Men, listen up⊠Join me, with due diligence and civic duty, and publicly claim: I am sexist!
In the pages of the New York Times, a philosophy professor named George Yancy is gushing his little heart out:
It is hard to admit we are sexist. I, for instance, would like to think that I possess genuine feminist bona fides, but who am I kidding? I am a failed and broken feminist.Â
Upon which revelation, I suppose we could all just stop and go home. But no, letâs press on.
More pointedly, I am sexist. There are times when I fear for the loss of my own entitlement as a male. Toxic masculinity takes many forms. All forms continue to hurt and to violate women.
The word toxic, by the way, is deployed no fewer than nine times, excluding various synonyms, as if it were an incantation. Now brace yourselves for some full-on testosterone-jacked beastliness.
For example, before I got married, I insisted that my wife take my last name⊠While this was not sexual assault, my insistence was a violation of her independence.
To reiterate. Asking a fiancĂ©e if sheâll change her surname upon marriage, as is still the custom, perhaps to avoid confusing people as to whether youâre actually married or not, and possibly to avoid imposing on any children lengthy hyphenated surnames⊠this is not sexual assault. Iâm glad weâve cleared that up.
However,
I had inherited a subtle, yet still violent, form of toxic masculinity⊠These are deep and troubling expectations that are shaped by male privilege, male power and toxic masculinity.
What, then, are these dark and monstrous expectations, the ones that are âsubtle, yet still violentâ? Apparently, our professional thinker is troubled by the fact that he appreciates thanks after cleaning the house or cooking a meal. Yes, itâs deep and troubling.
Oh, weâre not done yet.
If you are a woman reading this, I have failed you. Through my silence and an uninterrogated collective misogyny, I have failed you. I have helped and continue to help perpetuate sexism. I know about how we hold onto forms of power that dehumanize you only to elevate our sense of masculinity. I recognize my silence as an act of violence. For this, I sincerely apologise.
And yet, frankly, Iâm not sensing an excess of masculinity. If you spend hours preparing a meal, or cleaning the house, and then appreciate some acknowledgement, however small or routine, this doesnât strike me as âtoxic,â or âtroubling,â or âdehumanizing,â or a âviolationâ of womanhood. Framing an appreciation of gratitude as âuninterrogated collective misogynyâ sounds just a tad preposterous. And when my own Other Half takes charge of some particularly tricky meal preparation, some feat I darenât attempt, I keep bunting and T-shirt cannons on hot stand-by.
Professor Yancy goes on to denounce, on behalf of all men, âour sexually objectifying gazes⊠our pornographic imaginations.â Our âdominant phallic economy.â Indeed, he continues, âwe are collectively complicit with a sexist mind-set and a poisonous masculinity.â You see, being aroused by women, while not quite rape in itself, is nonetheless, as it were, rape-adjacent, and constitutes âa violent, pathetic and problematic masculinity.â
One wonders how a species of suitably corrected human beings, purged of such heterosexual inclinations, might propagate and flourish. Such that we can indulge the theatrical sorrows of lecturers in “critical whiteness studies.”
Or, as our educator puts it, tearfully, his face reddened with shame,
When I was about 15 years old, I said to a friend of mine, âWhy must you always look at a girlâs butt?â He promptly responded: âAre you gay or something? What else should I look at, a guyâs butt?â He was already wearing the mask. He had already learned the lessons of patriarchal masculinity.
Yes, adolescent butt-watching. Oh calamitous woe. And which, apparently, girls never indulge in. Presumably, we should only be sexually attracted to personalities, and never the fleshy packaging.
There was no wiggle room for me to be both antisexist and antimisogynistic and yet a heterosexual young boy. You see, other males had rewarded his gaze by joining in the objectifying practice: âLook at that butt!â It was a collective act of devaluation.
Or possibly the reverse.
The acts of soul murder had already begun.
Iâll just leave that one there, I think.
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