I am fully aware that my general political agenda and personal values make me perfectly suited to being a foaming at the mouth feminist.
The modern-day feminist can wear make up.
In my formative years, however, there was a hitch. My mother and father adopted relatively gender stereotypical roles around the house, with my father bringing home the bacon (vegetarian for me, of course), and my mother maintaining a tidy house, hearty table, and strong network of social ties. Further to this, both my father and mother demonstrated daily to me specifically masculine and feminine modes of etiquette.
When going through a door, it became established that the rules were thus: females pass through the portal first, the aged before youth, and at all times, doors should be held by those waiting. Dad, if driving us somewhere, would drop my mother and us kids at the door of our destination, and then scout around for a park, saving us, presumably, the messy and annoying task of walking ten extra steps. If I take my early homelife into account, it is easy for me to conclude that chivalry is not dead, although it may have a cough.
I have always been a bit enchanted by the romance that chivalry entails. The most famous example of masculine sacrifice is, of course, in the interaction between Sir Walter Raleigh, and Queen Elizabeth (I think). They were walking together, when Sir Walter saw a puddle blocking her path. Springing into action, Sir Walter laid down his coat over it to protect her delicate footsies. Sir Walter was also the man who eschewed hygiene, and refused to wash his hand for months after Queen E. touched it, thinking that her delicate power and scent would linger on him and bring him power, and the respect of all other men.
That dashing coat dropper, Sir Walter Raleigh, and the lucky Queen.
I am fascinated by chivalry, but it is not to say that I expect doors held or cars chauffeured for me… but oh how I love it. I watch for it, carefully waiting in an elevator to see which boys push out before me, and which men, with mannish and directive hand waves, wait patiently until I have trod lightly through the exit. “He’s a nice boy,” I inevitably think when this happens, “Oh yes, he’s well bred”. Well bred!? What am I thinking? Do I wish to replace my seemingly AWOL feminism with classist snobbery?
An artist’s impression of me, thrilling in my slippers as I look doe-eyed up at a gentleman who holds the door for me and/or protects me from the harsh realities of life.
Door-holding, seat giving and arm pressing are often thought to be acts of ‘benevolent sexism’. ‘Benevolent sexists’ kill with kindness. These bigots believe that women are somehow less than human than men, even disabled in comparison to them, and thus ladies need extra help and care when going about their daily business. In this mindset, women are on one hand lauded, respected, and held up as angels in need of assistance, and are on the other hand degraded as dirty temptresses, wanton sluts and unfeminine bulldogs, should they contradict the stringent, chaste, and delicate feminine norms that these benevolent sexists hold for them.
Is the wheelchair redundant, is womanhood itself a disability?
And yet… and yet… chivalry makes me so happy and warm on the inside when I come breast to fist with it. Two acts of such gallantry spring vividly to mind, and when I remember them they always make me smile.
One day, having driven myself to uni in the great white horse (again read Volvo), and parked on the road by the river, I was walking distractedly across the sporting fields up to my building. A large and hairy man, who resembled a member of that crazy 1% of the biking contingent, the Hell’s Angels, was sitting pretty atop a ride-on mower. The bikie look-alike was roaring around at a great rate, grass flying in his wake. Upon seeing me, however, he shut the motor off immediately. I looked him in the eye, and he smiled a big, toothless grin at me, which I returned, with interest. He waited until my delicate ears were safely out of range before starting his motor again, mowing with courtesy and grace, and making my day at the same time.
Add one mower and one Hell’s Angel and you have a recipe for chivalry* (*results may vary).
Another day, after a long and arduous slog at uni, I was driving home. Too late, I realized that I was driving on empty, and in the wrong lane to get to the petrol station. Furthermore, I was pulled up at a set of lights, and the line of angry drivers behind me looked like they would not be impressed at waiting immobile until I could safely merge. I looked over my shoulder in distress, and flicked on my indicator. I was well and truly stuck, banked in by a macho-looking Commodore, which was idling in the other lane. The driver of the said Commodore, suitably macho himself, seemed to note my distress. He looked in his own rear view mirror, and, seeing there were no cars behind him, began to reverse at a mad and dangerous pace. He waved me in, and in I slipped. I made it to the petrol station, and he made it away unharmed. It was so manly, so masculine, so new-age chivalrous of him to maneuver his car at personal risk to make sure that I had a gentle path to my destination… I was charmed.
Letting a woman in in traffic is the modern day equivalent to jousting for her honour.
But then, maybe there is just something about man and machine. I have a friend who considers a successful reverse park as equivalent to foreplay. One time, whilst she was in England, a fellow famously got her into bed by executing a perfect ‘one reverse’ park into a narrow space.
There is a right way, and a wrong way to park when attempting to bed a woman.
I had always thought that this was a bit mad until the other night. Having picked up a movie with a friend of mine, he drove us back to my house. Unfortunately, the guest parking lot where I live is a tight squeeze at the best of times, and his is not a small car. He took one look at the space, and revved the motor. He then glanced casually at me, and thwacked a strong hand behind my headrest. My heart was in my mouth. In one smooth movement he reversed the car in, shutting off the motor as if it were nothing. I felt a a flush blushing my cheeks, my pulse speed up, and my libido rise. I don’t know whether it was the skillful insertion of a large vehicle into a tight space, or the sense of mastery the whole process awarded him. Whilst not having quite the effect on me that it had on my friend, I began to understand, just a little, of what she felt.
Was it me, the night, or the seamless reverse park?
All this leads me to wonder whether chivalry is chivalrous at all, and what percentage of chivalry is just a continuation of the age old mating game. Having said that, I always feel respected, and respectful when a door is held for me. An empathetic thrill of appreciation also runs through me when I see a man giving up a seat for an old lady, helping her with her shopping, or opening the door for her.
I am sure all this means, without a doubt, that I am a bad, bad feminist. But nonetheless, really, I wish my lawn-mowing man and the Commodore driver a little good karma. In fact, I send them my most adulating, simpering, and adoring thanks (wide eyes and trembling lashes included) for lifting my spirits, and making me feel like a girl.
