Let me run on my own!
(16.06.2008)
- Faster!
The guy is strutting in his car next to the road where we are running.
- Go faster, girls! he shouts again. My work out-buddy and I pretend we don’t hear him, too familiar with the scenario to bother to explain that we cannot possibly run any faster, as we run long distances, 21 kilometres. Take that, slacker!
I have never been one of those pretty girls who has to defend herself against comments in the public space. When I started to practise for long distance runs a couple of years ago, it came as a shock suddenly to be the goal for the audience’s more or less benevolent opinions, to suddenly be valued and commented by strangers (99 per cent of them men) who’s thoughts I had not asked for.
"One foot in front of the other", "come on, faster", "hey, wait on, can I join?", "go girl, that look’s good". It can sound like that, and I always feel bothered, no matter what. My friend, who’s more indulgent than me, deals with it totally differently. She can understand that I get irritated by the patronizing comments, but cheering is nothing to get excited about. They only want to be nice, she reasons.
I was surprised myself at my own reaction. Why did I get pissed off instead of feeling encouraged? It all came to me one stormy winter day when I saw an old lady, as fickly as she was thin, fighting her way with the walker, through the snow heading for the grocery store on the other side of the square. The sight of the untiring battle touched something in me, and I got an almost irresistible urge to shout "go on, nanny dear, well done!" But I controlled myself. ’Cause at the same moment I realized where my anger towards cheerers came from. The terms for this cheering is that it is directed towards someone one assumes needs to be cheered, towards someone who’s doing something one assumes exceeds her capacity. This new knowledge made me even angrier.
I have, during the years, tried several different strategies to deal with the self nominated commentators. The method which proved to be most successful is in broad terms about avoiding eye contact, and when a potential comment is approaching start spitting, hawking, or stretching the facial muscles - just like my dentist recommended to prevent tension-headache.
This is obviously nothing but a gender construction, or even genus deconstruction. By making myself unreachable, nasty and twist my face to something unrecognizable I become somewhat less obviously female. For the method to work, the comments and cheering need to be explained with the bodily strength, speed and control to a long distance-runner, and that not being quite consistent with being a girl. Sports have, still, the man as norm.
A change is on its way, but to all commentators on my way I would like to say shut up! I am not interested in your opinions, so let me run on my own.
The guy is strutting in his car next to the road where we are running.
- Go faster, girls! he shouts again. My work out-buddy and I pretend we don’t hear him, too familiar with the scenario to bother to explain that we cannot possibly run any faster, as we run long distances, 21 kilometres. Take that, slacker!
I have never been one of those pretty girls who has to defend herself against comments in the public space. When I started to practise for long distance runs a couple of years ago, it came as a shock suddenly to be the goal for the audience’s more or less benevolent opinions, to suddenly be valued and commented by strangers (99 per cent of them men) who’s thoughts I had not asked for.
"One foot in front of the other", "come on, faster", "hey, wait on, can I join?", "go girl, that look’s good". It can sound like that, and I always feel bothered, no matter what. My friend, who’s more indulgent than me, deals with it totally differently. She can understand that I get irritated by the patronizing comments, but cheering is nothing to get excited about. They only want to be nice, she reasons.
I was surprised myself at my own reaction. Why did I get pissed off instead of feeling encouraged? It all came to me one stormy winter day when I saw an old lady, as fickly as she was thin, fighting her way with the walker, through the snow heading for the grocery store on the other side of the square. The sight of the untiring battle touched something in me, and I got an almost irresistible urge to shout "go on, nanny dear, well done!" But I controlled myself. ’Cause at the same moment I realized where my anger towards cheerers came from. The terms for this cheering is that it is directed towards someone one assumes needs to be cheered, towards someone who’s doing something one assumes exceeds her capacity. This new knowledge made me even angrier.
I have, during the years, tried several different strategies to deal with the self nominated commentators. The method which proved to be most successful is in broad terms about avoiding eye contact, and when a potential comment is approaching start spitting, hawking, or stretching the facial muscles - just like my dentist recommended to prevent tension-headache.
This is obviously nothing but a gender construction, or even genus deconstruction. By making myself unreachable, nasty and twist my face to something unrecognizable I become somewhat less obviously female. For the method to work, the comments and cheering need to be explained with the bodily strength, speed and control to a long distance-runner, and that not being quite consistent with being a girl. Sports have, still, the man as norm.
A change is on its way, but to all commentators on my way I would like to say shut up! I am not interested in your opinions, so let me run on my own.
Editor Swedish Secretariat for Gender Research
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