Destiny must have assumed
my Friday was too boring and required a bit of sprucing up. Our A Country Called Syria exhibit was
coming to a close and I had to go pick up the rental van we use to transport
our artifacts to and from storage. With everyone out of town, I resorted to ordering
a Lyft to get to the rental shop. The irony is when I arrived, they had a
scheduling shift and my rental got pushed to two days later. I laughed because
I knew I took that Lyft for nothing more than the reason that this story was
meant to unfold. I share it because personally I have grown beyond tired of how
disassociated men are from the experiences of women. How privileged they are to
brush everything off like it’s either insignificant or nonexistent because they
do not experience it themselves.
Every social media post I
share that explicitly spells out the various painful experiences I, or other
women face, is met with the handful of men who don’t realize their tones of
support are actually coming across apathetic. To tell a woman, “Why do you care?”
or “That’s not a big deal,” or “Just let it go,” may seem like motivational
statements but in actuality they’re undermining the gravity of the real issues.
I’ve found myself asking every man who tells me this, “Have you wondered what a
difference you might actually make if you spent more time putting your bros in
check instead of silencing women?” [insert cricket sounds]
Women are facing
harassment for a number of unfair reasons by a number of groups and we’re
tired. Men can go on in this world much more comfortably. They can express
their opinion or reject any advancement and still be safe and sound. Their
feelings are heard and validated. Their reputations remain untouched, no matter
how undeserving they may be of that. We’re seeing it in entertainment,
politics, religion and society at large. This Lyft ride was another painful
reminder.
There’s been a
long-standing question of whether Uber/Lyft rides should consist of the
friendly small talk or ensue with that awkward silence. Personally, I don’t mind
either, however after experiences like this, I prefer the latter.
Sam* was seven minutes
away, just enough time to slip into my boots and refill the cat’s bowl. I
waited outside, keeping a lookout for his navy vehicle. As he pulls up, I see
his facial expression contort negatively. I wondered—as I slipped into the
backseat and gave my cheery “Hi!” that he straight up ignored—can’t Lyft
drivers reject rides? Don’t they see our profile photos and make their snap
judgments of yay or nay? So why didn’t he nay when it was so clear he was disapproving
my hijabi Muslim presence?
Barely snapping my
seatbelt in, he floors it and begins complaining about the twists and turns of
my neighborhood. I chuckled nervously and got back to my emails, deciding it be
best that I give him his space considering the attitude. He asks me where I’m
heading and I’m puzzled because that information was already submitted. I offer
to repeat the address and tells me, “Never mind. I’ll look up the city.” He
continues speeding and proceeds to ask if I’m on my way to work, but the tone
is clearly investigative and somewhat hostile.
I tell him, “I am,” to
keep it short. Technically, renting the van was work related. “So you’re a
driver?” he insists. “Not really. I run a museum so we’re closing this weekend
and I’m picking up the van.” His face distorts as he looks back at me (which he
did too often in the remainder of the ride as he got heated up). “I don’t get
it. You said it’s your museum so why do you need a rental?” I find his impatient
and invasive tone triggering enough to force an explanation because I’m at his
mercy in his car.
“It is my museum but it’s a traveling one. So when we finish, we pack
and move to the next venue.” He’s still not amused. “Hmm, that doesn’t sound
like a money maker. Do you make money?” Now he struck a damn nerve. As an
artist, I’m f***ing tired of people basing all worth and value on money. Men
looking down on me for not making money but then feeling emasculated by the
visions and ambitions I actively pursue. And women are deemed the insecure
inferior sex? Yeah, okay babe.
I chuckle but it’s no
longer a nervous one, it’s an angry one. “No, but we get by.” He laughs in such
a condescending patronizing nature; a laugh I recall from my ex-husband and the
men after him. “So why would you do something like that if it’s not rewarding?”
I look out the window, shaking my head, debating if all those years of watching
Tom Cruise jump out of moving vehicles were enough training to do the same.
“There’s a difference between
rewarding and money making. While it doesn’t bring a lot of money, it’s absolutely
rewarding.” He shakes his head in disapproval, his tone rising. “What’s it even
about? And do you charge entry? Do you sell stuff? I don’t get this. It doesn’t
make sense why you’d do something like that.”
My blood starts to boil and I’m growing severely uncomfortable, feeling
incapable of telling him to leave me the hell alone because I’m in his locked car.
“It is an exhibit on the
history and culture of my country, Syria. And we get money through donations
and volunteering our own time.” He must have found the “in” he was looking
for—the Middle Eastern thread to pull on. “Why? Why would you waste time on
that for Syria and it doesn’t bring money?” My inner b**** was awakened now.
“Because people don’t really know Syria….” Before I could even finish he cut me
off and disputed my argument. “That’s not true. Please! Everybody knows Syria.
Come on!” I didn’t care how harsh I was starting to sound but now he was under
my skin.
“Yeah, everybody knows
about it now but they only know what
they see through the media. But when I was growing up here no one heard about
Syria and so….” He cut me off again. “No, you’re wrong. They know. I’m Egyptian
and I know that everybody knows about Syria, more than Egypt even!” I not only
laughed out loud, I squealed. It was all making sense now. He’s an Arab man and
the tone of envy was spewing in between his lines. “You can’t disregard my
experience. I’m telling you what I went through in the last 30 years being born
and raised here as a Syrian-American. When I spoke to people about Syria as a
child, they didn’t know about it.”
His head kept shaking. He
kept turning to look back at me and argue. I kept avoiding eye contact. I was
sick of this conversation and sick of his misogynistic behaviorisms to talk to
a woman in such a manner. “You were born here so you’re not really Syrian. Why
are you even doing this?” I kept my gaze out the window but my eyes widened.
“My mother, a Syrian immigrant, actually established this. I just run it.” He
waved his hand in a gesture to brush it off. “She doesn’t count since she’s
been here for such a long time. Why aren’t those who just came here doing this
instead of you guys?” I couldn’t fathom how this Egyptian immigrant was dismissing
our Syrian roots because we have been on American soil for as long as we have. Was
he ready to strip himself of his Egyptian status then too? Maybe. I guess that’s
how American defines “good” immigrants. His last question crossed the final
line. “Probably because the refugees who escaped bombs and missiles are barely
surviving PTSD, language barriers and financial instability. The last thing
they need to worry about is acquiring artifacts and curating exhibitions.”
-->
“Actually, now that I
think about it,” he starts, stroking his chin while we wait at a red light,
“Maybe this is kind of cool, but why not for Egypt?” Oh dear God. He still
wasn’t done. “And by the way, the situation in Syria has gotten better, but you
know it’s still so bad in Egypt.” I couldn’t deal with this anymore. The Arab
Spring was not a competition among the nations for who got it worse, but if it
were, Yemen takes first place, it just doesn’t get the coverage of its truths
like it deserves.
I spun the wheel back at
him. “Well EVERYONE knows about Egypt. And also, two prominent museums in both
Los Angeles and Orange County have had seasonal and returning exhibitions on
Egyptian history and culture, so it’s out there.”
Glory to God we were
close to the drop off point because I couldn’t handle it anymore. He pulled up
and I opened the door and dove out into my freedom.
During my last breakup, I
pinpointed to the now ex, how oblivious men are (especially Arab men) to the
gravity of their tone when talking to women. It is often condescending,
patronizing and at times almost threatening, which is a trigger to probably the
good majority of Arab women. It’s an environment we grew up in and are
surrounded by that we default to discomfort and feeling unsafe. (Watch Arabic
shows and films for reference.) Conversations, which could unfold in much more
civilized manners, become attacks. Statements of supposed support become
dismissive belittlement. Maybe men don’t always intend to come across this way
(and I say maybe because more often than not we’re finding it’s absolutely
intentional), but honestly, we’re done tolerating and giving you a free pass.
Sam* was definitely not well
intended in his demeanor and it was apparent from the moment he picked me up.
Instead of recognizing the value to what we do early on, he gave me the same
lecture I’ve heard from Arabs since starting college, about how a person’s
value is dependent on their production, be it money or children.
It’s 2018 and these are
still prominent issues. Can I even hope for a better 2019? Can any woman?
