Bad Kopp: Chivalry

I fancy myself a feminist—an equal-pay supporting, microaggression loathing, Gloria Steinem fanboying feminist. But last week, when a girl I bought dinner for paid me back on the mobile application, Venmo, I felt completely emasculated. Why? Because, clearly, I’m misogynistic.

Does wanting to pay for a girl’s dinner really make me a misogynist? No, I’m being reductive—of course it doesn’t. It makes me a “chivalrous” college freshman. And, in many ways, that’s worse. By inadvertently promoting the idea that men should feel the need to carry the economic weight for women—and in turn perpetuating the patriarchy in the hopes of being a gentleman—I’m disrespecting the girl I went out with. But worse, by insisting that I pay for dinner, I’m also chipping away at the progress women in America have achieved over the last hundred years in proving themselves financially independent.

Growing up I was taught that—along with holding open doors and putting my coat down over puddles—grabbing the check at dinner is the ultimate sign of chivalry. And so, ever since middle school, I’ve been doing just that. And in my admittedly privileged New York City high school, this was the norm. Save for a few instances of girls demanding to pay guys back for dinner—in one case an awesome girl named Lydia went as far as to sneakily insert a $20 bill into my friend’s wallet—this vestige of a male-dominant society persisted, even in my liberal, blue-state friend group.

But for a variety of reasons, this seemingly innocent, even polite, gesture on the part of men accentuates and promotes some of society’s most pernicious gender norms. After all, in a world where a man somehow feels less “manly” because he didn’t pay for dinner, can we really expect him to be content marrying a woman who earns more money than him down the road? If splitting dinner is really a castrating experience for a man, will he be fine with his wife taking charge of the mortgage payment? And if parents continue to teach their daughters that their dinners should be paid for, will the next generation of women genuinely believe they are capable of being a family’s top earner?

I’m not sure, and that’s the problem.

On the one hand, I wish that paying for dinner were viewed in the same light as holding open doors and buying someone a gift for Valentine’s Day, if only to prove that I’ve learned nothing from Economics 10b about savings. On the other, I recognize that this desire probably comes at least partially from a subconscious self-preservation instinct designed to maintain the patriarchy. And, whereas holding open doors, putting coats over puddles (who really does this one, by the way?), and exchanging gifts are gestures that take some thought, buying dinner is nothing but a financial statement—a demonstration of privilege.

Luckily, with the advent of Venmo, paying for dinner is no longer in a man’s control anyway, even if he physically asserts himself by grabbing the check. Women now have the power to pay men back on a digital, public forum, be it instantly or several months down the road, and have it show up in the news feeds of all of their friends. It might cost a little bit of Venmo cash in the short term, but ultimately, when men and women are both seen as financially essential to the success of a relationship, it will more than pay off.

Now, am I arguing that Venmo is some kind of magic cure to gender inequality in America? No, I’m not. And I acknowledge that this article takes a narrow and heterocentric view on gender dynamics in today’s society by sensationalizing the potential impact of splitting the bill and by unnecessarily putting the onus of doing so on women. But I do think the question of who should pay for dinner is a microcosm for the larger problem of men, both intentionally and unintentionally, working to preserve their place of financial power.

Besides, dudes, if you can get over your fear of emasculation, not only will society be much better off for it, but so will your Venmo account. And isn’t that what really matters? (Hint: it’s not.)

Sam H. Koppelman ’18, a Crimson editorial writer, lives in Hollis Hall.