I wrote a blog post the other morning about some things that have been swirling in my cranium. I hate it when that happens because until I get the words out, I cannot find peace.
I didn’t watch the debate. I listened via satellite radio (we have no television). I stayed on DKos until long after it was over, reading the live blogging and the comments.
It must have been hysterical to watch the “sniffing.” Maybe. I’m not sure it would have been any better to watch Donald Trump’s incessant posturing (my assumption that happened) and interrupting (I could hear this happening) than it was to listen to it. As it was, I did, a few times, yell at the radio, much to my husband’s and daughter’s dismay. I am not sure I could have handled watching his smug countenance.
I woke up the next morning with the words “white male privilege” circulating in my brain. Swirling around, banging up against the sides, pounding, anxious to be released.
I wondered why these particular words. I am close to a half century old. I have a wonderful husband and a brilliant, beautiful nine and a half year old daughter. I have two professional degrees (DVM, PT) but am most proud of my role as mother, homeschool teacher and homemaker for my family. That’s my full-time job. I work at the other two part-time. It is a busy, hectic, fulfilling life with much joy and satisfaction.
However.
However.
I had to stop and ponder why the words “white male privilege” were zinging around and why they were causing visceral reactions in me. My stomach churns a little, my heart seems to accelerate. My head hurts. I have to wonder what is going on.
Reading comments online Monday night, these physiologic reactions were at the forefront. Why? When I ruminated a bit longer (one of my dear daughter’s vocabulary words this week, so I get a point for using it!!), I came to the conclusion that the subtle pervasion of white male privilege is woven into the fabric of our lives. It is everywhere.
There was a time in my life when I considered myself a, please forgive me here, raging feminist. I was living in Boulder at the time, attending the University of Colorado. A shantytown was set up in the commons area to protest apartheid in South Africa. I was also a vegetarian. I let those surrounding me know that using the word “Betty” to describe girls and co-eds was not ok. I ranted against the inequalities I saw.
Then I started driving the beer cart at the golf course. I realized that the shorter I wore my skirt the more money in tips I made. Trying to put myself through college, bartending at night as well, I needed those bigger tips. I came to the realization that the world is a sexist place. I may as well take advantage of it. I realized also this could be construed as a betrayal of all things female. My rationalization? If a man was going to stupidly, STUPIDLY, give me a $5 bill for a $1.25 can of beer and tell me, leeringly, to keep the change, then why would I not do just that?
Sexism is stupid. Period. It’s ignorant as well. And the one perpetrating the sexism is seen as ignorant. And the joke’s on them.
This brings me to Hillary Rodham Clinton. She has been castigated for years, years, for not being what everyone out there thinks she should be. She doesn’t bake cookies. She’s a bitch, because she doesn’t smile. Then someone has the temerity to criticize her smiling the other night. Here’s looking at you @DonaldFrum. She’s criticized for wearing pantsuits. What the heck should she be wearing???
Posts have already been done on the amount of times she was interrupted. By Donald Trump on Monday night and by Matt Lauer a couple of weeks ago. The photo of Donald Trump shaking her hand after the debate (I’m assuming after, maybe before) shows his hand with white knuckles, as he’s towering over her. What’s he trying to prove there? How strong he is by crushing her hand. She’s got a HUGE smile on her face as she’s walking toward Lester Hold (I’m assuming). Ignoring Trump’s overt gesture of dominance.
I’m not on a rant these days. I am raising my daughter with a healthy awareness of the need for both male and female in her life. We love our resident Superman and know our life would be difficult without him. I have spent much time explaining to her the need for balance. There would be no yin without yang. No mother without father. No Wonder Woman (me) without Superman. I go on and on about this.
Then, last night, on our walkabout up the hill, we ran into one of the bulls in the sagebrush. She held back. I said “come on, let’s just keep walking, he’ll move along.” She said “maybe he’ll just know we’re not men.” I was troubled by this comment and asked her to explain. She said “well, he’ll just know we’re not going to be herding him, cause we’re not men.” I, very patiently, said, ever so sweetly, “honey, girls and women can herd bulls just as well as men.”
This happens occasionally. I treat each instance with equanimity and consider it another learning experience about gender. On the flip side, my daughter is all in for Hillary. She watched the Benghazi hearing (the 11 hour day) with my mother while I was at work. When I got home, my daughter pantomimed for me Hillary’s pose with her hand on her chin as she blithely and calmly observed the ridiculousness of the Congressional committee in front of her. That was the image my daughter had of Hillary—her calm, collected, cool manner. Power.
There are more words bouncing around up top, but this is long, and math and science lessons are waiting. White male privilege is a truism. It exists. It is pervasive. How we deal with it determines the course of our daily life. Do we accept it and move on with equanimity and poise? Or do we rail against it and live with churning stomachs, rising blood pressure and headaches? I choose the former.
But I will herd the damn bulls in the sagebrush when need be. Just like HRC did the other night.
