This is so good I’m quoting it in its entirety

Kat Tanaka Okopnik says:

Mansplaining doesn’t mean “explaining done by a man”, it means “a man chose to barge in with explanations without checking the credentials of anyone else in the conversation, assuming his were better than anyone else’s in the room — i.e. that he was the expert by default”.

It is the consequence of a culture that devalues non-men, especially non-white non-men. The individual man who does this is just as likely to be unaware that he’s doing this as he is to be a blatant sexist. It’s only avoided by conscious consideration of context and a willingness to cede the pedestal to others.

15 Cyrk

There was a door slam.  Two men exited the apartment onto the shared balcony, bolted down the stairs and took off.

George said. “Either the police have been called or somebody threatened to call them.”

“Looks like.”

George said, “We should wait until he calls.”

Jesse said, “Okay. Anyway, Rhonda came down to see us a couple of times, and that was it.  I haven’t seen my mother in almost ten years, and nothing she says or does will ever put me in a room with her again. My gift to her is not killing her. Well, that and learning to understand the source of family violence and how it echoes through generations.  If a man she knew had done to a girl-child what that fucking maniac did to me, she would have brained him with the nearest paperweight. She can’t see the hypocrisy of this but I know she’s crazy, not an emblem of all womanhood. I was abused by a feminist, but feminism gave me the legal tools to escape from her, so I’m not going to ditch feminism just because my mother was a flaming asshole.”

George’s phone rang.

“Hello,” he said, putting it on speaker.

Their client’s voice was tired and distraught. “Hi, it’s Chris. I have to clean this mess before we can do anything… can you wait half an hour?”

Jesse waggled his eyebrows and shrugged to show he was happy to help clean up.

“Not a problem. We can help. We’re just across the street,” George said, “See you in a minute.”

Chris’s ex Drew, and his not-to-be-named herpes-ridden rent-boy side-piece (Chris’s take on him, not theirs) had done a spectacular job of wrecking the apartment.  They had indeed knocked a hutch over. Jesse spent the first five minutes of the move trying to talk Chris into for fuck’s sake putting sturdier shoes on. His flip-flops were a health hazard, Jesse said sternly, and he stood over Chris as he found a broken-glass-free chair to sit in, and swapped shoes.

“Much better,” said Jesse. “Hokay, let’s get the broken stuff in a plastic container,” and volunteered to go downstairs to get a wheelie-bin for the debris.

As he was sorting through the bins to find one that was empty, and with luck not too smelly, Chris’s ex and current squeeze got out of their car and approached him.  Not having George’s hearing, he didn’t notice until they were upon him.

“So you’re Chris’s new boyfriend,” the younger one said.

“Jesse,” Jesse said, sticking out his hand.

Finding no takers, he ignored them and hauled the bin up the stairs.

“If you’re not crazy now, you will be,” Drew yelled after him.

“I’m not the one who trashed Chris’s apartment,” Jesse said. “If ya don’t want two years less a day in Agassiz for mischief, under Section 430 of the Criminal Code, kindly to fuck off now.”

“It’s his word against ours,” Drew said.

Jesse burst out laughing.

“My partner and I were watching from across the street,” he said, enunciating his contempt with care, “And while I don’t see George going to court, I’m happy to testify.  Now get lost before George gets hold of you, that guy will fuck you up.”

“Someone call my name?” George said with greasy amiability, coming out onto the landing and looking at their upturned faces.

Jesse gave George a little wave and then stabbed his finger down at Drew and his noisy little chum. “Okay, I warned you two fuckers, it’s time to take out the trash in East Van,” Jesse said.

He looked back at George.

“I can’t watch what happens next, it’s too upsetting,” he said with mock sadness.

“I’m a brown belt in karate,” Chris said, and took up a stance. Jesse shook his head. “Seriously,” he said under his breath.

“Good, good!” George said. “But it won’t help.”

Jesse was not able to give much credence to his eyes for what happened next. It seemed to him that George threw himself down the stairs, cleared Jesse (and the bin) by perhaps 10 centimetres and then bounced on his left arm like it was a pogo stick. Spinning right way up, he landed on his feet about a meter from Drew, bending his legs only slightly and not even grunting. Faced by this apparent suspension of the laws of physics, Drew was so startled that he fell over backward with a cry.  The other man, yelling, “Jesus! What the fuck, man?” backed up at speed but stayed on his feet, his eyes out on stalks.

“Boo,” George said pleasantly. “Do either of you want to go?”

Drew’s buddy hauled him to his feet, and with many a curse and slur, the two of them booked it. They stood by the car, gazing wildly at the back door of Chris’s building and waving their arms.  

“You know,” Jesse said, face screwed up, “If a fully grown adult man throws his entire weight onto his arm, it breaks.  He doesn’t bounce like Tigger.”

“The circus is in my blood,” George said, as he climbed the stairs.

Since Jesse could not think of anything to say that didn’t involve calling George a monstrous new specimen of liar, he returned to the task of helping the client.