In the Summer of 1991 I needed just three more English credits to complete my Master’s Degree in Teaching. The only problem was that it was summer term, and course offerings at the University of Oregon were somewhat limited. But I did spot one class in the schedule that looked interesting: "Contemporary Women Poets." It was being taught by a professor I had taken a class from before, one of my Survey of American Literature instructors.
Although I wondered if I might be one of only a few males in the class, I decided to sign up anyway. It might be good for me, and besides, I had already been through several trials by fire in other classes and had learned how to be cautious about how I expressed myself. I was, after all, the beneficiary of a patriarchal system of male oppression which appropriates women as marginalized “other” and maintains a hegemonic and phallocentric order built on a socially constructed discourse of domination and objectification. In order to survive in these harsh conditions, I had developed a few guidelines for staying out of trouble:
1. Don’t act like you think you ’know’ something or that you’re ’right’ about something.
2. Like venturing into the forest, remember that you are only a visitor here. Leave as little impact on your environment as possible.
3. Don’t argue with anything said that has to do with race, gender, sexual orientation, history, or civilization in any way.

The class turned out to be quite interesting, and I managed to adapt and remain unobtrusive. I sat in unruffled silence as a classmate declared in a class discussion, “I’ve been called a bitch every day of my life,” and when the author of one of our readings argued that being a lesbian was the ultimate act of engagement in the struggle against patriarchy, whereas heterosexuality only perpetuated the oppressive “regime” of patriarchy, which must be overthrown, I rode waves of inner peace and serenity that carried me faithfully through.
But there was another guy, Dave, who did not fare as well.
When it was time to do a group project, I affiliated myself with a group of four women and was cast as the oppressive voice of overbearing male authority in an Anne Sexton poem. Dave, in contrast, teamed up with another guy.
Our group’s performance in front of class went reasonably well. Mine was a classic underdog move: to ironically play the part of the contemptible male villain in order to distance myself from that affiliation. I made boorish declarations before a podium as the women wrested power and control from my overbearing grasp by defiantly taking back their "voices.”
Then it was Dave’s group’s turn to present. Dave’s partner went up and discussed the life of feminist poet Judy Grahn. Next, Dave stood up in front of the class, cleared his throat, and overzealously recited the following poem:

you black bitch-you white bitch-you brown bitch-you yellow
bitch-you fat bitch-you stupid bitch-you stinking bitch-
you little bitch-you old bitch-a cheap bitch-a high class
bitch-a two bit whore-a two dollar whore-a ten dollar
whore-a million dollar mistress
a hole a slut a cunt a slit a cut
a slash a hole a slit a piece
of shit, a piece of shit, a piece
of shit.

Dave sat back down. Everything got real quiet.
Mercifully, the class period soon ended.
But at the start of the next class, our professor had an announcement to make. All group presentations were temporarily discontinued. Several students had come to her office to tell her how Dave’s words had made them feel. Although the poem is an attempt to illustrate the environment of hostility and misogyny that women experience in its worst form, poor doomed Dave had not acknowledged that context. Now Dave had some explaining to do before the assembled mob.
Dave was clearly surprised and blindsided by this turn of events. He looked like a wounded wildebeast who had accidentally wandered into a wildlife refuge for lions. How could he have known? He hadn’t been exposed to this kind of thinking before, and he was in way over his head. Hoarse-voiced, Dave attempted an apology, trying to explain that he hadn’t realized that reciting a poem could make people feel so threatened and angry. But the damage had already been done. Dave was now one of the Untouchables. His partner, who was African-American and seemed to have a better handle on the language of women, was less harshly dealt with. Nobody came to Dave’s defense, and he was left hanging to dry. Dave never seemed the same after that day.
I wonder what became of Dave after that. Did he develop tougher skin and habituate to a changing environment? Or did he become a reactionary male poet, spewing forth woman-hating diatribes steeped in the oratory of revenge and retribution? Either way, Dave learned a valuable lesson that day: just because it wasn’t his fault that he was born a white male doesn't mean he shouldn't have to pay for it once in awhile.