The Inescapability of The Male Gaze

‘Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.’  (Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride)

Today, attempting to remove myself from the male gaze, I did not put any makeup on, I am wearing clothes that cover every part of my body that could be easily sexualized, and I focus on trying to appear uninterested in the men I will encounter.

I feel virtuous when I leave my apartment in the morning. How liberating to turn my back on men’s desire. The feeling remains thrilling as I walk onto the street; I think, “Aren’t I such a feminist?” 

My recently acquired moral superiority abandons me as soon as I cross paths with the first man I’d seen all day. “He must think I look so interesting and unbothered,” I catch myself thinking. A slight smile even peeks through my face. The man, thinking my smile was directed at him, smiles back. My stomach clenches. The excitement of being seen arises. “I didn’t even try today, and he still found me endearing. I must be decently pretty”. A wave of hot shame invades my face. Where did the sentiment of aesthetic revolution go? Are my convictions so weak that the mere sight of a man can bring them down? Was my performance so unconvincing that even I wasn’t able to believe it for more than a few hours? 

Atwood’s words come back to me as I am lying in the grass writing in my journal while a group of young men play spikeball in front of me. I watch them play and laugh with each other, and I wonder if they are as conscious of my presence as I am of theirs, or if they care as much about what I think of them as I care about what they think of me. Really, the decision to strip myself of the things I believe make me attractive isn’t very different from the one I make most days to shave my armpits, apply blush, and spray perfume all over my body. Maybe the hiding of my legs, breasts, and stomach also comes from the belief that they are not worthy of being seen by others. Maybe my attempt at straying away from male expectations of beauty is, in part, an apology on behalf of my ugliness, a bow to the patriarchy for offending it. 

Now, I feel silly, embarrassed by my failed activism and resigned to the performative tint of my rebellion. In the end, is the scribbling in my notebook, the feigned ignorance of the men, and the heavy clothes despite the heat, any better than doing the exact opposite? Is modesty not just another male fantasy: one of purity and unattainability?