I’ve rather enjoyed the fuss Mr Messenger Chick kicked up about the Knog patches and a woman’s place in cycling.
As for the porno patches, I’m more inclined to let that sort of thing go, to ignore sexist or pornographic pollution where it isn’t stuffed at my face. If someone is so lacking in taste to produce those patches, and someone else equally lacking to want to buy them, hey it’s a free world.
As for pretty women in dresses on bikes, why, doesn’t that make the world a better place?
But sexism in cycling, gender roles, girls and boys, chromosomes and what is expected of you based on gender, that has had me annoyed enough to almost have something to say.
‘A Woman’
What is gender anyway? A socially defined conglomeration of accepted modes of looks, behaviour and activity? Patterns based on archetypes loosely associated with sex, biological or acquired?
Male or female, or does it matter?
Let me give you an example: my grandmother is a big, loud woman who worked on shipyards as a welder all her life… after retiring from the freight ships that she served on when she was younger (but that she doesn’t talk about much apart from the nonchalant “Yeah I got around.”) When they bought a piece of land in the woods with my grandfather, he cleared the woods into a road, but it was her who built the bridge they needed to get to their side of the rapids.
At the same time she bakes the finest cakes and crochets the most intricate rosy laces and knits and crafts pink and blue fluffy things for the new babies in the family. She is a contrast of gender attributes and would not fit into any box or under any single label describing gender specific modes of action. She is who she is without conforming to any fixed idea of ‘a woman’.
And that’s how it should be, for both sexes. Freedom to be as and how you are.
Lads and Ladettes.
That freedom I’ve certainly found in the small-ish crowd of courier cyclists that I tend to stick to, where it’s taken for granted that girls and boys get their hands dirty, build and fix their bikes and their punctures and keep on pedalling until the day is over.
On the circuit, you don’t dress up, you dress down. You don’t emphasize your femininity, and nobody expects you to, you put it away.
If anything, this would be my first and main complaint in relation to gender and couriering: having lost, or at least temporarily misplaced my femininity after having so long and so well adapted to a manly environment. The oldest and best adaptation is that of identity: don’t be different, don’t stand out. For this purpose, don’t be a girl, be a boy – until you almost forget you were ever a girl.
Years ago the postroom guys called me ‘love’, and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’. Or ‘pet’ and ‘petal’ and ‘sunshine’. What do they call me now? ‘Mate’. So much so that I’m beginning to miss the odd sweetheart.
On the other hand, when I get a sniff of a lurking patronizing attitude I call them ‘love’ and ‘darling’ back and immediately we have an understanding, pat each other on the back and shake hands. Sometimes all it takes is one look and they won’t say what they were just about to say.
In many ways, the courier world itself is an extremely gender equal environment. The nature of this job is essentially equal: you are rained on you get wet, you bust your legs it hurts, you hit the tarmac you lose your skin, it makes no difference whether you are a girl or a boy. Fair enough, a very small percentage of long term couriers are female, but when you are one, I have rarely heard it suggested that you wouldn’t be in par with the men.
It is the world outside, and the odd individual within, that reinforce the old gender stereotypes:
“Nice bike, who built it for you?”
“You’re quick… for a girl.”
The latter was an intended dig and a joke from a fellow courier, but the first one wasn’t.
While it’s true that much of the courier world is equal, I think it is only equal through learning. New courier lads can be sexist, until their attitudes are proven wrong by practice.
“Girls only do nice, local work.”
“Girls get fed.”
“Girls don’t cycle far or fast.”
“Girls bail out.”
“Girls have boyfriends to fix their bikes for them.”
Each one of these prejudices you have to tackle and break through with each individual who holds them — if you can be bothered. More often, I find, you simply don’t bother with the individual.
This is the other reason why you dress down, work hard and feel that you need to prove yourself. You come in early and leave late, you call in for “anyone for a pickup from W9 to N5?” You pretend you don’t care about being thought of as a “controller’s sweetheart” who sweeps the handy direct west ones and makes a fortune without doing any real work at all. You pretend you don’t care that your fellow couriers express genuine amazement if you’ve done over 30, 40 or 50 jobs.
These attitudes I don’t have much patience with. Fortunately, although they do exist, they don’t persist — even blokes can learn new things relatively quickly (!). It’s the world outside couriering that I haven’t much faith on when it comes to sexism, and girls on bikes.
With the outside world, the post room guys, builders and road maintenance workers, the real challenge is in the pre-emptive communication: how to project the cold, hard stare, raised eyebrows and can-just-about-waste-a frown-on-you BEFORE they have a chance to whistle or otherwise express their uninvited appreciation.
I’m a person, not an object. Please, and thank you.
Other Family.
My parents were over for a week. Mother was telling me about my four year old nephew:
“He’s so careful. He looks at something and says “I’m little scared… No, I don’t dare to [do it]” and then he won’t jump off the balcony.”
I’m trying to think back:
“My sister wasn’t like that when she was a child, was she?”
“No she wasn’t. She’d look and think – and then she would run and do it.”
“And me?”
“You? You had no brakes whatsoever, you were straight in.”
Ha. Little change there then.
State of Work.
August, eh?
A Very Busy Day in the Corner.
Some More Tea For Two Four Tee 