On Being a Woman

As he eyed me up and down he said with a smirk, “Some of us need to watch our figure…” after rejecting a cup of coffee.

I smiled and chuckled an obligatory laugh and immediately internally reproached myself. How I dare I let myself laugh at that comment? How dare I let myself be degraded in front of my peers and my boss? These comments have become banal to me. I am not surprised by them anymore and their frequency has made me forget the anger I used to feel toward them.

However, I am never allowed to forget that I am a woman. Most spaces I enter I am met with these unoriginal and disturbing comments that make me feel inherently unequal. I feel like I am something to look at, I am entertainment. I am not taken seriously. But I know if I raised my voice to reproach this man, I would be taken for sensitive, for bossy, for bitchy.

The conversation with this South African investment banker (who did, in fact need to watch his figure) never veered from its sexist beginning.

He asserted the space around him widely, his feet every so often grazing mine.

In response, I crossed my legs and shifted away. I held my coffee diminutively, making myself smaller in his presence so he could have his space. I wonder if I was doing this for his benefit or mine.

He spoke to me as if I needed teaching. “Were you shocked by Africa? Surprised there are no wild animals roaming the streets?”

I wondered if he would have asked me the same question if I were a man.

“Bullshit!” he exclaimed before covering his mouth and looking at me with a smile. “Oops, I shouldn’t swear. I forgot whom I was speaking to.”

Bullshit, I thought. Why shouldn’t he swear? Am I too fragile to spoken to so directly?

Bullshit. I looked to my boss—did he notice this behavior?

Bullshit. What can I do? How do I react?

I sit there silently accepting his leers and glances, silently accepting that I am in fact a woman. While he may have “forgotten” whom he was speaking to, I can never forget. In every word that is spoken I remember. Every time I walk down the street in Cape Town I remember, and I walk a little faster. Every time I take off my cardigan I remember, and I put it right back on.

Sexism has become commonplace and expected in my interactions with men. However, I find myself more surprised when I have conversations not tinged with this sexism.

I do not want to forget I am a woman. My womanhood gives me experiences and insights that are extremely valuable, especially in male-dominated conversations. But I should be allowed to forget. I should be given that choice, which is now taken from me by small (and sometimes large) sexist acts.

I dare myself not to release that seemingly obligatory laugh. I dare myself not to shrink away to give men more space. I dare myself to remember I am a woman—and stand prouder because of it.