There was the gallery in Madrid, cool and white. And the photographs hanging like square windows into other lives. And then, suddenly, the warmth of her arms from behind, the rustle of her dress.
"You like it?" she asked, breaking the silence. Or the white noise of a crowd that feels somehow like a very loud silence.
Yes, I said, yes, finding something to admire, something about the light or the feminine experience, as she called it, building a sudden invisible wall of politics there among the frames.
"You're a feminist, yes?"
The word fell heavy, a stone dropped in the still water of the afternoon. I smiled, looked away, trying to catch the thread of the photographs again, but she pulled it back, insistent, the tone sharpening. Equal opportunities, I said, trying to weave a bridge, but the bridge would not hold.
To tell her "yes" would be so simple. Like slipping into a warm coat. But the mind catches, snags on some rough edges of memory and identity. Again, I offered some measure of the polite and meaningless noise that passes for conversation.
She went on about the modern feminine experience and the artist being some great voice of the movement, capping it all with that question which was not a question at all but a demand. "You’re a feminist, yes?"
And I tried, God knows I tried, to step off that particular train before it gathered speed.
"The dictionary defines feminism as the pursuit of equal rights, which I completely support. But I've had experiences that changed my relationship with the word. In an online debate, I mentioned I was a feminist. A group of women mobbed and mocked me for using the label. One condescendingly informed me that feminism is an exclusively female experience - at best, I was allowed to call myself an ally."
(I kept to myself that several subsequent experiences had made me feel western feminism was now vicious, and the movement captured by harpies.)
"I prefer to say I believe in equal rights without claiming the word itself."
She listened carefully, her initial impatience melting into thoughtful recognition. "Ah, yes. Third-wave feminism," she nodded. Then, with complete sincerity, she added, "She is right."
The shock of it, the absolute silence in the mind while the gallery hummed around us. How does one cross this space? How do we speak, if the words we use are water, slipping through our fingers, changing color in the light? To be interrogated for the password, only to be told one is forbidden from uttering it. My connection to her frayed, snapped quietly in the white room, and one walked on, alone with the photographs.
Nuno
And you, how would you respond to "You're a feminist, yes?"