/ 10 June 2009

Don’t baby me

‘Hi babes!” This was the startling greeting I got from a senior politician when I arrived at his office to interview him for a TV show. I looked behind me to see if he’d mistaken me for a female friend who had walked into the office at the same time. Surely, such familiarity would be reserved for a friend or a loved one?

Seeing no other woman in the vicinity, it dawned on me that he was referring to me. That realisation hit me so hard and weighed so heavily that I felt my stomach turn and for a moment thought I might deposit my breakfast muesli on to his plush, paid-for-by-taxpayers rug.

He seemed shocked at the hand I offered in greeting and proffered his with a hesitant and puzzled look, while the two cameramen I was with were treated to firm handshakes and jaunty hellos. The politician was whisked off to another office while we set up our cameras.

For a good 20 minutes, I was inconsolable: I pontificated and profaned at the audacity of his calling me babes. The younger of the two cameramen offered a helpful: “Don’t worry, my sister, yhi bhari le, ngu tsotsi nje [Don’t worry, he is unrefined, he is a thug]!” However, the elder of the two chuckled and said, bemused: “Hawu, you are an attractive woman, manje, what’s the problem? You should be flattered.”

While I could easily have commanded a host of expletives in reaction, I was stunned into silence because it dawned on me how deeply ingrained these backward, sexist views of women are in our society. So I opted for a mini five-minute gender relations workshop instead.

I explained why, as a woman, I felt offended and degraded by the politician’s manner and why it was wholly inappropriate and disrespectful in a professional environment to call me babes. What was even more incendiary was for him — the cameraman — to attribute the politician’s remarks to my looks.

I expanded with more patience than I cared for, telling him I was not at the politician’s office because I am good-looking, I was there to ask him questions about the state of the country and that was the only level upon which he should engage with me — just as he would have had the journalist been a man. I impressed upon my colleague that he, too, would want his daughter treated with the same professional courtesy and respect. That just because television by its nature requires us to be glamorous and attractive is no excuse for us to be treated less worthily.

When the politician returned to his office, I conducted the interview to the best of my abilities, even though every part of my being was now repulsed. What could I have done to take him on and let him know that his behaviour made the hair on my skin stand on end?

This encounter really sullied my view of him and cast a pall over the interview. For days I mulled over this because it had infuriated me so much.

This is a man who is at the highest echelons of his political movement, holds great power and influence — if he could treat me that way, how does he refer to the women in his own organisation? Did this reductionism manifest itself in other ways in the party? Were women spoken to in this manner? Did they find it acceptable? Was it me? Was the whole point to throw me off before the interview?

I have found no easy answers. But one thing I know is that it makes me apoplectic with anger every time I think about it. It reminded me of a similar experience I had a decade ago when I was a rookie reporter. I was covering a parliamentary briefing and the minister in question greeted all the journalists beforehand.

Typically, as was often the case, I was the only woman among the press corps that day, so while the minister shook hands with my male colleagues, when it was my turn he gave me a lascivious smile that sent shivers down my spine and said: “Hello, baby.”

I must have blushed about four times before regaining my composure. I went home that night and cried myself to sleep. Admittedly, I’m tougher now but what remains is that sickening sense of self-doubt that such blatant, naked sexism can elicit — you begin to wonder if you somehow had something to do with it.

Sometimes I think the aim is a deliberate one to make you feel less than you are. Men in powerful positions are presumably erudite and savvy enough to know what is offensive behaviour; otherwise the country is in a great deal more trouble than we think.

Other times though, as with my cameraman, I think men genuinely don’t know or understand how much they disrespect and wound us with their careless words and manner.

In a recent conversation my friend and media colleague, Redi Direko, observed that for some reason the world seems angry with and scared of strong black women. After my latest encounter I now know that I refuse to be cowed and weakened by ugly words. So, Mr Politician, I refuse to make it about me. It is your despicable behaviour that deserves scrutiny and sanction. If you want to weaken me, there must be something about me that scares you.