“My most emasculated—or feminine— moment. You know what I mean.”
A friend and I were having coffee Friday and he brought up a topic and used the term “emasculated.” That is a painful word to read and even more painful to write and dern near impossible to say out loud. But there it was.
Except we weren’t sure if we were using it in the right sense. My friend meant it in the “males are de-powered by women” sense. I think I was thinking of it in the singing castrato sense. And then both of us–at least partially–meant it in in terms of a “man feeling overly feminine” sense.
We didn’t say it but understood what we were talking about and were just going with it….and my friend had that look of “Don’t interrupt the flow of the story by asking the precise definition of a word.” Followed by the “”You know what I mean” look. You know what I mean when I say the “You know what I mean” look, right?
Anyway, that got me to thinking afterwards, “What situation in my life made me feel the most, well, feminine, that I’ve ever felt?”
OK. It’s a guy thing. We don’t like talking about such things but have been known to quietly wonder about it. (Just not write about it on Facebook). That’s an attention-seeking thing…and another story all together. But back to my point.
I had grown up in a household filled with women outnumbering men by a significant multiple. A lot of good came out of that. I was more nuanced and sensitive and had better grammar than most my male counterparts. The bad? Mostly things like not learning how to fish or hunt or shoot a gun or change the car oil. Or, yes, even change a tire.
By the time I was in my mid 30s I had never had to change a flat tire and started to secretly imagine I might get through life not knowing how to change a tire and no one ever finding out. Like having webbed feet and wearing socks my whole life so no one ever knew. The shame of not knowing how to change a tire was abating….and a sense of me possibly outsmarting the system began to displace it.
Until the year 2001. I went to visit the North Carolina secretary of state, Elaine Marshall, and went with my IT programmer, Steve Spisak. We were going because Sec Marshall offered to give us her office’s software code for an e-government initiative we were implementing so we wouldn’t have to purchase it or write it internally. Just give her office credit for it.
Steve Spisak is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and makes me feel more masculine than most guys because I suspected that although he probably knew the mechanics of things like changing a tire he probably tried once as a boy and hurt himself and ran to his room and started writing computer code instead and never looked back.
Driving home from dinner that night with Secretary Marshall the unthinkable happened. Lo and behold, Sec Marshall’s car breaks down. Actually the car didn’t break down. And I began to realize she’d simply had a flat tire. She was relieved. I was mortified. I didn’t say “S**t!” out loud. But it came up inside me automatically from so deep a place I worried others might have heard it. I know I did. It was an agonizing slow motion “Ssss*****eeeee*****tttt!”
I was petrified. It was the South and I was with a female colleague as her guest and my brilliant software programer. Meaning I was the more masculine looking of the two males present— and was about to have to finesse my way through pretending how to change a tire while not knowing how to change a tire.
My first bluff was acting like time was of the essence and we needed to call AAA. Elaine balked and said that would take extra time and we’d have to tip the driver and for me to just change the tire and she’d help.
I said, “Sure. OK.” and then tried to play along. At least for the next 15 seconds until I could think of my next move.
I did remember the spare tire is kept in the trunk…so I slyly —almost cavalierly –strutted to the back of the car like I’d done this a thousand times before. I asked her to pop the trunk in as masculine a voice as I could muster. She did. But there was no spare tire that I could see. That noise came from deep down inside me again….Fortunately Steve knew to look under the mat in the trunk and someone had apparently hidden the spare underneath it in a spare-sized hollowed out area. I thought to myself, “I wonder if they made it that way on purpose so the spare wouldn’t stick out?” Before I could decide if car manufacturers hollowed out a place for spare tires in the trunk of cares, I was caught off guard again. The dang tire changing equipment was screwed into the trunk and had to be unscrewed! Steve helped with this too–and fortunately Secretary Marshall couldn’t see us and I just acted all busy and made grunting sounds so Elaine would think I was doing most the work behind the popped trunk.
I did carry the tire to the exact correct tire that needed replacing— the one that was flat. I placed the tire on the ground long ways. Steve picked it up and rolled it instead of carrying it like a medicine ball as I did. I made a mental note to remember that the next time I had to fake change a tire to roll don’t carry it like a medicine ball or baby.
Steve started doing something that looked to me like unscrewing a tire bolt…and it wasn’t easy. I jumped in and the two of us–a computer programer and a male secretary of state—gave it all the effort we possibly could while a bemused damsel in distress and female secretary of state watched on and hoped her two gallant heroes didn’t hurt themselves. I remember as I twisted with all my might falteringly a story about a 94 year old woman lifting a car off of a baby in a moment of super human strength to save the baby and hoped I could muster something like that now. I didn’t think try to imagine a baby’s life depending on the flat tire being successfully changed…but was ready to when the bolt finally turned. “Urrrr!” I growled. Like Steve and I had just finished placing a gigantic ton-sized stone in place at Stonehenge.
And the worst part was there were three more bolts to go. No one who built Stonehenge put 4 different ton-sized stones in place. It just wasn’t fair we were going to have to change the whole tire.
And then I got lucky. I love it when that happens. A local reporter walked by and asked what we were doing as he recognized Secretary of State Marshall. I laughed confidently and introduced myself as a fellow secretary of state from Kentucky and explained Elaine had had a flat tire and I was –with my colleague–changing the tire……and said it in that, you know, in that way that we guys do when we know how to change a flat tire. At least that was the impression I tried to create. I mean….c’mon…maybe the male secretary of California may not know how to change a tire. But Kentucky? No way. All man, here, sir!
The reporter looked over at our progress and I worried he was going to start criticizing our handiwork…but he didn’t. I suspect he may have been one of us. A non-tire changing male….because he only stayed long enough to quip he was writing a blurb piece the next day in the NC Observer titled “How many secretaries of state does it take to change a tire?” We all laughed heartily and knowingly as he walked away— and I just hoped he didn’t realize the answer was at least 3 and probably more.
After that I acted like I didn’t want to get in Steve’s way and, heck, Elaine and I had some serious business to discuss and I’d do that instead of changing the flat tire–in the interest of being efficient with our time. I still pretended to stay engaged with the flat tire work to avoid suspicion and did things like looked around for other reporters and passersby. Not sure how that contributed anything but it made me look busy and prevented the assumption that I didn’t know how to change a tire.
Steve finished up and I pretended to put the tools in the right place in the back of the car and we drove off. Two days late, Secretary Marshall emailed us the blurb piece about secretaries of state and changing tires. And we all had a good laugh.
And as I reflected on that night I realized I had narrowly…oh so narrowly….escaped. And just hoped that I wouldn’t find myself in that position again for at least another 50-60 years (having to change a flat tire) when I would be too old to change a flat tire and just let people assume I knew how but didn’t ask due to my advanced age. That was my plan. Put off the next flat tire for 50-60 years.
And it seemed to be working the first few weeks. And I could chalk up my funny Elaine Marshall and Steve Spisak NC flat tire story as the answer to the question, “What situation in your life did you feel the most feminine?”
As I said, my plan was flawless for 2 weeks. Then 3 weeks. And 50-60 years seemed not all that far away in the offing…. at least where flat tires were concerned. Until the next week while driving home from Frankfort in a state car during 5pm rush hour….it happened. I had a flat tire. The swear word from deep down inside me didn’t even come up this time. But sweat beaded on my forehead.
I didn’t have a cell phone. I didn’t like carrying one back then because I liked to think to myself without worrying about my phone ringing at any moment and startling me and causing me to lose my train of thought. So I couldn’t call for help.
Cars whizzed by. A few even honked because they were friends– but not good enough friends to feel guilty about not stopping to help me change a flat tire. Those flat tire changing friends are very rare friends indeed.
It was too far to walk back to Frankfort….so I tried waving down a car to help. I figured I might get lucky and get a 18 wheeler to pull off ….perhaps the driver would have some time on his hands and being very masculine (like truck drivers are) he would change the tire for me without ever asking if I knew how to. Just for the exercise and to show off, I figured. I kept my navy blazer on while flagging down cars in hopes whoever stopped would offer to change the tire for me and not suspect I was more likely to be able to explain String Theory than successfully change my own flat tire.
I thought back on my experience in NC a few weeks earlier and started chuckling to myself. “Hey,” I said to myself, “At least you won’t be ‘that’ embarrassed” this time……
A car pulled off the road to help. “John?” said a friendly voice. I didn’t recognize the gentleman but was so grateful he was kind enough to stop. He was a state employee and I shook his hand and thanked him profusely for stopping. He said he knew what it felt like to be in this situation and felt bad for me and wanted to help.
At about that time I noticed he was wearing a small diamond earring and was immaculately dressed—at least compared to my rumpled navy blazer. He also was thin and fit and very nice and sure of himself. And just as he was about to ask me to pop the trunk I realized that my rescuer was quiet possibly a gay man.
I tried not to think in stereotypes but was horrified that I was about to have to explain to this wonderfully kind and presumably gay man that I didn’t know how to change a tire.
As I realized my most feminine feeling moment ever (which had just happened in NC a month earlier) was being displaced by a new experience on the side of the road in Waddy Peytona. And I didn’t have Steve, my computer programmer, to cover for me and simultaneously make me look more masculine than I was.
And then I realized I may have caught a miraculous break. The wonderful thing about gay men (and that was just an assumption) is you can tell them things like “I don’t know how to change a tire” and not lose any of your masculinity while at the same time watching them take over and change the tire for you because, hetero guys are like TV sitcom husbands and dads —useless in a humorous kind of way. I was so relieved and I felt my secret was safe. It was like I was telling a longtime best friend a deep dark secret about myself–and not being shamed. It was liberating too.
My new friend changed my tire in record time and without breaking a sweat. He changed that tire like Steve Spisak writes code. And much better than Steve Spisak changes a tire–even with me pretending to help.
I drove away and started to make peace with the fact that I didn’t know how to change a flat tire….and I may or may not have 50-60 years before I have my next flat tire. But that was OK now because I had a back up plan. If I had a flat tire in the future I would try to flag down a competent and compassionate gay man who wouldn’t judge me. And still change my tire for me.
That was 15 years ago….and counting.