#MeToo and Gender and 2018

Me too. For a long time, that phrase described a woman's place in the world. An afterthought. A casual, last-minute addition. 

Today, it means something very different. It is a forum where women detail the sexual abuse and manipulation they have received at the hands of men.

Like so much else that surfaced in 2017, it is ugly.

Heading the list is Harvey Weinstein, an immensely powerful Hollywood mogul who held in his hands the futures of alluring young women eager to taste Hollywood's fame and riches. Judging from the available evidence, it appears that Weinstein had no compunction whatsoever about taking advantage of that position.

These allegations are serious and are being taken in kind. Dozens of accused men have surrendered their jobs, their public standing and conceivably, their marriages. It is a very high price to pay.

My concern is that so many of them are merely that—allegations. Only a tiny percentage have seen the inside of a courtroom, where they would be held up to the bright light of examination and proven or disproven.

Women, like men, are capable of holding grudges. Of crafting agendas. Of seizing opportunities. Of lying. And what better way to soothe a wounded ego than to accuse a powerful and well-connected man of withholding a coveted role because you didn't put out?

There is a faint whiff of the sordid Tawana Brawley – Al Sharpton affair, which was one of the more distressing events of my lifetime. I remember thinking you mean there isn't enough genuine racism in the world? We have to manufacture it???

And yet, having witnessed firsthand the depths my sex can sink to in the pursuit of female, um, companionship, they aren't terribly hard to believe, either. And after folding in the intoxicating multipliers of celebrity and wealth, imagining the worst requires the same stretch that reaching for the remote does.

As a man raised by a mother who had “...and to obey” stricken from her marriage vows, and as one who came of age in the sensitive male seventies, I was taught to respect women as fellow human beings. They were neither superior nor inferior; they existed alongside me.

All of which made perfect sense.

But in the divisive twenty-first century, where everything has become a war, those attitudes would be roundly mocked by half of the population. Men reach for extreme expressions of masculinity in a changing social and economic landscape that increasingly favors women, while feminism becomes less about equality and more about control.

As an age-enhanced individual, I find it ironic when I encounter women who remind me of the men feminists once railed against. They are dismissive, arrogant and possess the same sense of gender-based entitlement my forebearers did.

When I don't find it ironic, I find it sad. This is progress?

I love the French expression vive la difference. I can only wonder how it plays out in French culture. Are relationships between men and women really better there? Do French men and women truly love and respect one another for who they are?

In America, life is about winning. And there can only be one winner. It isn't about co-existing, it's about emerging victorious. About control. Contentment is frowned upon. One must always seek the promotion. Desire the bigger house. Have and want more.

Sadly, this seeps into our personal relationships as well.

This competition was once the exclusive property of men in the workplace. But again, times have changed. Women, historically denied the opportunity to buy into that and become part of it suddenly do. And are.

How funny is it that in a country as homophobic as the United States, women are assuming the qualities of men? And must do so if not for respect, then equality?

The aforementioned age-enhanced individual laments that as a society, we refuse to recognize traditional feminine characteristics as different—but equal—strengths. One sex gets to dominate, the other is made subservient.

We refuse to celebrate our differences. To appreciate and regard each gender for their unique qualities and what each brings to the world. To understand how vital each is to an ongoing, functional civilization.

Before I am labelled a Bible-toting chauvinist, I should add that we also refuse to allow women opportunity when traditional roles don't appeal.

While not a knee-jerk supporter of girl power (I don't remember the last male boss I had nor do I make a third more than the woman working next to me simply because I have a penis), I have to admit the societal model is broken.

Women shouldn't ever be put through what so many have been, be it in Hollywood or on Wall Street.

Seventies feminism provoked the frequently-asked question “What do women want?”, which was, in retrospect, entirely the wrong question. Women are individuals. They are diverse and want as many different things as men do.

Maybe a better question was (and is) what can women want? 

With democracy on life-support, my wish for 2018 is that both sexes can live fulfilling lives unconstrained and undefined by gender.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

What to Wear

I don't read the Sunday newspaper—I scour it. I scour it like those guys in hazmat suits who neutralize EPA Superfund sites.

That's how I end up reading about condo associations and grilled pork served with mint leaves and fig compote and South American political scandals from the 1940s. It's also how I end up reading a woman's complaints about how men dress at the gym.

The aggrieved party wrote a columnist because she is disturbed by the sight of men in tight-fitting clothing at the gym. Shorts in particular. Even worse, the sommelier who heads this whine cellar goes on to empathize with the complainant.

Sigh. Eye rolls, anyone?

I've heard this argument before. And if I hear another woman complain about guys in Speedos (or clingy gym attire) I'm going to burst. And here's why:

Everyday I see size 18 women waddling around in size 5 clothes. I see cellulite jiggling underneath tissue-thin yoga pants. Guts hanging out from midriff tops. XL rear ends not quite contained by XS string bikinis.

And that's just the beginning.

But that's not indecent exposure. Nope. That's empowerment. Women being strong. Liberated. Casting off the shackles of male expectations of beauty.

If you say so.

I call it U-G-L-Y. And I really, really don't want to see it.

But saying so makes me a seething, hateful misogynist. Which only fuels my argument that there's a raging double-standard at work here.

We live in an age of unfettered ego. “What do you mean I don't look like Kerry Washington? I rock these, baby!” “You can actually tell the difference between Vin Diesel and me? I'm gonna run you over, you punk-ass bitch!”

All of us have the bodies of Greek gods and goddesses. Check.

And speaking of unfettered egos, I should add that I wish more people were just like me.

You see, not so long ago, I stood 6' 3” and weighed 190 pounds. I had a thirty-four inch waist. I played basketball without a shirt, and did my power walking in shorts that did not conform to the prevailing skater/hip hop/just-released-felon aesthetic.

I.E., they did not hang down to my shins.

But then I gained thirty pounds.

As a result, I don't walk around the house, much less public spaces, without a shirt. You feel me? I am embarrassed. I am not proud. I am—as we like to spout on social media—humbled.

Yes, the old self-esteem has taken a hit. But even after cataract surgery, I fail to see how going out in a too-tight t-shirt is going to empower me.

Granted, I am not a woman. But even within the relaxed appearance standards women typically hold men to, I am fat. I am a middle-aged, pear-shaped, dad-bodied cliché. It's not self-loathing. It's not culturally-induced shaming. It's just a realistic look in the mirror.

I don't like it, and I doubt you would, either. So, in a gesture of magnanimity to my fellow man, I cover it up.

And it doesn't make you or me a hater or sexist to wish that all the ball-sack baring, stretch-mark sharing men and women around us would do the same.

Two sexes, one standard.

We can do this.

Speechless

In that peculiar way scorched-earthers have, it has been decided the Toyota Prius is at the root of all they consider evil, and so must heap scorn and derision upon it lest there one day be a greenhouse gas shortage on planet Earth.

I mean, just imagine the lines, right?

The sour personality types who would feel this way about a car which lessens a problem as opposed to contributing to it are, among other things, tragically misguided. 

They are tools of the corporation, the pathetic byproduct of marketing campaigns which have succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations at embedding between our ears the idea that we are what we own.

Given a choice between life and lifestyle, they obediently and dutifully choose lifestyle. They embrace that which those of us with functioning brains realize is killing us. 

The most obstinate call themselves coal rollers, and modify their vehicle's fuel delivery system to oversupply the engine, resulting in clouds of thick, black exhaust they jokingly refer to as Prius Repellent.

Their desire to drive these vehicles is as juvenile as it is short-sighted.

But the acting out doesn't stop there. They must ridicule those actively participating in a better future. Social media is the obvious choice, and the comments are staggering in their ignorance.

One remark which stood out was the response to a guy who enjoyed the hushed responses of his hybrid, to which a (presumed) coal roller replied “Someone buy that dude a skirt.”

I ask you: could the most ardent, man-hating feminist trivialize men and masculinity so completely and so successfully?

Thanks, bro.

Sure, the fantasy of being behind the wheel of a powerful sports car as it zooms to one-hundred plus miles-per-hour is a powerful one. It is one that has admittedly possessed this car lover for decades.

Yet one has only to venture out onto our traffic-clogged streets to know it is just that—a fantasy. 

Where I live, it seems every resident is able to drive two or three cars simultaneously. The rage and frustration the ensuing congestion provokes isn't exactly conducive to good health or productivity.

Given this undeniable reality and the mountain of evidence supporting global warming, we are left with little choice but to accept the development and implementation of clean, autonomous cars if we are to have a future.

I'll admit the better-to-die-on-your-feet-than-live-on-your-knees dynamic has its applications. But is unswerving allegiance to the internal combustion engine really one of them?

This would be fine if the climate change deniers who brook this kind of thinking were only guaranteeing a world rich in CO2 for themselves, but they're not. 

By moving 'senseless' past any known definition, they not only wish to destroy their future—which is fine—but yours as well.

Selfish self-destructiveness has no place in a democracy.