Bole: Chant 8

To not be equal

A conversation

I shared with you over a meal

That took hours

To prepare

A time later I asked myself

Did she hate women

Was she more woman

Than women, like I

Am more man

Than men?

Having dinner at Birka’s apartment was always a pleasant experience. Her art would always be displayed around the apartment, and where else one could look were objects which roused her inspiration. There was little room for bedding, or tables, or anything else that one expects in a homely apartment, and so instead she would create works that could be used for substitutions of a number of these things, so that none of her apartment was left to appear as anything other a museum of peculiar artefacts. But to be there felt so out of keeping to the rest of the village, that I enjoyed the environment for every reason of its peculiarities, which were not so much peculiar as unique to her blend of spirit. And it is a shame that we spoke for longer than I can sufficiently relate, for her words were never without charm or noble connection to the subjects she would speak of.

As I walked down the steps from Birka’s apartment, one floor at a time, counting the steps, repeating the conversation as I walked, each step became a conclusion that had been discussed a short while ago. And as I arrived at the floor above my own, I looked to the door that faced me nearest where I stood. Yes, I said to myself, there are few.

The corridors seemed dark and descended in to blackness where the light could not reach. I enjoyed the sound of my feet on the steps, whether they clanked against the heel, or tapped against the toes. And though now as I thought of Birka, who was perhaps working or pacing about her apartment as though she had misplaced her inspiration, the sound of her voice would play ever clear in my mind. I felt it was important, and to forget it would be a mistake. And though I remembered her words, I was driving them to silence by my own thoughts on the matter, which were clearer to me now than when I had discussed them. And as always I would prefer to write them down as I would write in words much better than I would speak, and though I struggled to say what I meant to, I knew I could always redeem myself by writing, and yet as a man I feel my tongue already judged, so I shall speak briefly so that fewer of my words shall be discredited.

Birka was saying, my reader, that women still have such a battle. I asked her whether she was speaking of women in society, politics, or industry. She promptly said, in everything, before narrowing her statement to society.

Though I agreed with her, I couldn’t help feeling that I was unable to correctly understand where the victory of the battle she spoke of would lead. I felt her word equality was such a vague term to use, as equality refers to, not the balance, but as something becoming unified. That then this could no longer refer to a gender scheme, divided in two, but to a species as a whole. There is a question in the mere statement of it. And it is not entirely accurate to say women had been searching to be equal, but searching to be equal to men.

I said to her that one strong understanding I have is that I neither supporting nor believing in equality. That I do not believe men are equal even amongst themselves, and neither are women equal even amongst themselves, and so for women to be equal to men is an inaccurate target.

And added that despite this, certainly a man is capable of meeting his equal, as a woman is capable of meeting hers, and surpassing even many men, if they should be beneath her. That I felt it is all character, and perhaps correct organization of that character should be the truer target.

To these words, Birka believed an important point was made, and she felt that for herself she had believed in the ladder system, which attention is diverted towards through such terms as sexism. Or is that, I replied, as poorly targeted as saying the victory in battles of school bullying is that no one is bullied. One recognizes bullying as being wrong, and one recognizes bullying as being harmful, and one recognizes bullying as being something which should be removed. However, to remove the impact of bullying does not remove the cause. And though one is no longer bullied, that does not remove another’s desire to bully. And so the more accurate target would be to battle these causes of one’s desire and expression of bullying, thereby not simply creating an environment where one is not being bullied, but where one feels assured that they are not quietly being targeted. The victory of battle is not simply the defeat of the enemy, but the successful deterrence so it never has desire to rise again. As to remove the bully from the bullied, has taught the bully nothing, and only weakened the self-reliance of the bulled.

Birka was quiet silent, and though it was clear she understood my meaning, she felt my grounds on which I stood were not quite steady.

A woman can be assertive whilst being aggressive, I said, generous whilst maintaining control, merciful whilst being powerful. A man’s testosterone makes him aggressive whilst being assertive, generosity is a form of negotiation, and mercy is a compromise of power. And so it had concerned me when I see women trying to achieve by predominantly behaving as men. Women shall not attain what they desire by behaving as men, as it is not man that women should be striving to be equal to. All women shall achieve through this is to be amongst his inequality.

Birka exclaimed disgust for the imitation of men that she perceives in women. And further remarked strongly that both sexes are different, before pausing to add, but equal. I attempted to conclude our discussion by saying that I suppose in terms of equality, a truer target need be reassessed.

As our conversation began to draw to a close, Birka offered me the compliment of saying that I was in touch with my feminine side. To which I laughed and remarked that I was raised by women and confounded by men. Her compliment pleased me, though I was not hesitant to add that I understood that I have much more to learn. She replied that she has much more to learn of men, pausing for a moment to add that she at least hoped there was more to learn.

Men are the reverse of women. I said those words carelessly, suddenly feeling surprised that I had no more words in my mind to expend on them with. I continued by saying that it was not that I believed a woman’s good qualities were a man’s bad, but that everything is inverted. That it works differently than what has been struggled for; in opposite directions M W. A man may be equal to a woman, but not on the same line or spectrum. Women and men move along opposite measurements. As though –1 man equals +1 woman, but neither are equal placed against the same measurement.

Instead, I continued, she must first recognize her height of woman. If I were the man of men, I would not desire the man of women, but the woman of women, equal to myself. And these Amazonian Queens are not your woman of women, but more your Cleopatras.

She paused; it was the first time in our conversation I could not read her expression during her intermissions of speech, and broke her silence by saying that she felt men hide a lot of admirable qualities. This is true, I concluded, as most men are not yet men, but male.

That was largely our discussion, and afterwards, having returned to my apartment, I walked around looking to this and that as though everything held a more significant presence, and walking to my stack of books I looked through their names and titles, admiring each for the company their works had given me.

But it occurred to me how uncommon that feeling was for me, and how it almost entirely derived from this single stack of books, these men of eminence who I would be so fond of reading who were all long dead and most of their names forgotten. And quickly my calmness began to recede and fall in to confusion, as I tired to place the feeling with people I knew. But finding myself unable to, I came to realize it was a personality that did not exist and was beyond compare; that the desideratum was not so much of women as of men.

And I sat back at my writing desk recalling to myself how I felt about Carpinus:

I do not know how to tell a man apart except by what he has or has not, except by where he goes or goes not. But what, my conscience, what is he?