I wish I could say I had something nice to say today.  

And I want to say nice, thoughtful and positive things that work away from everyone’s adrenaline cycles of anger getting continuously fed by angry posts, reels and headlines. Especially right now, while I’m in the middle of doing some amazing work on this book and lucky enough to be the steward of a beautiful collection of stories that thoughtfully bring all the nuanced lenses of gender to light. 

But on this very day, I’ve started off the week with some productive rage and frustration with genderized socialization that I’m trying to write out of my system before trudging on, in the hopes that other people socialized as women will be able to laugh, sympathize, maybe say “me too,” and even get up the courage to call someone out if you’re feel safe enough to do so. In the hopes that people socialized as men might think for an extra second about how their words and actions are perceived.

Women Can’t Possibly Smell Bad …

What set me off? Something quite small and seemingly silly that’s not actually the MAIN cause of my anger. It was a poorly thought out (or not thought out) comment about my body from my partner – about that one time I smelled bad a few years ago. No – not like a horrificly raunchy body infection or anything – just, like I had particularly noticeable body odor one morning after eating a meal filled with garlic or something. I’m certain that I’ve exuded body odors too many times to count since then, but have lost count of how many times my dear person has brought up that ONE time I smelled bad. 

I’m writing about this interaction at the risk of not embarrassing myself, but rather my partner, who I rarely write about because he is much more private, and I don’t want to embarrass other people. My partner is an AMAZING human being, with progressive politics and smelly feet – someone who is truly more introspective than most men I know. But he’s still part of a misogynistic patriarchy. He’s still part of a society where he can comment on female bodies in ways that have no purpose other than passing judgement and inherently reminding women what their bodies are SUPPOSED to be for men. And he’s part of a society where the men around him are unlikely to challenge such comments. 

So, I may end up being one of the few people in this system to challenge my own partner’s seemingly innocuous comments rooted in misogyny. But sometimes, my challenge is only launched directly AT the safest person I know – the man who is often trying AND is least likely to murder me in my sleep at the first sign of a challenge. My anger today runs a lot deeper than his silly comments with a subconscious hyperfixation on one odor memory exuded by a female body. It’s been a slow rising ebb and flow of a simmer to boil over a lifetime with a foundation of a scalding hot plate that was shaped by sexual predators. Over an adulthood built on systems where my time, training, words and work were almost always perceived as LESS than men working beside me. 

No Shortage of Misogyny for all the Queers, Femmes and Butches

I’ve been hitting the boiling point again recently in a new neighborhood that I’m honestly enjoying in many ways. It’s steeped in interesting history and an extra splash of queer, but also brings me in closer proximity to a higher volume of people from ALL walks of life. Every other time I walk outside my home, I’m reminded of how many men feel entitled to control and prey on any female who walks by them. And it’s suddenly wearing down my patience for ANY tiny, hint of misogynistic behavior. 

Last week I was getting groceries and a dude with threatening body language leered and yelled out his parked car window as I walked,

“you look like a REALLLY NICE girl.”

I glared and kept moving – holding anger to myself to keep safe and stay away from escalation.

Two days ago, a group of men started loudly commenting on my body and staring as I crossed the street. “Hey! Hey!!! You look reeeal good today. Realll good.” One of his companions pointed at my ass,

“Yeah THAT look real good.”

I look around to make sure they weren’t pointing at an inanimate object. Well, there was a light post next to me … and I was the only human being standing on that street corner – fully clothed too. I glared, and changed my route instead of waiting for the crosswalk signal.

Last week, I felt a man lingering behind me as I did pull-ups. He caught my eye when I took a break, and cheerily commented on the warm weather. Then,

“Summer’s definitely here! Maybe it’s time to clean THAT up,”

as his hand motioned down toward my fuzzy legs. Maybe he was just jealous of my muscular calves? Or that I had more body hair than his aging body? Maybe I should have informed him that my body hit puberty nearly 3 decades ago, but I WAS enjoying my workout before being at a loss for words.

A few months ago, I needed to eat my emotions and walked to the nearest convenience store for a pint of ice cream. The man ringing me out at the counter complimented my fresh haircut. I didn’t like his vibe, so I started glaring as I waited for my credit card to process. This was apparently his invitation to say he wanted to lick my shaved head,

“yeah, yeah … I just really want to LICK THAT up,”

rubbing his hand against the side of his head and sticking out his tongue. Gross. I just wanted my fucking ice cream. 

Last weekend I went to a tattoo festival – I LOVE listening to the bagpipes. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE bagpipes! But less than two minutes after getting there, a white guy in his fifties determines I’m alone. Then proceeds to explain everything in the festival TO me, trying his best to talk over the loud drone of the bagpipes, then getting annoyed that the deafening roar of the jet flyover interrupted him completely. How was I supposed to exist in this space, and enjoy the bagpipes without a man’s explanation? So I glare, ignore him, and walk away. I could feel his stare after me,

then he followed me,

to the opposite side of this giant plaza filled with hundreds of people. I tried my best power stance giving him the back of my shoulder as he invaded my personal space. Then straight up told him I wasn’t interested in talking. Then lied and told him my man was coming to meet me soon. This seemed to fall on deaf ears, so I resorted to hiding behind the arena’s giant columns and watching for his approach. I just wanted to listen to the bagpipes in peace. 

Never Queer Enough to Escape Misogyny

I told a friend about the encounter, and asked WHAT was it that was attracting these people – not that I’m alone in this. But, in my mind, I’m not even conventionally attractive – at least not in the way that our culture values certain feminine qualities that might lead someone to the Miss America stage. Regardless, at least every few days a man feels the need to comment on my body. I’m 39 years old – and not trying to rush the aging process but almost look forward to the day where I’m invisible enough in our society that holds disdain for aging female bodies. My hair is turning white and silver. My mode of dressing often veers toward more masculine. I often walk out my door looking queer as fuck. I’ve mostly stopped giving a shit about how uncomfortable my hairy legs can make people (mostly men) in a society valuing female bodies who aspire backwards in time to their prepubescent form – no lines, no stretch marks, and most importantly no body hair.

My friend’s response to my rant? She only half jokingly said my mistake was hiding behind the arena’s columns. Maybe these people won’t bother you if you look more aggressive – use the intimidating stance and muscular body you’ve already got. I LOVE this friend – she’s all about active female empowerment and dismantling the patriarchy. But still found myself groaning at the implications in her well-meaning suggestions.

I’ve already taken to glaring at anyone who looks like they’re ready to start preying, which is also problematic – it’s at odds with how I want to interact with my world.

Some of the deepest connections I’ve had in this work advocating for gender diversity have been sparked by catching a stranger’s friendly eye on the street. I actually WANT to connect with the world around me. I mean – I’m a photographer & a creative – I love wandering with a photographer’s eye and seeing all the people and all the things around me.  

But I don’t always … because I’m projecting my best icy glare coupled with a power strut down the street – like I simultaneously hate life and own the street. Just so I can possibly look less like prey. And I HATE it. 

Struggling Together with Hope Towards Something Better

Back to the explosion at my partner as he dismantles his own socialization. Lately, when any female gets noticeably disgruntled with him, sometimes he brings up an airport interaction a couple years ago that stuck with him. He thought a woman in the terminal looked quite distressed and he paused to ask if she was doing okay. And she screamed at him,

“Do you want me to SMILE?!?”

He was shocked, then speculated on the multitude of negative interactions she might have experienced before this. 

There’s a lot of built up anger behind uncomfortable female glares and offensive launches. These explosions of anger don’t come from nowhere. So when the man closest to me reminds me with a poorly thought out comment that conveys that my body should be perfect for his viewing and smelling pleasure at ALL times – my anger boils. Because it was already on a hot simmer. No fewer than 10 strangers on the street have already informed me in recent weeks that I as a female person am diminished to how my body looks.

A body that SHOULD apparently be hairless, odorless, and perhaps devoid of intelligent thoughts (which is why I would CLEARLY need someone to explain a tattoo festival to me!). 

So I’m angry. Not at one person. Maybe it can be harder to work together when we’re angry, but we CAN’T work towards something BETTER as a collective if more than half the population has no idea WHY we’re so angry. WHERE the anger is coming from. 

If we – men, women, LGBTQ, transgender, nonbinary people – all keep letting bad behavior off the hook, misogyny will just continue to burrow deeper, in ways that get harder to call out. Women and other females will continue to embrace this as normal – that we are painted dolls who should be treated as such. But all of us, of all genders, can do better. The bar is just not that high. 

And oh yeah, there’s only 35 days left to launch this project’s book Kickstarter, for Northern Lights, Northern Lives. It’s not unrelated to this writing rant.

The book’s collection of stories covers … well – EVERYTHING. The pains of misogyny, sexism, transphobia, racism, navigating ALL the conflicting demands of femininity and masculinity. Bringing these conversations into the open won’t leave you wondering WHY people are frustrated and angry. They won’t leave you wondering why there’s so much sadness, pain, even joy, and complexity surrounding our performances of gender. These stories are pushing to expand past a system of binary narratives that doesn’t even add up to those controlling it. 

So, sure – I’m angry, at least in a more visible way today – as a trans person, gender queer person, a female who many read as a woman.  But still naively optimistic that we can dismantle this system – one tiny step at a time, with one story at a time.