Mysogyny and Me and Hillary

Hillary Clinton’s nomination as the first female president of the United States of America is trudging up some strong emotions in me.

I think about the sexism Hillary Clinton has faced her entire life, about the mysogyny I heard and saw during the 2008 election, and I wonder whether 2016 is really all that different. Are we better now than we were then? So many people are so vocal about their targeted hate for Hillary Clinton but are unable to give a compelling reason for it.

I think about the sexism and objectification I’ve faced in my own life, that I still face every single day. The ways I’ve been made to feel worthless by some men because something about my body wasn’t good enough for them. Or because the vaginal access I could or couldn’t, would or wouldn’t, grant them was all that mattered to them. Or because they felt some kind of ownership over my vagina that made that part of me more important than other parts of me. And because that person who felt that ownership would therefore believe that I shouldn’t have male friends because I was in a relationship and all any guy would want from me is sex — because that’s how they themselves see the world, and it’s not something I can entirely disagree with, because I’ve seen it, too. Or the times I’ve convinced myself that my thoughts have no value, nobody cares about my opinion, because of the number of times someone has gaslighted me or called me argumentative because listening to me voice my thoughts was a waste of their energy.

I want to be clear: what I’m writing isn’t supposed to be anti-men. I have many male friends, none of whom are perfect, all of whom I cherish. But this really is how some men see the world and how some men treat women: Women are for sex, and they aren’t worth being friends with, they aren’t worth being close with, they aren’t worth working with, they aren’t worth listening to. And as women, we accept this worldview because it’s always been there. Women have always been respected more as mothers than as people; more for their body than their intellect; more for their sexuality than their personality. And we cultivate this world view because we are trained to; trained to dumb ourselves down, trained to hide ourselves under makeup, trained to make ourselves look thinner or curvier with heels and silicone.

I am not every woman, but I know many other women faces these issues. And I know these issues are not one of those issues where a woman can think, it’s not in my backyard, it’s not in my neighborhood, it’s not in my workplace. Because it is. It was in our childhood homes, with our fathers, our grandfathers, our uncles, our cousins, our brothers. It was in our elementary schools, with the cooties and the bullies. It has been in our workplaces, our public spaces, our news.

I have always faced these issues.

My father has good qualities, but he is a serial philanderer. When I was seven, he left my mother for a prostitute half my mother’s age, and for the next five years, that woman became my friend who helped raise me. He never had a stable relationship after her; just women who would show up — sometimes with husbands in tow — and stay with him for weeks or months according to various arrangements they had made. Free rent for sex, husband approved. Years after she’d left my father, he told me that dating her had ruined him; he didn’t find anyone older than 24 attractive.

Perhaps it’s not a surprise then that, as a teenager, I did not have any interest in sex. I had crushes, boys I liked, but they were all either more interested in prettier girls or in girls that would go farther faster. I was waiting for something special, because somehow, by some miracle, my mother and grandmother and Walt Disney had convinced me that something special existed; I think now that was was their way of protecting me from this reality. Sixteen became seventeen became eighteen and high school became college and eighteen became nineteen and nineteen turned to twenty and twenty-one, and I never found that something special I was comfortable with. There were guys I fooled around with to an extent, but I didn’t cross the line. Because sex was supposed to be something special. And then I lost my virginity to a junior high school friend — we were both drunk at the time and I’d been vomiting — myself underneath him, crying, begging him to stop, please no, please no, please no, over and over and over and over again, eyes closed trying to disappear into the darkness, and there was nothing special about sex anymore after that.

(I want to say that, while it took years, I got over it. Kind of.)

Recently, I worked at a bar for a few months, running poker tournaments. I did it to get a tiny bit of extra spending money and because I wanted to increase my social circle again and make new friends. I left because almost every guy I met who I had a rapport with, who I thought, yeah, we could become friends, wound up asking me out on a date and then, when I told them I was in a relationship but that it would be fun to have happy hour sometimes, told me they were not interested, they did not want to be friends, that wasn’t enough, that wasn’t what they were looking for. Each time, it hurt: What was wrong about me that they wanted to try and date me, but not just talk to me?

I realize that I should be happy I am not friends with these men and that I did not accidentally date these men — these men who believe that the only part of me that is interesting is the part that they can fuck. But I also realize I have accidentally dated these men in the past, I have accidentally let them have what they wanted, not knowing it was all they wanted. I have even let them have what they wanted, knowing it was all they wanted, but not understanding this larger problem of objectification and dehumanization that it created and cultivated.

I want a world where men and women interact not just as equals, different but on the same level, but as though we are the same: as though we are all human beings surviving on this planet together, with common interests, common dreams, common goals, with personalities that either dance or clash, with thoughts that grow and collaborate, with stories and imaginations that make together and create together. I want a world where men and women are not only equals, but friends through thick and thin. I want a world where it’s not strange or wrong or indecent for a married woman to have a drink with a single man, because it’s really just two people having a drink together and there isn’t anything wrong with that.

Of course, this world already exists in pockets here and there, in zones declared between friends, in beautiful spaces of kindness and understanding. It exists because we insist on it, because we fight for it, because it is right and it is good to understand each other, to help each other, to support one another, and because it is natural to laugh and cry with others, to love one another and to befriend those around you. But I want it to exist not in pockets, but in oceans. I want it to exist not in zones, but without zones. I want it to exist not in spaces, but within those dimensions that are outside of our concept of space.

Will a Hillary Clinton presidency help us get there? WIll our boys finally grow up knowing that women are world leaders with valuable thoughts, ideas and solutions, rather than sexual objects with varying degrees of vaginal worth? Will a Hillary Clinton presidency teach us all that we are all — man, woman, white, black, brown, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Athiest, teacher, accountant, engineer, artist, writer, programmer, bartender, janitor, mother or President — just people?

I voted for Bernie in the primaries because I liked his progressive platform, and I liked him, a lot. I liked his direction and I liked his record and I liked his — I liked everything about him. I took a test and we agreed on 99 percent of issues, and I’m pretty sure the one percent difference is because I said I felt “strongly” instead of “extremely strongly” on something we both agree on. I couldn’t find a flaw against him, so I voted for him.

But deep down, it hurt my heart to vote for him, because I did so knowing how much I’ve always respected Hillary Clinton. I respect her for the way she’s handled herself in public, for the ways she’s worked to break down barriers, for her drive and ambitions, for her steadiness and her accomplishments. I respect her for the way she forgave her husband after he cheated on her, not because she was weak, but because she was strong and because they were a team and because she understood how much everything else still mattered. Of course, she’s not a perfect person. She’s not made of plastic and she’s not programmed. She may have sinned. She may have done something wrong with her email, she may have accepted some money from banks and maybe she isn’t morally incorruptible — but I believe the best about myself and I believe the best about others, and I believe the best about her. I believe she tries, harder than most people.

And I believe this moment that’s here, this moment in which we are nominating a woman to be the president of the United States, is not just important, but significant. It’s time.

We need this.