As I speedwalk around campus, I’m always abruptly stopped by a looming figure in front of me. Maybe he’s taking his sweet time, strolling smack down the middle of the sidewalk, or perhaps, he’s bicycling and blocking an entire line of cars. You think to yourself, are a gaggle of his friends about to walk down the same narrow road as you? Better swerve onto the grass before you get shoulder checked.

Make way for the straight white man. Easy-goingness is second-nature; enjoying life is a priority. For most men like this, commanding attention is considered a birthright — although perhaps no longer so blatantly.

Terms like “manspreading” and “mansplaining” not-so-endearingly derive from the audacity that most of these men carry with them. Lots of men seem to be naturally equipped with a ridiculous amount of confidence that is not only irritating but, honestly, impressive. They are so blissfully unaware of the amount of space they take up in any room; rarely are they corrected for it, and consequently, they don’t feel a need to recognize it.

Sometimes, I’m envious of their confidence. Unlike them, I can’t help but be constantly aware of the space I take up in a room: being overly polite for fear of seeming rude, smiling at strangers and apologizing after answering any question in class. It seems as if the entirety of my behavior is an apology for my existence.

Straight white men live in a different world entirely. It’s almost whimsical how they wear flip-flops with no fear of judgment to every event in the world, laugh loudly and freely share their opinions about anything and everything without second-guessing if they’re wrong. It seems they’re able to be their genuine selves without worrying that they’re preventing the entire bike lane from passing through or looking like an idiot.

But clarity follows my bout of jealousy: What’s stopping me from being whimsical too? 

Realistically, a lot of things are in my way. Considering the fact that I’m a woman of color, society hasn’t necessarily carved out space for me and my fellow WOC to run around without a care in the world. But gender at its root is a construct, despite influences and alterations depending on intersectional factors. 

And however woke it may seem, this ideology confines women to a claustrophobic box. 

Feminist philosopher Judith Butler theorizes, in their book “Gender Trouble,” that gender is merely a performance that has been taught. From the moment we are conceived, let alone conceptualized, our bodies become an instrument for which a “set of cultural meanings are only externally related.” In simple terms, women are told to be submissive and nurturing. By following the rulebook, we become its next executors. 

These rules do not just apply to women but actively harm men as well. By creating a system where they are constantly striving toward a robotic, truly impossible embodiment of masculinity, they are limiting their own whimsy. As humans, we simultaneously suffer in union and division because we remain compliant to performance that has long been outdated. 

The patriarchy runs deeper than gender pay gaps and unequal opportunities. It is so ingrained within our culture and society that our taught behaviors are geared toward satisfying its expectations. As a woman, you almost feel inherently guilty for breaking an invisible barrier that is merely implied when not directly suggested. 

In a previous article, I discussed the importance of letting men behave against societal norms. But in all honesty, men have never really needed permission to bend the rules. And neither should we.   

Butler also references fellow philosopher Simone de Beauvoir’s book “The Second Sex,” where she writes that “one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” To become a woman, we are expected to shrink ourselves to the smallest possible form, both internally and externally — and that’s exhausting. By constantly placing the performance of gender at the forefront of our minds, we are losing time to fully embrace our surroundings. 

In Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s “Fleabag,” one of the arguably most poignant moments of the series, the protagonist is taught by an older woman that women innately suffer: “Women are born with pain built in. It’s our physical destiny. Period pains, sore boobs, childbirth, you know. We carry it within ourselves throughout our lives. Men don’t. They have to seek it out.” 

Women have been forced to endure. But just because the cycle has never been broken doesn’t mean we should comply and maintain it. We shouldn’t have to be the loudest person in every room to prove that we’re worth being heard. Women must not resign themselves to the limiting roles they have been given. 

The older woman in “Fleabag” then explains that all this suffering finally comes to an end at menopause, where you are “free, no longer a slave, no longer a machine with parts, you’re just a person.” But life is too short to wait until we are given the painful go-ahead to reach our full potential. 

If anything, and certainly not to give them too much credit, we can all take some inspiration from men to have more audacity. You don’t need to actually strut around campus and be annoyingly unaware of your surroundings to have the confidence of a white man. But you can embody that energy at the very least.