Women Talking and other inconveniences.

I wanted to stab my almost-ex-husband when I mentioned the name of the Oscar movie I was rooting for and he made a stupid face and a bad joke.

The movie was Sarah Polley’s Women Talking. He dismissed it (in front of my sons) based on his repulsion at the title alone. “I don’t think I’d be interested in that one,” he laughed.

I did not laugh.

“It’s a movie about philosophy and religion,” I said, “both disciplines you hold degrees in. I don’t know why you wouldn’t be interested, other than misogyny.”

He asks what it’s about, the mennonites interest him for a second, he loves films based on true stories, but the mention of rape shuts him down. “Ugh, no thanks, too heavy.” And that was the end of the conversation.

“Rush Hour” by Ani DiFranco plays in my head. “If you don’t understand then how can you act? There were some days that I did not love him…”

His reaction brings to mind the other Oscar movie I loved this year, The Banshees of Inisherin. It’s the spiritual opposite of Women Talking. It’s a movie about men refusing to talk. Men who would rather lose limbs than talk.

I hated it the first time I watched it because the men annoyed me so much in their stubborn idiocy. But then I couldn’t get it out of my head, and then I understood. Colin Farrell insisting his donkey come inside and cuddle him by the fire when he is sad, the prison of masculinity, the juxtaposition to the civil war rumbling in the background, men hurting men. I’ve watched it twice since then, once with my Irish butch girlfriend who calls the movie the language of her people.

That movie mentions sexual assault too. Men hurting men in ways that aren’t often allowed to be spoken out loud or acknowledged. I think a lot about how often straight men refuse to learn or listen or hear about sexual assault or rape. How they disengage or dismiss it. I think about their reluctance to connect for even a moment with that fear or pain. I think about what a privlidge that is. I think about how men are 230 times more likely to be raped than falsely accused of rape, but podcasts and hot Twitter takes would have you believe otherwise. I think about who that protects. I think about all the ways intimate violence is common.

I think about how many times a man who was supposed to protect me has made me feel afraid.

We ask men to think of their mothers and daughters in an effort to muster up some empathy and consider their behaviour. Meanwhile our assailants were our lovers, our fathers, our brothers, our friends.

I think about my marriage. I think about the secrets I kept. I think about why women don’t talk about the things that aren’t technically abuse, but still count as traumatic. I think about the ways anger and aggression and threats lived in so many of our homes, followed us on outings and family vacations, laid in bed next to us at night. I think about the ways we make excuses for the men we love, protect them from public opinion, laugh at their shitty jokes to soften the blow.

Sarah Polley made jokes about how the title of her film repelled people as she accepted awards and accolades for it. The way we all do to get by. Be gracious. Laugh with them so they know you don’t take yourself too seriously. But I don’t want to share my body and my life with someone who thinks this shit is a joke.

Her movie (based on the book by Miriam Toews) was about communicating, and how to make a decision when everyone disagrees. Her movie was about survivors and protection and keeping safe. Her movie was about making things better for those who come after us.

Women Talking speaks to me because I too had to choose; do nothing, fight, or leave.

I am thankful to be reminded regularly that I made the right fucking choice.