Dear Mr McGuire,
I hated the comments you made recently about a female sports journalist but I’m not here to demonise you for it. I know you thought it was just a joke between you and your male colleagues about drowning her under water in the name of charity and Aussie Rules football. A bit of poking fun at a journo who occasionally gives you a hard time. I realise you might not understand why some of us are upset about it and why it may seem like political correctness gone mad. So I’m not going to attack you or insult you. But I do want to explain why it matters.
I know I have to choose my words carefully. We’ve learnt not to complain too much in public about the effect words have on us, lest we get branded as bad sports or hairy, lesbian feminists. Or worse – ugly. Our training starts early. As kids we’re praised for being “good girls”, for thinking of others first. For looking pretty and having nice hair.
We’re introduced to boys being boys in primary school when a classmate whispers to us to look under the desk. When we do, he’s pulled his shorts up to reveal his penis to us. We’ll hear boys being told not to cry like a girl or run like a girl or squeal like a girl. When we start high school and make the mistake of cutting our hair too short, we’ll hear a boy ask the whole class, “Is IT a boy or a girl?” and know not to respond. To stay silent. We learn exactly who thinks we have a nice arse or good tits and where we rank in comparison to all the other girls. We become so familiar with boys freely and publically commenting on our bodies that we begin to think it’s a compliment.
In early relationships, we dance on a delicate line to ensure we’re not branded as tight or a slut. We’re not quite sure which one is worse. We might kiss a boy we like who then tries to blackmail us into having sex with him. We might get to know a really nice boy, not the blackmailing kind, who tells us his perfect girl would consist of our body with one of our friends head placed on top.
When we join the working world, our male workmates will comment openly on the size of our breasts. We might sit next to a man who does the same job we do but gets paid more. At nightclubs, faceless men will squeeze our buttocks or cup our crotch. When we make our way home at the end of the night we’ll write down taxi ID numbers for our friends because young women just like us are disappearing from popular nightspots and being found in bushland, assaulted and murdered.
As adults we see busty, dominatrix women brandishing whips and clad in leather used to advertise car repair companies on TV. We read female-friendly lift out sections in our newspaper that provide helpful tips on how to get bikini ready for summer or lose that baby tummy. We spend hours making dinner so our father-in-laws can thank our husbands for the lovely meal. We have uncles who refer to women as breeding mares.
When we attend AFL games, we hear men drop the C bomb because calling someone a vagina is the worst insult there is. We hear poorly performing players called a pussy. As we shuffle towards our seats with our backs facing those already seated, we’re called darling by a stranger who suggests it would be great for him if we’d turn around the other way. When a female football fan asks a man to tone down his colourful language in front of her children, we see him respond by punching her in the face.
We watch the local news and hear of a man sentenced to five years jail for punching his wife in front of their young children. Placing the baby on her body to breastfeed as she lay unconscious on the floor, then moving her to another room to die and decompose over 12 days. We watch a TV programme about a woman who died after being taken to a beach to party with two male “friends”. She was highly intoxicated when a “sexual act” was performed on her with a fist. These friends destroyed evidence, then continued drinking while she lay naked on the sand, bleeding to death from massive internal injuries. We learn no charges have been laid against anyone.
So Mr McGuire, are you the worst person on the planet? No, not by a long way. Does anyone think you actually wanted to harm your media colleague? No. Does anyone believe you support violence of any kind towards women? No. As women, are we all a little bit sensitive? Yes.
For many people, your words are just a throw away line. A joke. Not a big deal. In isolation they may be no more meaningful than that. But in the context of what women see, hear and experience on a daily basis, they are something much more powerful than that. They are suggestive of an intimidation and disrespect towards women in our society that is often not so subtle.
Your words matter.
She Doesn't Wear Her Shoes... 