My physical therapist and I were chatting about his recent trip to the Alaskan wilderness while he watched me do another slow squat. I almost sank to the ground when he said, “It’s necessary, now and then, to be in the presence of grizzly bears. To be reminded that we are not the apex predators.”
Women do not need to go to Alaska to be taught this lesson (nor does anyone who isn’t an able-bodied, heterosexual white man). Women constantly face real danger while we are just trying to navigate our lives, out in the world and, for some, sadly, at home.
My physical therapist was unironically proud of his humility. Humility is a start, but it isn’t what women need from men. We need empathy. Psychologist Marshall Rosenberg, who developed nonviolent communication, said, “Our ability to offer empathy can allow us to stay vulnerable, defuse potential violence.”
The physical therapist is helping me recover from a knee surgery and prepare me for my hike next summer, 3,000 miles along the Continental Divide Trail. But he is not the only apex predator to set my teeth on edge. Because of my online searches for a lightweight tent and a water filter more effective than the heavy dinosaur I’ve been hauling around for years, the all-knowing algorithm has blessed my feed with clips and reels of rosy-cheeked long-distance hikers, newly off-trail and still flush with exhilaration. In one interview, I watched a young man who is asked, “Why? Why do it?” As if they have all memorized the same script, he answers, “When was the last time you were in danger? Real physical danger?”
Could he be any more oblivious? I believe the enthusiastic young man in the interview, like my physical therapist, is well-intentioned. He has gone through an empowering experience and wants to encourage others to do the same. But his journey only reconfirmed what he has already been taught by our culture. He emerges all-powerful or, in other words, unchanged.
Women need men — the real apex predators — to understand the danger they pose to us. At the moment, our country is backsliding. Women are being stripped of our right to bodily autonomy in a way that men would never tolerate and, historically, have never had to. In his confirmation hearing for a seat on the Supreme Court, Brett Kavanaugh famously drew a blank when Kamala Harris asked him to think of a law — any law — that affected only men’s bodies. We just elected an adjudicated abuser for president. The clear signal to men: Women are prey. We are still prey. Many men, and even young boys, have heard that message and are now gleefully chanting, “Your body, my choice.”
In our patriarchal culture, where power is concentrated among men, their survival does not depend on empathy. Ours does. The point, however, is not to make men feel as unsafe as women do — that will only encourage them to scramble for more power. The goal is for men to want women to be as safe as men are, to understand that we are not, and to act toward a real remedy: changing the assumptions and behaviors of men.
What if, during the interview, the hiker had wondered: When was the last time someone else experienced real physical danger? Imagine him asking someone and listening to their response. Or just using his own imagination to supply answers. How do we encourage men to notice — and care — about a truth they mostly don’t experience? We must teach them, one conversation at a time. This is an unfair burden, but I believe it is the only way. It’s tempting to tell men to figure it out on their own, and I would never judge anyone for saying, “Nope, I choose not to do this work.” Whether women engage in teaching conversations is — always — our choice.
The author stops at a hostel in France during her solo walk across Europe along the Via Francigena.
Since I wrote a viral article about fear and walking a thousand miles alone across Europe, I’ve had several interesting interviews and podcast conversations with men — a hopeful sign. One time, the interviewer, Paul, asked why I walk long distances. I answered that it gave me a chance to fall back in love with the world, the details of which, when I take time to notice, are stunningly beautiful. “And hilarious,” I said. “People especially.”
“Hilarious? What do you mean?” he asked. I paused for a moment to take in the fact that he had actually asked me a follow-up question. But soon he circled around to the question everyone asks: Was I afraid of walking alone? They mean: afraid of men. But before I could answer this time, Paul jumped in with a story of his own:
“Every night at home, I take my dog out for a walk, and every night one of my neighbors takes her dog for a walk. Whenever I pass by, I can tell she tightens up. I don’t understand,” he said, exasperated. “She’s met me before, once even with my wife. I’m starting to feel a little insulted.”
I heard the unspoken challenge: Weren’t we women taking this a little too far? Hadn’t he proved to his neighbor that he meant no harm? Come on — he was one of the good guys. I considered sighing in disappointment or bristling in outrage — but before his interruption, he had asked thoughtful questions and even wanted me to elaborate on my answers. He was paying attention. That was an open door, and I chose to walk through it.
“Most of the assaults I have experienced,” I said, “were carried out by men I had known for years, who I had been alone with numerous times: my uncle, my college professor, my doctor.
“They didn’t assault me,” I said, “until they did.”
“Ohhh,” he said, the hackles in his voice softening. “What can I do,” he asked me then, “to make things better?”
Because he seemed genuinely open, I decided to go one step further. “Talk to men,” I said. “You teach them.”
When I go on a long hike, I aim to be soft, to allow the soul-clearing scent of pine sap baking in the heat, the sound of wind gathering itself on its way up a hillside, the electrical hum that precedes a crack of lightning on a ridge or the dangerously heavy pull of water on a river crossing to remind me how alive I am and how much my own racing heart is part of the rhythm of the world. I am alert but unafraid.
Men, don’t miss the real opportunity that such a long hike offers: a chance to look beyond your own experience and pay attention to the impact of your words and actions. You can exhibit real bravery by going where few men have tread before you. Ask questions. Listen to our answers, and show us some empathy.
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Right now, the stakes for women could not be higher. If you consider yourself a “good guy,” the alarm bells should be ringing in your head, too. It is time for you to stand up and pay more attention. Not assaulting women is not enough. It is time for you to take up the burden of educating your brothers, other “good guys” who think they get it but don’t. The hill we women have been climbing toward full citizenship just got a lot steeper and more treacherous. We invite men to join us, but they are going to have to start carrying their own weight.
Lea Page’s work has appeared in New York Times, Washington Post and The Guardian. She is the author of “Parenting in the Here and Now” (Floris Books, 2015) and is at work on another book about paying attention.
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