WOMAN IN A MAN'S WORLD

I found myself very reactive recently among a group of beloveds for whom I have the utmost respect. The gender representation was equal, but three of the males seemed to be overlooking the females in the planning of a new event. I say this with reservation because my viewpoint was deeply clouded. My sudden response came from a twisted gut and carried with it far more intensity than I had hoped for. My self control was long lost.

On returning home I walked around our yard and let the tears flow. I love every one of the men in that room, and they have supported my growth for years in every zig and zag of my life. I tried to honor myself for my own deep felt truth, pretty or not, and move on without leftovers. But this morning I noticed my dreams since that night have been spot on serving men: trying to keep them happy, trying to meet their needs before they even know they have them. From whence cometh this servitude?

There are some obvious setups for my deep obedience and resentment that are by now almost a given in our society: a father with an obnoxious temper, molestation as a child, rape as a teen. But then there is a long list of male employers I've worked for in various capacities over a 50-year work life: secretary, waitress, cook, writer, social worker. Most employers were benign, but they signed the paycheck that fed us from month to month. Some were downright rude. One was lucky I didn't press charges for smacking my butt with a book in the office of an institutional kitchen. And a few were enlightened men who at least intellectually understood the position women find themselves in in this era. (There it is again, coming out in language. The "position" would be "under" and subtly becomes a sexual reference.)

I have been an uppity woman. I've worked in domestic violence, marched in demonstations at military bases, written scathing indictments of politicians and legislation. But I've also mellowed and see women's experience in a much larger context, as a historical/cultural wave, like wars over limited resources, that one day will look as archaic as stone age tools. Perhaps the residuals of sexism and powerlessness in my life, small as they are, still nest like ponderosa pine seeds that awaken with a forest fire years after they're buried? So one minute I'm in a lively discussion with my beloveds in a cozy living room, and the next I'm fighting for my life as a valued participant, gasping for the fresh air of recognition.

Everyone in the group is moving on. It was likely an insignificant outburst to them. The male members greeted me warmly the next time we gathered, and I them. And I still wonder: when a woman's had children, does she ever not respond to a precious baby? When a woman's been physically, emotionally and financially wounded by males, does she ever really lose her defensiveness? Unfortunately, this one hasn't. The victim is not dead, although she is a compassionate witness most of the time.

Because I believe the personal is political, I extrapolate from my mini episode to the greater culture where numerous angry groups project their emotional make up onto authority figures using simplistic slogans and funded by unseen and powerful backers. The cultural wave is cresting, and we're all in the forces together. May we act from our deepest and most abiding place of peace while embracing our personal reactivity with love.