I gave him back an over-questioning stare. Still nothing. I raised my eyebrows, lifted my shoulders and offered him my palms. He finally blinked then looked at my husband, silently imploring him to make me disappear. So I asked again, rather firmly, and with full hormonal harmony. "Puwede bang pumasok?" This time he looked at me and stammered, "Sir?" "SERRRRR?" I shot back with the rightful indignation of a woman whose mustache had recently been threaded. "Hindi ako serrr!" At which point, my husband abandoned us both and snickered.
I took a deep breath, filtered out the snickering male behind me and the rock formation clone before me. I was in hormone zone. "TINATANONG. KO. LANG. KUNG. PUWEDE. BANG. PUMASOK...BUKAS NA DIBA?! I said. (Politically incorrect translation: GET OUT OF THE WAY, BUDDY!! ) Finally, a meek voice from the wings: "Hindi po siya taga-dito. Kasama ko siya." That would have explained the bewildered look but not the impersonation of a monument blocking the way and, more importantly, the monumentí’s refusal to look at me. Whatever. I managed a weak laugh chased with – ok, I admit it– an afterthought of an apology, and announced I was going in. I walked through and steeled myself for another round of negotiations with the waiter who was smiling at my husband, already making me disappear.
On our Sunday morning walk last weekend, it happened again. One of the village guards saluted my husband and though I flashed him a cordial smile, he looked right through me. "What am I? Not here? Did I just disappear?" I asked my husband who immediately laughed. Unlike the guard, he is an enlightened male. He knew what I was griping about. Ok, so I gave him the back story, but at least he got it.
I get this in his offices as well. If I happen to be alone, I get a smile at least. At best, a "Good Morning, Ma’am." But the minute I am with my husband, I become his invisible other. Not that I think it’s a conspiracy. It isn’t. A conspiracy would indicate the presence of some brand of consciousness but no, it’s nothing as sophisticated as that. Boss-man king. He pay bill, he get greeting. Woman beside boss-man, slave. No need greeting. Uga-uga.
A few years ago I let go of a driver who, apart from being arrogant, would scamper to open and close the door for my husband but sit there smugly if it was just me. I’m not a princess and really don’t expect people to do things for me but, if they fall all over themselves for my husband and then pointedly sit it out for me well, that’s plain rude.
I don’t lose sleep over it, but it has happened often enough for me to notice. At first I thought it was some kind of boys’ club; a testosterone-based honor code or secret pact. But it isn’t. It’s completely unconscious. These men are just accustomed to ignoring women, discounting our presence, rendering us insignificant. On a deeper level, I like to think they recognize our true female power and are too afraid to look at it lest they be reeled in, twisted and spat out, completely and irreparably deboned.
Deep in the psyche of most unconscious men is an indescribable anger-awe over the mysterious power of the woman. I delude myself into thinking this is why Mr. Pinoy (and I know there are exceptions) will stop at nothing to crush his female counterpart. He sits on his underworked bottom all day, carving hollow spaces on the neighborhood sari-sari store bench, scratching his burgeoning belly while his mate trudges off to another interminable day at the mines. He, on the other hand, will spend the day running up a bill at the store and getting his kicks from leering at our unpicked, unploughed versions, because it makes him feel a perverse rush he likes to think is power.
That’s my amateur theory at least. My husband sometimes says I’m a force to contend with but I’m completely unaware of it. Maybe he’s right and I’m on to something. It’s easier for men to acknowledge male power. Not that it’s benign; it is familiar at least. But the female power is crammed with mystery no man can even begin to fathom. For the average, fearful, unconscious male, it is best pummeled, nipped in the bud, ripped from its source and, barring all that, simply ignored.
I still don’t like it though, so during that Sunday walk I decided to make myself visible. Always. This is something I did not just for me but for my boys. I want them to grow up respecting–not fearing or denigrating–women. Every time I am ignored in their presence, I know it sends signals I must override, or at least balance. The minute I decided it, the opportunity presented itself.
We turned a corner and sure enough there was another guard, readying his face for a big, bright, for-boss-only smile. "Good! Morning! Sir!" he exploded. He stood at attention and gave my hubby a grand salute that nearly severed his forehead. My husband mumbled his greeting while I flashed him a warm smile and said, "Good morning!"
It threw him off. It really did. He didn’t reply. He suppressed a double-take then gave me a bewildered, almost disbelieving half-smile. But it was too late. I was already present and accounted for. Yes, I am here, said my follow-up smile, which I beamed straight into his universe. Good morning! That’s uga-uga to you, buddy!