All of Buenos Aires takes lunch at the exact same time. From 1pm-2pm, downtown becomes a blur of loosened ties, catch-up errands, and "ejecutivo" specials. Most of my students take classes at lunchtime and the elevators are always packed to the brim as twenty-three floors worth of business folks scurry in and out, determined not to waste a moment of their precious hour. A few months ago, as I was still growing accustomed to the pace of the city, I arrived at work and there was already a huge crowd waiting for an elevator. I hung at the back of the cluster, figuring I'd just grab the next one. When the doors opened, people poured out-- but oddly, the waiting crowd didn't rush on but stepped back a pace and turned expectantly to me. I looked at them in confusion, "Um, what are you waiting for? You were here first!" By the time this exchange of glances occurred, the doors had snapped shut and the elevator raced on. I peered at the reproachful faces in bewilderment- what the heck just happened? Why did no one get on? Then, it hit me. I was the only woman waiting.
Ahhh, chivalry. It's not certainly not dead in here the Paris of South America. And my reaction to it? Well, frankly: I suck at it.
Argentine men are chivalrous in the classical sense. It would, of course, be incredibly unfair if I said that men in other countries aren't, and that's certainly not been my experience. But this is on a level I'm entirely unused to; I'm talking, hold-the-door-open-and-wait-
I admit, my first reaction is to get defensive when men try to "do things" for me. What I find interesting is: it wasn't until I daily encountered grand displays of chivalry that I realized this was my reaction. Then I started keeping track and determined that this was nothing new, I'd simply never thought about it before. I recall once, when a first date tried to pull my chair out, I responded, "Thanks man, but I got it." (Have I mentioned I'm excellent at dating-- I don't make things super awkward or anything. This was definitely not the same date where about an hour later I noticed my dress was on inside out. Nope.) When a man offers me a seat on the bus, I almost immediately begin to shake my head, 'No, thanks.' Why? I want to sit down as much as anyone-- why can't I graciously accept the seat? Is there something in my subconscious crying, "If I accept, I'm no longer a strong woman! This man is only offering because he thinks my weak female legs can't stand up for two more stops!"? (If my subconscious is saying such a thing, it's usually drowned out by my inner monologue screaming, "God, why did I wear heels? Heels are stupid! Why do I always forget how stupid heels are?")
I don't think it's about that, really. I don't believe I'm setting myself back a few decades by something as innocuous as accepting a seat. I think it's the fact that-- I forget I'm female. Or rather, I forget that other people might first see me as female, rather than by another definition. And when someone treats me a certain way -- even in an effort to be polite-- simply because I'm a woman, it begins to make me uncomfortable. Because for me, being treated differently as a woman can quickly turn into behavior that's not so polite.
I know, I know-- "Geez Kerk, are you seriously bitching about men being polite to you? If only more men were like that these days, they are being thoughtful and considerate, for Pete's sake!" Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. So why do I react the way I do? The answer that I keep coming back to is that being "seen" as a woman doesn't always mean a free seat on the bus. Sometimes it means a student asking as I was helping her write a resume in English, "Shouldn't I put my birthday and my gender on here?" I looked at her-- this smart-as-a-whip, sarcastic as hell, stiletto-rocking woman rising quickly in a male-dominated field-- and asked, "Why would that matter on a resume?" She shrugged and replied, "Well because job advertisements here usually have age and gender requirements. There have been a few jobs I would have definitely applied for but the advert specified they wanted a man."
Sometimes it means the principal of your school in South Korea announcing, "All the female teachers need to come in an hour early to school tomorrow to prepare the snacks for the students' field trip." All the teachers? No, just all the female ones. Or, sometimes in my own country-- that in so many ways has provided me such wonderful opportunities as a woman-- it means waging an outdated battle in courtrooms and at the ballot box for any and every choice that involves my own female body. I am not complaining about being treated politely. But I do worry about the precedent of being treated differently.
Sometimes it means the principal of your school in South Korea announcing, "All the female teachers need to come in an hour early to school tomorrow to prepare the snacks for the students' field trip." All the teachers? No, just all the female ones. Or, sometimes in my own country-- that in so many ways has provided me such wonderful opportunities as a woman-- it means waging an outdated battle in courtrooms and at the ballot box for any and every choice that involves my own female body. I am not complaining about being treated politely. But I do worry about the precedent of being treated differently.
Am I anti-chivalry? Of course not. In a world of anonymous internet posts, cyber-bullying, and "hot or not" polls, I'm for anything where people treat one another with a little more courtesy. But... do I wish that everyone treated everyone politely, regardless of gender? True story.
I'll probably continue to feel uncomfortable every time a man insists, "Chica, sentarse!" But living abroad isn't necessarily meant to be a comfortable experience all the time; it should, however, be one that helps me reflect and attempt to gain a greater understanding how I fit into the pattern of the world-- the little pieces I've seen of it. On the bus tomorrow, a man will probably give up his seat for me; for here, for now, I'll take it when it's offered. And if it isn't? Well, then it's just my own damn fault for wearing heels.
Love from,
Kerk