Whenever I would fall ill as a child, as a ritual my mother would read to me Eve Merriam's 1966 children's book, Miss Tibbett's Typewriter. Miss Tibbett was an old woman with a greying bun of hair who lived with her cat and a typewriter in an apartment in the city, a building thick with ivy growth. The premise of the story has to do with English and letters and words and the quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog easily; Miss Tibbett an every-cheery role model for a different creative life just like the others in real life or novels or film who too lived alone or fought with social expectations or were fearless and brave — the Jo Marches and Claire Phillips and a dozen of my English literature teachers; they did what they loved and felt passion for ideas and went home at the end of the day and probably drank tea or brandy and maybe had complicated love affairs with men they never told anyone about. I loved Miss Tibbett, the pencil illustrations of her tiny frame hunched over paper, her tabby on the desk, the idea that having a typewriter and friendly business owners to interact with could so impassion an existence.
The romanticism of this woman in the city who is friends with everyone in her neighborhood and wanders around typing signs for businesses was completely sold on me. But the versions of the townspeople I interact with on a regular basis are fearful for me, they tell me to find a rich husband (landlord Saul), or could have sworn I had one (maintenance guy Jose), or ask me if I watch my movies alone or "with somebody" (video store clerk Malcom). I appreciate their protectiveness but want to rebel against their expectation, I want to somehow prove I am safe walking alone, that crime is random and yet unlikely, that I can keep my wits. Yet most nights I am reminded this is not the case, that you cannot be a friendly single woman in a sprawling city without endangering yourself. Give a smile to the wrong person while you're in a good mood, and pow, proposition, lewd words, a walk-with-me. One time, a guy on the street told me, "I'd love to ______ my _____ in those _______." When I whipped around and declared in frightened astonishment, "That's disgusting, asshole!" He yelled back, "YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH!"
YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH! This exchange would have never happened to Miss Tibbett.
Last night after I wrote this, I met a guy who was in the peace corps in kazakhstan in the early '90s and told me, within a completely different story, that the women who lived alone there were considered whores, no matter who they were or what they did.
ReplyDeleteAs that guy from Peace Corps in Kazakhstan, I'd like to add there was a little more context... but yes, there are large swatches of the world where being a woman and living along is niether accepted nor particularly a good idea. The term "whore" although technically accurate in several specific instances, was primarily for dramatic hyperbole. Jus' Sayin' :-)
ReplyDeleteHa!: Ditto! (Just saying …)
ReplyDeleteOn the topic of the not-so-elusive "whore" in its many contexts, I was thinking yesterday about this woman's lit class I took in college where my professor had us read A) I Don't Know How She Does It, by Allison Pearson, and B) watch Dangerous Beauty, about 16th century Venetian courtesan Veronica Franco. Instead of discussing why A) the woman in IDKHSDI is supposed to be a somber representative of misplaced ideals in Western society, the class instead highlighted her as a woman who should be sympathized because she balances a million things in life (childcare, full-time job) and thus should not be judged for cheating on her husband to feel appreciated, or in all other senses just being a horribly mean person. With B) I don't recall anyone in Dangerous Beauty spend any time bemoaning syphilis or the fucked-up idea that the most empowered woman at the time was only she who undid several belt buckles a day and looked entirely gorgeous while doing so, as if the PLAGUE WAS NOT RAVAGING VENICE AT THE TIME or why her parties with the upper crust of Italian society men were totally glamorized while all the spurned wives at home were frivolous and one-dimensional. Franco got to hold her own in the public sphere by showing off her education and wining and dining and bedding politicians, but she was still the one considered a whore, while the women at home in the private sphere were denied much of art and culture AND this is assuming they did not still sneak a bit of education into their lives and yet they were by their virtue and domesticity not as "cool" as Veronica, and dear god, we didn't discuss any of this classic double-standard because my professor ranted too much about men and loved Franco and also spent much of class time complaining about her aching back. … But I think I am completely off topic now.