One day in my early 20s I was walking down Chelsea Manor Street in London and, as I passed the greasy spoon café (no longer there), a man with a strong London accent came to the door and proclaimed “My name’s Bill and I’m not married.” I continued on my way but I had to laugh out loud at his humour and directness. I even felt a bit flattered.
This memory was triggered by reading and reflecting on Lisa Smith’s delightful story “Auld Lang Syne” recently published in the Guardian newspaper. Rufus, an elegantly dressed black man in his 70s, finds himself spending New Year’s Eve in Brixton police station, amongst drug dealers, drunks and prison officers. He clearly notices precisely how each female member of staff he encounters looks. For example, while he is standing in queue waiting to see the Custody Sergeant, this is what he is thinking:
He estimated the police lady behind the desk was in her early-to-mid forties. Her dark hair was scraped into a tight knot on the top of her head, making her face look pinched, severe. Rufus thought that with a little rouge on her cheeks she might be pretty, he’d dated a couple of white women back in the seventies. He smiled at the brunette. She didn’t smile back.
This short passage brought another memory back, this time from my late teens. I was working behind a bar in London SE1 (before it became trendy) when a customer suggested I take off my spectacles. I think he even leaned over and took them off himself and then said something like "You're actually quite pretty." Again, I think I felt somewhat flattered, but this time I couldn’t help thinking of the old, disheartening saying “Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” (Glasses have since become much more trendy.)
Going back to Lisa Smith's story, at the police station Rufus also meets Dr Kwarshie, the doctor on duty, a black woman. He notices how much she resembles his daughter, with her round face, dimpled cheeks and almond-shaped eyes.
The story left me wondering what to think of Rufus and his interest in women's looks. It doesn’t feel at all black and white (pun not intended). His conversations in the police station reveal a rather charming and honest person who has ‘a love of rum, dominoes, gambling and women’. He is currently on his fourth wife, half his age, and has been arrested because of her allegation that he assaulted her (it never becomes clear exactly what happened between them). But do I condemn him (no)? Would I want to avoid meeting him (no)? Do I take into account the culture he has grown up in (probably yes)?
And what about the two strangers who paid me compliments when I was younger? Do I condemn them? Certainly at the time, I had no desire to get to know either of them any better, but Bill's words still give me amusement today. (I notice now that I have no recollection of Bill's face or his figure. Just his words and the precise location of the café. I even know I was walking north, away from the river and towards the King’s Road.)
Ironically, not long before that experience, I had come across the ‘women’s lib’ movement (this was the 1970s). We resented the way women were viewed as ‘sex objects’ and how their bodies were displayed in advertising and tabloid newspapers. Nevertheless, when someone paid me a compliment, with humour, I couldn't feel cross.
To me, these kinds of incidents are relatively harmless, though they do reveal something about the men involved. My conclusion: I don't think every compliment made in public by a man to a woman is automatically sexist or 'predatory'. It all depends on the circumstances.
Related reading:
"Auld Lang Syne" by Lisa Smith. This short story won the BAME short story prize in 2017, which is supported by The Guardian newspaper and by the publisher 4th Estate.
This memory was triggered by reading and reflecting on Lisa Smith’s delightful story “Auld Lang Syne” recently published in the Guardian newspaper. Rufus, an elegantly dressed black man in his 70s, finds himself spending New Year’s Eve in Brixton police station, amongst drug dealers, drunks and prison officers. He clearly notices precisely how each female member of staff he encounters looks. For example, while he is standing in queue waiting to see the Custody Sergeant, this is what he is thinking:
He estimated the police lady behind the desk was in her early-to-mid forties. Her dark hair was scraped into a tight knot on the top of her head, making her face look pinched, severe. Rufus thought that with a little rouge on her cheeks she might be pretty, he’d dated a couple of white women back in the seventies. He smiled at the brunette. She didn’t smile back.
This short passage brought another memory back, this time from my late teens. I was working behind a bar in London SE1 (before it became trendy) when a customer suggested I take off my spectacles. I think he even leaned over and took them off himself and then said something like "You're actually quite pretty." Again, I think I felt somewhat flattered, but this time I couldn’t help thinking of the old, disheartening saying “Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” (Glasses have since become much more trendy.)
Going back to Lisa Smith's story, at the police station Rufus also meets Dr Kwarshie, the doctor on duty, a black woman. He notices how much she resembles his daughter, with her round face, dimpled cheeks and almond-shaped eyes.
The story left me wondering what to think of Rufus and his interest in women's looks. It doesn’t feel at all black and white (pun not intended). His conversations in the police station reveal a rather charming and honest person who has ‘a love of rum, dominoes, gambling and women’. He is currently on his fourth wife, half his age, and has been arrested because of her allegation that he assaulted her (it never becomes clear exactly what happened between them). But do I condemn him (no)? Would I want to avoid meeting him (no)? Do I take into account the culture he has grown up in (probably yes)?
And what about the two strangers who paid me compliments when I was younger? Do I condemn them? Certainly at the time, I had no desire to get to know either of them any better, but Bill's words still give me amusement today. (I notice now that I have no recollection of Bill's face or his figure. Just his words and the precise location of the café. I even know I was walking north, away from the river and towards the King’s Road.)
Ironically, not long before that experience, I had come across the ‘women’s lib’ movement (this was the 1970s). We resented the way women were viewed as ‘sex objects’ and how their bodies were displayed in advertising and tabloid newspapers. Nevertheless, when someone paid me a compliment, with humour, I couldn't feel cross.
To me, these kinds of incidents are relatively harmless, though they do reveal something about the men involved. My conclusion: I don't think every compliment made in public by a man to a woman is automatically sexist or 'predatory'. It all depends on the circumstances.
Related reading:
"Auld Lang Syne" by Lisa Smith. This short story won the BAME short story prize in 2017, which is supported by The Guardian newspaper and by the publisher 4th Estate.
RSS Feed