Causal Sexism

A teeny little thing happened recently and has been niggling away at me ever since. It's not even a thing that happened really. It's just something someone said. A single word in fact. A throwaway single syllable that has left me in a state of… I don’t know what ever since. See what you make of this.

I've been trying out a new garage recently. Or should that be motor mechanics? Garage is a weird one for Brits; it's the little room where you put your car, it's the place where oily people in overalls make your car better and it may even be a place where petrol and/or diesel for your car is obtained. And even some sort of music, I am given to understand.

Anyway, this is beside the point. I took my car to a new garage for to get it serviced and MOT'd. MOTted. Motted. Signed off as roadworthy. The main person there, we'll call him John, was friendly, did a good job on the vehicle and didn't charge me a fortune. So far so good. But he did also call me love.

Now, whoa there. Easy. Before you jump ahead, this isn't your common or garden casual sexism article here. Though it may well include casual sexism, and probably does, that's not the whole of the story. So let's return to our tale.

Yes, so he called me love a few times. Just casually in that sort of way he almost certainly says mate to other sorts of people, naming no names and gendering no genders. It was delivered, I have no doubt, with absolutely no thought of perpetuating the patriarchy, keeping the sisters down and or even a doomed attempt to flirt with the customer. The Ocelot is not at home to Dame Flirt in any case. It was just a throwaway term that he probably uses on lots, if not all, female humans.

Now, standard practice would be for the recipient of the aforementioned love, in these days of zero tolerance to casual sexism, to dwell upon John's love as the tool of oppression it is, and rightly so Maybe have a word with him about what century this is. Maybe quietly seethe about it to friends later. Maybe write an overly long self-regarding blog, I don't know. But your friendly neighbourhood Ocelot was momentarily pleased, for the Ocelot is differently gendered from the vast majority, and thus constantly frets about being accepted as female in day-to-day transactions, and not chased across the moors by outraged citizens wielding torches and pitchforks. And for someone who is regularly 'sirred' on the phone (usually by overseas call centre operators) it was thus a strangely validating incident, and yet one that was also, of course, a bit sexist.

So I am, much like Natalie Imbrugliuglia, torn. I should be irked and annoyed and peeved at John's sexosity, but I am also a bit grateful that at least one stranger that day accepted me for my apparent gender. Of course, one cannot possibly know how others see oneself in terms of gender identity, not without engaging the services of a first-year psychology student with a clipboard and a questionnaire who constantly follows one around at a discrete distance and asks anyone that one has encountered on the street or in a shop what they made of one, genderwise. Incidentally, I have no idea why I have started using one all of a sudden. It may be in an attempt to use a gender neutral term that avoids the foulness of it, the plurality of they and bonkersness of zhe.

Many among the differently gendered strive for total transition. 100% confirmation of the gender to which they identify. Sometimes this is called passing or going stealth or simply fitting in. Some folks achieve this goal with great success, either through luck of genetics and physical features, transitioning at a young age (something increasingly common, though perhaps a bittersweet pill for older folks who switched sides later in life after the ravages of puberty had left their mark), or simply through massive amounts of practice, therapy, medication, surgery and ongoing cosmetic treatments. Some others are happy to exist somewhere in between the monolithic poles of M and F, and this self-identification as gender non-binary is an increasingly acceptable option in recent years, and rightly so.

But for a lot of the differently gendered, an occasional confirmation that society accepts who one (there I go again) wants to be is a welcome pellet of encouragement. In a life where one may be constantly fretting about walking funny, talking funny, looking funny, it's nice every now and again to get a bit of a thumbs-up from someone, though they know it not, who says yes, you're fitting in. Even if it is a bit of casually sexist chitchat from an oily fossil who's just been fiddling with your sparkplugs.

It's a weird situation. I am literally holding two opposing opinions of the incident at the same time. Which might make me some sort of philosopher. Or nut. Or vacillating wuss. It's like Schrödinger's Casual Sexism. Or maybe Causal Sexism. It both is and is not insulting. Both is and is not validating of different states of being. Or transition. Or identity. Argh.

I do know it's bloody confusing though.



Actually, now I come to think of it, he may have called me sweetheart. Is that better or worse?

Pause for thought

I think I had my first Menopause Bonding Moment last week, but I'm not sure.

My workplace is predominantly male, and of those females that are present, very few are over 40. Those that are tend to work in HR, catering and admin, and not the awesome hot-house of Science and Nerdery that is my department. Consequently the only (other) woman over 40 actually in my open-plan office of about 150 people is the nice admin lady who sits in the furthest corner of our floor. She is pleasant and friendly, though we've never had much of a chance to chat. I do know that she fraternises (sororises?) with her opposite numbers in the other offices; I've often seen what appears to be all the admin staff - that's to say, half a dozen middle-aged women - lunching together in a local restaurant, doubtless to discuss the travails of work and Life Outside Work.

But I've never have a chance to bond with any of them myself, until now. Maybe.

What happened was this. I happened to pass the Nice Admin Lady in the office one morning last week. I was a bit out of breath from rushing in late, and she may have seemed a little overheated herself. I think I probably made some sort of nonsense 'Phew it's a bit warm' comment, probably blowing my hair out of my eyes to punctuate the remark (What is that called, when you stick your bottom lip out and puff straight up your forehead? Does it have a name? I'm calling it fringe-puffing until someone comes up with something better). And she came back with something like 'Yes, it is warm, isn't it? It's probably just my age'.

And I thought, wait - does she mean she's having a hot flush? Is this a menopause conversation? Is that what we're having? OK, not a conversation, as it just consisted of one sentence apiece and a fringe-puff, but still. Had I just had my first Menopause Bonding Moment?

If I had, that begged the further question: did she say that because she assumed that I'm of the right age and gender to be a bit menopausal myself? Had I, for want of a less insecure term, passed? Was she automatically thinking 'That Nice Middle-Aged Ocelot over there is probably prime menopause material, much like myself. I will confide my hot flushiness to her'? That'd be cool, right? Her totally accepting me as the gender with which I present? Not so cool for her with the hot flushes, but still.

But wait a minute. Maybe I hadn't passed. Maybe she would have said the same thing to one of the younger women in the office, or the younger men? Maybe she's just the sort of person to overshare the every tick of their biological clock. Maybe I had just missed her confessing to one of the 20-year old grads in long shorts and an ironic Pac-Man t-shirt that she'd had a really good poo after breakfast. I don't know.

Or maybe she just confided in me on account of my being a friendly person who she thinks she can relate to, me being the only person even vaguely the same age and gender as her in the entire office. Maybe I should've come back with something supportive like 'Oh poor you, have you tried Menopace(tm) and a nice bag of frozen peas on the back of the neck?' (medical note: I know nothing menopause relief). Jeez, maybe even as we speak she's writing a blog about the unsupportiveness of that Not So Nice Middle-Aged Ocelot across the floor from her. I don't know. I can't know.

Or maybe she just made some bollocks up on the spot and was just saying it was hot. Apparently some people just talk nonsense and don't analyse the crap out of it later.

Gah! Why can't I know what she meant? I'm in neurotic trans-limbo here (note: first appeared in Giant Size Man-Thing #6, 1975). Am considering emailing her a post-encounter survey:

Dear Nice Admin Lady,

Thank you for taking the time to speak to me earlier. As part of my ongoing efforts to improve understanding in the office, I would be grateful if you could spare a minute to respond to this simple questionnaire.

When you said 'Yes, it is warm, isn't it? It's probably just my age', did you mean (select the response that most closely matches your feelings):

A   I did indeed feel warm, and I attribute that sensation to the onset of the menopause and thus tacitly imply that you too are biologically susceptible to this stage of maturity. Please join me and the rest of the ladies for lunch.
B   I simply felt warm on account of the weather rather than the menopause, and though I have correctly deduced that you are not susceptible to that condition yourself nor will you ever be, I am maintaining the illusion that you are biologically so susceptible, because I am a Nice Admin Lady.
C   I may or may not feel warm, but it seems appropriate for women of our age to make an ironic comment about the menopause. I liked how you did the fringe-puff.
D   I was just making some shit up to pass the time of day.
E   None of the above (please supply your own response in less than 50 words).

Yours,
The Ocelot