SoMa Literary Review - Perceptions

Perceptions

By Matt Simione

I like the BART. I think it’s a great way to get around the Bay Area. And it can be entertaining too, as well as educational. I met my daughter at the Macarthur Station recently. We rode the train to Berkeley to go window shopping and have dinner. She’d decided on having Vietnamese food and her favorite Vietnamese restaurant is in Berkeley.

Afterwards, as we headed back to the BART Station, I noticed that a number of the young women passing by were similarly dressed. Their pants, rolled up halfway to their knees, revealed unshaven legs. They also had a bandana tied to their head and wore no makeup.

“Is that the trend in fashion now-a-days?” I asked my daughter. She only shrugged and reminded me we were in Berkeley. Later, back on the train headed home, I couldn’t help but notice, and hear, a young girl and her Mother talking. It had to do with problems the girl was having at school. They weren’t academic, but social.

“Just be yourself.” the Mother said.

I noticed the teenagers eyes roll around in her head as she sighed heavily.

“What?” the Mother asked.

“Nothing. Forget it. You don’t understand.” the girl responded. (What Parent hasn’t heard that – or something similar – before?)

The look in the Mother’s eyes spoke volumes to me. (My kids were teenagers once too.) She was genuinely concerned and wanted to understand, to help. But, as often happens during those tumultuous teen years, the Parent is shut out or disregarded.

A moment of silence passed before the teen mumbled something to her Mom.

“What?

The eyes rolled again followed by another heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” the Mother responded.

“I said it’s because I’m not pretty.” the girl repeated herself, a little too loudly. A number of other passengers looked up at her.

The Mother’s eyes widened noticeably. “What are you talking about? Look at you, you’re beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“I am not.”

“Yes you are!”

“You have to say that, you’re my Mom.” The teen’s shoulders sagged a bit and again she sighed.

I could see there were tears in her eyes; her Mother’s too. I expected the Mom to say something, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned back in her seat and stared at the floor. I thought she might cry.

Two Stations later, without another word spoken between them, they exited the train. How sad. I felt like crying myself.

High School years are rough. Adolescence to young adult is not an easy transformation. And for those that aren’t exactly picture perfect it can be a living hell.

A few days later, while talking with a friend, I mentioned having gone to Berkeley with my daughter.

“Berserkly. I haven’t been there in years. Is it still the same? Weird?” she asked.

“No. It’s changed, totally.” I said facetiously. “Everyone’s a Young Republican and a card carrying member of the NRA.”

“Yeah right.” She laughed.

I mentioned the similar style of dress I’d noticed on a number of the young women.

“Maybe they’re making a statement.”

“You think? And what would that statement be?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe they want people to accept them for who they are, inside. And not for what they look like on the outside.” My friend has always been a feminist. Everything is a feminist issue to her.

“So, you’re saying these young women are intentionally keeping themselves… what? Slovenly? So that people will appreciate them for their minds and not just their bodies?” I asked.

“Maybe. Yeah, something like that.”

“But, that’s the same thing you say about… everything.”

She glared at me. “You don’t understand woman, do you?”

“Not at all.” I admitted. “And the older I get the more I think it’s an absolute impossibility.”

“That’s because you’re a man.”

In twenty years, I’ve never had a conversation with my friend that didn’t include the sentence, ‘That’s because you’re a man’. It’s her reason, response and/or explanation for everything. Everything.

“These are intelligent young women. They were accepted into Berkeley. They’re more than just boobs and butts…”

“Please. Not the ‘piece of meat, sex object’ speech again.” I begged.

“I’m serious. It’s not easy being a woman. You have no idea.” She slapped at my arm, payback for any sexist thought I may have had running through my head. I had none, but knew I’d never convince her of that. “Woman’s issues aren’t confined to the ‘60’s and ‘70’s you know.”

I thought about the young teen on the BART train. Girls and women do have it harder. It’s still a man’s world. I’m not saying that it’s right, just that it is. Sexism, like racism, is something that we learn. And, like racism, sexism is something that has been ignored in our supposedly enlightened time. Political correctness has only served to hide sexist attitudes, not dispel them. We say what is right to say because it’s politically correct to do so, or the law. But, as with racism, pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t work; it only makes it more difficult to root out.

“So, you’re saying that by not shaving their legs they’re making a statement about their intelligence? That they’re more than the soft, fragile, sex objects that advertisements still depict them as? That they’re smart, intelligent and capable individuals?”

“Maybe.” my feminist friend replied. “How’d you like to have to shave your legs just because men think it’s sexy and feminine?”

“Wouldn’t like it.” I admitted.

“See?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She looked at me as if she was trying to find some evidence of understanding in my eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. Is that so hard to believe?”

My friend smiled. “You know, maybe you’re a little smarter than I thought.”

“How could you doubt me?” I asked, lifting my pant leg and pulling down my sock.

I’ve noticed she slaps me a lot during our conversations.

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