By Lea Page
The usual five gathered around a table at a local restaurant: Novelist, Historian, and Fabulist—all men—and Poet and Memoirist—both women. Living in a small town in a wide-open state, the pool was limited. How lucky they were, the capable five, to have found each other.
On this day, however, the Historian brought a friend who introduced himself as an autobiographer, not a memoirist. In direct contravention of the rules, the Autobiographer launched into an attack on memoir in general and memoir writers, specifically. The three men jumped on board this disparagement train with winks, nods, and chuckles: “Oh, those memoirists. Always making stuff up!”
The Memoirist took a deep breath and explained the rigor and constraints of the genre.
Then the readings began. The Autobiographer read first. The memoirist went next and was accused of making things up. It had been suggested to her, once, that she present her story as a novel. Not plausible as fiction , she had replied. Then it was the Poet’s turn. Her poem was about the death of her mother.
Before the Poet even looked up from reading, the Autobiographer said, “What makes that a poem and not an essay?”
The Poet stammered, “I wrote it in verse.”
The Memoirist mentioned rhythm, imagery, and white space, anything to push back on the Autobiographer, who will, from now on, be known as the Asshole.
Later, the Memoirist realized it wasn’t the behavior of the Asshole that was robbing her of sleep but the silence of the three other men, who knew the Poet and the Memoirist, who had professed their respect but then so eagerly jumped on board with the Asshole.
After days of thought, tooth-grinding, and distraction from her own work, the Memoirist decided to let the men know she was disappointed. Sure, she could just walk away, but the nearest alternative to this writing group was over at least one mountain pass. She composed an email noting the missed opportunity for the men to speak up. She concluded by restating her esteem for the group and her desire for it to continue as a supportive place. She pushed send.
The Historian responded and said he was sorry the Memoirist had felt upset, that he cared because she was a valued member of the group. He then carefully laid out all the reasons why the Asshole’s comments were not upsetting.
The Poet confirmed that she, too, had been disturbed by the Asshole’s behavior.
The Novelist said he had been uncomfortable but hadn’t noticed any gendered problems.
The Fabulist said he hadn’t noticed any gendered slights—most likely, he admitted, because of his gender.
The Memoirist sat with these responses, then composed a second email. She wrote:
This is a learning opportunity. Until we live in a better world, assume there’s a gender dynamic in mixed groups. It’s rare when a woman doesn’t have to deal with behavior on a scale from obnoxious to deadly. Then she has to decide whether or not to push back. Most of the time, the woman just swallows it.
Raising the issue is risky. She’s often met with one of these responses:
1. “You are overreacting.”
2. “He was just _________.”
3. “I didn’t see/hear/notice/experience that, therefore it didn’t happen.”
4. “Can’t we just move on?”
Being a woman in this world is exhausting.
The Memoirist paused to take several deep breathes. Then she continued:
After the meeting, the Poet and I shared an eyeroll together. Then we went home to recover. The eyeroll was a great help. It said: “I saw what happened. You didn’t deserve it. What a jerk.”
It meant: validation, support, solidarity. It would’ve meant a lot to share that with you. We still can!
The world will not progress without good guys stepping up. That’s you.
How to step up:
First: do no further harm (avoid the 4 responses above).
Second: pay more attention.
Third: if you do notice something, say something, even if it’s just an eyeroll.
The Memoirist pressed send.
No response.
She had offered the men an easy way out, a face-saving communal eyeroll, a way to address what had passed without talking about it. At the next meeting, the Poet was out of town and the Memoirist was still exhausted. She didn’t go. Instead, she worked in her garden where the garlic was burgeoning and the peas weren’t. Gophers had munched the seeds before they had a chance to sprout. The Memoirist was disappointed—she loved peas—but gophers had to eat, too. There was no point in expecting anything else from them.
___
Lea Page’s work, nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Guardian , The Washington Post, The Rumpus, River Teeth, Sweet, North Dakota Quarterly , and more. She is also the author of Parenting in the Here and Now (Floris Books, 2015). She is an assistant editor for creative nonfiction at Pithead Chapel and lives in rural Montana with her husband and a small circus of semi-domesticated animals.
All Rights Reserved Book Blog