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Love your Fellow Man?

Nora McDonald

    Valentine’s Day is over. It’s the time of year to replace one love with another kind. The higher kind. Love your fellow man. I try to. I really do. But sometimes it’s downright difficult. It’s as Mother Theresa said, “The Lord never sends me more troubles than I can deal with. I just wish he didn’t have so much faith in me”.
    I know how she felt. I attract trouble too. In the most harmless of places. Because I’m a woman.
    The trouble is all those around me seem to attract it along with me. Because they’re female? Surely not, you say. I leave you to judge.
    Take holidays. For most people they’re relaxing, stressless, enjoyable. Mine are filled with challenges and conflict. Me. The most harmless, amenable, easygoing person. That’s how I used to regard myself. Lately I’ve begun to wonder.
    Take eating out. What should be a pleasant, relaxing experience. Go in a restaurant, sit down, order a delicious meal. What could possibly prevent that, you say?
    In some countries nothing. In continental Europe there might be a problem. Particularly if you’re a woman.
    Take the seating. Pick a nice spot and sit down. Simple, you say. Wrong. In some countries they don’t like it. They want to seat you. I’m flexible. I can defer to local custom. When abroad etcera. But if you’re a couple you get an intimate table, nicely situated. If you’re a woman or two women, you get a table by a pillar, in the centre of the restaurant, so everyone can stare at you and know you’re not a heterosexual couple.
    Request a change of table, you say.
    You’d be better off asking for a change of sex. You get that false, deferential, patronising smile that indicates you are a lesser form of the human species.
    “Signora. You can see. We all full.”
    The waiter waves his hand around all the empty tables, stifling your protestations with a “Reservations, signora.” and a wave of his hand as he departs for the depths of Hades.
    Change your table, you say. A simple thing. I’ve tried that. We, two women, moved to another table and settled ourselves comfortably.
    For hours. That’s how long we were ignored. Never served. Despite hailing our waiter several times.
    “In a moment, ladies,” was the never-ending reply as he served every man and partner in the establishment, skilfully avoiding our table at all times.
    “I work for one of the major airlines! I’ll make sure I tell everyone there not to eat at this restaurant!” said my daughter, angrily, as we finally got the message and decided to leave.
    The arrogant smirks of a swarm of lesser species, gathered at the till, were our reward.
    What was their problem?
    Did they have a mother who had been powerless themselves? Did they have a mother who thought men were superior and should not be accountable? Did they belong to some belief system that demeaned and subjugated women? Or were they just arrogant assholes?
    Try another restaurant, you say?
    I did. In another country. In Europe. With another woman.
    Had to be better?
    Not if you’re me.
    The restaurant was deserted. The weather was perfect for sitting outdoors. I tried hailing a waiter. He stopped laying a table on the other side of the restaurant. My hopes were high. I might have known better. He headed for the confines of the kitchen with a benevolent wave of his hand. He’d come back, I told myself.
    He did. After a family, man included, appeared and seated themselves within location of the restaurant door. And served them. I could feel my blood slowly boiling. Still, calm yourself, I told myself. He’ll serve you next. To make sure I raised my hand. His wave was more dismissive this time. Forays to the kitchen must have numbered four. The family couldn’t have solicited better service.
    My wave was getting wilder. He skilfully avoided eye contact.
    On one of his forays into the furnace beneath, a couple sauntered into the forecourt and seated themselves at the next table to me. The waiter appeared almost instantaneously and headed in the direction of their table.
    I’m too old for this kind of crap, I thought.
    Time to raise a scene.
    My hand shot up like a Nazi salute.
    “Por favour!” I exclaimed like a Spanish bullfighter challenging a bull. “We were here first!”
    A shocked look crossed the faces of the waiter and the couple at the next table.
    “Everyone get served in good time, senora,” said the waiter shrugging his shoulders, as if I were being unreasonable.
    “Now is a good time,” I say, dogmatically, pointing at my absent plate.
    He can’t refuse. He doesn’t want a scene. He takes our order, shuffles about us solicitously, while serving, like a bug on hot bricks, I, all the time wondering if he’s added anything unsavoury to our ambrosia.
    I’m glad to depart, digestion disturbed and disgruntled.
    The hotel’s a better bet, I tell myself. A quiet drink in the bar should settle my nerves.
    Who am I kidding?
    The bar’s deserted. And so is the counter. When the barman eventually appears, he waves his hand at the seating and bids us sit down.
    It’s not a good start.
    A couple stroll into the bar, smiling, relaxed with happy holiday faces and take up a table in close proximity to the counter. For some reason I keep thinking of Groundhog Day.
    Sure enough, our waiter appears and assiduously sets about serving them. I stifle a sigh.
    The bar begins to fill up and waiters appear like hidden woodworm. Everyone seems to be getting served. Everyone but me!
    There’s only one thing for it! I await my moment. The waiter heads towards the couple foolish enough to sit next to me. He’s doing a magnificent job of showing me his backside.
    “Excuse me,” I say, in a loud voice that booms out across the bar. “I saw what you were doing. You’ve served every man in this bar. Now it’s my turn!”
    He shrugs a less than apologetic shoulder at me but comes and takes my order. The shocked faces of the tourists in the bar subsides.
    We drink our drinks and beat a hasty retreat feeling it’s all our fault.
    Who am I after all? To venture such opinions on the state of the world.
    A woman. One of half of all the population of the world. An ordinary person. But perhaps it’s time ordinary people did voice their opinions and bring pressure to bear. For while my own experiences, personal and private, may be small, petty and totally unworthy of committing to paper in the grand scheme of things, the recent attack on women in Germany only highlights the same underlying problem worldwide.
    A problem the politicians, the police and the judiciary (many of whom are men) are failing to address.
    What can the ordinary person do, I hear you ask? Plenty.
    Speak out. Write. Stop putting up with crap.
    We made politicians, the police and the judiciary. Just as we made the media. We made the heads of film studios, producers, directors and actors who need to think about their own personal treatment and portrayal of women in a film media with worldwide distribution instead of thinking about making a fast buck. We can unmake them if they do something we don’t like.
    We can stay away from their films.
    But before we do that we need to look at our own conduct. For until men stop treating women as sex objects or acquisitions necessary for success in life and women stop treating men like a superior species, necessary for a meal ticket to an easy life, making excuses for their behaviour then the future won’t be safe for our daughters sisters and mothers. While men with money and power and women in scanty clothes are attractive, with the United States Elections and Mothers’ Day fast approaching, perhaps we should look beyond the surface and see exactly what they stand for.
    After all, politicians, the police, the judiciary and media moguls had mothers too. Perhaps every man, woman and child in the world should make it their responsibility to ask themselves, before perpetrating anything, “Would my mother approve?”
    Maybe then politicians, the police and the judiciary would hand out harder punishments and sentences to such sex predators as perpetrated the recent attacks in Germany and force heads of studios, producers, directors and actors in the media to question and be accountable for their portrayal of and actions towards women.
    Love my fellow man?
    Children, women and men. In that order. Unless something changes. The children are the key to the future. But I love anyone who hasn’t lost sight of the priorities in this world and who doesn’t promote a culture of fear for our young people to grow up in. It’s not about worshipping power, success, celebrity or money.
    It’s about the little things.
    I take comfort from the little things. The male taxi driver who tells my daughter I’m a nice lady. (I’ve been doubting it.) The female hairdresser who thinks I’m normal (I’ve been seriously doubting that!) and the children who I meet on a daily basis who think I’m some help to them.
    Maybe that’s what we all need to do these difficult days.
    Just think and help.
    Children have always been wiser than us.
    Trouble? Attract trouble? Maybe we all need to. To stop those who abuse our kindness. To change things. For the better. In a small scale way or in the wider world. We don’t have to be rich, powerful or famous to do that. We can do it in our own neighbourhood. In our own lives.
    Valentine’s Day may be over. But you can replace that love with a higher kind. By doing something. Saying something. Writing something.
    Maybe it’s not that difficult after all. It’s easy. Not as easy as doing nothing. But a whole lot more satisfying. At least I can say I’ve tried. I really have. And I’m not about to give up. Despite all the difficulties. I’m really not. And neither should you.
    Sure I’m a woman. You may be one too. Or not. It shouldn’t make the slightest difference. I want a better world for my daughters and the girls of the future. Not to mention the men and boys.
    Don’t you?

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