As I Knew She Would

“It doesn't look like a herding dog,” so says the white male tourist in my backyard, which also happens to be a State Park, asserting his authority over my knowledge of my Border Collie/ English Shepard mix named Lola, named after Lowell Point, the land he and I walk upon.

This, after the three men appeared over a small ridge, with Lola too far ahead of me and too near them for a successful recall, no time to put her on the leash wrapped around my waist.

“Just a a warning, she may bark at you!” I call, as soon as I see the men, with my dog sprinting towards them, tail wagging, ready to round them up like sheep.

And bark she does. As she always does. As her ancestors have before her, working the farms, the fields, running on instincts bred into their bones.

“Sorry,” I say—always so quick to apologize, the word sorry born into me with my double X chromosomes, sorry, I breathe in and out at night, sorry, my footsteps echo, sorry, sorry, sorry…. 

“She’s just trying to herd you,” I say.

As my words of repentance leave my lips, to travel between me and the men,  the older of the three, the father, I assume, of the two young adults beside him, pulls a can of bear spray—high-powered mace— from his pack, and aggressively points it at Lola, which only makes my two-year-old pup more excited, her bark high-pitched and fearsome, she pounces before the man, tail still wagging, nervous but playful, a dog at work. 

The man follows her movements, with his defensive weapon of spray, his finger ready to pull the release.

I am in front of the men now, and I grab Lola by the collar. “You don't have to spray her.”

“I have a right not to be bit,” he responds.

“She’s not going to bite you, she’s just trying to herd you.”

And that’s when he spits out: “It doesn't look like a herding dog.” He turns his back to me, his eyes towards Resurrection Bay.

I walk a few steps from the men, release Lola’s collar, and she sprints ahead of me towards the squirrels' den in the woods, the one she always chases at this particular point of our walk; I follow her into the trees, to climb the hill to our house site, and am surprised by the force of the tears that fall, as I scamper over roots and rocks along the trail.

Lola’s fine. I’m fine. The guy was just an ass, I think.

So why the torrid release? I replay the scenario and hear our spoken words again, and realize its his assertion that—it doesn't look like a herding dog— that uncorks my emotional response, even more so than the bear spray pointed in Lola’s face. 

I can forgive his fear, his desire to protect himself, but not his denial of my truth.

His statement represents just one small drop in an ocean of men dismissing my knowledge, my words, my story,  my body— not seeing any part of me as legitimate, as real, as solid, as human, as mine. 

As a woman, I do not hold the authority of a male voice, of a male girth, a male definition of reality.

It doesn't look like a herding dog.

And I am just one woman amidst a pack of millions.

And in this time of women's accounts of harassment and abuse, rushing out of us like honest waterfalls, no longer dammed by the fear of retribution, stories spilling over edges, across divides, bridging generations, politics, and geography, women speaking despite years of silence, silence fueled by shame, by fear, still, still, the defenders of the power structure say:

Why did you wait so long?

Is it really wrong?

No proof, your word against mine, mere allegations, a witch hunt, false news, if its true…

I think I cried for all of us, for all the times we’ve shouted our truths into the wind, all the times we’ve stripped off our layers, stood naked before the masses, born our souls to the stratosphere, only to be told our mouths, our hearts, our eyes, our brains, hold no weight in this male-defined world.

And yet as I write, in small towns and big cities, in countries near and far, the gravity of sexism, voiced out loud, seems to finally be leaving marks upon the social structures we exist within—powerful men continue to fall. 

And the chorus of women’s voices is just warming up, as we create harmonies of injustices, no longer stifled within our minds’ closets, no longer normalized as the walls that surround our living rooms. No longer. 

The pillars to the castle are cracking, for this isn't a tale of evil men, but one of a civilization built on the breasts of women, the backs of men of color, and there is only so long we can stay strapped down, nursing, sowing, birthing, building a world that doesn't include us as equals.

As I held Lola’s collar, and walked away from the three bundled men, with their layers of gortex and fleece, their hats pulled low over their ears to defend against the North wind, one of the younger ones looked at me and mouthed the word: “Sorry”. 

Sorry, sorry, sorry…

He seemed to be apologizing for the older man’s behavior, for his curt dismissive words. He might not have said the word aloud, as I so easily disperse it across my existence, but he looked me in the face and apologized with his lips, his eyes. A recognition of my humanity from the apple that I assume fell from the dismissive tree. 

Hope.

As I tromped off the main trail, the one built by humans, to the trail that originated with the footprints of lumbering bears, of dogs bred to herd, the one that our family has adopted as our own, that leads from the State Park to our someday home, and I realized my tears were connected to a well of dismissals, harassment and abuse, my sorrow turned to anger. 

And I found myself with a stick in my hands, swinging at the dead branches of trees, the ones covered in moss, in fungus, decaying slowly on otherwise healthy Spruce.

I swung my stick like a sword, like a baseball bat, like a broom, like a pen, like a tongue, and knocked the archaic branches to the ground, as Lola ran towards the den of another family of squirrels. 

As I knew she would. As she always does when we walk upon this familiar ground.

Comments

[Jess Gal]

You would be so proud of your son today. He was learning about Hammurabi's code. The reading passage talked about how history has learned so much from studying the laws from Hammurabi's time, including that men were superior to women.
When I asked him about his opinion, he was adamant that men and women were equal. We all had an extended talk about why women and men should be equal, or not. Elias was always the first one to speak up and state that men and women should be equal. They should have equal rights. They have equal abilities.
Just thought you should know, and be the proud mama that you should be.

[Christy]

Jess, I'm late to say how much I love that you shared this. I read your comment the night you submitted it just in time to tell Elias how proud I was of him before he went to bed. Its great that he cant even imagine why men and women wouldnt be equal:)

[Toni]

You should be proud! I love that he can't imagine why men and women wouldn't be equal!!!!