I am wearing 100 Tweeds today because it is the scent of being the smartest person in the room - old books, cigars, leather armchairs, understated brilliance that doesn't need to prove itself. It's "masculine" in that silly way that we gender things without gender, like perfume, like beverages, giving them meanings that expand or constrict without warning. I wear it to feel expansive, to take up space literal and metaphorical, to refuse the shrinkage this world asks of women every day.
I am thinking, too, about how much of my writing life consists of pointing out connections that appear logical to me, indeed almost obvious, yet which people writing for big publications often miss entirely. Right now, that's the fact that Mike Pence's views about dining alone with women have everything to do with his tie breaking vote yesterday to block family planning money. The need to control women's bodies, the narrowness of who and what we are, the risk our bodily freedom poses to men in power - these are integrally related. I studied philosophy in college - a "masculine" subject, one of three women in the class of '07 to earn that major at Hope (in a small department that amounted to 30% of that year's phil grads) - so I've been trained to think in certain ways. No doubt this is one result.
Bringing the above thoughts together, then, I wonder how much of my surprise that others do not always see the connections I consider so obvious stems from not grasping my own intelligence. Saying "Isn't it obvious?" is as much about my inability to acknowledge my own authority on certain matters as it is about naming a clear "If a, then b..." connection. In saying it's "obvious," I diminish my own importance. I shrink, even as I am trying to expand.