It’s Not About the Bathrooms

Erin Elizabeth Dunn
Aug 9, 2017 · 13 min read

A few months ago, back in maybe February I went to a Seattle concert with my boyfriend, cousin and good friend from graduate school. Before the show we had stopped in at a YMCA fundraiser for a city community center, a small building in a growing urban neighborhood with garden plots that also houses the youth outdoor program I work for during summers. The theme was Cascade Royale (cunningly named after the title of the building, Cascade People’s Center), a play on James Bond. So, that rainy Seattle night, I put on a long dress, my boyfriend had on a suit, my cousin and friend also were dressed up. On the way to the fundraiser we went out for Ethiopian food in the Central District, squished into a the corner small cafe with injera and honey wine, pretending it was a midwinter psuedo-adult sort of prom. It was fun, one of those chiller mid-20s city nights with close friends, tinged with the edge of a new adult heavy tiredness, but still electrifying the memories of a freedom of youth. After the event, featuring champagne, popcorn, mock gambling and a photo booth in the best sort of low budget non-profit way possible, we drove up highway 99 to the Nectar Lounge, a concert venue in the quirky north Seattle neighborhood of Fremont, in time to catch a show my favorite local funk band.

It was fun to walk into the packed concert venue in our formal attire, grabbing a drink just as the band began to play. They are always fantastic, a twelve piece band with crazy energy enough to break the Seattle freeze and get people dancing. I was feeling pretty tired from working and graduate school, and feeling kind of overwhelmed by the amount of people on the dance floor, so I sat off to the side at one of the tables, listening. Eventually, given the beer and the water I was drinking to counteract, I really had to pee. I left my boyfriend at the table with my drink, got up and walked to the back of the venue, pushing my way through bodies toward the restrooms. Quick glance showed the men’s line empty and the woman’s line 10+ or more. I sighed, an all too common sight. My eyes began to water. See I have this weird bladder condition where it’s actually really hard for me to hold in my pee once I have to go. It’s kind of like uncontrollable muscular spasms, and I have to sit down until they pass. It’s always happened since I was little, and all of my best friends know that when my eyes start to water that I need to get to a bathroom pretty immediately. An ex-boyfriend even used to call them “pee-mergencies”.

So essentially the long line wasn’t going to work. I looked over at the men’s room, empty of a line, and felt an almost physically sick wave of shame wash over me coupled with bodily fear for myself as a woman. I’ve done it before, used the “other” bathroom, and it’s always hard every time. But hey, this is Seattle right? Land of grunge and the progressive hippies. So I steeled myself up. I hardened my eyes, stood tall in my long dress, left my place in the woman’s line and walked what I hoped was confidently toward the empty men’s room door. A few woman clapped from the line behind me. I felt stronger, that I would be successful. Suddenly, a huge figure moved in front of me, with a black t-shirt that said “BOUNCER”. He crossed his arms. My body deflated. My eyes filled with tears, real ones, not induced this time by my bladder. My confidence was in a million pieces on the dirty, sticky floor.

”Sorry,” he said. “No women allowed in here.”

I want to say that my eyes blazed fire. I was to say that I stood up tall and told him that by denying the full occupancy rights to bathrooms, you are robbing me of the power of my body. You are denying the essential right to females because the assumption of an equal public bathroom space as gender equality is actually incorrect. And if a woman happens to takes longer to fix her makeup in the mirror, it’s because society has taught her that if her image isn’t impeccable she is not worth it in the eyes of others. That her face paint is a mask to hide the fact that she has been taught for generations that she is not good enough, and her self-worth is based on the opinion of men. And, speaking of weakness, it is not actually a fact of woman “weakness” that we have to pee more often, BECAUSE DID YOU KNOW THAT WOMEN’S BLADDERS ARE ACTUALLY SMALLER THAN MEN’S TO MAKE ROOM FOR THE UTERUS? So fuck you bouncer, and every other man who has ever dug at his girlfriend/ wife for having to pee on the road trip, calling her a “typical woman.” TYPICAL DAMN RIGHT, so pull the fucking car over if you even dream of wanting kids to fulfill a continuation of your egocentric needs. Or realistically, maybe we’ll just drive the cars in the first place.

But I didn’t. I maybe managed a little burn side eye glace, but I hung my head and walked back slowly to the line of woman who parted sympathetically like the red sea to let me back into their loving, broken tribe.

“It’s okay,” one of them patted me on the shoulder. “It was such a good try. I thought for sure you would get in.”

“This place always has that problem,” another said. “It’s ridiculous. Just make more stalls.” I nodded and tried to smile. My confidence was still being ground at my feet by heels and boots, mixed with gross beer stains and dirt.

A few minutes later, my cousin walked up to the restrooms. She is the icon of my life, younger than me by a few years but raised on the West Coast with a strong independent, progressive mindset and headstrong voice that cuts through anything. She took one look at the long women’s line and strode to the men’s door with no hesitation. The bouncer stepped in front of her, arms crossed. I saw her eyes flash. I couldn’t help but smile slightly, knowing what was coming.

“But, WHY?” I heard her demand, standing tall waving her hand toward the women’s line. The bouncer leaned down and said something I couldn’t heard.

“UNCOMFORTABLE?!” she almost yelled. “The men feel UNCOMFORTABLE?! What about all of us?!”

He looked around shiftily but didn’t waver. She said a few more things I didn’t hear, and then strode back to the women’s line, eyes on fire.

APPARENTLY,” she said to me and others in line with an exaggerated look back at the bouncer. “The men feel uncomfortable with women in their bathroom. Well excuse us, let the woman just stand aside then for these poor men! It’s not like we’ve been made to feel uncomfortable around men for the last 200 years. God forbid we take away your precious comfort.” The other women in the line nodded some smiling, others not, eyes hard.

I finally managed to pee, and walked back to the table, shaken and hurt. My boyfriend asked what was wrong. I told him a little of what had happened. He shook his head sympathetically, angrily, but I couldn’t snap out of my daze, even when the funk band played their fire cover of “Deborah” by Beck and he grabbed my hand as we all got up to dance.

On the drive home my cousin, slightly beer buzzed and irate, ranted about the injustice of the bathroom incident from the back seat.

“Do even they know what they’re doing? Do they know that by putting a bouncer in front of the men’s room they’re taking staff away from the dance floor, a place where women routinely get groped and violated? They’re removing protection from the women’s bodies to help the men feel more comfortable in theirs. Oh, I’M SORRY that the women have to get their asses grabbed by drunk jerks on the regular just because you don’t want people to see your tiny dicks”

I stared out the window listening, smiling silently as she talked, watching the rainy streets go by. My insides were still burning though, a confused mix of anger and shame, the recipe for dis-empowerment. My other friend chimed in, as my wonderful boyfriend drove and sympathized, agreeing with everything and apologizing for the hierarchical social systems created by his gender, which unfortunately he so often feels he has to do. He finally dropped her and my friend off at their apartments, yelling goodnight before heading home silently in the rain.

Apparently though, we were not the only one who had problems. Fast forward to spring two months ago, when I had finally gotten over my beef with the Nectar Lounge enough to buy my boyfriend surprise tickets to a bluegrass full cover show of Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” (Can you say ‘things white people like’ for 200, Alex?) My cousin joined us too. We arrived at the venue before she did, so my boyfriend sent her a photo of the shiny, newly added bathroom on the second floor, specifically a gender neutral bathroom. I had seen it on Facebook earlier in the week and felt a tiny hint of satisfaction. She sent back a smiley face text, adding she’d be there soon. And just like that, it’s fixed. Right?

Later that night we were standing off to the edge of the stage listening to the band play their original tunes, before launching into the second set of “Graceland”. I was standing near the side next to my boyfriend listening to the tunes when I felt unmistakably someone behind me firmly tap the left side of my butt with their hand. I stepped aside quickly, almost jumped really as an older guy reached down around me to grab his coat lying at the bottom of the stage. I stood there, my face burning and my insides churning until the end of the song. What I wanted to do was shrug it off, just move on and keep dancing, enjoying my night. But I had just finished a graduate level class on social inequity and standing up to microaggressions. I could only picture my fire eyed cousin, and my professor’s reaction if I didn’t say anything. The song ended, a pause before the next one. It was now or never. I felt actually physically sick, my stomach jumping, my breath short (and still do writing this now). I tapped my boyfriend and said I’d be right back. I took a huge breath and turned around, walking a few steps to the man standing next to his friend.

“Excuse me,” I said, looking him in the eye. “If you need someone to move, next time tap their shoulder, not their ass.”

He looked at me and stuttered, saying he didn’t mean anything. “I’m just letting you know is all,” I smiled faintly and walked away.

“What was that about?” my boyfriend asked. I explained briefly, then said I’d tell him more later. I felt shaky, breathing fast but proud of myself. I brushed it off. I even danced a little swing with my boyfriend, practicing some tiny haphazard spins in the crowd, elated and comfortable. Later when he slipped away to grab a drink, I sidled over to center stage where my cousin was standing, dancing like a maniac. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that same man approach him, say something and point over to me. My stomach dropped. My boyfriend edged his way through the crowd toward us, drinks in hand.

“What was that about?” I asked warily. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just looking for you in the crowd, because you weren’t there. He came over, pointed you out and said, ‘give her my best.’“ Well, intentions seemed good enough. I shrugged, feeling relieved but still wary.

Later in the evening I was standing in line at the bar when he came up to me. “Hey,” he said. “I wanted to apologize again. I really meant no disrespect, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.” I told him I appreciated it. I really did. I told him I didn’t think he meant anything, but I just wanted to point it out. He thanked me. Then he said it. “Can I offer you some feedback too?”

My face must have dropped. I know my stomach did. “Sure,” I said lightly, pulling myself together.

“Sometimes when couples dance together in these places it can be pretty rude for other people around them. It gets into their space, you know?”

My optimism faded back into a haze. I was stunned. But I was just too tired at that point to fight anymore. I had done what I set out to do, and so I let it go. I nodded emptily. “Thank you for the feedback” I said in a hollow voice. I nodded again. And I walked away. And that was that
.
But I was shaken. I looked around at all the people dancing, wondering how many of the women felt mildly uncomfortable, on edge behind their lipstick smiles and bright eyes. I was thinking of the countless number of times throughout my life a man has come up behind me, imposed himself and his dick right up against my ass, slid his hands on my waist then slowly lower down, all in the pretense of motherfucking “dancing”. And not only dancing, but space efficient dancing when I have no way to escape, shoved into small spaces with dozens of other bodies. And how that’s somehow okay. And, conversely how dancing face to face with someone I feel comfortable with, moving my own feet, taking up my own space of happiness is my form of defense against that. So listen. Tapping my ass, accidental or otherwise, does not somehow, EVER give you the right to criticize me for dancing. Do not take away my joy of trying to feel finally safe and comfortable in my body so you can repair your pride.

So please, for every other man out there. I’m saying now what I didn’t have the courage to say then. I’m not saying you’re a bad person. I’m not saying he was. In fact I’m sure he was probably a very good person. He approached me and made a point to apologize. That’s huge and important, and I’m not undermining it. But here’s the takeaway: You don’t need a comeback. You just don’t. You don’t need to get on an “equal playing field” to feel validated in your criticism, to keep your fragile ego powerfully in check, securing the idea that you are, in fact, still a progressive, compassionate man who holds an important place in society. You can nod silently, contemplating the women in your life who might experience this on a daily basis, and thank me for my words. You can swallow your pride and let your ego burn for the sake of a better world for all of us. Because my own fragile clutches at body security in the misogynistic systems have robbed me of my ability to be completely comfortable and happy at concerts, sitting back letting the music wash through my bones like I was born to. Because instead I have to be on my guard against the subtle or otherwise violations of my own body and those of my female friends. Meanwhile, the bouncers stand silent guard at the men’s room, just so they’re not “uncomfortable.”

Get it now?

So dear men. Dear well intentioned, liberal men who could not possibly consider themselves sexist because the women’s suffrage occurred in 1920. Besides, you live in vegan friendly Seattle where minimum wage is 15$ and organic kale grows like manna in neighborhood gardens. Plus, you use re-usable shopping bags and voted for Hillary Clinton. Please understand that equality is not in your ego, but in the feelings and validation of the women in your life who you care about so much. Dear men whom we love, care for and share our lives with. Please consider the outcome of your actions as the intense feelings of shame burning in our stomachs, and the subtle but ever-present bodily fear we experience every day at the hands of the opposite gender. Please consider that our biological needs are as valid as yours, and that our bodies are not storefront mannequins to be handled at will. That we are living, breathing humans capable of intense power, fire in our bellies, joy in our eyes, and that your ego doesn’t have a place in our struggle for basic equality in this broken world.

And dear Nectar Lounge. Yes you. I haven’t forgotten you. You liberal Seattle establishment promoting funk concerts, dancing hippies with fancy tech jobs and inclusivity. You in the hip white solstice party neighborhood, with the rainbow sticker on your door who streamed the Baker’s Dozen Phish show live the other week. I appreciate your shiny new bathroom and your ability respond to feedback. I really, really do. But listen to me. Always remember to check your fucking self because if you are ever putting bouncers in front of the men’s bathroom again instead of on the dance floor to protect the rights of women’s bodies, you are no better than the people in the White House passing standards against transgender bathroom rights, so go ahead and burn that rainbow sticker at the door.

It’s not about the bathrooms. The way it wasn’t about the water fountains for the Civil Rights Movement, the way it isn’t about the individuals who feel shamed from their own gender fluid bodies, from middle schools to locker rooms, to our own public venues in supposedly one of the most progressive cities in the country. These are not issues I can claim identity or ownership over, but only a small extremely privileged, insignificant sliver of ally. I understand this. But at the deepest, most basic level is the robbing of a divine human body the right of expression in our public spaces through fear of discomfort. Fear of change, of exiling those in power, cutting them down to the ground to finally view another with compassion in our basic bodies and human rights. We’ve created bonds and chains when all we were born to do was dance.

So in a way, it is about the bathrooms after all.

That night at the bluegrass show in June, after my conversation with that man at the bar, I walked over the the bathrooms. The men’s line was empty, the door unguarded. I stopped. I looked around. I un-clenched my fists then re-clenched them, and held my middle fingers down to the sticky floor that once held my broken confidence. I held them there for the general concert venue, lines, patriarchy, ego, love and excuses, hurtling through the flashing eyed women of this world, one labored spin at a time.

I walked in, I peed and I left.

Erin Elizabeth Dunn

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"Do not let your fire go out spark by irreplaceable spark"

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