Today’s accompanying tune: “Just a Girl” by No Doubt
Prove it.
Prove that you climbed that mountain all on your own. Prove that your success in the mountains is entirely your own, that you had no support, no help, no community on which you leaned. Prove that you succeeded entirely on your own, without the help of a mentor, a guide, a friend. Without the neighbor that showed you that trail or pointed out that ridge line in the distance. Without the support of family, of friends, of partners who kept life running while you were away. The ones who ensured you came back to a full fridge and warm water running from your tap. The ones who asked if you were okay; the ones you complain about nagging you in the name of safety. Prove that you did it all without them.
Prove that the mountain was yours alone. That you alone are not subject to its whims, to its weather, to its moods. That your skill and mastery are the only reason you stood at its summit, and that it was not a healthy portion of chance and luck. That it was not simply your day, but that you made it your day. That the systems to which we are all subject do not apply to you, that it was not that the mountain allowed you to climb its weaknesses but instead your determination alone that forced such an outcome. That you created those weaknesses, and then exploited them.
Prove that some people simply “have it,” while others don’t. Prove that you are one of those people, that your existence is somehow proof of your superiority as well as a gift no one else has received. Prove that you’ve never been a beginner, that you never learned, that the curve of your education started above where others’ tops out. That your opinion is fact, one that has built itself not through time and experience but from imposed gift alone. That other experiences, other opinions, are incorrect simply because they do not apply to you, nor you to them. That your lack of curiosity and willingness to learn is because you know everything you need to know already, that your blindspots and knowledge gaps reflect that which matters in this world you inhabit. There is no reason to wonder about the magic of the world you are climbing through; there is only your small personal achievement. Nothing else can match the consequence of the inconsequential. Not the bird singing from the leader branch of a subalpine fir, which you don’t care to identify. Not the way the light cascades over the glacier as it rises above the sharp crest of peaks to the East. Not the intense blue glow of glacial ice you’ve hacked away. These are minor annoyances, at best. They are distractions from your goal, your purpose. They are not, and have never been, magic.
Prove that the mountains only recognize a single gender. That the gender with which you identify is the only one in which success is guaranteed, that any other identity is weak in that it is not yours. That the mountains care of such things, such trivialities that consume your opinions, your experiences. That weakness is as innate as your own superiority, that it can never be overcome. That difference is where the weakness lies. To be chosen, as you are, requires such opposition. Such comparison. An acknowledgement that any achievement loses its sheen if it can be completed by someone you’ve already deemed lesser than you — less experienced, less strong, less competent. Prove that you can tell such things the moment someone emerges from their vehicle in the parking lot, long before they shoulder the pack and make their way up the trail you’ve decided they cannot complete. Prove that some people are not worth teaching because they will never be as chosen as you are. Prove that gender is what makes someone worthy of the mountains. Prove that your inability to support or encourage those that are different from you has not ended their interest in the mountains, in mountaineering, in being outside. Prove that you haven’t ended careers before they’ve begun, that you haven’t crushed a bud just beginning to emerge. Prove that it is all for the greater good, the one you’ve deigned acceptable.
Prove that weekends in the mountains are weekends away from responsibility, weekends where immaturity reigns supreme and jokes flow as they did around middle school lockers. Prove that the presence of someone different than you is oppressive, that it will affect your ability to safely navigate the mountains. That someone refusing to laugh at jokes meant to convey offense is the true offense, of the highest order. That the open alpine meadow is a locker room, the kind which hosts the talk of deeply held misogyny. That this is your escape from “the real world,” the world in which you must adhere to inoffensive language against your will. The marmots have never corrected your language, nor called out your disgust. That must be because the mountains belong to you, and you alone.
Prove that life is better this way, without the joy of curiosity or the all-consuming energy of learning something new. Prove that such a small window into the world offers the best view. That a life lived only for yourself is the most fulfilling, the one with the biggest peaks and the lowest valleys. Prove that that is a life, that it is one in which the full range of humanity can be experienced and appreciated. Prove that bigotry is welcomed in spaces that do not care for such things. Prove that your self, your being, is so content with a life lived in this way, one without others. One in which there is no magic, no luck, no chance. No wonder. No growth, no aspiration. No broadening of horizons, no widening of lenses. One in which the main character is unable to see the ground beneath his feet, nor feel the sun on his skin. The world he inhabits is infinitesimally small. Prove that that is any way to live.
Or better yet, prove me wrong.
Here’s to expanding our horizons.
- Megan