Being a woman is not easy-- that has been said before. But there is no other way to begin this story. As I am not a man, I can only assume-- but not expound upon-- the idea that it's tough being one of those, as well. But, being a female musician and a feminist, while attempting to remain a fair-and-balanced judge of people and situations, adds up to a soupy brain mix resembling cartoon cels on an editing-room floor. There are no easy choices; there are no fair breaks, and everything beings to look the same after enough agonizing. At the end of the day, one step forward mirrors a step back on another, equally important path.

When I volunteered as a part-time co-host for a songwriters organization, I was excited to be a part of it. I loved being surrounded by musicians who were so dedicated to the songwriting craft. I was especially pleased to meet female musicians breaking away from the expected (e.g., cutesy back-burner participation in some dude's band or project) and stepping up to bat on their own. It's exhilarating to meet women doing what I long to do, and who are just as capable of taking care of themselves in their endeavors as all of the men seem to be, despite the fact that there are ten men to every one woman, and the confidence and ease of the men generally outweighs the women's by a great deal. I was proud to be witnessing all of this and to be helping get it all under way in Sonoma County. But I'm ashamed to admit that that cutting-room brain is not always swept out. It might be the most fatal flaw in how I function: trying to compile all of my observations into some sort of well-researched order that, eventually, collapses into my conscience with a perfunctory clatter, and my once-clear judgments become over-caffeinated, jittery exclamations that burn and slice a bit too quickly and sharply. As happened, it seems, very recently.

The woman who walked up to me at the beginning of the evening was very friendly, and classically Southern. I was impressed with her her ability to exude a sweet sort of confidence in a room full of strangers. That is not my strong point; showing confidence when it comes to performing usually means walking around looking stoically pissed and unreachable so no one talks to me. But she was polite on all counts. Being late, distracted, and irritated by the lackadaisical "Om" bumper sticker traffic I'd just pushed my way through, I was unable to give her my full attention when she said, "Do I sign up here?". All I could do was grunt and grimace and imply that yes, this was where things would begin, but that I'd need another few minutes to set up.

Soon after our brief introduction, I noticed her walking around the room politely asking for help for each step she was about to take: Set-up, song choice, where to sit, etc. From what I observed, this help could only be asked of a man. (And when you are a young, attractive redheaded woman in tight clothes you are bound to be lent many an ear.) Should she sing something happy, or sad? What were THEY going to play? Gosh, were they nervous, too? How does this plug in? Was she doing this right? And of me, the only other young woman in the room, only two years age difference give or take, she had no questions, and she certainly needed no help. Before we were to begin the evening's events, she sauntered up to my side while I bent to a task and barked: "What do you want, sweetie?"

Huh? I thought.

"Huh?" I replied, unsure how to sound, and too confused to be more polite.

"You need somethin', sugarplum? You look TIRED," she pouted at me.

I shook my head, unable to utter words in the face of such confounding superficiality. With a backward glance that exuded territorial hunger, she walked briskly away, and I noticed that she sported rhinestones from head to toe: in her hair, on her wrists, on her long sleeved tight shirt, on her tight jeans, on the tips of her boots.

How to take this? How to keep myself from feeling put in my place? How not to smack her for using archaic waitress colloquialisms to veil a belittling standard (she the empowered, me the weaker subject)? How not to smirk at her obvious desire to have entire audience of salivating younger men and resigned older women? Of course all competitors have an ideal audience they'd like to showcase their anxiety-ridden selves to. I don't disagree that if I were in her shoes I'd know who was going to give more of a shit than others when I approached the stage. For eye-contact directives, naturally.

As a matter of courtesy and because I recognize with how much ease I will jump to conclusions and end up being shamed, I decided she was being kind and, out of her nervousness, had no idea how she was appearing.

And then: The performance. From the speakers comes the monumental swell and build up of layered instruments: guitar, bass, drums, piano, orchestra. Her voice: a beautifully trained, modernly nasal discharge of sound, worthy of no less than a Disney princess. The song itself is a narrative of her friend's grief over the loss of a child. She introduces this story with dramatic relish, a glittering weepy smile Bedazzled to her face. My eye began to twitch with judgmental atrophy. What could have been a heartrending ballad of poetic beauty became a highly polished display case of self indulgent, calculated sadness. With strange predictability a kind of creepy excitement crept across her face. The swelling violins buoyed her shellacked presence; her breast lifts and sighs and pulsates; her hands and facial expressions, like a child beauty pageant contestant, reach and point and sell, sell SELL--no longer the earnest, quiet bearers of grace for the remembered dead. At the end, as the tide of studio music ebbs dramatically, her triumphant, mock-modest grin and closed-eye combo seal the deal with a bow of insincerity so enormous it is easy to miss it-- it envelops an audience quick to appreciate polish; it sustains her beauty and her Southern appeal. She is a Professional. And under her Bedazzaled boot heel the memory of a dead child resides safe and secure as a ticket to Nashville slipped into her rhinestone-speckled wallet.

I judged her harshly. Cruelly, perhaps. I ate with great zeal the poisoned apple of predictability and spat the venomous seeds down her bosom. As the evening came to a close and she packed her things, surrounded by men so eager to help, she aimed her guns at me again. No longer under any illusion regarding her personality, I was not surprised as much as annoyed when she came over to us as we dismantled the stage and said, "Oh, I simply have to help. I couldn't let you do this by your little selves!" and reached for a cord lying on the floor; upon winding it (a full 5 minutes it took her) she lazily held it aloft. To whom, no one knew. Talking to an admiring musician fellow who resembled a frog in appearance and manner, she couldn't look at anyone long enough to relay that they ought to take the cord from her. Back turned, arm outstretched, she waited for a random accommodating gentleman or slavewoman to extricate the offending article and relieve her of its burden. When this did not happen, she look around, alarmed, annoyed, distressed, and shook it at the the nearest man. I took it. She relinquished it without a "thank you". I did not expect one.