I was asked recently by a healer, “What would brave look like in your life right now?” It gave me pause because it feels brave just to exist as a woman and a parent at this point in our country’s history. I do have a recent example, but it’s layered in a sense of surreal absurdity, and there was no measurable result. 

I’ve been teaching a free fitness class for two years now at the Tigard Senior Center. It is the most joyful way I honor the life of my late mother, Rita. When I heard my friends Mary and Myrna advertise a writing group they were forming in hopes of recruiting people, I thought “That sounds fun, and after all, it is my year of saying “yes”. It occurred to me that I don’t technically qualify for the services of the senior center, but I didn’t let that stop me from joining them.

For months now, I have shared drafts of my blog posts.
The group rules are simple: 

1. Bring 2-3 pages of your own writing to share, printed in semi-large font with enough copies for the other members who are attending that week. 

2. Give constructive verbal and written feedback after the author reads their writing aloud. 

3. Don’t try to change the author’s voice. 

I’ve heard stories about WWII, Woodstock, the joy of puddle jumping, an umbrella thief, a harrowing kayak adventure, and my favorite, bra-fastening as an Olympic sport. Someone always provides snacks of mandarins and almonds, and the people are simply the sweetest and funniest you could hope to hang with. One time, I showed up an absolute wreck, after phone scammers made me believe that police were on their way to arrest me for failing to appear at a federal circuit jury summons. The curse words flowing from Mary’s mouth while I sobbed in her arms soothed my shame like only a feisty grandmother’s breast ever could. 

Imagine my surprise when I excitedly arrived with my 12th blog post draft to find the one person I found acutely off-putting, let’s call him Jeff, deep in conversation with a person I had not met before. Jeff ignored all the ground rules of the group. He would bring decades old writing and brag that we were only one of “several” groups he was in. He never paid attention when the rest of us read, either scrolling on his phone, or rifling through an enormous leather briefcase that looked at least as old as me. But by far the most insufferable thing Jeff did was force his polite and captive audience to listen to original blue grass songs, performed badly, on a guitar/harmonica set up that took 5 + minutes to assemble.  

His friend introduced himself as “John, Sean to my friends.” He didn’t tell us which way to address him, so I called him “John-Sean.” After a dissertation on his many literary accomplishments, John-Sean admitted he had not brought any writing but was “threatening” to write a book. Halfway through this white-knucklingly awkward meeting, another new person came stumbling into the room. “You the writers?” he asked, like someone who had arrived at last after a week’s long pilgrimage. 

I spent most of this session doing my best to soften the jagged, rocky encounters erupting from these three men, using my most sophisticated meeting facilitation skills. I changed the subject in the wake of sexist remarks, disrupted rude side conversations, and ignored patronizing observations from men whose views and manners were as dated and musty as their briefcases.

Following a comment from John-Sean to the sexist pilgrim about how hard life is for men these days, I stood up and delivered what I knew to be my final farewell to this group that I was never actually meant to join. I sat fuming in the parking lot for 20 minutes, then fired off the word-missile below. 

Hi All,

Elizabeth here. I want to share that today’s group meeting will be my last session, as I have decided it’s not the right forum for me to share my writing. It was funny that it took about 20 minutes for this to dawn on me after I left. It’s because I am so deeply conditioned to accept or ignore sexist behavior. Mary 1, Mary 2, Lisa, Myrna and Dave, you are absolutely my “people” and I adore you. I will miss you. If the make-up of the group changes, give me a holler. 

Dear Jeff, your song was ok until you made the decision to disseminate a homophobic slur in the written hand out, ironically including the reference to its removal from the singing of the song because it was “politically incorrect”. The issue isn’t that it’s “incorrect.” It’s not grammar or punctuation. The issue is that it is overtly and egregiously offensive. The fact that you didn’t see that and remove it, or just not hand out the lyrics at all, missed the point of its removal from the song. 

Also, if you are going to be in a writing group, I suggest you actively engage in giving feedback in the spirit of the activity to the other writers, including in written form, and try to stay off your phone during other people’s time. Also, maybe don’t go on a tangent in a side conversation about being sick of hearing about WWII, right after a story about WWll.

Dear John-Sean, announcing to the group that these are “perilous times” for men in our society, and then 2 minutes later declaring that you represent a feminist voice is simply laughable. A line from an absurdist comedy to be sure. I don’t think you meant to be funny but if you did, you don’t know us well enough to do that when the truth is so objectively the opposite right now in our world. 

Secondly, to refer to me as a “pistol” is code for an angry woman. I’m not angry and I am not a weapon. What I am, is a person who is done excusing sexism and racism and homophobia. 

Thirdly, as a person who has yet to bring writing to share, I don’t think you are entitled to instruct me to “try not to miss” the group. When I come, I bring writing I have spent hours on in advance. At best your comment was misguided.

For the gentleman that came late, I think his name was possibly Peter, I would offer that maybe the women in the other group he attended didn’t engage with him because he did things in the same vein as he did today, referring to them as “girls, doing girl stuff”.

I know I am being direct in this writing. We did say to use our own voice, and this is mine. It took me several minutes to unravel the cultural training to prioritize men’s comfort and ignore harmful stereotypes and demeaning language that is so deeply wired in my brain. I wish you all the best. As this email will be my last piece of writing I will share with this group, I’ll add that I am not looking for feedback. Having said that, this story will certainly find its way into a future blog post. 

Take care, Elizabeth 

I pressed send and sat in my car feeling scared and angry. Scared because I stood up to some sad grandpas who might decide to complain to the manager of the senior center, Gloria. I worried that I was jeopardizing my fitness class, which is the thing that brings me so much purpose and happiness. I worried that I was venturing out of my place as a non-senior a woman in a world that is still dominated by white men. And I was angry that I had been the one to cut and run from this precious circle of my elders with their beautiful tales. 

I got supportive responses from the women. They expressed gratitude that I called out behavior they were so conditioned to tolerate that they barely even registered it until my email. They asked me to consider staying. I heard crickets from Jeff and John-Sean. I wonder, do acts of bravery still count when the intended audience doesn’t engage? I sure hope they do. Did I cut off my hand to spite my face? Do I even know what that phrase means? Hit me back and give me your perspective!