He poked me in the arm several times, angrily spitting vitriol in my direction, “You enjoy your night. Yeah - go on, have a good night”. Did he really touch me like that? I wouldn’t continue a conversation or let him take my picture so he poked me, like a taunting older sibling but this was far more sinister. Apparently he was in the Columbia University Engineering department where his employment is not dependent on his decency. Clearly rejected, he sat and stared straight ahead with his empty, beady little eyes that looked like two pin holes leaking darkness. Like a rabid dog, he snarled fake pleasantries in my direction while keeping me in his peripheral vision. I was trapped. If I packed up and left the bar, I risked having him follow me and in my core I knew...I couldn’t let that happen. In that moment, I had no way of knowing that I would not only survive it all but I would emerge with a new appreciation for women and our ability to save the world and each other. While I sat at the busy bar sandwiched between a partially presenting lunatic and a second, well-dressed, possibly normal man, the only person who recognized the ‘ick’ of the situation was a 20-something six foot tall Gigi Hadid looking bartender who masterfully made herself known as an ally by stepping in with a verbal hammer. After four days at Barnard College in New York City, Harlem, for the Athena Film Festival I can finally say - I believe in women - truly. That guy was a dick.

I haven’t felt truly threatened by anyone, man, woman, creature or circumstance, in a very very long time. This guy was off. After my first night working the festival that celebrates fearless women; the change makers, unsung heroes and the headstrong, intelligent women who actually make the films, I had decided to study up on the titles, filmmakers and events so I could do my job effectively. It was already after 10pm of day one but honestly, I was in New York and not interested in studying alone in the apartment. The city always begs to be noticed and stroked and I can’t help but listen to her calling. With crystal chandeliers, a long marble bar, curved honey coloured stools and candlelight tables in a hidden resto-bar nestled near Columbia among the brownstones and trees, I felt I had found an inviting place to rest and read. I carefully staged my spot at the bar setting up social cues to read ‘working’. My glasses were on, pen in hand, binder open, rundown sheets highlighted and a very slowly draining glass of wine sparkled in front of me.

But, I was alone, seated between two men thanks to the hostess. I didn’t realize it at the time but my only lifeline to comfort and safety was the statuesque millennial behind the bar. I will never dis millennials again. As ‘crazy’ on the left tried to force himself into my bubble, ignoring my fortress of nerdy unfriendliness, to buy me more booze even after my refusal, she shut him down with a smile and the crisp rhetoric of a trained bartender and woman who has battled a douche or two herself, “I can’t and won’t get her another drink if she’s refusing.” My memory likes to embellish the firmness she delivered this curt statement with by adding a fist hitting the bar in front of him, bouncing his girly drink in place, spilling it and shocking him into silence. Her delivery had the same effect on him but it would have been cool if she actually did slam the bar. My series of girl crushes had begun and this lovely angel was the first.

In the wake of International Women’s Day, there is still power in an alternate reputation, one that believes women don’t support each other enough, whispering in the halls all the ways we seek to tear each other down for sport. We are caddy, judgemental and feel threatened by each other. We revel in the demise of beautiful women as they age and secretly feel relieved when skinny women get fat while pregnant. ‘Mean Girls’ is not just a movie in many circles. While I have the very best girlfriends in the world and have been fortunate enough to have these extraordinary women in my life for decades, some since grade school, I have remained admittedly cynical about my experiences with women and what we can actually achieve because of behaviours I have witnessed. I see women continually make grand gestures or statements in support of the greater good - MeToo, TimesUp, and The Women’s March, while simultaneously perpetuating unsupportive and destructive attitudes in daily interactions with women close at hand; still uttering demeaning comments, withholding support, harbouring jealousy and undermining the achievements of others. It always left me with doubts about my own kind.

I am beyond relieved to finally let that cynicism go, take responsibility for being part of the problem, and wake up to the subtle ways women move through this world, almost invisibly, caring, keeping each other afloat, connected and heard. I let popular media and these smaller incidents overshadow the good, the powerful and the meaningful work we are already doing and more importantly, about to do. Kim Kardashian and her family drama may hold the headlines but it is not a mirror to what’s really happening in women’s lives.

I escaped the bar that night with the help of the bartender and a stealthy walk home. From that moment on I was immersed in the festival and it’s messaging but more importantly, I found myself stumbling into more than a few girl crushes. With me, I usually fall for the ones I judge the most severely and this weekend I was on fire.

The second to steal my heart was Gabrielle, not Gabby. Sweet Gabrielle. Gypsy Gabrielle. A young poet from Long Island living her best life in the midst of ‘figuring out what comes next’. She handed me my notebook on day one, bellowing my name “Cah-rol”’ with her fabulous accent and throaty, whiskey tone. She smiled at me with genuine interest and a depth that went well beyond her years. She sings in the hallways like GaGa and talks about travel as if the road and skies were home and plane tickets appear if she just asks the universe loud enough for a destination. I believe she has carvan grease in her veins - she agrees.

We bonded over our love of New Orleans, her college town, and our current immersion in our personal writing. Over the course of the festival we critiqued each other’s work with care. She accepted me as a person immediately and our conversations and texts were simple but heartfelt like new roommates in a dorm; she - a young girl with an old soul, me - an older body with a young and questioning inner engine. By the end of it all, we were two women just seeking to live a more fulfilling life. Her poetry is honest and brings you into her curious, observant mind. When we hugged goodbye I felt my ribs shift and her muscles tense as she squeezed me with everything a Long Island girl is capable of. With a hint of discomfort at this unbridled affection I gasped “I’m Canadian, we don’t touch like this.” She jumped back and literally dropped me like a hot potato, worried she had offended. “I’m so sah-rry”. She wasn’t even mad when I laughed. “In my house, I’m not even allowed to leave the room until I have hugged and kissed everyone hello or goodbye. It’s a thing for us” she explained. Not surprisingly, her father uses his hands when he talks, so much so he once smacked her in the face without even realizing it. I think I would love him too. I can feel my ribs shift just thinking about him. Larger-than-life Gabrielle connects to everyone and everything. It’s magical.

Enter Cait Cortelyou. As she walked toward me, my internal scanner fired up like airport security and I got a good picture of her immediately: gorgeous, poised, long chestnut hair, bright red lipstick, a full length fur coat, red patent leather day heels and no bra beneath her blush coloured top. My scanner collated this data and spit out “New York privilege with a hint of entitlement”. Her smile was literally dazzling. She was here to promote her film “Ask For Jane”, written by Rachel Carey, conceived of, produced by and starring Cortelyou. She was looking for her filmmaker’s badge. Mmmmm hmmmm. ‘Filmmaker’ is far too gritty a word or occupation for what I was looking at. Her look, I computed, was that of a New Yorker whose access to private money very likely helped make this film. Can you be young , beautiful and struggle in the arts like the rest of us? I doubt it but I thought, I’ll play along. It was late, I was hungry and apparently about to eat my words. I walked with Cait and her friends through the tunnels of Barnard to the Alumni dinner that night and held her coat while she gave her speech. I felt the heavy warmth and history of the fur on my arm slowly melt my armour like a candy in the sun. After her speech we chatted. And then we chatted some more. She tried to feed me a drink too but her motives were pure. The fur coat belonged to her grandmother Rose, whom her character is named after in the film and whose legacy of activism she is paying homage to with the story. Her lively demeanour sucked me in and I found myself laughing, agreeing, and urging her to move to Canada. How was I so wrong?

After studying under Julliard professors at Barnard and moving on to the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford GB, she is currently a member of the acclaimed New York theatre company The Shelter. She plays in award-winning indie films, recurring TV roles and has never shied away from challenging stage characters. Beneath the IMDB bio is a woman who has been an advocate for women’s rights her entire life, three generations deep, and a woman who, that night, was as interested in everyone else as she was herself and the image I thought she held more dearly than substance. Her film, “Ask For Jane” is about a group of women who created an underground network in the ‘60’s helping thousands of women receive safe, illegal abortions in the years leading up to the landmark Roe vs Wade case. A heavy subject for an actress I thought was air. She spoke of family, her memories at Barnard, and the future she sees for herself and others. I didn’t see lipstick and heels much longer because I had become completely blinded by her vision.

Since lessons are not easily learned for me, my inner thoughts continued to embarrass me. A frail but determined older woman and her husband drifted toward me one evening, also looking to head to a dinner. She was leading, he was smiling and happily lagging behind. They were lovely and I wondered if they had a daughter or granddaughter with a film in the festival or had been donors to the college in the past. They were elderly and likely in need of a bathroom or elevator I assumed. As an accomplished woman with a storied career, she wanted nothing more than to quiz me on my life, my goals, the issues that face women today and for her husband to hurry up. He wanted to talk to me about Trudeau - me, not so much. Sue Oscar has long retired and sold her company, Filmaker’s Library (one m), but still attends film related events regularly. She was a distributor of issue-based documentary film with content partners like HBO , CBC, BBC and Journeyman Pictures - all films curated for academic audiences intent on learning about critical issues that range from bioethics to current events. She wanted another drink and more time to chat, not a bathroom. Her husband tried twice to remove her from our conversation but our story was not wrapped yet. She repeated my name several times and said she would look for my writing. I repeated my apologies in my head a million times for thinking a woman of a certain age was reduced to bathroom breaks and an absence of curiosity.

A baby bartender saved me, a poet swept me off my feet, a filmmaker daringly showed me her boobs and her brains and I lost myself in easy conversation with a woman who literally knows everything about everything and has lived to spread knowledge and critical thinking her whole life. In the subtlest and sweetest series of vignettes I was reminded this week of all the ways women DO connect and build each other up like a secret network of spies or angels roaming the earth making it better brick by brick, relationship by relationship. By simply taking an interest in each other our stories spread and take flight. Thankfully, there were many more women, their films and their time, that touched me this week. Athena was alight with stories of women who conquered politics, sports, genocide, their sexuality and some generally accepted truths that are nothing more than fiction. No marches, protests, signatures or policy changes led me to my newfound optimism, just four days spent being schooled in the art and history of what real women are up to. They accepted me - warts and all. I think there’s been a misconception that there has never been more than a couple of seats at the table for us and that’s what we’ve been fighting each other for. I’m so pleased to see we have just up and moved the meeting elsewhere.

And for the record, when I needed a little back up at the bar - don’t underestimate my disgust in the guy sitting on the other side of me for just sitting back and acknowledging this behaviour as okay with his inaction. I may have been a bit of a damsel in distress, and hopefully there is no next time, but if there is, I won’t be surprised again if my knight in shining armour is half my age, twice my height and prettier than any idiot with a cape that Disney has dreamed up.

By Carol Sloan

N.B. - I do not consider my husband an idiot :))

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Athena And My Girl Crushes