I usually have some difficulty trying to find a title for my posts. I can’t seem to find the words or something inane like that.
But this morning (very, very early this morning) I had a voluminous amount of lexicon floating around up there. Banging the insides of my cranium, pounding and pounding, relentlessly. Until I threw in the towel and climbed out of bed. I made some coffee (which is now gone and must be replenished with a new pot), did some meditative work, perused the news sites and finally decided to commit the words to paper. So to speak. Or so to write.
The words “white male privilege” have been something that have been circling for some time. I don’t want to get on my feminist soapbox. I don’t want to sound as if I don’t appreciate the male half of our species. I work very hard to make sure my darling daughter knows just how much we need our Superman around here. I impress upon her the differences between the genders and why they are important to our survival. That without the yang we couldn’t have the yin. Without the father there would be no mother. Without Superman, we wouldn’t have Wonder Woman. And vice versa. (Yes, I’m the Wonder Woman of the house.)
On the other hand.
There is no denying the simple fact that this is a patriarchal society and white male privilege is a thing.
A real thing.
And has been for a long time.
Sunday night on my drive home from work I was able to catch a portion of a radio show about storytelling. The first story I listened to was about a little black boy whose family had just moved to rural Minnesota (I think it was Minnesota, may have been Michigan…an M state nonetheless). He was so excited to catch the bus for his first day at the new school. He had his Scooby Doo lunchbox ready to go. The bus arrived. The door opened. The cacophony from inside was overwhelming. The little black boy stepped up and entered the bus. The silence was deafening.
None of the children had ever seen a little black boy before. As the little black boy started walking down the aisle looking for a seat, he began to realize what was happening. Every seat he passed that was empty…the little white boy sitting there spit in the empty spot. Until the little black boy got to the back of the bus, where a little white girl was sitting. He looked at her. She looked at him. And moved her backpack so he could sit down.
The story continued and ended with this: one day the little white girl got on the bus, after doing her chores cleaning out the henhouse, but not being able to clean up due to the frozen pipes and no water in the house. All of the little white boys started making fun of her, because of the smell. She walked to the back of the bus. The little black boy moved his backpack. And she sat down.
White male privilege.
It starts early.
Last night, on a debate stage, broadcast to 100 million people (estimates by the people who do the estimating), white male privilege was on full display.
It has been a recurring theme through this entire campaign. Way back even in the primary days. If you can remember that far back. This campaign has seemed as if it has gone on forever. Forever.
Back to my point. The recurring theme of white male privilege. Hillary Rodham Clinton has been criticized because she didn’t smile enough. Meaning she was/is a b-i-t-c-h. Gasp. Last night, she was criticized for smiling as if “she was at her granddaughter’s birthday party.” Really. Here’s looking at you @DavidFrum
Who told Hillary Clinton to keep smiling like she’s at her granddaughter’s birthday party?
— David Frum (@davidfrum) September 27, 2016//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
(I just tried to embed the tweet I’m referencing. Apologies if it’s gobbledygook.)
“Why isn’t she smiling? Why is she smiling so much? What’s up with her hair? Why does she wear pantsuits?”
Have you heard one thing similar to the above leveled at any of the men since this long slog began?
No? Didn’t think so.
Mr. Trump interrupted Secretary Clinton 25 times in the first 26 minutes during last night’s debate. That’s just the first 26 minutes. The debate lasted 90 minutes. The counters stopped counting.
Matt Lauer at the CIC forum a couple of weeks ago interrupted Secretary Clinton all night long. Nada with Mr. Trump. Nothing.
Follow this up with the hubris of white men thinking they have the right to publicly shame women over their bodies is simply head-shaking, face-palming, jaw-dropping unbelievable. See Alicia Mechado, Miss Universe from Venezuela, that Mr. Trump felt the need to denigrate publicly over and over and over again. But don’t take my word for it. Go watch the video. HRC’s campaign has a new ad detailing everything Ms. Mechado endured from that man. Shameful.
And now he’s crying on Fox News about how the woman really did gain a lot of weight and she was such a problem.
Perhaps one might point out to Mr. Trump that his body shape is not exactly svelte. And he would actually be put into the obese category. I’m just sayin. But then again, white male privilege. We don’t denigrate men for being overweight, pudgy, bitchy, not smiley enough, too smiley enough.
Don’t even get me started on the whole “stamina” thing. Secretary Clinton had a perfect response to that ridiculousness last night. When Donald Trump sits through 11 hours of testimony before a congressional hearing, then he can talk to her about stamina.
Dan Rather had an interesting take on the word stamina as it relates to women.
— Dan Rather (@DanRather) https://twitter.com/DanRather/status/780597334342328320″>September 27,
“Stamina is just a codeword for weakness…that women have been hearing for too long.”
Yep. What he said. Thank you Dan Rather.
Little black boys and little white girls.
(The story I listened to was by Glynn Washington on his public radio show Snap Judgement I highly suggest finding it.)