I'm a frequent reader of feministing and Salon's Broadsheet. A sort of Department of X-Chromosomeland Security, they aggregate the female-oriented news of the day, I browse it once or twice a week, sipping coffee, and gauge how pissed I should be at the patriarchy.
Yesterday's report included two items that got me thinking. The first was a Reuters article about Tokyo rail companies passing out "I Have a Baby in my Belly" buttons to pregnant rail riders in the hopes that fellow train passengers will offer their seats to expectant moms. The effort is meant especially for those women in the early months of pregnancy who aren't yet sporting a bump. I finished the article and thought, so what? Broadsheet was more concerned. "There are several troubling things about this. First off is the treatment of women in the early months as invalids who need to be cosseted. After all, if a woman in her first trimester is too weak to stand through a commute, how will she do her job? Should she be exercising? It seems a short step backward to periods of confinement and bed rest." Interesting point, but other than a passing annoyance with the media's interminable obsession with the womb, my Pissed at the Patriarchy alert level remained a mellow yellow.
The second article I came across was a piece from the UK's Daily Mail by Nirpal Dhaliwal titled, "How feminism destroyed real men." In it, Dhaliwal flashes his creds as a "true feminist" by sharing his affinity for "powerful and capable" women, then goes on to verbally spank these women for preferring "pliant, feeble" men and these "pliant, feeble" men for their "surrender in the sex war." Real men need to stage a comeback, he insists, and points out an easily accessible tool that any man can use as a weapon in this power struggle with the opposite sex. Guys, you've probably got one lying around within reach: It's your dick. Take up arms! Yes, according to Dhaliwal, "The female orgasm is the natural mechanism by which men assert dominion over women: a man who appreciates this can negotiate whatever difficulties arise in his relationships with them." That's right, as King of the Clitoris, he not only persuaded his unfortunate wife to forgive his infidelities, but to admit that he's "the boss" while climaxing. Ick. This guy's a fucking joke, I thought, imagining my own reaction to being asked, "Who's the Boss?" during sex. What? Is it on or something? Nick at Night picked it up? I haven't seen that show in so long! We should watch it when we're finished.
"Who's the boss?" Seriously? What man would mistake this drivel of limp ego for insight into male/female relationships? The Pissed at the Patriarchy alert level was rocketing to a menstrual-blood red.
I needed a reality check. A real male opinion. So I forwarded the article to J with the note, "Honey, do you want to be the boss? I'm doing a survey."
He emailed back, quoting the article. "A mutual friend later told me she'd initially been presented with a less garish but more exquisite diamond but had told her fiancĂ to return it to the shop and get her something bigger. ha ha."
My quick, slightly ruffled response: "Is that a yes? I'm just asking, really. I just wanted your reaction. Not sure what quoting this line signifies? Nevermind."
He called me. "Babe, I just thought that line was funny. I meant nothing by it. You really can't expect me, in the middle of a busy work day, to read and ponder this long article and have a meaningful reaction to it. I haven't had time to read the whole thing."
"I know." It was true. J is insanely busy most of the time. Too busy, in fact, to ponder whether or not he's the boss of me. And aren't we all a little too busy for this? Too busy working, eating, walking, stopping at the store for toilet paper, getting the air conditioner fixed, reading, cooking, making love, celebrating our own and each other's success, grieving our own and each other's loss, to really give a shit Who's the Boss? What a burden, anyway, to carry that much weight in a relationship when there's so much to be done. It seems we should share the baggage, trade off depending on who's feeling better that day. Because, ideally, that's what feminism is about, isn't it? Balance. Not dominance.
On the train ride home that evening, these thoughts ping-ponging in my head, I watched a young man, in his mid-twenties probably, scoot through the doors on crutches, his knee in a brace. The doors closed and the train jolted forward, the young man still standing, glancing around wide-eyed. "Can someone give him a seat?" a tall, slender woman asked, a copy of The Devil Wears Prada in one hand, the other gripping the rail for balance, "He's got a bad knee." A moment later, a brown-haired woman slid from her seat near the door and motioned for the man to sit down.
"Thanks," he said to the woman who'd spoken on his behalf.
"No problem," she said, glancing up from her book.
A pregnant woman in Tokyo should get a seat on the train if she wants one. So should a man on crutches in Chicago.Who's the boss? At the end of the day, at the end of yesterday anyway, it looked like a wash.
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