Surfing Sexism

“It took me a year, and I’m a man,” said the ovary-deprived human. He’s surprised that I am refinishing Habibi’s hull alone.

“Maybe it took you a year because you’re a man,” I don’t say because I am polite. Turns out I’ve just bought a flexible sander from a member of the penis gallery, and I am considering getting my money back. I’m still mad at the male who forced a wet kiss on me a few weeks ago. He actually wrenched my body around to do it, as if I owed him.

So I stride my vagina over to another Capitana and vent. She graciously listens and nods. Yet another Capitana relates her experience with a Napa boatyard that refused to allow her to haul-out and work on her catamaran, because “even a man would have trouble.”

What century is this?! Why isn’t Kamala Harris President? Why – the hell – is gender still an issue?!

Fortunately this happened on a day when the surf was up. Hurricane Priscilla sent me waves of solidarity, and I rode them. Yes, I did, baby: without testicles.

I know – I know! – not every male is a sexist pig, but, boy, do these dinosaurs spoil my mood. Like the male sailor who suggested I could strip at the local so-called gentlemen’s clubs to earn money for bottom paint. Yeah. Not a compliment, dude. Get off my boat.

I also know that sexism goes both ways. “You’re a man, you can handle it,” says a mother to her son when he expresses dismay over his father’s abusive treatment in the film Whale Rider. Humans create such ridiculous rules. Do ants have these problems?

I return the sander. I don’t want my money fueling a guy with an attitude problem. It’s like the day years ago that I saw a sticker on my Hermosa landlord’s mailbox supporting the man who twice bought the U.S. Presidency (I call him Voldemort). As soon as I found another place to live, I gave notice.

I’ve got the power.

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Taking a Stand*

You can try to block me 

but you cannot stop me 

I’m-a stand the fuck UP

*from the upcoming book of poems and paintings, Dance First, Ask Questions Later