I don't like to post complaints online because they usually lead to big nasty messes, but here I am breaking my own law.

Logically, I know there's nothing for me to complain about. The use of the masculine pronoun doubling as a neuter is ingrained in the English language. I use it all the time myself. The use of 'history' over 'herstory' doesn't bother me. I'm cool about all that because I see it as a waste of energy trying to change something that is, in the long run, completely trivial.

Today I had an assignment due in drawing: a scene from your home that demonstrates 2 point perspective. Since I'm feeling more and more like a camel burdened with more and more water to carry with every passing day, I put this one off until, oh, last night. Which is a really stupid thing to do when you're drawing since drawings take for freaking ever to do and you know who threw theirs together before class the moment it's posted on the cork board in front of the class.

But you know what? I worked my bubble butt off on that drawing. I suck at perspective.

So I made sure that little weed was under the influence of some serious perspective.

I got to class today, pinned up the drawing on the corkboard alongside everyone else's, and got to work on my still life. After a thrilling hour of shading a large grey space, my professor called us off our drawing horses for some loving criticism time. We slouched our way over to the corkboard and formed a amoeba-ish semicircle around it. Taking in the other drawings, I decided that me and two others' were easily the best. Good things come from mandatory beginner's classes when you're not a beginner.

My professor picks out the flaws on each drawing, criticizing most and complementing few. He comes to mine.

"This artist," he says, after a moment's contemplation. "Nailed it. It's informed by two vanishing points. I mean, it is what it is. I'd say that this one is the stronger artistic piece than this one-" he points at another piece he'd complemented, an excellent line rendering of somebody's home. "Because this artist has really artsed it up. Yeah. He's really done a good job making it an interesting rendering. I mean, it's fun to look at."

My head, which had swollen with ego gas and started to lift off my shoulders, popped and deflated noisily. It landed on the floor with a plop of limp rubber. He?

I cannot begin to explain why this is bothering me so much. I realize that it was most likely a slip of the tongue, as an art teacher learns to recognize each student's work rather quickly, and I have no doubt that he knew it was mine.

But he?

What's bothering me isn't so much this incident, but rather the path of thought it leads me down. I love drawing - it's a therapeutic exercise for me - and I put a lot of effort and time into improving my skills. It's not something you're born with. I'm proud of my work and the improvements I make, and I take full credit for what I do. You can say what you want about my art, like it or hate it, but it's still my art.

What my professor unwittingly did today was give credit to another artist. A male artist. I am not a male artist.

What does this make me think? It's not logical, of course, but emotions never are. It makes me think that no matter how great an artist I become, my art will never be given the credit than a male artist of my caliber would receive.

And this is saddening and frustrating the hell out of me.