I have twice feared physical violence from female co-workers after life went well for me and a little less well for them.
Women — usually older women, even as I age — have gone after me from every angle and left me with sliced viscera, the floor slippery with office fluids.
They have barked at me in the hallways like dogs, actual growling, the kind you hear in ill-fenced parks. Female co-workers have micro-knifed me anonymously and shredded me like a cabbage for everything from my ankles (non-matching) to my allergenic perfume (but I wasn’t wearing any, I swear, dabbing wetly at my neck) to my words (criminal, insufficiently earnest, etc.). Some have blanked me for years (awkward in the office washroom).
I once spent a week in a courtroom covering the sentencing of a serial killer where the ongoing hatred of two female journalists towards me frightened me more than he did. It was a courtroom where a radio guy screamed at me for writing a feminist column, and I still feared the women more.
Women have hissed at me about the horror of other women — go ahead, I don’t snitch — which would be absolutely fine if they had ever found a male co-worker to deplore.
ShareFeminism has been a warm companion all my life. Writing this is like voluntary defenestration. (Read more.)