I used to think that shocking episodes made good stories: that if I was unharmed, they were ‘good for the book’. The man who sat on the other end of a park bench quite obviously masturbating whilst looking over at me; another man who trailed me and a friend in his car whilst, yet again, pleasuring himself; the old man in Italy who gave me a lift to a wedding and thought it was entirely appropriate to put his hand on my knee, even putting it back once he’d changed gear and even though his walking stick sat absurdly in the footwell; the men who repeatedly followed me home from the station heckling ‘flatteringly’ until I didn’t respond, when they then turned nasty (‘frigid bitch’). I just let them get away with it: what else could I do? It wouldn’t do to make a fuss.
Despite my own personal history of acquiescence, I was shocked a few years ago when a girl in my form group nonchalantly described a boy at a party as ‘a bit rapey’. It wasn’t so much the fact of it that was disturbing, although it obviously was; it was more the tacit acceptance of the rest of the form group. It was the same resignation with which they told me that they were all regularly leered at on public transport because of their uniform and age. I guess it’s the same denial/naivety/powerlessness/notwantingtocauseafussness which I had throughout my teens and twenties. ‘That’s just how boys are.’ An older friend who read my MA dissertation about the construction of masculinities in schools was horrified to discover the continued enaction of various violence against girls and those deemed ‘inferior’ in their masculinity: something he had hoped was long gone in this glorious era of fourth wave feminism. Unfortunately, these practices are deeply embedded and backlash to progress always rears its ugly head.
Caitlin Moran has talked about the fact that on some level all girls and women are aware of men’s physical strength compared to women. I think I wasn’t quite; I was so determined to be equal to men that I denied this fact. Now, in my thirties, I argue endlessly for the contrasting socialisation of men and women and that men’s responsibility is to recognise the limited lens through which they are asked to look and instead peek round the side; but I also recognise that it’s not just symbolic social power that men have over women. The complex set of reasons why some men choose to assert any kind of power over women is often facilitated and undergirded by an unspoken recognition of physical dominance. This becomes horrifyingly clear when we read statistics about domestic violence during lockdown: according to the BBC, police recorded 259,324 domestic abuse offences between March and June - 7% up on the same period in 2019. And this is just those that are recorded. Women often don’t – because of shame or because so often nothing much is done about it or they are in too much danger to do so.
Yes, people have always gained power through subjugation; no, that doesn’t mean we should accept its dogged pervasiveness. Humans are capable of terrible atrocities but we also get to decide as a society what is acceptable and what is not and we then build structures underneath that to support the ambition; otherwise it remains what some dismissively see as ideological wishful thinking. This is why, for example, we no longer have lynching or (legal) slavery and why every child is given an education. People fought for it ideologically and then legislation protected it.
And that is what I do: I build educational structures to support my belief that male dominance and collective complicity are limiting for everyone and that society can be safer, both physically and psychologically, and happier.
My resources give students knowledge about how their identities, outlooks and expectations have been formed and a self-reflective mode for critiquing this process; and then I use empowering coaching techniques to widen their horizons, to engender emotional intelligence, empathy and responsibility, for themselves and for others. Alongside this I give talks and run workshops for students, teachers and parents so that the message of collective responsibility and inclusivity is instilled at every level of the organisation and reiterated every day. Education is up against it when legal systems, representation and constant relics from a long history of patriarchy flood our brains incessantly. Schools can’t just tick a box and think they’re done.
Education is just one of the prongs in this very necessary attack. I’m always so delighted when I meet other people working in this field, whether it’s campaigners or law makers or journalists or film makers. We need lots of prongs; sharp and effective and resilient ones. A deluge of voices on social media have poured scorn on the focus on women’s responsibility in the wake of Sarah Everard’s tragic disappearance; knowing how to protect yourself is a vital skill for life, whatever your sex, but the conditions don’t’ always have to be so relentlessly adverse. Getting more men on board with collective responsibility would lighten the load. And it shouldn’t be reliant on partners, fathers or brothers to care: all men should care. It is their business. Because we should all be able to hand on heart say that we are members of a society that looks after its vulnerable. And women are often vulnerable, however much we wish we weren’t. However strong I think I am at 5’11, most men could attack me if they wanted. So if there are still men out there, emboldened by media messaging and legal failings, who think it’s acceptable to intimidate women to sure up their own fragile position, then we need other men to step up courageously and let them know loud and clear that public opinion is against them. And we need them to know that others will back them up, so they are not endangering themselves. This is collective responsibility and this is what changes the world for the better.
Women’s lack of safety is a systemic issue, not individual, but it can be changed through individual actions and voices, if they are loud and numerous. So let’s shout loud: we must all do better.
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