Chapter 8: My issues with…mansplaining

I was fighting for equality from a very young age. This is why I have a panic attack whenever someone asks me, “Can you cut the cake?” 

I know slicing a cake doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I actually do not know how to slice a cake (or a pie), at least properly — without fail, the piece will land on the plate as if I had just downed four glasses of wine, so if someone asks me to do this, I’ll make up a quick excuse lie, like, “I actually really have to go to the powder room!” 

Everyone in my immediate family — including my parents and three brothers — as well as my close friends, all know that I am as domestically challenged as I am directionally challenged.

They also know that when we gather for family dinners, usually at my parents’, I have a special chair I always sit in at the table, which I will get to a little later because this is very important.

When people find out I can't and have no interest in learning to cook anything, they don't believe it. So, my only retort is, "Well, you obviously haven't tasted my cereal.” I can cook three things: scrambled eggs, a grilled cheese sandwich, and French toast.

But in modern times, unlike my parents’ and especially grandparents’ days, many women in mid-life — at least that I know of — would rather eat peanut butter straight out of the jar than cook. Yes, sometimes even if they have a family to feed.

There are, believe it or not, a lot of women nowadays who do not know how to cook and have no interest in learning how to. Why do we need to, anyway? Whereas in our grandparents’ generation of women, they seemed to really enjoy cooking for the family. Or maybe they had no choice because that was just the way it was. Also, they didn’t have this thing called UberEats.

More often than not, I’ll scream, “I just ordered — dinner should be here in 25 to 35 minutes!” Then have a heart attack when I see that I just spent $80 at McDonald’s. Still, even the cost isn’t an incentive to make me want to learn to cook.

The younger generation of women should truly thank my generation of career women, many of whom don’t have time, nor the energy to cook after a long day. And many of us are actually the breadwinners in the family. So, as long as we make it perfectly clear to those of us with male counterparts that we are not interested in cooking, they should be encouraged to take it upon themselves. And over the years, they certainly have! So many men are now the chefs in the family (yay!)...which is why if anyone said to me that my place was in the kitchen, I would respond, "Your place is in the 1800s.”

People do still ask why I don’t cook. And I have the same answer for people who ask me, “Why don’t you smile?” The answer is simple: “Because I don’t feel like it.”  

Women have come a long way from my Bubby’s generation, who was expected to have dinner ready for my Zaida every evening. We even have kickass titles like “girl boss” and “boss mom,” terms my mother never once called herself.

One word my parents and grandparents never had in their vernacular is the word “mansplaining" — which, for those above 70ish who have never heard this word, and is a word that my daughter’s generation grew up with, occurs when a man talks condescendingly to a woman with the (mistaken!) assumption that they know more about whatever the subject matter is. It might also include the ridiculous notion that men are fully capable of also speaking for women, about women, and better than all women. 

They’ll have the audacity to say, “I have such a migraine. There is nothing worse than what I’m going through,” to which I just want to respond, “Yeah. I can imagine. It must be so much worse than popping out a nine-pound baby.”

I don’t understand how the male brain is wired. My Guy even mansplains when we travel together. He’ll watch me carefully as I automatically check into my flight — modern times and all — and when the computer asks me to type in my first name, My Guy, no joke, will say, “Your name starts with an “R.” (Um, really? I’ve only had my name for my entire LIFE!)

Basically, he tried to convince me — a middle-aged woman who has travelled hundreds of times solo  — that he practically invented the automatic airport check-ins and that, somehow, I’m the idiot.

The dude acts like I haven't ever travelled before I met him…four years ago. I’ll tell him to stop mansplaining. His answer? “That’s not what mansplaining means.” 

Wow.

I’m thrilled that Siri, our trusted, savvy know-it-all Apple robot, has a female voice. 

I bet that if the voice were male, and a woman would start, “Siri, tell me the —” I’m pretty sure male Siri wouldn’t even let her finish the question, interrupting with, “Here’s what you need to know…”

When dealing with females nowadays, all males need to do is ask themselves, “Did she ask me to explain this? and “Does she have more relevant experience in this subject matter?” If the answer to both those questions is no, then…Just. Stop. Talking.

For example, I can read website analytics because I’ve worked on a ton of websites over the years — something that my grandparents, and parents, really don’t understand. My dad still gets excited when a phone book arrives each year, but if I mention the word “analytics,” to my dad, or My Guy, or any other man I just met, I’m not joking when I tell you, they will actually say, “Yeah, I watched a four-minute YouTube video on that. Let me explain it to you.” As if watching one goddam video makes them an expert on analytics in comparison to my years of experience running websites.

At least we have a word to explain this phenomenon, unlike previous generations of women who’ve fought for women’s rights and equality. I can’t imagine my sweet Bubby telling my hardworking Zaida, “Stop mansplaining how to make chicken soup! I’ve only done this for 50 years every week! I will add more pepper if you’d like,” to which my Zaida would probably act like he invented chicken soup.

A side note about my Bubby and Zaida, who have both passed, and who I think of every day. When I was growing up, my Bubby, unbeknownst to my Zaida, would always whisper in my ear each week, “You must get your driver’s licence. A driver's licence will give you freedom.”

This is because my grandfather didn’t allow her to get a driver’s license. Not because he was an evil person — far from it — but because many wives of that generation never got their driver’s license. But he wouldn’t hesitate to hand over all his paycheques to my grandmother.

And she didn’t get to live long enough to enjoy this thing called Uber, where she could have escaped the house to get her hair done once a week, as opposed to relying on my Zaida, who always went with her.

Meanwhile, two generations later — my generation — if someone told me that I couldn’t get a driver’s license, I would respond, “Okay, let’s get one thing straight. I can do whatever the hell I want.” (Even though, as you know, I’m a terrible driver. But that’s not what this is about!)

Weirdly, my daughter didn’t even care about getting her driver’s license because she grew up in the age of Uber, so I’m not really sure if Uber has set women back. I’m probably the only modern-day mother who had to beg and beg her daughter to take her driving test.

My sweet sweet Zaida actually used to boast that he had never changed a diaper in his life! That is until my daughter was born and he attempted, at age 90, to try it once, just so he could say, “I changed a diaper!” (Then again, he used to say, “Walk over to me, Rowan. Come to your great-grandfather,” while I looked at him and had to explain, “Dude! She’s two months old.”

I became a feminist around age nine or 10 — although, I do think anyone born with a vagina should automatically consider themselves a feminist. It was when I realized that at every single Jewish High Holiday dinner, sometimes with up to 20 guests at the table, it was only the females who would call out, “Come help serve the soup please, Becky!”

It always irked me. 

Not only that, but after everyone finished their soup course, my mother would say, “Becky! Bring the empty bowls to the kitchen and help me serve the next course.” Us women would be getting up and sitting down like seven or eight times per meal, while the males just sat back bantering with each other. Raise your hand if you can relate. 

This happened whether we were hosting the dinners, went to a relative’s for dinner, or even a good friend’s to celebrate an occasion. 

Also, before my wonderful Bubby and Zaida passed, my family would have regular Friday night dinners at their house, which was always the highlight of my week…aside from the fact it was always my Bubby, my mother, and myself who were always getting up to serve the food, scoffing down our meals at a speedier pace then what’s considered normal, only to have to get up back up to clear the table and clean the dishes while my three brothers, my dad, my grandfather, and sometimes my uncles chatted around the table.

Now, you would think that, being the only daughter growing up with three brothers, I would be spoiled rotten. Throughout my entire life, whenever I’d mention I have three brothers, the first response from almost everyone is always, “You must have been spoiled rotten being the only girl!” assuming that I somehow got special treatment.

They weren't wrong. I did get special treatment. I did get treated differently. But not in the way you’d expect.

I remember having screaming matches with my mother over how I was treated being the only girl. One example that pops to mind immediately? My baby brother — three years younger than me — for some reason had a later curfew than I did.

When I learned this, I lost it. “He’s younger than ME! How is it fair that he gets a later curfew?” to which my mother responded, “Because you’re a girl!” 

Now, this was in the late 80s and early 90s, long after women started to burn their bras.

So, I responded, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. This is ridiculous! Allow me to clarify and tell you why.” (Perhaps I was channelling the middle-aged mansplainer in me.) 

My parents did end up changing my curfew, purely so I would stop all my protesting. Picture me walking up and down my quiet street, where everyone knew everyone, holding up a sign I made on a bristle board, where I scrawled in marker, “The future is female!” and “Every girl deserves the same curfew!” all while chanting, “Women deserve equal treatment!” and “I won’t go silent! The outrage is real!”

I’m kidding. I didn't do that, but it was easier (and I know, in their minds, they weren’t really being fair either, or I was just too exhausting) to just give it to me, knowing that I would continually be on them about how it made zero sense.

Frankly, it really did make no sense, especially since I was not only their strongest, most opinionated child, but I was also physically stronger — when I needed to be — than my brothers were. Because they pissed me off a lot.

I shoved one of them in the dryer, and maybe shoved another one’s head into the toilet. Plus, my youngest brother — the one who had a later curfew than I did — was 11 —  before he stopped believing that he was adopted. I threw in some emotional turmoil whenever I could, too.

Ever since he was a toddler, I told him that some random person dropped him off at our door when he was born, that my parents didn't want him, and that it was ME who convinced them to keep him.

Again, he was, like, entering puberty before he realized that I was a pretty damn good storyteller. Or he was very naive. (Why can’t it be both?)

So, who should get the later curfew? My younger brother, who was shoved into the dryer and led to believe he was adopted, or me, who did the shoving, and can convince people of anything? It was clear to me that I was obviously stronger, mentally and physically, than any of my brothers, so being “a girl” was a poor excuse for forcing an earlier curfew on me.

Another time that I had to fight for equality was when my parents allowed my middle brother, less than two years younger than me, to go away with his friends to Las Vegas.

At the same time, I wanted to go away with my high-school boyfriend and a couple of other friends to Cuba. At first, there wasn’t even a discussion. Another screaming match occurred.

To this day, I think it’s the most hilarious fight I ever had in the fight for women’s equality.

“Why won’t you let me go?! You’re letting him go with his friends, and he’s younger than me!” 

“Because you could get pregnant,” was my mother’s answer. Yes, her answer was ridiculous, but her reasoning was even more maddening!

“You know I could get pregnant here, right?” I retorted, leaving out the part that I was already on birth control.

Back then, almost all my friends secretly went to their doctors, unlike our daughters today, including mine, who casually asked me one day to take her to the doctor so she could go on birth control to “regulate her period,” which I choose to believe. But I was 16 too, so, you know…maybe it was to regulate her period, but maybe she was preparing to be sexually active.

Looking back, I should have added to my argument that my brother could also knock someone up in Vegas.

In any case, one day when I was about 12, during a High Holiday dinner, which involved five courses, my mother asked me to help clean up.

I looked at my dad and my three brothers, who were laughing and relaxing around the table, and spoke my mind., “Well, they all have two legs! Why aren’t they getting up and helping? Stop asking me just because I’m a girl!” 

I not only did think this, I actually SAID, “Michael, Daniel, and Jon have legs. So does dad. That’s eight legs right there! Why don’t you get them to help out? I’m not getting up anymore.”

I’m sure my parents thought me saying “I'm not getting up anymore” meant just for that particular dinner.

Well, I haven’t gotten up since that evening to help serve food, clear the table, or clean dishes when my brothers are sitting at the same table. That was about 30 years ago.

This is why I am also their smartest child. 

From then on, and this is my tip to you other females who don’t think it’s fair they are the ones always getting up when they have perfectly capable husbands, is to pick the right chair.

Now, countless High Holiday and Friday night dinners later, everyone knows not to go near “my chair.” They are too scared of my outbursts. And now, my brothers and my dad just get up and help out.

I do not feel bad about this. And I am quite proud, frankly, about the chair that everyone accepts is mine at holiday dinners.

Everyone wants (whether they admit it or not) this coveted chair at the table. It’s the one where it is impossible for you to get out from — thus rendering you incapable to help serve or clean up.

It may sound super rude, but I’m actually trying to empower women to empower women. 

I always grab that ONE chair at the table — every large table has a couple of these premium V.I.P seats — where even if you wanted to help, you wouldn’t be able to squeeze out because others are surrounding you, and there’s no room for you to squeeze by because behind you is a massive teacup china display.

When my Bubby passed, the only thing I wanted to keep from her was one of her fur coats and all her journals, which she wrote in every day, which included details like who called her that day and what doctor appointments she had. 

I read them all. In one entry, I burst into tears after reading, “Rebecca was so rude tonight. She didn't even get up to help clear the table.”

But I was sticking up for myself as a female. I was making a point — one that I probably should have explained to everyone with something like, “I am going on strike! Just because they were born with penises, doesn’t mean my three brothers can’t clear the table.”

No one in my family expects me to do anything when we gather, which is why I get a panic attack when I’m at other people’s houses for dinner and know I can’t NOT help out. So, I will get up with the rest of the females, waiting on the husbands.

When I’m a guest, I can’t always choose my chair.

I also realize that even when I’m a guest, we don’t need eight females in the kitchen. I mean, sure, it looks good on me that I'm helping, but sometimes I'm like, “This is not a restaurant! Why do all eight of us women feel like we all need to help?” I mean, we’re so many sometimes that it gets so hot, I need to stick my face in the freezer, which I can’t do. Because that’s weird to do at someone’s house. And because there are too many females in the way. When people say, “There are too many cooks in the kitchen,” this is actually true.

So, whether it’s a High Holiday gathering or a family gathering, or even when I’m home, I’m rarely in the kitchen, which means I’m scared of sharp knives, I hate the noise of the blender, and I do not know how to slice cake. 

But at least I know what chair to pick whenever I’m at large family gatherings. I call this being a modern woman, who realizes that she doesn’t actually have to slice cake to enjoy cake. 

A spoon works just fine.