More than thirty years ago, my husband and I were hunting for a new house. Our realtor suggested that we think about building one, and she sent us to a new, small development on a ridge overlooking the business district of our town. There were two vacant lots for sale separated by a recently built house, which did not appear to be inhabited.
We had our three-year-old son with us, who due to fatigue or more likely recalcitrance, decided he wanted to be carried. Don went to survey the building site to the north of the new home. I picked up Eric and walked the depth of the southern-most lot and then along its eastern boundary. After a few minutes, Don called to me to come and look at the plat to the north. To do so, I would have to either lug my sturdy child back up to the sidewalk, or I could scurry across the boundary line of the lot with the house on it, and within less than a minute, I would be off the property.
I chose to go through the yard with the house on it.
I hurried across the dirt yard, which was not yet cultivated with grass or landscaping. I heard a shout, and to my horror, I realized that the house was occupied, and that a man and two little boys were sitting in a hot tub on the backyard deck. The man yelled at me to get off his property. I apologized profusely and hurried on my way. Since I was more than half-way across his yard when he bellowed at me, it made more sense for me to continue forward than to backtrack.
My decision infuriated the homeowner. He arose from the hot tub and berated me. He was naked, and he stood tall and displayed his pelvis towards me in an act of masculine aggression.
I was terrified – and tearful. I yelled for Don and ran up the hill to the sidewalk where he awaited, concern and confusion on his face. After handing him our son, I told him what had happened. Then I ran to the front door and rang the doorbell. I do not know why I did that, but I was not going to disappear in a whimper at the hands, and genitals, of a toxic male. A timid, bewildered woman came to the door, taken aback by my enraged demeanor. The man appeared behind her, directing her to retreat. I said to the woman, “your husband really upset me. You ask him what he did to me. Go ahead, ask him.” And then I left.
On the drive home, Don was quietly sympathetic, patting me on the shoulder, asking if I was okay. He did not get angry, at least not visibly. He supported me silently, comforting me, and grumbling, “what a nut that guy is.” He had my back, but he knew it was not his battle to fight.
Will Smith could learn a thing or two from Don.
Don understands what some men do not: women are not damsels in distress. We do not need men to fight our battles, nor avenge our honor. I do not need a man to lay his cape on the ground so that I do not soil my high heels. I do not need a male to challenge someone to a duel for insulting me. If I have a beef with someone, I will let them know it myself.
Men like Will Smith may be well-intentioned, but they are confused about what love and support look like. When you “defend a woman’s honor,” as he did, you are implying that she needs a man to retaliate, that the female gender is weak. Instead of kissing Pinkett Smith on her cheek and whispering something soothing to her, Smith chose to publicly affirm his physical masculinity. Men who “honor” woman they care about with physical or verbal aggression defile the pure and beautiful strength implicit in womanhood.
If you are angry about how your partner or wife is being treated by a male, take cues from her – do not take power away from her. She is more than capable of asserting and exacting retribution of her own making.
Do not get me wrong. When it is all over, she might need a homemade dinner and a backrub. At least I know I would.