And the Men All Got Polos
I am filled to the brim with feminist rage. I have seen and experienced both the innocuous and the aggressive male ego, male dominance, and male sex drive my entire life. And I have been proud of my own little barrier-breaking within my own world. There are so many good men who have mentored me, sponsored my development, given me leadership opportunities, and I honor that.
But in the last few months my rage has been building. I have been seeing old friends. Lunch with two Kathys of elementary school and middle school friendship. Dinners with JoAnn and Patty and Elaine and Kathy, old high school friends. And last night, seeing old national championship teammates and the 1991 World Cup winners from Washington. And all of those women had inspiring stories about being the first woman to work as a jailer, or play in the women’s pro golf circuit, or be the Assistant Director of the FBI, or win the World Cup.
But every one of these stories had a dark underbelly that scarred the pure pride of accomplishment. A woman who did not want to show up to be honored because the pain of sexual harassment by the coach overshadowed her pride at being on the team. A woman who was denied the chance to be a police officer because she did not weigh enough. A woman who had to fight off the sponsor paying her way. Several women who had to choose between a marriage and a career. A woman who could not rise in her company until a man sponsored her promotions. A woman who could not get a library card unless her husband signed for it. Seeing the pain and extra struggle and layers of benign neglect these women had to experience to find success makes me deeply angry.
Two days ago I read a Twitter feed about Henry David Thoreau, revered as a foundational American poet for his profound reflections on solitude and nature, a self-made man who went to the woods and built a cabin, in order to learn how to live. It turns out the cabin was on his mom’s property. And his mom brought him sandwiches to live off. And his sister came once a week to clean his cabin.
This infuriates me. I feel blind rage at his fame and fake independence, and I feel anger that he was artificially supported by women so that he could ponder and muse and become famous.
And it’s at every level. I felt such pride at being the first female ASB president at our high school in 1967, memorizing Robert’s Rules of Order so I could run the student senate, while our ASB president walked around being an iconoclast in black and white saddle shoes. While my girlfriends and I had to fill out voluminous scholarship applications for college scholarships and I had to drive up to the UW and interview with several panels, my husband got called in by the HS counselor and offered a full ride to Seattle U. Done. I have many stories of being a woman coach of HS boys. Referees would meet me, then ask me if the coach had arrived yet. The photographer met me at the All League picture taking, watched me take roll and get the boys in order, then said we could not take the picture until the coach arrived. Then just last night, 40 years after these incidents, our board put on our women’s soccer event. I worked hard to make it happen, I had a speaking role representing our board, I felt very proud of our work and my role and the event was a great success. Until I saw the male board members in matching polos, given to them by one of the male board members.
This really happened in 2019. Last night. At an event honoring women’s soccer. The men got matching polos and the women got none. Have you seen the photo of the old woman carrying the protest sign that says, “I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit.”?
And that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is trying explain to my male board member friend why I was so upset. He could not understand it. “Frank was not trying to hurt anyone. He was just trying to do something nice.”
God help black people. And immigrants. And LGBTQ people. I believe they feel ten times what I experience, except with fear for their very lives. Women usually only fear rape or assault. Or being second class. We usually do not fear being shot or stabbed or arrested or being shot while being arrested.
When I was teaching at Enumclaw, then a stereotypic small logging/dairy town, we had one black teacher. I asked him if he would be willing to speak to my English class on Martin Luther King Day about his experience being black in America. He talked about support networks and resources. While he had social and spiritual support, he did not have an academic or financial support network. A student said, “But you got to go to college.” He said, “Oh, yes, I got a degree from the university the same as other people. But when I graduated, my knowledge was much less deep and much less wide. I had to work nights full time to pay for school. So I just could not study and learn to the same degree as others.”
This is what white privilege is about, or white male privilege. Yes, women and minorities can do any of the same things white males do, but we have to work so much harder. My husband was a diligent student and worked very hard in school. But harder than I? Or the black teacher? Yet a four year scholarship landed in his lap without him lifting a finger.
My board member friend and I both worked at our event. Yet he was sporting the team polo and I was not. And he said I could have his polo, complete with his body sweat from the evening…….missing the point entirely. It’s not about owning the polo. I can BUY a polo. I can buy ten polos. I can buy a Seahawks jersey, but that does not put me out on the AstroTurf or in the locker room. Was it silly of me to think that because my name was on the roster and I was working hard at training and I was at the pre-game talk that I was on the team? The point is to actually be on the team. The point is to be treated with equal respect. The point is to not have to fight to be treated like one of the team. The metaphors, we know: Have a seat at the table. Be one of us. Be part of the family. One for all and all for one. No man left behind. My brother.
It’s also humiliating. While I have been joking and interacting as if I am part of the team, talking about individuals as if we are friends, apparently some of the team see me as…? The special ed equipment manager? A mascot in a costume? A cheerleader in a sports bra? An executive assistant managing the paperwork? A JV player allowed to suit up for the game?—No, because even that guy gets a uniform. While I thought we were a band of brothers, five of my brothers swiftly switched into the team polos and no one said, “Why doesn’t Deb have a polo?” And one said (my board member friend),” Can you put my shirt in your purse until afterwards?” True. The blindness. Does this happen in the Marines amongst brothers? No man left behind until polo time.
I know it’s not just women or minorities who end up on the bottom. I know that toxic masculinity creates such a clawing to the top that the brothers abandon all their other allegiances— wives, children, friends, health, and education in order to be one of the chosen few. And even within the chosen few there is an alpha dog and the other spittle-licking dogs. Look at the research around bullying. Or hazing. Or gang rituals. Being overlooked for a polo is nothing compared to being whipped with coat hangers or having a pine cone pushed up your anus or having to shoot someone to be jumped into a gang.
So is it destined to be Lord of the Flies forever? Am I always to feel like Piggy at the mercy of Ralph and his henchmen in war paint and matching polos? Or can I help negate the toxic climate and make Ralph more humane, more inclusive?
Can you identify the board members?
