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When is the earliest memory of misogyny in my life?

Like Deborah Young, I don’t have memories of a first misogynist moment.  I was raised in its swamp.  My mother, a rural child of the Depression, nursed me on it.  By the time I was eight I knew that her designs for my future included that I be pretty, popular, have boyfriends, get married, and have children.  She loved to tell her tales of winning the “prettiest legs” contest in high school, and the thrill of being a college cheerleader, all in the context of her desires for my future.  The 1970’s were confusion to her—she often expounded upon her anger and desperation about the “blurring” of lines between male and female, straight and gay.  She despaired of my career ambitions  (once famously telling me “you’re going to make yourself so interesting that no one will marry you”) all the while supporting and exalting my brother’s choices.

My father supported our family, and was thus relegated to the role of “provider.”  In retrospect, I can see how our culture’s rigid gender roles of the 1950’s and 60’s trapped him into behaviors that didn’t suit his gifts and needs.  He did his best to provide and later rebelled by divorcing my mother when I (the youngest child) was a freshman in college.

At age eight I realized that the boys had all the fun in school, and got most of the attention, while I was relegated to being a good student and a “nice girl” for attention.  At ten I was the principal target of a boys’ club “anti-girl campaign” that included our female teachers.  Nothing was done to stop their cruelties—the school principal called the boys into his office and told them they were “the worst thing that happened to the school,” which became a badge of pride for the boy bullies.  At twelve I ran for student body president and lost because, as was openly opined, “a girl can’t be president.”

At thirteen one of my fellow students was impregnated by a popular boy (not ironically, the same boy that was the leader of the anti-girl campaign in grade school).  She had an abortion and dropped out of school.  He continued to be one of the most popular boys throughout junior and senior high.

At sixteen I had the sudden realization that because I was a young woman, I was no longer safe.  I no longer had the reeling freedom of girldom.  I was now a sexual object and had to protect myself.  I could no longer walk the world alone and unafraid.  I am angry still at the need to be constantly vigilant in response to a violent misogynist culture.

In high school I was smart and opinionated; therefore labeled as “having a bad attitude” by the National Honor Society awards committee, even though my grades were excellent.

When I tested into English class in college, I was put in the “problem” class.  To his credit, my male professor said, “What in the world are you doing here?” and put me in English honors.  I tried to liven up a boring history class (where the male professor “taught” by the way of reading verbatim from his notes) by asking questions, and the professor first began ignoring me, and finally called me into his office to intimidate me into silence.

In graduate school I was told I was “relying on charm,” by a male professor, but given no advice as to what other skills I should be practicing.  The (male) chair of the department used to pet my head and say “pretty girl,” when he passed by me.

At my first real job, as the only woman at the table during the afternoon coffee breaks, I was frequently told not to “worry myself” over politics during our discussions.  I frequently went to dinner parties with colleagues where the conversations were segregated by gender, the women in the kitchen, the men in the living room.

In my current job, my colleagues often denigrate my “feminized” discipline.  I have a male boss who screamed “shut up!” at me in a public meeting, because I would not agree with him.  When I told him privately that his behavior was unacceptable, he did not apologize—his response was that he did what he needed to do to get me to stop talking.

Is it any wonder that I am "voicegal?"  Life has shown me a series of men and women telling me to shut up, shut down, do what I’m told, and disappear.  Thank God for the men and women who told me the opposite, who supported my voice in all its iterations (poetic, written, artistic, spoken, metaphorical) and allowed me to grow into the strong, independent woman I am today.  (I will post on this more positive outlook another time.)

I am not an angry feminist.  I am a feminist.  If it isn’t apparent from my words, I will say plainly that being treated this way all my life has caused me an inordinate amount of pain.  Pain that I have to process, overcome, make sense of, and then dispense the righteous anger it evokes before I can move on in a positive direction.  Anyone in a societal minority knows this pain, and knows how ridiculous it is for those in the majority to say that there is no inequality, when the majority does not have to process this pain and anger on a constant basis before they move on.

I am almost 50 years old.  These stories happened in the recent past, historically speaking.  Young people tell me that things have changed since then, but when I see Hillary Clinton pilloried for being “shrill,” or ridiculed for what she wears or how she does her hair (for god’s sake) I am not so sure.  Like inherent racism, we cannot change this beast until we all stop pretending that that the battle for equality is won.  May we all "teach our children well," as Lonnie Lazar writes on this subject.

Text copyright voicegal 2010