Another feminist revolution is upon us — hallelujah! — but, sisters, we’ve still got a long way to go. And I believe we’ll get there.
“He could have killed us all.” It’s a man’s world: the entitled men living amongst us
By Annette Dasey
Why should we be optimistic about the future for women? Grace Tame — whose case inspired #LetHerSpeak and led to the reform of Tasmania’s Evidence Act law that disallowed sexual abuse victims to speak but let abusers and media talk — was named Australian of the Year. Kamala Harris is the first female — and Black and south Asian American — US vice-president. Archaic Hollywood heavyweight, Harvey Weinstein, is a jailbird, and the Me Too movement exposed countless assaults against women.
Why should we be concerned? Australian women have claimed sexual abuse by teenage boys and Parliament members and staff, and last year violence towards women soared plus more females than males lost their jobs and financial independence. On a personal front that reiterates how far we have to go to achieve equality, my daughters and I had a frightening encounter with a male chauvinist. It was the kind of everyday misogyny women suffer from men who believe they’re entitled.
It happened the day the death of feminist icon, Helen Reddy, was announced. My car came head-to-head with another going the wrong direction on a one-way street. Fuming, I got out while my girls screamed, “MUMMA! DON’T!” The male driver announced, “I know this is a one-way road but I’m driving slowly.”
“I have two children in my car,” I replied. “People die like this. Reverse back.”
“And I have a child in my car,” he said, as if a kid passenger made dangerous driving acceptable. “I won’t reverse.”
“Well, I’m not moving,” I told him. “I’m serious. And more stubborn than you.”
“Don’t be a pork chop about this,” the man laughed, and like Dr Seuss’s The Zax, who refused to take a detour from their north and south-going routes, we didn’t budge.
“What are you gonna do?” my children pleaded from their booster seats. “I’m thirsty. And reeeeally hot.” “I’m bored. And BUSTING. And starving. Can we go? He won’t move. There are loads of cars behind us!”
“Reverse: you’re the one in the wrong,” I demanded.
“You reverse,” he said. And we were back at square one. But now I had steam coming out my ears. I heard my kids — one busting and hungry, the other parched and perspiring — and, in my mind, Reddy singing her 1972 hit that became second-wave feminism’s theme song: “I am woman, hear me roar….No one’s ever gonna keep me down again.”
I said to the south-going zak, “FINE.” But I wasn’t fine at all. I was powered by the knowledge that many of my sisters were being abused by men during the madness of the Covid-19 pandemic.
“I’M CALL-ING THE POL-ICE,” I told him while his son shook his head as if I was the jerk whose car was facing the wrong direction. My heart ached for that boy who was being taught that manhood meant supremacy. And for my girls who deal daily with the fallout of male chauvinist fathers.
When a woman’s voice answered I perked up and put my mobile on speaker so the man, who identified himself as Peter, could be part of the conversation. “I’m not from this area and there are so many WestConnex road closures,” he said smarmily before claiming I was the difficult one because I wouldn’t reverse 20 metres opposed to the 80 he’d illegally driven.
“He could have killed us all,” I said, aware he was branding me hysterical. There are times that call for hysteria. When our cubs might’ve been killed by a man’s stupidity. When we are strangled by our husband. Molested in a dark lane or bright workplace. Or terrorised by an obnoxious bloke to lift his sagging self-esteem. Reddy’s voice returned: “Oh yes, I am wise but it’s wisdom born of pain.”
I love men. I had a beautiful father, and have a wonderful male partner. But misogynists exist. I wonder about the wives, daughters and sisters of boys and men that commit those crimes. And the female relatives and colleagues of blokes like that pork chop. I hope those women believe they’re equals. Like my girls know they are.
The constable, as if negotiating a hostage situation with toddlers, asked, “Can you work together to solve this situation?” I was stunned that a law enforcer was asking me to confer with someone who’d broken the law.
“It’ll be much easier if this charming lady reverses,” the man said sarcastically adding, with a menacing stare the constable couldn’t see, “Then I’ll turn around and follow you out.”
Like any woman who has felt disempowered and scared by a man’s treatment — and every woman has if you count being followed, called hateful sexist terms, and “accidentally” rubbed against on crowded public transport — I felt fearful for the safety of my daughters and myself.
“Are you threatening me?” I asked while standing taller but cowering inside. It was fighting talk, and I wanted to fight. But, by then, I was over his idiocy, and envisioned us, like the zax, growing beards in our cobweb-covered cars while the world moved on. A new one-way road would be created, the ginormous WestConnex Tunnel tearing up Sydney would be complete, the neighbourhood tots would be navigating gender issues at university, and we’d still be stuck in our cars eyeballing each other.
So I decided to take my children home. Swallowing my pride, I reversed into an adjoining street and let the dominant dude turn around and “follow me” out of the one-way road. I felt defeated because I was brought up in a patriarchal society that predominantly instils that men are superior and women should keep their anger to themselves. Then we repress it until, as happened to me on that suburban street where magpies warble their sad sorry songs, it spews out like deadly lava.
The man’s arrogance and lack of remorse made me wonder if he was also vindictive so I was too scared to leave my car outside our home. I parked a couple of streets away and sighed, “I lost because I lost my temper. That awful man won because he was calm and charming.” I hated that I’d given in and that our encounter, which had intimidated me, likely didn’t register as having any significance to that powerful white man who was accustomed to getting his way.
“No, mumma. You won. I love you,” said the eldest, with the tortured expression of a kid trying really hard not to pee her pants. The little one kissed me and said, “You did win, Mummy. We know it. We heard that song at just the right time.” And there, again, was Reddy: “I’m still an embryo, with a long long way to go until I make my brother understand.”
My daughters, who hadn’t reached double digits, were right. I’m raising them as feminists who don’t think feminism is a dirty word. They realise that change comes when people connect and listen. Hear hear Julia Gillard and her 2012 misogyny speech! And Jacinda Arden with her almighty empathy! And Oprah Winfrey who does incredible work like setting up a school for previously disadvantaged South African girls.
My children and I witnessed something insidious that women deal with daily: systemic sexism. It enrages me that Tame and the millions of women who told their Me Too stories — including Taylor Swift, Reese Witherspoon, Brittany Higgins and Chanel Contos — initially kept their sexual assault a secret, as if they were the ones carrying the shame of the men who exploited them. And that Harris has been abused by sexist and racist trolls. I’m heartened they shone lights into the darkness. And that Nicole Kidman and Angelina Jolie, with their work for the United Nations, are raising awareness about violence towards women.
I don’t reckon a lesson was learnt by the man who thinks it’s acceptable to drive the wrong direction on one-way roads. But I do believe in miraculous change. And people. Slowly but surely toxic masculinity is dying out. Which is why I have faith that pork chop’s son will rebel against it and — whether he is taught by his mum, girlfriends or boyfriends — learn the value of feminism and equality. Maybe then he can stand alongside my daughters as an equal.
Annette Dasey is a Sydney-based journalist who has interviewed countless newsmakers and celebrities in her 23-year career. Her business, Story Treasure, records everyday people’s life stories. She was shortlisted for the UK’s Catherine Pakenham Award for Best Young Female Journalist.