[100 Challenge] Roberta Gattel_74

Men explain things to me, Rebecca Solnit, 2008

The episode is famous: at a party, two friends are the youngest invited and are approached by a man; they start a conversation. The man turns to one of the two, knowing she writes books. The man asks her what she writes about “in the way you encourage your friend's seven-year-old to describe studying the flute.” The woman begins to answer, but she is interrupted after mentioning something about Muybridge. The man asks her if she has heard of the “essential” book on Muybridge published that year. The woman’s friend tries to interrupt the man to tell him something, but the man doesn't stop; he doesn't listen to her; he continues his speech on the importance of that book to the young woman who writes indeed less essential books. It takes three interventions from the friend before the man realizes that the essential book about Muybridge is precisely the same book that his interlocutor wrote. It is the beginning of Rebecca Solnit's book “Men Explain Things to Me” and a new concept: mansplaining.

As Solnit writes a few pages after telling this funny anecdote: “Every woman knows what I'm talking about.” Episodes of this type have happened, and continue to happen, to any woman. Many experience them daily, even within their own family with their partner. Young women are assigned to the horizon of inexperience and naivety; the more mature ones are not allowed to speak.

A few years ago, I was invited to a work dinner with colleagues; we were all teachers and had known each other for several years. At the end of the evening, I isolated myself during the "liquor, cigarette, and busy chat" moment: the women had left, and the men had grouped themselves in pairs, talking intently. I approached the small group I was closest with, hoping to be included in the conversation, but when I stood between them, waiting for a nod, they didn't stop. I was upset; I thought they were talking about something private and that I was too much, but I soon understood that they were discussing Art and that, from the looks they gave me from time to time, they seemed very happy to have me close but - this was clear - only as a listener.

One was a physical education teacher, the other a mathematics teacher. The former had attended an exhibition on Impressionism for the first time; the latter did not like Impressionism even though it was one of the few artistic movements he could recognize.

At a certain point, the first asked: "What's the name of the one who always painted water lilies?"

“Van Gogh,” replied the second promptly, “I think he also did poppies and sunflowers.”

“I don't think it's Van Gogh…”

“It's Monet,” I replied, seeing them having difficulty. The two stopped for the first time since I approached and looked at me in amazement as if they had never heard my voice before.

“It's not Monet,” the mathematics professor replied dryly. The Physical Education teacher started searching on Google, “No, no, she's right,” he quickly said, “it's Monet.”

I immediately received a sincere and surprised "Well done!" from the mathematics teacher. It was one of those “Well done!” that you tell students when they solve an operation that should be too difficult for their level. It wasn't the first time someone said "Well done" to me in this tone and situations like this. I even felt flattered the first time it happened to me: I mistook it for a recognition of value.

This time, however, I was hurt. The person who told me this wasn't a man twenty years older than me who felt he had to take on the role of father and educator. The person who told me this was a person of the same age as me and whom I considered an equal and a friend. A person who knew that I had attended the Academy of Fine Arts, worked as a freelance illustrator, and had, as he called it, "a passion for art stuff."

The conversation resumed, leaving me on the sidelines again. The fact that I intervened and provided the (exact) answer to their question did not win me the badge for the "men's talk" backstage. They went on to talk about Cubism because the Physical Education teacher didn't understand it. The mathematics professor said that Picasso was a genius, so he was challenging to grasp. He gave the example of a painting that Picasso had done of a critical event. He said he had seen this large painting in Spain but couldn't remember its name, what event it represented, or even why it was so important. Nobody asked me anything; nobody even looked at me. They continued this ping-pong of nonsense questions over my head:

“Why don't you look it up on the Internet?” said one.

“How can I find it if you don't give me precise directions?” the other replied.

“It comes out immediately if you write 'Picasso'”

The scene was pitiful. I wondered if the loop was related to too many drinks or if it was the default of their conversations. “Guernica,” I replied to end my agony rather than theirs. “I think you are referring to Guernica, the painting that Picasso made for the bombing of the city.”

Silence. Again, their heads swiveled towards me as if they had only now realized I had been there all along. Then, again, I received an animated and astonished "Well done!" from my friend.

I didn't wait for the conversation to restart, nor did I get the third "Well done" and permission to talk about Art with them. I had just realized why all our female colleagues had left immediately after dinner: not because they were excluded from the "man talk" but because the “man talk” was so far below the average adult talk.

I wondered if I had been arrogant in answering their questions correctly, if I had seemed vain and offended their vanity. I asked if their non-inclusion responded to a desire to maintain a certain level of discourse, a level that my presence altered. I wondered if I intimidated or annoyed them. I left with anger and humiliation, carrying a new, heavy awareness and an equally heavy defeat.

It didn't matter how much respect a man might have for me. As much as he could, he would consistentlyrate himself more. It didn't matter how old I was: I would always be "younger" than him. It didn't matter what my background or my job was: just being a woman would never make me credible because my being a woman always comes before any qualifications. The joy of sharing and talking together didn't matter either: there are spaces to be respected, and in that of men, women must not speak. And even if they do, no one cares about them.

“This goes way beyond Men Explaining Things, but it’s part of the same archipelago of arrogance. Men explain things to me, still. And no man has ever apologized for wrongly explaining things that I know, and they don’t”.