Written by Paige Lawson
Edited by Giuliana Garofalo
January 11, 2019
I will forever remember when I first encountered gender inequality in the classroom at the late age of seventeen. It was in grade twelve when my history teacher asked all of the boys in the class to step outside into the hallway so she could “have a chat” with the girls. Unaware of what this “chat” entailed, I did not know that what was about to happen would completely alter the lens in which I looked at the world.
Throughout my education, I had been lucky enough to never question my capabilities due to my gender up until that moment. I had attended both a middle school and a high school where the ratio of girls to boys was about six to one, and therefore I had never felt inhibited by what was underneath my clothes. There had always been arguments about obvious gender differences and male domination, yet I did not recognize any of this in my surroundings. Historically, a majority usually assumes power, and, because I was surrounded by more strong, commanding women than men, I didn’t understand where the differences in gender that people kept talking about actually existed. Until that day, ironically, I could not see my own blindness.
After the boys had been ushered out into the hall, my teacher shut the door on them and sauntered to the front of the classroom, taking a seat on one of the desks at the front. With a deep sigh, she asked us girls something along the lines of: “Why do you let them dominate the conversation?”. I shifted in my seat, immediately realizing what my teacher was referring to without ever having consciously thought of it before. My teacher proceeded to tell us she noticed that the boys in the class (the ten out of thirty) were always raising their hands to answer questions and taking charge during discussions. She told us that she knew we were smart and capable, but it was not always visible because we were hidden behind the domineering nature of the boys in the room. She urged us not to be intimidated by the male energy both in the classroom and outside of it, or else we would never be able to grow into what she knew we could become. She said she knew it was easier said than done to speak your mind against a history of women not being allowed to, but by giving the boys a hall pass to dominate in the classroom, whether subconsciously or not, we were only damaging our potential as females.
My teacher began to go on about how girls dismiss assertive or obnoxious boys as being “extremely intelligent” or having “leadership qualities” without realizing that we are making excuses for their dominant tendencies. After years of being practically worshipped for their power, boys, my teacher told us, would not take a step back unless girls forced them. As a history teacher, I knew she was right – women had been fighting for their rights for more decades than my fingers could count. By allowing the boys in the classroom to speak over me, to decide their opinions were “more right” than mine, wasn’t I hindering the tenacious fight that the women before me had constructed so forcefully?
As we slumped at our desks, heads down and feet tapping, my teacher asked us what we thought about the issue. I knew she wanted us to stand up and raise our voices and yell about the inequality that marinated within the classroom, but we continued to sit in silence. We were replaying in our heads all the times where a boy in class had interrupted us or talked louder or faster to be heard. At least, that’s what I was thinking about. It was the first time I realized I had stopped raising my hand because I was afraid of being ostracized by the outspoken confidence of these boys, many of whom I hardly knew. It was difficult to process – I had never been one to walk away from a problem, but I realized that that was what I had been doing by allowing myself to succumb to the hierarchy that these boys had created within a classroom where I had always felt safe. What my teacher had said suddenly made me feel insecure in the school that had been a part of my life for over three years. I never thought I would feel so small in a classroom, and, after being talked to by my teacher that afternoon, I never wanted to feel that way again.
There was this moment of silence, I remember, where my teacher was looking around at each of us as we were all looking around at each other. I do not think any of us knew what to say, other than what she had explained to us had been more right than any correct answer to any math question we had ever seen. It was as if we knew we should agree to do better, to be better, and to not let the confidence of boys obstruct our futures. I also knew it was an unrealistic fantasy to have one inspiring moment with a teacher whom you admire be the thing that changes your perspective on a topic as important as gender inequality. However, it was not a fantasy to me. I think about that afternoon a lot, and I really truly believe that the fifteen minutes my teacher gave to the girls in that classroom rewrote everything I thought I knew about gender and education.
As the boys trickled back into the room, oblivious to what had just taken place, I could feel the violent energy of the girls around me. Something had certainly changed, and for once, the boys could not say anything about it.
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