Women live cautiously, differently from the men in their lives

Feminism has never been — is not now — easy. That's partly because the myth of the powerful woman is enough to scare certain people (no sex mentioned) half to death. It's also because women ourselves come out of so many different life experiences that until something happens to bring more of us together, we often walk on parallel paths, heading in the same direction but separately rather than together.

There has been a deluge of participants in the "me too" campaign, claims made by women that often have never been shared before.

Feminists — particularly second-wave feminists — are driven by the belief that "until we are all free, none of us is free." I like to expand it to say, "Until we are all safe, none of us is safe."

I have been sharing this credo with women over the last few weeks — women who seem puzzled by the current atmosphere and who wonder why the sexual outrages in the news happen to so many other women but have never happened to them.

But women who believe they are not affected by the recent revelations of sexual harassment and sexual assault live in the same world as the rest of us and they live with the same risks, the same dangers. They live, whether they believe it or not, differently from the men in their lives. In fact, if I were going to get into it, I would dispute their position that they have never been sexually exploited.

Every time they walk out of their way to avoid drawing attention to themselves on the street, or check the backseat of the car before getting in, or they don't get into an elevator with a lone male, demonstrates a life that's lived carefully and cautiously.

Here are some random stories I've never told that many women will probably identify with.

1.When I was a small girl — maybe eight years old — I was over playing with the Presbyterian minister's children. Our family wasn't Presbyterian but my best friend's family was and I went there with her. The minister had two kids so we were four and we had a fine time playing. Toward the end of the afternoon, we started a game of hide and seek. One of the others was "it" and the rest of us dashed off to hide. I tucked myself in behind a big armchair in the far corner of the living room.

Suddenly, the minister himself squeezed in beside me saying, "Shhh. They'll never find us here." He was a big, genial and jovial man. There was not much room back there and he pushed himself very close and put his arm around me. I was not at all comfortable. He pulled me closer and held onto my bare arm.

I want to stress that he didn't touch me inappropriately but the intimacy of his position next to me was not welcome. I was a little afraid and I was glad when the other kids found us.

2. There was an outdoor rink in a yard not very far from where I lived. Kids from all around used to go there to skate. A man who lived in the house next to the rink was always there, helping with the skates, keeping a little fire burning so we could warm our hands. He had been, as far as I know, considered harmless (although I'd heard him described as being "not all there") until one day, my mother told me I was not to go to the rink unless there was an adult I knew present. All the other kids were told that too.

I have no idea what happened but it seemed to have something to do with that man and one of the girls who was just a year younger than I was. In the language of the day, I suppose it was said that "he interfered with her." I don't remember going to the rink much after that. The man was still around and we were told to keep away from him and if he tried to talk to us, we should run.

3. When I was 11 or 12, the father of one of my friends — and a friend of our family! — leaned across the dinner table (this was at his house, with his family) and said to me, looking pointedly at my chest, "Those are a couple of pretty big mosquito bites you have there. You'll have to get someone to rub something on them later." Everyone laughed and it was horrible. I was so humiliated and embarrassed. This is why young girls walk around with their arms crossed in front of their chests. I never told my mother this. She would possibly have killed him but I didn't want to talk or think about it, ever again.

4. I was probably 15 or 16 when I was walking with a group of friends down Cunard St. (in Chatham, NB) from the Vogue Theatre to the MicMac restaurant. It was Friday night and busy and crowded. There were boys on each side of the MicMac steps so they could check out the girls on their way in. There were more boys lining the sidewalk, leaning on the parked cars. There were also a number of air force guys. (There was an air base just outside Chatham and young airmen often came into town on Friday nights.)

As we moved along ignoring the bystanders, one of the air force guys stepped out and blocked my way. I moved sideways, back and forth, trying to avoid him but he moved as I did and also moved in closer to me. I gave him a push and said, "Get out of my way." He laughed and he stepped sideways but at the same time, he reached down and stuck his hand between my legs. He ran his hand up and did what Trump brags about. I got away from him and caught up with my friends and we proceeded into the restaurant.

These are stories from my childhood and my youth. It didn't end there.

Ibiza: stopping 'progress' is no longer an option

One day recently — September 18, to be exact — I saw a small news item that said 47 years ago, to the day, Jimi Hendrix had died.

Under normal circumstances, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have known where I was when I heard that Jimi Hendrix had died. In this case though, I know exactly.

Fred's Bar was in a small town on the Balearic island of Ibiza. In 1970, Ibiza was at the dawn of what was to become a massive tourism industry. We used to go to Fred's for breakfast every morning walking down a remarkably undeveloped street from the building where were staying which wasn't quite finished.

I used to read the International Herald Tribune while I had my tomato and cheese sandwich and a lovely frothy cup of café con leche. Most things were still cheap in Spain but not the Herald Tribune. We couldn't afford to buy it every day but I bought it two or three times a week and I savoured every word even though it was a very business-oriented paper and often quite boring. I was probably never so well-informed on the subject of international business as I was then.

It was there that I read of the death of Jimi Hendrix and I remember it so well. It was on the front page and it must have made quite an impression on me, a small story tucked in among the war, the appointments of big business executives, the ubiquitous news that followed the ups and downs of petro-dollars. The story of the death of a genius musician must have seemed almost out of place.

In the past 47 years, Ibiza has become known as "party island" for young Europeans. I don't think I would recognize it today. We used to walk to the beach every afternoon along a dusty little road, past small family farms where the families were often gathered around a big outdoor table enjoying lunch.

On a busy day, there might be a handful of other people on the beach but just as often, there was no one. An empty beach.

Today, I'm pretty sure most beaches look more like this.

When I started writing this, I thought it was just an interesting little memory anecdote, the reason I remembered where I was was when I heard of the death of Jimi Hendrix. I didn't know it was going to be another look at unsustainable tourism. I've written about that here and here — about Shakespeare's hometown and about Iceland. I make the point again, sadly, because there are so many wonderful places in the world to visit but so many of the places can't take any more.

Spain was early to tourism over-development. Throughout the '60s, the Mediterranean coast of the mainland was mindlessly built up with miles and miles of characterless highrise buildings (I'm looking at you, Benidorm), magnets for sun-seeking vacationers from northern Europe.

There was little regard for heritage or history but it seemed not to matter. The tourists kept coming. The development on the Balearic Islands began with Majorca, then Menorca, then Ibiza. The smallest island, Formentera, is in the earlier stages of development but it's getting there.

Many people still don't take this kind of issue seriously. "You can't stop progress!" they bellow. This is not progress but there's no point arguing with people who hold that view.

But just look at two views of the Old Town of Ibiza:

1970

2017

Not progress.

There were two other headlines/stories that I remember reading in Fred's Bar. Janis Joplin died on October 4. And on October 5, James Cross was kidnapped from his home in Montreal by the FLQ, marking the beginning of the October Crisis.

That was definitely the headline that had the greatest effect on my own life, both there in Spain and far beyond.