In writing workshops, I don’t expect perfection, but I do expect to be able to tolerate reading the majority of the stories. In the writing, literature, and publishing major at Emerson College, though, men do not make up the majority.
It is my third semester witnessing a man fail to repress a smirk as he proudly raises his hand and taps his foot while he waits to present his story. When, to his relief, he is finally called on, he reads out a section that causes me physical pain. And it’s not just from the volume of his voice, obviously—you would think intentionally—decibels louder than any other voice in the room. Nope, the story is just bad.
What makes a story “bad” can be subjective. More often than not, though, my male classmates turned in work that was the antithesis of everything the professor taught. These stories ranged from being clones of popular novels, to having little to no understanding of pacing, and featuring characters with as much dimension as the piece of paper wasted to print the story. Criticisms of their pieces are spoken to them so sickeningly sweetly that they might as well be compliments.
The women, though, they get full frontal honesty. This would be acceptable in a void, but in comparison to the praise of their floundering male counterparts, it ups the stakes to never, ever fail. After all, if their worst is praised and your best is shredded, what else can you do but be perfect?
You may be thinking I am the bad writer here as this is supposed to be an ode, a type of writing defined by its praise and adoration of the subject. But whether I’m the bad writer or the select men in my classes are is not the focus of this ode. It’s their confidence.
Week after week I watch men stroll into classes, proudly proclaiming they finished the assignment the night before and waiting to be showered in compliments. And they get them. They’ve set the bar so low, with a late night cram or an annoyingly loud voice, that when there is a fraction of something good, everyone scrambles to fawn over it. As for their idiocy, it is treated like a cute quirk.
Why can’t I be stupid?
Women are not granted the same leniency. We do not have the space to fail. Failing immediately aligns us with the stereotype of being subpar at everything except domestic tasks. We are no longer thought of when an opportunity arises and word of mouth in regards to our capability perpetuates this unhirable status. So, we gruel over pressurizing our coal—our work—until it becomes a diamond, or it breaks.
The problem with this is that failing is how anyone learns. Women stalling their progress by only accepting perfection, terrified to risk trying something new out of fear of failure, stifles the same creativity that men get to throw at the wall like toddlers with spaghetti.
I want that same freedom. I want to be able to write a bad piece without watching my classmates whisper to one another that I have defined myself, forever, as a bad writer. I want to present a bad piece and be treated like I have potential. Like there is room for growth. Like my effort, my risk—if not the composition of the story itself—is respected. Just like the men in my class.
This is not just a problem for the writing, literature, and publishing major. In Emerson College as a whole, women literally take up more space by being 68% of the school’s population. Yet, that is not reflected in the microcosms of the classrooms where the men constantly interrupt women and female-presenting people.
I have talked to friends in different majors—VMA, comedic arts, and journalism—and while their interactions are structured differently with filming on sets, improving scenes, or co-writing articles, the one throughline is a lack of shame on the men’s part.
In a film class, one man presented a highly-sexualized short film of a young woman’s mental unraveling. One man in comedic arts argued with a woman about the viability of a sexist comedy special he had not seen that the woman had. One man in journalism even claimed the all-female staff of an organization was sexist for not hiring him.
Just a note: men can not experience sexism because sexism is a systemic issue based on the social, political, and economic power that men have held for centuries. It would take 500 consistent years of male oppression for it to be correct to use the definition of “sexist” in regards to a woman.
While men on campus feel emboldened enough to be outwardly sexist, or just plain rude, women struggle to get by if a comma is out of place. It makes me sad to think of all the things women could have accomplished if they were nurtured to be just as confident as men.
I am not arguing for the silence of all men all the time. If the men reading this could reflect on anything familiar in this piece, and I mean really, honestly reflect—because remember, your intention behind an action does not equal its impact—and stop doing said thing, that would be quite helpful.
However, I anticipate there will be many men who feel this does not apply to them and go about their day, mucking up every other woman’s. I have no control over them. I have control over me. Which is why I am going to start failing. Loudly.
By failing, I mean I am going to raise my hand to answer a question even if I am not positive I have the correct answer. I am going to let myself stutter when I speak, and say lots of “ums.” I am going to switch points of view in the middle of a fiction piece because I have always wanted to try that. I am not going to sugar-coat my feedback out of fear a man will yell at me over it. Because yes, that did happen.
Through all that mess is curiosity, intelligence, and creativity trying to formulate themselves.
It is not my, nor any woman’s, responsibility to fix the problem men created, but I can flop and flail my way out of their trap until my spaghetti art on the wall turns into a Van Gogh.
So to my male classmates, thank you for setting this example. Be prepared to watch me fail louder.
