I step inside the stale
community hall, get myself a cup of very bad coffee, and take a seat in the
makeshift circle of chairs. I’m careful to avoid making eye-contact.
There can’t be more than
20 people here, split about half along gender lines. It would seem that
misogyny is quite universal. The meeting is about to start. I gulp down the
rest of the caffeinated sludge.
The group leader is
identified by a lapel label, today our counsellor is Eva. Very appropriate name,
I think. The introductions: Eva instructs us to announce ourselves clockwise
from her. It is my turn, there’s a bowling ball in my stomach, there’s a desert
in my mouth.
“Hi everyone, my name is Erick and I am an
ex-misogynist.”
“Hi Erick,” everyone retorts.
The support group came
after years of harbouring a kind of disillusionment with the patriarchal status
quo. As a kid I thought women were powerless and seemingly content with it. It
wasn’t until much later that I realised girls were socialised to be dependent
and vulnerable.
I am engulfed in my own
memories and reflections while Eva continues the scheduled group therapy for
the day. I do not listen at all. I have been a bad feminist a decade and half
ago. Then again, I was juvenile and hardly politically aware but my conscience
demands that I issue an apology.
By the age of 20, I had noticed
how women continued to be taught to be dependent on the assistance of males. I
get sick when I hear someone uttering, “She cannot drive all by herself at night!”
Women can also change tyres. Admittedly, changing tyres is no fun and I do not
relish in that ability, it is a nuisance methinks everyone would love to avoid.
Don’t get me wrong, my
name isn’t Mao Tse-tung and I do not enjoy seeing women suffering hardships in
the name of egalitarianism as Jung
Chang contends in her and Jon Halliday’s Mao: The
Unknown Story.
I realise I was wrong to
blame women for how they have been raised. I recognise the folly of my
reasoning that attributed defencelessness to a feminine trait where it should
have been attributed to a system of patriarchal norms whereby the woman is made
to be a defenceless object.
The notion of the
empowered and independent woman is far from new. Aretha Franklin and Annie
Lennox sang the signature womanpower
song titled Sisters Are Doin' It For
Themselves. Countless other anthems followed by contemporary singers. I
think I am not alone when I call for a radical change to the way we raise girls
and boys.
I wake up from my
self-reflection only to disrupt the group discussion asking if it is
anti-feminist to use the word “bitch.” There’s a shrill silence.
“I am always hesitant to tweet the word. Has
the word been liberated?” I muse.
The group looks at me
reflectively. Some have expressions of sincere compassion as if I have just
achieved catharsis.
“We need to interrogate this subject, good
question Erick,” Eva says while swiftly moving on with the programme of the
day.
I look at each of the
group members and I am astonished that there are so few of us. A demure looking
lady in a grey woollen suit smiles broadly at me and only then I notice the
broach she’s wearing. I strain my eyes only to read, “This bitch bites.”
I found that very
appropriate.
