Here’s a scene: I’m at a library on the outskirts of Melbourne. I’m “in conversation” with a librarian. It’s not possible to keep those words out of scare quotes, not if you’re aware of the small and faulty machine that keeps Australian book publicity moving. What I am doing is being asked generous, kind, eminently answerable questions about my new book so that I can move a few units. It’s a “conversation” I’m grateful for because I like moving units and I like talking to librarians and, let’s be real, I also like talking about myself. The crowd, including several Melbourne friends, is attentive and also kind and generous. What could go wrong?
Libraries are safe spaces, temporary haven for kids and their parents, rough sleepers and the lonely, and people who a millennial friend describes as neurospicy. I love libraries. They’re full of readers and I love them too.
So, this library is a safe space. The warm murmur of people, some of them sitting on the carpet in the aisles, disappeared into words. The big windows looking on to a lake, giving light to the pages. I’m glad to be there. The crowd (the “crowd”) includes a couple of men, one in his possibly late 60s, one in his possibly late 70s. The first listens and smiles; the second stands at the back of the room to one side. He is very clearly someone who doesn’t know who I am and doesn’t care, but neither do I – he’s there and I’m grateful.
At the end of the conversation there are a few questions, some carefully crafted by writing friends who know that the terrible silence that follows “does anyone have a question?” is a lonely place. Then the older man puts up his hand and the microphone is handed to him. Then he starts a long story about his long life, and I let him talk because I get it. I mean, I just talked about myself; have at it, buddy. It’s not surprising to me that what he says has absolutely nothing to do with my book. I wait, not for him to finish, but for a couple of minutes of monologue to pass, and then I say something like,it’s clear that the past is vivid for all of us. That’s why I’ve written about it.
Afterwards there’s a signing line. The two men are there. The older stands to one side of the desk I’m sitting at, as though we’re friends and he has more special things to say just to me. He doesn’t need to buy a book. The other man steps in front of a woman and her child waiting for me to sign their copy and I say,actually, you’ve pushed in – can you wait at the back of the line?I don’t say,you dick, but I think it. When he gets to the front of the line he tells me a pretty engaging story about his past, and then he goes away without having bought a book.
I’m on my way out, getting my bag, chatting to the librarian, who’s smart and warm and kind, and has worn herself out talking about me. The older man is still there and he’s saying,can I have a photo?
I’ve had my photo taken an inordinate number of times in the last 24 hours and I haven’t enjoyed it. I’m in my late 50s and I haven’t yet reconciled myself to the way I look. The person I now appear to be, heavier, with a lined face and teeth I don’t like, isn’t someone I want to know about. I know, my bad – I should love my older self.
So, partly because I’m sick of it but mostly because this bloke only wants a photo as an extension of the attention he craves, I say no. I point to the big photo of me on the screen, taken several years ago, and say,you can take a photo of that.I’m turning away as he saysyou looked better with long hair.
Without warning – to me or anyone around me – I’m swinging back round to face him and I’m giving him the finger. Then I’m saying, a hot flush surging across my body and face:You don’t get to talk to women like that. You can’t speak to me like that.I catch a glimpse of the librarian’s face – tears have sprung to her eyes. I see my young publicist, who’s holding my bag and stepping between me and the old man. She ushers me away and I can hear the man protesting or saying something, whatever it is, something about me, something about himself. I don’t look back as Jasmine and I step outside into the bright autumn air and hurry towards our taxi.
So many things to say about this. First, that flipping the bird at an old man wasn’t exactly in my playbook – not at any time and especially not when I’m trying to sell books. But also, flipping the bird wasn’t something I wanted to be doing. Not because it’s rude, but because it felt like a rupture, a violation – of me, not of him.
A thousand times I’ve tolerated and even, sometimes, welcomed comments on my appearance. A thousand times I’ve stood, politely rigid, while a man tells me about himself. This usually happens when it’s me who’s meant to be the focus. Some men – not all of them – subconsciously hate this and need to remind themselves that they exist by telling me about themselves. I’ve learned now to civilly stop them, or even point out to them what they’re up to, but I’ve never made a rude gesture, because control over a situation like this is what I want and need.Womenlearn this control young, and practise it – or fail to practise it – throughout their lives, because the comments and the monologues never stop coming. But as it turns out there’s some ghost chilli in my own spice mix.
I wanted to say to that man: do you think I’m not looking atyou? Do you think I didn’t notice that you looked like a praying mantis, frail and savage, wobbling away in the corner of my vision, waiting to do something nasty? You’re old too, dickhead. And you probably looked better when you had all your hair.
The rupture came because the abyss below it was already there. But the concealment of that abyss, where self-doubt lives (self-doubt about my looks, and even about my intelligence) is my safe space. It’s my choice to stand guard over it and repel people with thoughtful, firm, clear words. It made me feel shaky and hurt when I gave him the finger. I hope it gave him a shock and I hope it hurt him too, and I don’t regret it. I just don’t like it when men make me lose my cool, because it’s my fucking cool.
Tegan Bennett Daylight is a 56-year-old teacher, critic and writer of novels, including How to Survive 1985