Gender Bender

I have been thinking about gender a lot recently - in part because of this historic political moment in the United States, in part because of personal efforts to educate myself on transgender issues, in part because writing this blog has made me a more critical thinker on gender.

A few months ago, I saw this video about a woman being removed from a bathroom line by the police because she could not "prove" she was female.  

As someone who frequently likes to wear a ball cap and sometimes blurs gendered notions of clothing and hair, I felt so hurt, so vulnerable, by the actions of these officers.  They are sworn to protect the life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness of the civilians in their ward.  Instead, they mistakenly robbed the liberty of that young woman to deal with her elemental human needs.

Before you assume I'm "authority-baiting" - I always try to believe the best in people.  Those cops were probably honestly trying to protect the public from "creeps" in a societally private space.

But this has got to stop.

We cannot create new daily horrors to prevent other (incredibly unlikely) horrors.  

When our stereotypes create injustices in people's basic American freedoms, we need to reevaluate them.  "Girls are girls and boys are boys and they are different" seems relatively straight-forward until we start trying to define exactly what that means.  I, for one, feel that "female" is one of the most defining characteristics of my identity, even though so many of the most traditional traits associated with femininity do not strike a chord with me. "Female" is different for each of us. 

Why do we pigeonhole the realm of possibility?  I am tickled by the range of human experience on this planet - there are infinite ways to pass one's day-to-day existence.  It's mind-boggling!  And fascinating.  And lovely.

So, can we broaden our definition of the feminine?  "Feminine," by definition is a contrast to the masculine, and this is where it starts getting tricky - the lines are blurry.  If we must contrast them to one another, we limit ourselves to binary opposites - only one side gets to be tough or strong, which leaves meek or weak for the other side. Should we do away with gender descriptors all together?  Some people argue that we should.  But to be gender-blind is to also miss the fact that women have a different relationship to our world than men do.

Yes, it does mean something to be a woman and a man and any other gender-bending identity on this planet, but each person gets to decide for themselves how they want to inhabit that.  

No one should have the right to regulate gender, not by spoken or printed word, not subtly through social cues and teasing, not by legislating rigid, archaic, limited social structures.  You don't get to tell that woman that she's not woman enough to use the restroom.

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Check out the follow-up post on the the conundrum of being "girly" and burly.
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References

May, Teneille. "Lesbian Harassed and Forced to Leave a Public Restroom Because the Police Insist She's a Man." YouTube. YouTube, 21 Apr. 2016. Web. 30 Apr. 2016. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVuHAS2CtUM>.

TBT: Joshua Tree Traverse (December 2013)

I tell Josh to go on ahead, that I need a moment. I leave it vague so that he thinks I probably need to pee. I sit down and cry. I cry my eyes out in quiet, bursting sobs that shake my body and rock my core. On this high fin of rock and sand in the Mojave Desert, I can see for miles. The relative emptiness and endlessness of the landscape feels like the vast void of my soul right now.

I came to Joshua Tree to join in the annual New Years shenanigans: climbing, bonfires, costumes, communal meals with way too much coffee and whiskey (sometimes together), and general hilarity. I had read this account of running a Joshua Tree traverse and was excited to give it a go, especially when my failure to get picked in the Western States lottery (for the second time) meant I would now be running my first 100-miler in just four short months rather than seven. I had not run much over the course of the fall and suddenly realized I would need to amp up my fitness if I was to be ready by April.

Annual shenanigans at play.

I wasn't sure if I would be able to secure the long shuttle required to make the run feasible - after all, it would require my friends to be a) not climbing and b) sober. Luckily, Andy was game. He is used to dreaming and scheming adventures and we'd been each others' logistical support in different ways over years of living and playing together.

Andy sends it.

Two days before the run, Andy found out that his cycling pal, Josh, would be biking from Los Angeles to Joshua Tree the next day. Josh rolled in just before dark with a huge smile on his face. He quickly wolfed down a massive meal and grinned when he found out I like to run long distances. When Andy told him about the next day's traverse, Josh almost immediately said, "I want to join you." "Wait, really? Didn't you just bike 120 miles today?" "Yeah, yeah. But this is so cool! Andy, do you have any extra bars I can borrow?"

And so we found ourselves several hours before sunrise on one of the shortest days of the year, sailing along the quiet highway between Joshua Tree and Yucca Valley. We lamented that we hadn't made coffee and wished against all hope that there might be a Starbucks open. Sure enough, a few minutes later, we saw one with lights on...yeah-ah!

Duly caffeinated, we drove on to the far western end of Joshua Tree National Park: Black Rock. It was darned chilly and I realized that somewhere along the way I had lost one of my gloves.  I tucked my other hand in my sleeve and we got to moving right away. The first section was gradual uphill across semi-frozen sand. Josh wasted no time at all in launching into a narrative arc of his life - his recent travels in eastern Africa, his bike tours with Andy, the complex relationships between his siblings and his mother. It was apparent to me immediately that Josh's fitness could run circles around my meager fitness, and I was content to let him talk while I tried to keep a slow, even pace.

We reached the top of the climb just as the sun popped over the nearby hills, and we cheered and celebrated with margarita-flavored shotbloks. The terrain changed from sand to a dirt road for a couple miles, then we hit a glorious ridge: knife-edged with steep gullies on either side, barrel cacti and joshua trees and yucca, red dirt and rolling hills. We whooped and hollered and repeated over and over how incredible it was, racing down the ridge through a landscape that felt as remote as any I have encountered yet. 

As we carried on toward Keys View Road, the heat started creeping up and doubts started creeping into my head. I was so grateful when we hit the parking lot, where we had stashed water and snacks in a bear canister the night before. I wanted to stretch the break out as long as possible, but Josh was antsy and reasoned, "We better keep moving, eh?" Knowing he was right, we headed back out. The section behind Ryan Campground was the hottest of the day, and I felt tired and dehydrated.  Josh got about 200m ahead of me, and I settled into a dirge of a jog, feeling alone and adrift and vulnerable and sad.  At one point, Josh waited for me to catch up, and seeing him made me feel even more vulnerable, and I urged him on.

It was here that I broke down. The sound of my sobs was swallowed by the stillness of the endless desert. I sat down in the dirt, grabbed my knees to my chest, and rocked back and forth, tears streaming down my face. I missed her, more than anyone could possibly know, more than I would admit to myself. Since my mom's death, I had allowed myself sadness, but I wouldn't allow any other feelings. People had said, "But she was so young.  And you are so young. It's not supposed to happen like this." I had shrugged them off - "supposed to" is a silly thing that has no bearing on my life. There is only what is. 

For some reason, alone and feeling kind of dehydrated and tired in that desert, I suddenly felt all the things I had fought: sadness that I would never get to talk to her again, anger that she hadn't taken care of herself, pity for myself as a motherless being in the great, big world, scorn for everyone who couldn't understand. It all washed over me in a great big wave. 

And then it was gone. As if waking from a dream, I stood up, wiped my eyes, felt my eyes adjust to the vividness of the desert again, and started running, invigorated anew. Just a ways on, I found Josh. "All good?" he asked, having no idea what I had just been through. "Yup, I just needed a minute.  Thanks for waiting."

We began to run again. We passed people backpacking (in a landscape with no water!) and two desolate roads before I finally urged Josh to go on ahead. He had been so kind this whole time, keeping his pace slow or waiting if he got ahead. I was feeling great and there would be no more junctions until the end. Besides, Andy would be running in from the end to join us for the last couple miles, so it wouldn't be long before we were all together again. 

Josh scampered away and I once again settled into a moderate jog. The terrain throughout had been sandy and not conducive to fast running, and this section was no different. The ecosystem felt different here, though - a floodplain of braided sandy washes and more scrubby plants than cacti and joshua trees.  The washes were hard to follow. I looked for Josh's footprints, but I lost sight of those, too. I had no idea if I was on the trail any more, but I knew the road was just off to my left, so if worse came to worse, I could run along it until I hit the entrance station. This section is downhill and shaded and though I was worked, I knew at this point that I would finish. I was super low on water, but I knew Andy would have some with him and in his car. Eventually, I found a section that definitely looked like the trail and I continued on it for another half-mile or so until I hit the parking lot. 

When I arrived, Josh was there, sitting on the hood of Andy's car. Andy was nowhere to be seen. Josh looked at me and said, "You didn't see Andy either?" The car was locked and we were both out of water, no Andy in sight.  Shit. Realizing that we both took different routes through the rolling washes and scrub brush, it was easy to believe that Andy took yet another route through and missed seeing us completely. We wondered how long he might go before realizing we missed each other.

After a time, Andy showed up, just as relieved as us, having had visions of us with a broken leg somewhere further along the trail.  At this point, I was dehydrated, a little nauseous, and freezing - not uncommon for me after a long run, but also heightened by the approaching darkness of the late afternoon. I crawled into Andy's sleeping bag in the back seat and napped deliriously until we made it to the pizza place in Twenty-nine Palms. Three slices of pizza later, I was coherent and bubbly again and already trying to convince Andy to join me next year...

Why am I drawn to hard things?

We stood there in the downpour looking out at the chop on Lake Crescent. Whitecaps were forming and the wind whipped directly in our faces. I asked, "would you take students out in this?" "Yeah," she said, with only the slightest hesitation. "We could go out. But it wouldn't be much fun."

As we walked back dejectedly to the warmth of the wood-burning stove in the NatureBridge dining hall, I looked back longingly at the canoes again. It wouldn't be any fun out there. It was grey and cold and paddling would be tiring. Somehow, I still wanted to go out. I said this to Becky, who said, "You just seem to be drawn to doing these things that are miserable. What is that all about?"

Part of it was that I had wanted to canoe at Olympic National Park for years and felt like I might never get the opportunity again. But that couldn't encapsulate everything I felt in that moment. Becky was right - I am drawn to hard things. 

I'm definitely not a masochist. I don't thrive on pain or suffering. I do have a high tolerance for it, though, which allows me to continue when others might struggle. I am sure that is partially genetic, but I am also sure that it can be a learned quality. Experience with pain and suffering allows one to endure more - sort of a wacky muscle memory of the soul. Simply being able to endure pain does not draw one to hard things, though.

As I explained in my previous post, I am personally drawn to achievement as a construction of self, a buffer of confidence. That's also too simplistic of an explanation for my attraction to doing difficult things. If achievement were the sole driver, I could certainly find something a little less taxing than running ultramarathons or summiting Sierra Nevada peaks solo or skiing in a blizzard.

"Oh, these times are hard. Yeah, they're making us crazy, baby..."

I think what I finally said to Becky was, "I'm addicted to the personal growth that occurs after doing the hard things." I know it would have been no fun to canoe out there in the driving rain, but I also know that I probably would not regret it afterward. It is infrequent that a hard thing is just that - hard, and nothing more. It is almost always hard and a powerful learning experience, or hard and empowering, or hard and camaraderie-inducing.

There is a transcendent power in pushing our limits, digging down deep. In a trying moment, we are reduced to our truest selves, to our maximum potential. When things suck, I feel equally vulnerable and powerful - like I don't know how bad things might get, but I also don't know just how strong I might rise.

This is usually the result of doing hard things.

Fear, Part 3: It's Just Me Against Me

It was around downed tree #39 when my brow wrinkled up, my heart leapt to my throat, and my focus became laser-like. Precision would be key for the next three steps. A large log was perched right across the single-track trail on an incredibly steep slope several hundred feet above the river canyon floor. The move over the tree would be slippery and awkward with a 30-pound backpack, and it would be difficult for a short person like myself.  After crossing, I would need to gingerly step across a short segment of sloping, crumbling dust with a potential 200 foot tumble through chaparral and poison oak. This was a definite choose-wisely/can’t-fall moment. I was in front of our group of four and had no one else’s footsteps to guide my choices. When we all were safely on the other side, I said, “Wow, that was the hairiest bit we’ve seen all trip.”  My friend said, “Huh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I didn’t really notice.”

Wait.  Really?!

I’ve been thinking about that moment. Was it a personal difference in perception? His legs were longer, so the risk wasn't as large, perhaps. Did he block out the exposed slope in his mind - either to mentally overcome it or because we were all hot and tired and had been crossing sketchy slopes for three days?

Or was it a gendered difference in perception? Was it because he was male and men perceive fear and risk differently from women? I was equally, if not more experienced, than my male counterpart in similar terrain. Are women more likely to question their abilities when faced with fear? According to this article from the Atlantic, the answer is probably "yes." 

The article compiles a number of studies that demonstrate a "confidence gap" between men and women.  It says that women tend to underestimate their abilities, while men tend to harbor an "honest overconfidence" - they're not trying to consciously fool anyone, but truly believe in their abilities.  (If you're interested in the "why" behind the confidence gap, read the article - it's interesting.)

So then, the more important question is, does this lack of confidence cause women to sell themselves short? In some situations, undoubtedly, this low confidence is life-saving: "I'm not capable of that; it will hurt me if I try." However, I have to imagine, in most cases, underestimating our skills in a situations like this, causes us to fall short of our potential. Our fear of failure, of not being good enough, of not being up to the challenge keeps us from making it into the highest ranks of leadership, from earning as much as men, and from challenging ourselves in the same way as men do in the outdoors.

There's sort of a trail through there...

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I have known women to deal with the confidence gap in different ways: "Fake it until you make it." Calling each other out when someone is selling herself short. Sharing articles like the one from The Atlantic so that more women are aware of the issue

"When women don’t act, when we hesitate because we aren’t sure, we hold ourselves back. But when we do act, even if it’s because we’re forced to, we perform just as well as men do...to become more confident, women need to stop thinking so much and just act." 

-Katty Kay and Claire Shipman, based on studies by Zachary Estes

In my own life, I have tended to work toward tangible achievements that serve as measurable data of my abilities and bolster my confidence.  When I start to doubt myself, I try to look back on my achievements and remember who I am and what I have done. I am hyper-driven to overcome my self-doubts, to prove myself capable, to reach a never-attainable potential.

This drive has typically paid dividends - hard work yields deep rewards, but I'll admit that it's not always the healthiest or most sustainable solution to the confidence gap. It has led me to injury from pushing myself too hard. When an achievement is not met, one can lose perspective on the beauty of the journey and the gifts of learning through mistakes. Perhaps most notably, the sense of ever-forward progress cannot replace a true sense of self-worth and contentment.
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Where do YOU find confidence? How do we instill confidence in our young women without contributing to our misguided culture of exceptionalism? How do we allow women to be confident and assertive without being labeled as overly aggressive or bitchy?

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This blog was the third in a three-part series on fear, as it relates to women in the outdoors. The first one focused on fear of environmental factors, while the second one focused on a fear of other humans in the wild. Check out another perspective on why I am driven to do hard things.