Why

Why would you pay for this apartment you don’t belong in?

I love a Dominic Fike song. I love their shortness and sweetness. Their enchanting rhythms. The frequency of their chords and the way they vibrate against each other to produce a sound that makes my skin chilly and my head boppy. 

You take this shit from all your bosses and all your boyfriends

But I hate this song. 

I guess I get surprised when you let it slide

It seems not even our indie singer-turned-actor crushes are immune to the curse of mansplaining. I can think of hundreds of songs, by men, all in which the female subject is being berated for her choices. Though under the guise of concern, care, and constructive criticism, in one way or another, we are governed by this strange phenomenon. 

But it’s no business of mine how you waste your time

I have a physical reaction when I encounter this trope. Before I can stop it, one corner of my mouth drops low and an sour expression paints my face. I’m not sure how I haven’t yet learned to see it coming, no matter the man, no matter how much he seems to respect me as a living, breathing, choice-making adult. “You don’t have to care what they think, you know.” Shit, really? Thank you so much, you Enlightenment thinker, you. Can you repeat it so I can write it down?

Don’t crash, don’t text, don’t renew your tags

Maybe I’m the idiot, because I’m having trouble deciphering whether they know that disagreement exists or if they genuinely don’t care what you think for yourself. Is he telling me that I shouldn’t waste my money on shoes because he thinks that’s a universal truth that all must agree with, or does he criticize my rationale? Does he know there is more than one way to live, or does he only question mine?

No sex, no sleep, just that job

I went on a date with a boy from my program in Spain. He sipped red while I sipped white. He said me choosing white was predictable. Girls like white. I asked him if he chose the aphrodisiac on purpose. He asked me what that was. 

I bet you miss what you had

Despite my being distracted by the stains of purple on his slightly crooked teeth, I felt like he was actually listening to me; his responses and follow-up questions were relevant and indicative of his close attention. I thought of the mock-debate in my fifth grade class, where I first learned to plan rebuttals by writing down the points to which I wished to respond. I remember the feeling of patiently waiting my turn and later recalling a claim made by my opponent, and how my teacher took it as a sign of my careful notice. At the moment, I wasn’t quite ready to equate him to a fifth grader learning to debate. That seemed unfair and a bit patronizing. It was only a silly connection. 

You can’t get no sleep at night

A few days down the line, he told me I “lacked logic” because I said I had to think about spending the night with him. I am surprised he knows about logic (or, at least, claims to). My Spanish host mother is strict in all the right ways; she is understanding of my adulthood and freedom but I can tell she wants me to have a stern impression of her. I knew she would regretfully ask me why I never came home. I knew she would be torn out of sleep by the intrusive reminder that the front door never creaked open in the early hours of dawn. I knew she would know I was lying if I lied. 

Do you ever wonder why everyone is out to get you every day?

He told me he cannot see what’s wrong with me leaving for one night. I told him I want to be respectful. I want my host mother to know I respect her and her home and her rules and her sleep and her motherly instinct. He asked me how this could possibly be disrespectful. I told him I just said how. Do you need me to write it down?

Or do you question anything?

At least fifth grade me, in all her glory, made her best effort to always understand her opponent and respond with something relevant. Something that indicated understanding. Sympathy. Not only when she agreed. But always. The fact that I even considered bestowing upon him the honor of having the same thoughtfulness and consideration as a young girl is now beyond me. It would not have been patronizing, but instead, praiseworthy to be likened to her. 

How many warnin’ signs ’til it hits you, darling?

As the words hit me, with decreasing force each time, my mouth once again takes the shape of a frown. I imagine his tinged by Cabernet. Suddenly I no longer think it to be cute. Tainted with oblivion, I think, in more ways than one. He speaks about life through stained teeth. 

Gravity’s your friend

Plenty of men have criticized my choices and logic (or lack thereof). Too emotional. Looks into things too deeply. Too feminist. Too liberal. Too outspoken. Too masculine. Too confrontational. Too opinionated. Talks back. The same men have encouraged I be more bold, under different circumstances. Too stoic. Lets big things slide. Too politically neutral. Too reserved. Too girly. Too submissive. Too agreeable. Doesn’t stand up for herself enough. It’s funny how their demands of you change depending on which will serve them best. It’s funnier how there always seems to be a demand. A need for you to be different than you are. A need for them to inflict their opinions and impart their wise-beyond-their-years knowledge. A need to lecture me on some philosophical concept I realized when I was four. 

You fall out of touch sometime

I believe myself to be rather consistent in terms of how I conduct myself. My interests are the same as they were when I was a young girl, and as a result, I know myself well and apply this to my decision-making. I do think it’s worth noting, though, that many women find it difficult or perhaps inconvenient to act in accordance with their own authentic desires. Why? The only thing that comes to mind is the men who constantly make us feel as though we should be acting differently—or moreover, in accordance with their own desires. The men who set up a system that benefits them and disadvantages women. 

But your history calls you back to it again

Mr. Fike, have you ever considered why the woman of who you sing lives in an apartment that, you feel, she doesn’t belong in? My womanly lack of logic makes it hard for me to know the answer. It might be because she gets paid 82 cents to your dollar. 64 cents for Black women. Not even 52 cents for Latina women. You, on the other hand, are wise enough to know exactly which apartment your soul belooooooongs in. You also have the funds to buy it. Sorry, men who are not reading my blog, did you want to tell me to stop being too liberal and too feminist?

Too many factors to be sure

I should tell boys to tuck-in their shirts. Girls think guys are unprofessional and unserious otherwise (and, quite frankly, unable to dress). I should tell them to stop resorting back to that horrible haircut. Girls think longer hair always looks better on guys. I should ask them if they care about being considered attractive to women. Girls like it when guys want to impress us with their physical attributes. I should tell them they should probably read a book. Girls don’t like guys who sit on TikTok all day. I should tell them to quit pretending they can play the guitar well. Girls don’t like guys who think they have all the answers, all the skills, all the capabilities, all the right ideas, all the…………

So many reasons to think twice

I will probably continue to play that Dominic Fike song. I like the way it vibrates and I like the way the sounds make me feel airy and light. 

And nobody asked you to before

If I were to ask Dominic, he would probably say I’m not supposed to like all of his songs. To agree with all of his opinions. But he put it out there, and he did what he felt he should do. It doesn’t really matter if I like it or not. It’s not up to me. It’s his creation. The world is man’s creation. We are just here to experience it. Bask in it. Be grateful for it.

But do you ever wonder why? (Why)

I wonder “why” all the time. Do you?