I have come to two obvious conclusions:
First, sexism is an international phenomenon that transcends borders, languages, and cultures. Second, the same goes for the look of a woman who isn’t having any of it.
The other day I took a botero (a cross between a taxi and hitchhiking) to my university’s campus. It was commute hour, so I ended up in the front squished between the driver and another passenger, both men. When I first sat down the man on my right tried to place his hand on my knee. I said nothing but glared at his hand, which he quickly removed. I could still feel his eyes staring at me, so with my sunglasses pushed up I calmly turned my head and met his eyes with an un-amused bitch face. He blinked first, and he eventually turned his gaze out the window where it stayed for the remainder of the ride.
Despite having been twice reminded now that today is in fact International Women’s Day—felicidades ladies—I haven’t noticed any changes in the interactions between sexes: wolf whistles still begin the day, and on the street young boys and some very not-so-young men offer out catcalls. That’s not to say it’s all-bad as a young woman in Havana: I also have the distinct ability to ask any man on the street for directions or the name of a building. Sometimes there’s even free stuff too, though not usually.
I’m not surprised sexism exists outside the USA, especially in a machismo culture like Cuba’s, but its different manifestations fascinate me.
What does surprise me, however, is the lack of male empathy—not sympathy, but an actual appreciation for the practical realities of women. For example, during our first week my roommate and I were walking back to our casa particular from dinner when we were approached by a man on the street. It took a little bit of time, but eventually we ended the conversation by saying our house was down the street (in reality it was two blocks down), and he said OK and that he was continuing down the street we had been walking on. Of course the street we chose was completely dark, which, combined with the anxiety his presence already inspired, freaked out my roommate so we held hands till we were safely inside the house with the door locked behind us.
Of course when we were actually safe we were so excited to tell everyone what had happened. We relayed the whole story and when we finished one of our male friends asked why we didn’t just confront the man in the beginning? Well, I said, obviously I just wanted to end the conversation as civilly and calmly as possible. To which he replied something in the vein of: Why? If it’d been me, I wouldn’t care if he got upset. I was dumbfounded—it seemed so obvious!
Because he was a tall, strong looking man, and we were two young women walking at night with valuables.
Because if we bruised his ego, he might try to prove his manhood and become angry or violent.
Because I’m pretty sure my roommate can out run me.
Because if our confrontation did thwart some sort of plan for which he had no back up he could become angry or violent.
In the end, my friend seemed dumbfounded with me and eventually shrugged it off.
I wish I could shrug it off. Shrug off the numbness in my hand from my roommate’s tight grip, shrug off looking of my shoulder to make sure he didn’t follow us anymore, shrug off my pounding heart rate when I lied about where we lived, shrug off sensing him before he spoke to us, shrug off that I had been tracking him behind us for two blocks even before that.
Maybe it’s a good sign some guys can’t empathize because maybe it shows they can’t even imagine how a man could justify such behavior. Even so, that obliviousness astounds me. I can’t even begin to comprehend how some people can’t even begin to comprehend my reality.