Male privilege & a basket of tampons
Years ago, a friend went to a party, and something bothered him enough to rant to me about it later. And it bothered me that he was so incensed about it, but I couldnât put my finger on why. It seemed so petty for him to be upset, and even more so for me to be annoyed with him.
Recently, something reminded me of that scenario, and it made more sense. Iâll explain.
The party was a house party. One of those parties people throw if theyâre renting a good-sized house in college. You know the typeâloud music, Solo cups of beer, and somebody doing something drunk and stupid before the end of the night.
At some point, my friend had occasion to use the bathroom. When he went into the bathroom, he was disgusted to see that the hostess had left a basket of feminine hygiene products on the counter for guests to use if needed.
Later, when my friend told me about it, he wrinkled his nose and said, âWhy would she do that? Guys donât want to see that!â
When I suggested that she was just making them available in case a woman needed them, he insisted that they could be left in the cabinet or under the counter. Out of sight, anyway.
I wish Iâd had, at the time, the ability to articulate what I can now.
To me, this situation is, while relatively benign, a perfect example of male privilege.
A man walks into the bathroom and sees a reminder that women have periods. And heâs disgusted. He wants that evidence hidden away because it offends his senses. How dare the hostess so blatantly present tampons and pads where a man might see them? Thereâs no reason for that!
A woman walks into the bathroom and sees that the hostess is being extra considerate. She gets it. She knows what itâs like to have a period start unexpectedly. The feeling of horror because sheâs probably wearing something she doesnât want ruinedâit is a party after all. The sick embarrassment because someone might notice, especially if sheâs wearing light-colored clothes, or worse, sat on the hostessâs white couch. The self-conscious, semi-nauseated feeling of trying to get through a social event after youâve exhausted every avenue to get your hands on an emergency pad or tampon, and youâre just hoping to God that if you tie your jacket around your waistâyou brought one, right?âkeep your back to a wall, clench your buttcheeks, squeeze your thighs tightly together, and donâtâŚmoveâŚatâŚallâyou might get through the evening, bow out gracefully, and find an all-night convenience store with a public restroom.
Or maybe she came to the party during her period, but didnât bargain for her flow to suddenly get that heavy. Or she desperately needs a tampon, but her purse is in a room where a couple is not to be disturbed. Maybe she doesnât know the hostess well enough to ask if she can use one. Or she doesnât know anyone at the party well enough to ask. Or she figures she can make do with some wadded up toilet paper or something.
Whatever the case, she walks into the bathroom, and she hears the hostess saying âHey, I know what itâs like, and just in case, Iâve got your back.â Â She sees someone saving her from what could be a minor annoyance or a major embarrassment.
The hostess gets it. The woman who just walked into the bathroom? Sheâs either going to see that the person throwing the party is super considerate, or sheâs going to be whispering thanks to Jesus, Krishna, and whoever else is listening because that is a basket full of social saviors.
But to the guy who wrinkled his nose, itâs still offensive that those terrible little things are on the counter, reminding his delicate sensibilities that the playground part of a woman is occasionally unavailable due to a gross bodily function that he should never have to think about.
In the grand scheme of things, itâs a tiny thing. Itâs a tiny annoyance for the man, and a more significant but relatively tiny courtesy for the woman. After all these years, my friend has probably forgotten, but I never have. Â As a woman whose life is partially governed by a fickle uterus that can ruin an evening faster than a submerged iPhone, his story has stuck with me.
How can you be so offended by a small gesture that has zero effect on you, but could make such an enormous difference to the person who needs it?
It occurs to me now that this is a small but effective illustration of how men and women see the world. Itâs part of the same thought process that measures a womanâs value through her bra size and her willingness to have sex with himâthat everything about us is displayed or hidden based on how men perceive them or what he wants to get from us. Unattractive women should be as covered as possible, while attractive ones shouldnât be hiding their assets from male eyes (or hands, or anything else he wishes to use).
A woman who isnât smiling is an affront to him because it detracts from her prettiness, despite the fact that there might be a legitimate reason for her not to smile (or more to the point, that there isnât a legitimate reason for her to smile). Her emotional state is irrelevant because sheâs not being pretty. Itâs the line of thinking where a man blames anything other than cheerful sexual consent on the woman being a bitch, being a lesbian, orânaturallyâbeing on her period. Everything we do, from our facial expressions to our use of hygiene products, are filtered the lens of âhow it looks to a man.â
Itâs the line of thinking where a small gesture from one woman to another, an assurance that someone else understands and will help her without question or judgment, a gesture which could save a womanâs evening from being ruined, is trumped by a manâs desire to see an untainted landscape of pretty, smiling women with visible cleavage and vaginas that never bleed.
And people wonder why we still need feminism.
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