Shame

I was born and raised in postwar London. The women in my life have been champions of the underdog. In many ways, they are my heroes.

My grandmother fought against child labor and the practice of having pregnant women work sixteen hour shifts until they reached full term. She won the fight.

My grandfather died three months after my mother was born, so there were no men in the house as she grew up. In 1943 she was a teenager living in Glasgow, when the Germans blitz-bombed the city. My mother hid under the staircase as the bombs reduced neighboring houses to rubble. In her 60s she volunteered to teach in a school in London’s slums, where violence and drugs were the everyday backdrop. One day a girl in the school broke a chair over the principal’s head and fractured her skull.

I am at a writers’ workshop in Northern California. Six hundred women and three men. It is a three-day class for memoir writers. I had not known that so few men would attend. Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat Pray Love) and Cheryl Strayed (Wild) are the moderators, two authors that I revere and whose works hypnotize with their raw power.

It occurs to me that I am one third of one percent of the participants, but I represent forty-nine percent of the US population. I feel embarrassed; an unwanted misfit, and looking around I guess I am one of the oldest people there. I make myself small, hiding, and unwanted.

Over three days, I hear the stories of dozens of lives, told by women from all backgrounds, old and young, voicing tales of womanhood in a hostile world. These are not activists, crusaders, missionaries for a cause. They are, simply, the fifty-one percent who have found a safe place to share their voices and their truths. One by one, encouraged by Gilbert and Strayed, they stand up, nervous and naked, unable, often, to speak without sobbing and shaking. As the stories unfold, I learn of lives stunted by prejudice, silenced by bosses, colleagues, and husbands, and of lives destroyed by assaults, on the body and on the spirit.

Often, we are asked to turn to the person next to us, or behind us, and share our stories for comment and feedback. I am British by birth, and as I turn around to the woman behind me (I will call her ‘J’ for the purpose of this story). I feel her spirit sink, and (I imagine) recoil. When it is her turn to share her experiences, she says to me:

“Forgive me. When I heard your accent and saw you were an older man, a memory flooded over me. It was a memory I have spent many years trying to shake, but it lurks just beneath the surface, like a tentacle ready to pull me under and drown me." Her face had tightened, and her eyes glowered as she spoke. “I was once an overseas student at Oxford University. I was young and full of hope and excited to be in the country I had always wanted to visit.” She paused. One beautiful evening, I went for a walk across the time worn cobblestones, past the fawn-colored stones of the 16th century colleges and chapels. It was early summertime." Her face took on a dreamy, faraway expression. “I remember the swans on the Thames, gliding, white, placid. The scent rising from the sunkissed surface of the cooling water." Her brow relaxed. “The sun was setting as I walked along a small lane that led to a hidden church with a graveyard. Headstones told tales of long-ago lives, many cut short for reasons unknown. I strolled around to the back of the church where the oldest graves were placed, worn and moss covered."

She has taken me with her. I feel a sense of peace and safety, back there in my homeland, familiar still after fifty years. I can picture the church, which was like so many I had been in, attending evensong and being grateful for my faith.

Her expression changes, suddenly. Utterly. “From an entrance at the side of the church, I saw an old man shuffle toward me. I thought he was going to ask me a question or perhaps share a story about the history of the church or the graves. Then something about his walk, the quickening of his pace, made me uncomfortable. He lurched forward and lunged at me. His breath was sour, and his teeth were yellow and rotten. He pushed me over and fell on me. He was heavy and strong. The rest is a blur. When he released me, I ran. I felt ashamed, and that somehow it was my fault. I am still ashamed.” She is sobbing now, breathing in, and gasping as she cries.

I don’t remember what I said exactly, but I do know that I expressed sorrow. I wanted more than anything to take the trouble from her eyes. I wanted to hunt down the old man and punish him. I remember saying that as a man, I could only try to tell her that there were good men, kind men, men who honor women and who would defend, champion, and support her and all women; men who would lead with honesty, with vulnerability and tenderness.

She asks if we can exchange addresses, which we did.

During a break, I use the men's bathroom, which is empty. When I come out, I hear a commotion in the hallway and see a long line of women waiting to get into the women's bathroom. I suggest to the women at the back of the line that they might like to use the men's bathroom and that I will stand at the entrance for them to ensure that no man would go in. I absolutely do not want any credit for this. It just maked logical sense. The women move down the corridor to the men’s bathroom and use it in turn. I stand with my back to the entrance to make sure that my two fellow men will know to use the men’s bathroom across the courtyard in the dining room. I know they will understand. At some point a maintenance engineer for the conference center heads for the front of the line to the men’s bathroom and asks the woman first in line to step aside as it is the men’s and tells her she should go to the women's bathroom. I ask him politely to consider using the bathroom across the courtyard, as the women's’ bathroom is too full to accommodate all the attendees. He argues with me to the point where it becomes unpleasant, but eventually he gives up and stomps away.

At the end of the three days, Cheryl and Elizabeth encourage individuals to step up to the microphone and ask questions, or simply say something that is important to them.

One-by-one women come forward and, mostly, summarize the important experiences that they would include in their memoirs if they found the time (or the courage) to write them. Time after time I hear about the real lives of actual women. Some of the voices are sad, some frightening, some angry, and some hopeful.

Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, I decide there is something I simply have to say. When my turn comes, I address the room, and particularly Elizabeth Gilbert and Cheryl Strayed. “I am a man.” Laughter ripples through the audience. “I am honored and humbled, truly, to hear your stories and to be entrusted with glimpses into the private lives of so many women. I am in awe of your intelligence, vulnerability, eloquence, and sincerity. My overwhelming feeling is that I’m ashamed of being a man.” The room grows silent. “I am not perfect, but I do hope that I have lived a decent and respectful life in my relationships with women. However, I also recognize that many of us men and many of our predecessors have contributed greatly to the sadness, and in many cases to the horrors, encountered by so many women. The only thing that I can say is that good men do exist, and so very many of us are ashamed and angry. On behalf of men, I apologize for what so many of us have put you through.”

I return to my seat. I am embarrassed. I feel like they will think I am looking for credit, to show myself as better than other men. It is the opposite, but that is how I feel. I reflect and tell myself that I have at least spoken my mind. What follows truly humbles me. At first, some faint applause begins but then rises until the entire room is clapping. I feel unworthy and embarrassed. Cheryl Strayed presses one hand against her heart, and waits for the applause to fade, and then addresses me directly.

“I am so very saddened to know that you are ashamed to be a man.” Her voice quavers and she has tears in her eyes. I want you to know that you are not alone; so many men share the admiration and respect you have for us women. You need to know also that for men it is not all roses either. You would never be comfortable saying this, so I will do so for you: In a family unit, when a woman says, 'You know what? I'd like to stop working and pursue my passion for writing, sailing, taking courses in painting, cooking, mountaineering, exploring my spirituality', (fill in the blank) it is typically perfectly acceptable, and the man is left being the sole contributor to the family's financial wellbeing. On the other hand, typically, if a man says the same thing to his working spouse the acceptance is often grudging at best and, at worst, non-existent.”

The next thing that happens is that one of the two other men in the room takes the microphone.

“You have just expressed what I was thinking. I applaud you for the admiration you have for women and the anger you have for how many of our fellow men have behaved.”

When the session is over and we all file out of the auditorium, several women come up to me and thank me for being an ally, and for speaking up. I drive home that evening, feeling a combination of sadness and warmth of spirit.

A few weeks later, an envelope arrives in the mail. I do not recognize the handwriting on the address. Inside there is a note (I still have it). There is no phone number. It reads:

Alan, I have to tell you that you restored a part of me that I thought I had lost forever. Your words and your spirit and your understanding–I will cherish these and hold them close in moments of doubt and fear. Thank you.

J

To read more, get Love Brain & Other Minefields

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Alan Collenette

Alan Collenette is a writer and a Scottish expatriate. Love Brain and Other Minefields, has been recognized as a Finalist in the 28th annual Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards. His work has also appeared in Bust Out, San Francisco Business Times, and The Registry. In Writers Digest he received Honorable Mentions in the 71st Annual Competition in the Genre Short Story and Literary Short Story categories and was named Award Winner in the Pacific Sun Writers Competition.

Alan is currently working on a historical novel based on the life of John Paul Jones, the legendary Scotsman, and founder of the US Navy.