(after Rachael Duke’s “Threads of a Digital Sisterhood”) In this small space of concrete and brick, gallerygoers’ speech becomes noise. Reflections ricochet from stone, clatter and clamor, crunch and spit. The paintings are women’s voices raised in frustration, drained from living in fear, demeaned diminished, bone-tired of being viewed as less than. Through the haze of charcoal, under brushstrokes of acrylic, they trade the stories shared by every woman in this world, the fear of violence, of rape, the simple but unfulfilled desire to go from here to there alone unmolested, safe. On paper and canvas, from wheel and spoke they rage and storm. Hell hath no fury like women scorned for being women. I talk with the artist’s sister, pretty, polite, personable, her voice mid-range, soft. I lean in, strain to hear with ears damaged from years of sharing the stage with musicians fighting to be heard. High frequencies lost in the echo chamber, consonants jumble and bounce off walls into the unintelligible. What is it about women’s voices that we are so hard to hear? Is it that we are too polite to raise them until our mounting fury can no longer be restrained? A man next to us—tall, white, self-possessed, possessed of self, looks pissed off, interrupts our conversation, tells the artist’s pretty sister to rotate the wheeled work in front of us so he can read its hanging banners, its messages in text and image: A man in a roomful of women is excited. A woman in a roomful of men is terrified. He opines to the artist’s sister, words lost in the cacophony. Ignored, I drift away, think This exhibit is all about women’s voices, and this man can’t shut up for just one minute? I recount this story to my partner, a man who streams women’s sports in the background while he’s working so their teams can get the clicks, the audience numbers, the sponsorships, equity. Some men, he says, feel they have to qualify themselves in every space. Later, I wonder why I didn’t confront the man in the gallery, ask him What made your convenience worthy of interrupting our conversation? I wonder why I didn’t call him out, reclaim time and attention shared between two women, defend from an interloper the dialogue of sisters. But we have to pick our battles because it was dark outside and I had to walk to my car alone.
Bett Butler’s (she/her) poetry and short fiction have appeared in Weave, Feathertale, Amp, and other small-press publications in the U.S. and Canada. An award-winning songwriter and jazz musician (International Songwriting Competition, Independent Music Awards), she co-owns Mandala Music Production in San Antonio, Texas, where she and her spouse produce music and spoken word licensed for HBO, Discovery Channel, and more.
