Validation

I was driving to work one day, feeling strangely morose, when suddenly I was struck with a haunting thought. "How much validation do I find in the leer of a man?" I've always considered myself somewhat proper, sometimes severely reserved, and very likely to ignore any whistles, elevator stares, or otherwise inappropriate affronts from strange men. What is the typical reaction of a female to the unabashed stare of perverted males? I've witnessed such scenes innumerable times and therefore have it involuntarily planted in my brain. She curls her lips in distaste, eyes narrowed furiously beneath the dark tint of her sunglasses. Instinctively, she straightens her spine, her stride becomes a strong, haughty march as she transforms into an irreconcilable force. Every attempt has been made to show her displeasure, and she finally mutters, "pervert", just for good measure. Yet I think if women were honest, most would be unable to deny a conflict of feelings when such things transpire. Disgust? Yes. Unbridled condescension? Of course. Humilation? Possibly. However, when she has finished processing this range of emotions, she may be left with a somewhat disconcerting conclusion: I am something worth looking at. And when this startling discovery is made again and again as these encounters continue throughout our lives, as we are conditioned to the feeling of shallow satisfaction followed by a leer, we come to expect and even hope for such attention. Because what is respect among strangers? She is not friends with this man. He is not acquainted with her. When interactions lack emotional or moral responsibility, what difference does it make if he garners some sick fulfillment from her body? It is this purposeful disconnection from humanity, from decency, which allows men to behave as degenerates and women to encourage them with silence and shorter skirts. Perhaps this issue can be attributed to our "microwave" culture, our "quick-fix", "I-want-it-now" society. Women are finding it impossible to wait for the attentions of a respectable and loyal companion. In Tennessee William's play, "A Streetcar Named Desire", no one is a more poignant example of this than the leading lady, Blanche DuBois. She is beautiful, sophisticated, intensely intellectual, and the picture of elegance and refinement. But there is a strange insecurity in Blanche, an unmet need that increasingly haunts her. She desires a husband; a man who like her, appreciates beauty and art and delicate manners. Yet having been subjected to harsh misfortunes, including her first husband's suicide, she becomes both prey and predator to lonely soldiers and young, vulnerable boys. She finds waiting too difficult, and the effort to hold onto the interests of one mediocre, subpar suitor too strenuous. Williams wrote "Streetcar" in 1947 yet Blanche's final declaration is still tragically accurate: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."