When women leave the room

I was a college freshman when I was first surrounded by more male figures than I ever had been in my life. Having grown up in an all-girls high school, it took some time to become accustomed to having classmates and mentors of the opposite gender. It felt strange, but as the semesters flew by, I began to form close and authentic friendships with them all the same. It was fun. It was refreshing. It was also insightful, but not in the way I expected it to be.

For many of these friendships, my male friends would not consider me a woman. Not in the misogynistic way that they didn’t respect me or didn’t value my opinions, but in the way that we were able to have mostly raw and unfiltered conversations with each other like one usually would with the same gender. It was through these conversations that I unlearned many preconceived notions I may have held against men, which boiled down to the idea that they aren’t as heartless as many paint them out to be. This remains true for a small fraction of the lot, but I can’t quite say the same for the majority.

When the genuine and visceral chats had ceased, in came some of the most stomach-churning exchanges I’ve ever had to witness first-hand. Racial slurs would be casually thrown around, female friends and public figures alike would be heavily sexualized, and laughter would bounce across the room like the dehumanization of an entire race or gender induced such an uncontrollable amount of joy. These comments were so commonplace and deeply ingrained in their manner of speaking that they were almost as habitual and customary as the words “hello” and “goodbye.” And as shameful as it is for me to admit, I must say that I was too fearful of the possibility I’d no longer be included in this inner circle if I spoke against it. “It’s just a joke,” they would say. “I’m not actually racist, and I’m all for women empowerment.”

This being said, the prevalence of colorism and sexism is not news to anyone living in the 21st century, and we fight these kinds of prejudices on a much grander scale. We have made exponential progress and continue to lobby for reduced inequalities, calling out extreme bigots and loud-mouthed chauvinists. We speak of promoting gender equality and ending racism in papers, lectures, conferences, and presentations. We search for the next controversial headline to engage in heated discourse about, and scour for the latest shocking statistic to report. We take pride in our inclusive and forward-thinking communities, but behind closed doors, there sits a thick air of well-kept inside jokes and knowing looks. With this in mind, it surprised me how little such a phenomenon was talked about.

In retrospect, I realized that it only really ever occurs when women leave the room. Women, as I’ve come to understand, were too fragile and unfunny to appreciate these demeaning jokes. They overreact to the point where those watching can only shake their heads, sip their imaginary cups of coffee and bond over the feeling of superiority that washes over them. At best, they’re great eye candy, although often nothing more. But again, as my friends made ever so clear, I was not a woman in their eyes.

As I grew slightly older and wiser, I did what I should’ve done long ago, and became one. I exited these conversations without a care for the dismay or mocking remarks I may have left behind. Now, I walk toward a circle of boys only for their chatter to abruptly stop, and I’m left utterly disgusted with the knowledge of what was just being talked about. The topic of conversation shifts, and I’m left with no choice but to play along. They then exchange glances, murmur in each other’s ears, and stifle their chuckles before moving on.

It is in these times that I realize that taking myself out of the equation does nothing for the overall good. As unfortunate as it is, in between the looks and snickers, I realized that nothing had truly changed. As you are reading this, there still exists a multitude of clandestine conversations that hold only the fear of being exposed, rather than the fear of becoming a 21st-century hypocrite. There lies an immature excitement in that kind of exclusivity and sense of belonging, except it is rooted in degradation rather than real camaraderie. There are still many rooms with that same thick air, doors shut to prevent anything from leaking.

But what do I know? I’m just an over-reactor, an object, the butt of the joke, a woman.

Patty Bufi, 20, is a junior at the Ateneo de Manila University.