, it left me uneasy but I wasn't close with Kathy so I decided it was best to give her the space she needed. I quickly put everything away and headed home, halfway relieved that I didn't have to work while my Aunt and Uncle were visiting. I got home around 4:30 and met my aunt and mother in the kitchen with questioning faces. They weren't expecting me home so early. I told them what happened and about the phone conversation and then went upstairs to change.

On Saturday, I didn't know how to feel. I was numb but I knew my mom must be hurting. I asked her if she wanted me to stay another day. She told me she didn't need me to, she had dealt with death in the past and she said she would be able to cope. I finished getting organized and got in the car for the 5 hour drive to Indianapolis.

After getting the call, my mother told me about the more personal things she and Kathy had discussed. Kathy had emotional and psychological problems stemming from a life of abuse. It all began when as a child she was molested and sexually abused by her older brother. This went on in her home for years. Her parents were either oblivious or turned a blind eye. The extent and severity of this abuse is unknown to me but since no one ever stepped in, I can only assume that it was worse than I can personally imagine.

The thing about abuse is that it is nearly impossible to break free from it on your own. When you are being abused, you are in the position of powerlessness, and as it goes on over time, you lose all concept of your own capability and your self image becomes one of a helpless person with absolutely no influence over your own situation. This is what happens to adults in abusive relationships. As a child, she certainly had even less of a foot to stand on.

Another thing about abuse is that it manifests cyclically throughout our lives. Children who are abused have adult relationships where they continue to endure abuse or they become the abusers in their relationships. Kathy was the former and she married a man who used her. He never worked. She had a good job and was saving up to start her own dance studio. When she lost that job, he divorced her and took half of her savings. When I met her, she was in her forties and still hadn't been able to realize her lifelong dream of running her own dance studio, but she continued to follow that dream.

As I drove North on I-57 I kept running over and over the events of the past few days in my mind. I kept thinking, if only I'd said something while we were on the phone. What if I'd asked her what was wrong. Would I have acted differently if we didn't have family from out of town that day? A lot of What ifs ran through my mind.

I stopped to get gas at some little road side station. When I got out of the car two men who were filling up a pickup towing a boat gave me their undivided attention. One of them commented on how they liked my ass in those pants. (I like to dress for comfort on days that I have long drives. I had worn yoga pants that were a light cremesicle orange color). I acted like I didn't hear him and continued with my own business pumping gas into my car. They made a few more comments to themselves about my appearance before the one who'd addressed me when inside to pay. The second one took this opportunity to come over and invite me out on the lake with them.

I lost it. I began to cry, I told him through sobs that my friend had killed herself that morning. (which was inaccurate but effective. He clearly became very uncomfortable, mumbled something about hoping that I felt better and got back in his truck without another word.

From that point on I sobbed the rest of the way. Hating men for how they had treated Kathy, and hating men for how they treated me. I knew that there were some men that I didn't hate, I still loved my father, and I still loved my boyfriend, but somehow they didn't fit into the category of "men" they had established their own labels that separated them from the men that I was so uncontrollably furious with. It was as if I'd been weighing the possibility that men (in general) were not responsible for Kathy's suicide, and the jury was out until those two redneck fuckers decided to share their sexuality with a random woman at a gas station. It was completely unsolicited and unwanted and it was the last straw. In that moment the idea that men were not responsible for her death had no more ground to stand on and I hated them for it.