He understands Barbie better

It started with a pub lecture. Then I went to a panel discussion with disco DJs. I attended a zine workshop, a zine launch, and browsed a zine archive. Events organised by philosophers and artists, and by twenty-somethings who call themselves philosophers and artists. Here, the most attractive people have calloused hands from bouldering.

On these nights, I hope to escape the forward-leaning men. Recently, a friend and I arrived late to the launch of a podcast episode.

The Instagram post promised a dance floor. But the handful of people still there late at night were half-watching an experimental karaoke performance. Their other eye drifted from the empty space to their next glass of craft beer. Most of the people at the party turned out to be colleagues. They recognised my friend and me as their students. We got into a conversation with a lecturer whose course and valley-girl accent I had enjoyed.

The colleagues decided the event was over and invited us to keep drinking at Kaapse Maria, their favourite bar. My friend, the lecturer, and I were the only ones who took the tram. He didn’t have a bike – he didn’t feel the need for one. I asked if he didn’t want his own transport; I personally liked having my own bike. “You shouldn’t feel attached to your possessions, Giselle”, he snapped.

I sat by the window, feeling the cold seep through the glass. He sat on the other side of the aisle, legs spread wide, grinning as he leaned towards us. The philosopher, unprompted, started talking about the Barbie film. My friend, seated in the middle, was better at late-night debates and tried to contribute something. From the tram to the bar, he proclaimed that he hadn’t been able to watch the film. “Barbie tries to maintain her privileged class position. She wants to keep living in her massive house while other Barbies have to take out the rubbish. Class inequality is the most important inequality, but the feminist creators seemed to have forgotten that.” He let out a short, pointed laugh.

I listened and felt disappointed. Yet another man talking at us. Someone who finds us interesting and takes the time to deliver a nice long monologue, who sees an invitation in our appearance, our gaze, our voices. That night, at the bar, my friend and I withdrew. But I keep searching for the place where we don’t have to be on guard.