A HERO TO THE RESCUE

As soon as the engine stopped and the “fasten seat belt” light was turned off, she unbuckled her seat belt and stood-up.  She casually, but deliberately, played with her blond hair.  She fluttered her dark eyelashes, heavy with black mascara, and spread her lips, painted perfectly in a deep shade of red, into a broad smile.  She made eye contact with her target, and instantly realized it was going to be easy.  He had clearly noticed her and wanted to be her hero long before her entirely unnecessary display of charm.  If he had been a dog, his tail would have been wagging back and forth so hard it would have made a very audible thump with each smack of the seat. 

“It’s the black one,” she purred.

The wrinkles around his eyes merely provided an illusion of wisdom.  The man eagerly proceeded, like a silly little boy, to remove her carry-on bag from the storage compartment above his head.  As he handed her bag to her, he pulled his shoulders back, sucked in his gut and pushed his chest out. 

“Thanks,” she sweetly said to him, and turned away.  Her mission was accomplished:  she had been saved.  She knew I was watching, turned to me and gave me a, “That’s how it’s done!” look.  I smiled back at her, but it was not a congratulatory smile. 

I looked at the man.  He was giddy with a foolish sense of accomplishment—he had, after all, just come to the rescue of a helpless woman.  She had needed him to help her.  He was a hero for assisting her.

A few minutes later at the baggage carousel, another woman flipped her long, silky, straight black hair behind her left shoulder and turned her body toward the man near her.  With theatrical expertise, she made just enough of a movement toward her luggage to let the hero by her side know it was time for him to spring to action.  As she feigned her attempt to retrieve her luggage; she looked, for just a moment, directly at her hero and offered him a sweet, shy smile.  Dutifully, he moved faster than her, and with speed and precision had the woman’s suitcase next to her.  He had the same smug look of accomplishment as the man with the carry-on bag.  Another hero saved the day.

Why does society teach women they need to be rescued, and tell men they need to rescue women?   I do not need to be rescued.   I do not need a man to save me.  If I need any fucking saving, I will do it myself.  

Often, men see me using all 5’7” of my height to lift and leverage my 10’6” long paddleboard onto the roof of my SUV, and they offer to help me.  I am strong, which I clearly have to be to get my board on and off my car.  Nothing about me says I cannot do this, yet the passing hero wants to save the woman.  Why does his manliness have to be defined by his ability to save a woman? 

Once, I let a friend quietly help me with my board because he was simply helping an exhausted person.  He knew I was returning from a very long paddle, and he understood I was spent and hypoglycemic.  When he offered to help, I said, “Thanks, I’ve got it.”  However, when I stopped with my board partially and precariously on the roof, to gather strength to push it completely onto the roof, he noticed I was struggling.  Without a word, from behind, he placed his hand on the nose of my board and gently pushed once I had resumed my pushing.   

I accepted the help because this man was not trying to be a hero; rather, he was just being empathetic and kind.  I turned to him before I secured the straps and admitted gratitude with a softly spoken, “thanks.”  Without pride, he looked at me and politely nodded before resuming rinsing the salt and sand off his board.  No hero, no rescue, no roles to play, no picket fences, nothing to prove.  Just two people, as they were.