A Bubble's Survival

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People often ask me if I would consider moving back to the UK with my family. My answer is always a resounding "no." (Though I do think the UK could teach the US a thing or two about chocolate. Or curry. Actually, cooking in general, which I know is a pretty heretical viewpoint for the gal from the land of boiled everything and no salt.)

My emphatic answer is partly because of the way I feel at home in the US in a way I never experienced in the UK. But in the main, my reasons for staying Stateside are that I find more and more that certain aspects of UK culture are not ones I want to raise my son in. Admittedly I have not really immersed myself in British culture since a trip back in 2003 or so, and my current reflections are tempered by living in a small rural Oregon town, with a wonderfully respectful husband and a positive social circle. Perhaps had we located to a rural British town, we could have done the same. Perhaps if we lived in an urban American metropolis, I would think differently.

In moving so far away from our own families and existing social circles, we have been able to create our own community, our own society, a nexus of our own beliefs and values that we hope to instill in and propogate through Theron. Primary amongst these is that differences don't matter. You are no less of a person because of your gender, orientation, or race. Women are no less than men, black no less than white, gay no less than straight. We exist in this philosophical bubble, perhaps somewhat naively, but in the belief that every generation is making more and more progress towards it coming true.

It comes as a huge shock to my system therefore, when I transit Heathrow en route France and find that my figure is suddenly fair game to male roving eyes. I do not doubt it is also so in the US, however, there is at least an attempt to disguise such behaviour; whereas the naked evaluation evidenced elsewhere on the globe forcefully reminds me that I am first and foremost judged on my appearance and sexuality. I forgot I had boobs for about two years after emigrating to Seattle, until encountering a Scotsman professionally, and realizing that he was continually addressing southwards of my chin -- and he was taller than I. I remembered what it was like to be objectified, and to have that nagging doubt accompany all intellectual and professional discussion: am I being taken seriously here?

I still shudder when I think of the perverse pleasure a British ex-boyfriend took in referring to grown women as "girls." Not in any affectionate sense; just a regular old demeaning, that's-where-they-belong type sense. For me, he typified the misogynistic undercurrent that I still sense in the UK when I transit an airport and am bodily scanned (and not by an x-ray machine!), or try to read the latest Harry Potter on a train ride, only to encounter rude and chauvinistic comments from the group of guys sitting across from me, who evidently grew up with little respect for their fellow human beings, especially women.

I know I generalise. I know not all UK guys are guilty of misogyny, the same way that not all US guys have embraced equality of the sexes.

As I was reminded today when talking with an older school of gentleman who spends his mornings at Google. He had seen me working in the yard yesterday, specifically with our weed whacker in hand, as I "mowed" the back lot and our roadside strip.

"See this one!" he said, pointing at me as he addressed a colleague. "She works all the hours God sends at work, then goes home and works in the yard!"

That's right. Aaron and I have always agreed that we don't want Theron to grow up thinking it's weird that Mama likes to plant, hoe, weed, and generally reinvent the garden, or that Daddy likes to cook in the kitchen. He's just as likely to have Daddy kiss a boo-boo better as he is to see Mama's feet on a ladder to the attic while she checks for the leak in the roof.

Catching the speaker's drift, I said "Oh! Did you see me yesterday? Whacking the weeds? Boy, my biceps sure are sore. That sucker's electric, so it doesn't have a strap." I was proud of my work. Pleased that we won't get ticketed for overgrowth violation this month. Happy that I'd pulled my weight in our household yesterday, to the point where my arms were shaking, and today my forearm muscles are taut like wire.

"Yes!" he said. "Hey! Isn't that a husband's work?"

Just like that, poof! My philosophical bubble is dented, if not quite popped. It's still out there! The mentality that manual labour is the man's work. Women's is in the house. Maybe Theron's is not the generation that will view gender stereotypes historically, instead of experiencing them and giving them a continued relevance.

But do you know what the strange thing was? And the punchline realization that provoked this post?

This guy works for our catering team. He cooks, cleans, and washes dishes for a living.

Plus ca change.

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