A friend of mine – male, and with some years on me – observed my gradual feminist 'awakening' respectfully but doubtfully. He – I'm going to call him Alan, because that's not his name – Alan would hear me out but struggled to see what all the fuss was about. Systemic sexism?! Many of his best friends were women, and they seemed to be doing alright. They could vote, drive and go to work, just like his male friends. And in their free time, they still got to do all those women-y things they enjoyed so much, like keeping house, looking after their families, dieting, shopping, removing excess body hair and ringing each other up to share anti-ageing tips. Best of both worlds!
Then one day something clicked. Or seemed to. Alan met another feminist at a party and got chatting about the sensitive subject of internalised misogyny – when women subconsciously accept the superiority of men and demean one another and themselves accordingly. Symptoms may include body-hating, slut-shaming, male-approval craving, wife-blaming, in-fighting, and female company-disdaining, among others. It can have a devastating effect on a woman's self-esteem, on her mental and physical health, and on her relationships with other women.
Alan is a compassionate man, and he was really saddened at this horrible and prevalent phenomenon, which he was suddenly able to find plenty of evidence for in the lives of those he cared about. When he first shared his new discovery with me I was moved and encouraged by his zeal.
Except, I soon began to suspect that it was not the breakthrough in thinking I had optimistically taken it for. Every time a feminist-type subject came up in conversation he'd find some way to explain (mansplain?) it away in terms of internalised misogyny – the hook that Alan had the hang of, but also, conspicuously, a hook that appears to get men off the hook. Taken on its own, the problem of internalised misogyny can be framed as solely and specifically a women's problem. The world doesn't hate women, it is we who hate ourselves; we are our own worst enemies.
Alan is not the first to seek inadvertent societal exculpation in the female tendency to hate on one another. I lately finished Thackeray's Vanity Fair: a witty, brilliant, but utterly cynical and depressing exposé of human nature in general and the fate and judgement reserved for women in 19th century England in particular. Becky is a malicious schemer; Amelia a needy innocent. The novel follows them through early- to mid-adulthood as they attempt to navigate their love lives and fortunes to best effect in an opportunistic, capricious and unforgiving world – an endeavour stilted by nothing quite so much (so Thackeray would have you think) as female folly, low self-worth and mutual cruelty. Amelia is positively asking to be ill-used by her beloved George, by taking on to herself the blame for all of his behaviour, "crying over [his] hand, and kissing it humbly, as if he were her supreme chief and master, and as if she were quite a guilty and unworthy person needing every favour and grace from him" (p154). As for the way they treat one another, why, "Who has not seen how women bully women? What tortures have men to endure, comparable to those daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex? Poor victims!" (p264) The better they fare in men's eyes, the more they "invariably [awaken] the scorn and incredulity of [their] own sisterhood" (p315); "I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman" (p87). They are bitter rivals whose interactions with one another are characterised by a cruelty and scorn completely alien to their male counterparts; as Dobbin explains to his sister, "men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle" (p142). In short, "the greatest tyrants over women are women" (p399).
Well ... I'm sorry Thackeray but ... well, aren't you overlooking a few details here? Details of your own creative composition, no less! The unfaithful, self-serving narcissism of Amelia's husband for a start; her abandonment into poverty by her father-in-law, followed by his successful efforts to guilt-trip her into giving up her son; that man's treatment of his own daughters – one married off to a money-grabbing aristocrat for the connections, the other forced to choose between destitution and solitary servitude as punishment for an ill-matched romantic dalliance; Becky's husband's domineering rampage through her hidden possessions; her father-in-law's cheap treatment of his two wives and an overly-optimistic mistress whom he never marries... And don't even get me started on Dobbin, the ostensibly-so-noble 'good guy' you're supposed to want dear sweet Amelia to end up with right from the start. His compassionless moralism against the 'disgraced' Becky ("And what business has she here abroad and alone? Don't tell me about persecutors and enemies; an honest woman always has friends and never is separated from her family." (p536)) on top of his wounded entitlement with regards Amelia ("you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you... (p548)), qualify him in my estimation as the great villain of the piece, the ultimate proof-in-person of the book's subtitle 'A Novel Without A Hero'. [1]
Of course, it's absolutely not as simple as "blame all of the men!!" Over-arching the individual persons of the novel are the systems and structures – taken for granted by Thackeray – that promote and permit their behaviours and interactions, and which are no one character's sole responsibility. Perhaps Amelia would not have thrown herself on the mercy of deplorable men if the opportunities for women in respectable society had been a little broader than marriage and motherhood; and Becky, in that same case, might have channelled her untiring efforts to make her way in the world along more productive, positive routes. Amelia would have stood a better chance of keeping her son had the rights and needs of single mothers been protected and provided for, and had the law been more justly supportive of the vulnerable in clashes against the likes of her father-in-law; Becky's secret saving habits would have been unnecessary if married women had not been denied the right to own property – and her husband might have thought twice about storming her bedroom were the law not so entirely on his side in doing so. And then there's the intrusion into all their lives of war – arguably the ultimate expression of imperialist, patriarchal masculinity, described by Barbara Ehrenreich as not simply a male occupation but "an activity that has often served to define manhood itself". "The gendered nature of war makes men predators and women prey," adds bell hooks [2].
The throwing into the mix of social norms, legal-political-economic systems, and the international military rather gives the lie to "the greatest tyrants over women are women".
Some things are better now – structurally – for some women in some places. Me, for one. But many things are not, or at least not for many. And either way, old habits of collective thought die hard. And these are old old habits. Ancient, no less...
The decidedly patriarchal backdrops to the books of the Bible make them a rich resource of depressing examples – not just of female subjection and degradation (e.g. Genesis 38, Judges 19, 2 Samuel 13), but of the internalised misogyny to which many succumb in the face of it. I think of Hannah and Peninnah, the two wives of Elkanah, driven to mutual envy and resentment by their husband's favouritism and Hannah's childlessness (1 Samuel 1:1-8). Or how about the earlier story of Rachel and Leah, both married off to Jacob through their father's trickery: Jacob does little to disguise his preference for Rachel – the sister he actually wanted – even though Leah looks to be the most, erm, "fruitful", and a bitter rivalry ensues, each going so far as to requisition the wombs of their female servants in the race to produce the most sons (Genesis 29 and 30). Two generations previous, Abraham's wife Sarah – the "mother of nations" herself – made anxious by the apparent non-fulfilment of God's promise, similarly arranges for her servant Hagar to bear Abraham's child on her behalf. Even before the baby is born, the women find themselves at acute odds: Hagar consumed with contempt, and Sarah with jealousy and rage (Genesis 16). See a pattern emerging? When women are defined by and dependent on their relationships to men – who are by no means obligated to reciprocate their exclusive, submissive devotion, and who (in this case) are ultimately primarily interested in acquiring descendants – is it any wonder that interactions between them become fraught with competition and resentment?
[In today's West, of course, things have moved on: we modern, liberated women have the same sexual freedoms and life opportunities as our male counterparts, and our identity and worth are completely independent of the approval and validation we do or don't receive from men. *Ahem*.]
The Bible, I'm glad to say, also testifies to the possibilities which unfold when women don't allow patriarchal pressures and values to define their relationships with one another, or their collective actions. Here's two of my favourites:
The first is the interwoven involvement of five women in a pivotal phase of God's plan to rescue His people from slavery in Egypt (see Exodus 1 and 2). Pharaoh, intimidated by the rapid growth of the Hebrew population, has ordered the killing of all Jewish male babies at birth. But the midwives, Shiprah and Puah – taking courage, perhaps, from each other's resolve – together defy the despotic decree (Exodus 1:17). God blesses them for their bravery and godly priorities, but Pharaoh pursues other means to his murderous ends (Exodus 1:20-22). So when Jochebed (Numbers 26:59) gives birth to a 'fine child' she is determined to do what little she can for him. Perhaps trusting to God's loving providence, perhaps to fellow womanly feeling (the passage doesn't say what's going on in her head), she nestles him among the reeds of the Nile in a water-proofed basket, right at the time when the Pharaoh's daughter arrives for a bit of a bathe. The Egyptian royal-woman finds the basket, recognises the child as Hebrew, and is moved to compassion – at which point the boy's sister emerges from her concealed lookout with the offer to summon "a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child" for her (see Exodus 2:8). Now, it's possible that when Pharaoh's daughter hands Moses over to Jochebed she doesn't realise that she is entrusting the child whom she has saved from her own father into the hands of his own mother ... it's possible. But personally I suspect a witting conspiracy of the most noble and affectionate kind.
Eighty years later, the book of Exodus has it, it was that rescued child, along with his brother Aaron, "...to whom the LORD said: “Bring out the people of Israel from the land of Egypt by their hosts.” It was they who spoke to Pharaoh king of Egypt about bringing out the people of Israel from Egypt, this Moses and this Aaron." (Exodus 6:26-27)
My second example is the story of Ruth (which I've written a bit about before) – a widow from Moab who is so affectionately committed to her (also widowed) Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, that she prefers the risks, marginalisation and cultural upheaval of a new life in Judah – without one male protector between them – to the ready security of a new husband and family among her own people (Ruth 1:11-18). The women make the (dangerous, presumably unaccompanied) 7+-day journey and set up home together in Bethlehem (Ruth 1:19-22) where, as an older woman and a foreigner, their prospects of marriage – and with it provision and meaningful integration into patriarchal society – are slim. But they make the best of it, Ruth taking advantage of the right to glean (the social security system of its day) in order to support the two of them (Ruth 2:1-7).
The tale takes a felicitous turn when Naomi realises that the man who has so warmly welcomed Ruth into his field is her husband's relative and their "kinsman redeemer". When Ruth quietly but assertively "makes the first move" on Boaz, he counts himself honoured by her attention, gladly marrying her and fulfilling his responsibilities to the family (Ruth 3-4). Oh, and by the way, he happens to become "... the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of David the king. And David was the father of [...] and Eliud the father of Eleazar, and Eleazar the father of Matthan, and Matthan the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called Christ." (Matthew 1:5b-6a, 15-16) ... Just sayin'!
Dearest Alan, if you're reading this (you know who you are): what do you reckon? Have I persuaded you that women have a bit more to contend with than our fraught and fractious selves? I hope so. But much more I hope to have begun to show that, regardless of what else might be against us, God is not. He may have moved in patriarchal cultures but He has His own ways of bringing things about ... Ways which find expression in stories like Ruth's, and Jochebed's ... and ultimately, it seems to me, in Jesus, who "emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant..." (Philippians 2:7)
[1] I am also reminded of that bit at the end of the second season of the wonderful Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, where Phoebe from Friends turns up as Kimmy's somewhat chaotic mum, and they talk (/scream) out their various unresolved issues around the teenage Kimmy's abduction whilst riding roller-coasters ("the only place no-one looks at you weird"): “You think this is my fault somehow? [...] A crazy man snatched you and locked you up. Men keep doing that every dang day, every dang way. When are we gonna talk about that, world? I don’t hurt kids! And women don’t rape things!” [Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Season 2, Episode 13]
[2] The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love, bell hooks, 2004; quoting from Blood Rites: Origins and History of the Passions of War, Barbara Ehrenreich, 1997.
[Thumbnail CC BY 4.0, from Wellcome Images via Wikimedia Commons.]
Then one day something clicked. Or seemed to. Alan met another feminist at a party and got chatting about the sensitive subject of internalised misogyny – when women subconsciously accept the superiority of men and demean one another and themselves accordingly. Symptoms may include body-hating, slut-shaming, male-approval craving, wife-blaming, in-fighting, and female company-disdaining, among others. It can have a devastating effect on a woman's self-esteem, on her mental and physical health, and on her relationships with other women.
Alan is a compassionate man, and he was really saddened at this horrible and prevalent phenomenon, which he was suddenly able to find plenty of evidence for in the lives of those he cared about. When he first shared his new discovery with me I was moved and encouraged by his zeal.
Except, I soon began to suspect that it was not the breakthrough in thinking I had optimistically taken it for. Every time a feminist-type subject came up in conversation he'd find some way to explain (mansplain?) it away in terms of internalised misogyny – the hook that Alan had the hang of, but also, conspicuously, a hook that appears to get men off the hook. Taken on its own, the problem of internalised misogyny can be framed as solely and specifically a women's problem. The world doesn't hate women, it is we who hate ourselves; we are our own worst enemies.
Alan is not the first to seek inadvertent societal exculpation in the female tendency to hate on one another. I lately finished Thackeray's Vanity Fair: a witty, brilliant, but utterly cynical and depressing exposé of human nature in general and the fate and judgement reserved for women in 19th century England in particular. Becky is a malicious schemer; Amelia a needy innocent. The novel follows them through early- to mid-adulthood as they attempt to navigate their love lives and fortunes to best effect in an opportunistic, capricious and unforgiving world – an endeavour stilted by nothing quite so much (so Thackeray would have you think) as female folly, low self-worth and mutual cruelty. Amelia is positively asking to be ill-used by her beloved George, by taking on to herself the blame for all of his behaviour, "crying over [his] hand, and kissing it humbly, as if he were her supreme chief and master, and as if she were quite a guilty and unworthy person needing every favour and grace from him" (p154). As for the way they treat one another, why, "Who has not seen how women bully women? What tortures have men to endure, comparable to those daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex? Poor victims!" (p264) The better they fare in men's eyes, the more they "invariably [awaken] the scorn and incredulity of [their] own sisterhood" (p315); "I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman" (p87). They are bitter rivals whose interactions with one another are characterised by a cruelty and scorn completely alien to their male counterparts; as Dobbin explains to his sister, "men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle" (p142). In short, "the greatest tyrants over women are women" (p399).
Well ... I'm sorry Thackeray but ... well, aren't you overlooking a few details here? Details of your own creative composition, no less! The unfaithful, self-serving narcissism of Amelia's husband for a start; her abandonment into poverty by her father-in-law, followed by his successful efforts to guilt-trip her into giving up her son; that man's treatment of his own daughters – one married off to a money-grabbing aristocrat for the connections, the other forced to choose between destitution and solitary servitude as punishment for an ill-matched romantic dalliance; Becky's husband's domineering rampage through her hidden possessions; her father-in-law's cheap treatment of his two wives and an overly-optimistic mistress whom he never marries... And don't even get me started on Dobbin, the ostensibly-so-noble 'good guy' you're supposed to want dear sweet Amelia to end up with right from the start. His compassionless moralism against the 'disgraced' Becky ("And what business has she here abroad and alone? Don't tell me about persecutors and enemies; an honest woman always has friends and never is separated from her family." (p536)) on top of his wounded entitlement with regards Amelia ("you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you... (p548)), qualify him in my estimation as the great villain of the piece, the ultimate proof-in-person of the book's subtitle 'A Novel Without A Hero'. [1]
Of course, it's absolutely not as simple as "blame all of the men!!" Over-arching the individual persons of the novel are the systems and structures – taken for granted by Thackeray – that promote and permit their behaviours and interactions, and which are no one character's sole responsibility. Perhaps Amelia would not have thrown herself on the mercy of deplorable men if the opportunities for women in respectable society had been a little broader than marriage and motherhood; and Becky, in that same case, might have channelled her untiring efforts to make her way in the world along more productive, positive routes. Amelia would have stood a better chance of keeping her son had the rights and needs of single mothers been protected and provided for, and had the law been more justly supportive of the vulnerable in clashes against the likes of her father-in-law; Becky's secret saving habits would have been unnecessary if married women had not been denied the right to own property – and her husband might have thought twice about storming her bedroom were the law not so entirely on his side in doing so. And then there's the intrusion into all their lives of war – arguably the ultimate expression of imperialist, patriarchal masculinity, described by Barbara Ehrenreich as not simply a male occupation but "an activity that has often served to define manhood itself". "The gendered nature of war makes men predators and women prey," adds bell hooks [2].
The throwing into the mix of social norms, legal-political-economic systems, and the international military rather gives the lie to "the greatest tyrants over women are women".
Some things are better now – structurally – for some women in some places. Me, for one. But many things are not, or at least not for many. And either way, old habits of collective thought die hard. And these are old old habits. Ancient, no less...
The decidedly patriarchal backdrops to the books of the Bible make them a rich resource of depressing examples – not just of female subjection and degradation (e.g. Genesis 38, Judges 19, 2 Samuel 13), but of the internalised misogyny to which many succumb in the face of it. I think of Hannah and Peninnah, the two wives of Elkanah, driven to mutual envy and resentment by their husband's favouritism and Hannah's childlessness (1 Samuel 1:1-8). Or how about the earlier story of Rachel and Leah, both married off to Jacob through their father's trickery: Jacob does little to disguise his preference for Rachel – the sister he actually wanted – even though Leah looks to be the most, erm, "fruitful", and a bitter rivalry ensues, each going so far as to requisition the wombs of their female servants in the race to produce the most sons (Genesis 29 and 30). Two generations previous, Abraham's wife Sarah – the "mother of nations" herself – made anxious by the apparent non-fulfilment of God's promise, similarly arranges for her servant Hagar to bear Abraham's child on her behalf. Even before the baby is born, the women find themselves at acute odds: Hagar consumed with contempt, and Sarah with jealousy and rage (Genesis 16). See a pattern emerging? When women are defined by and dependent on their relationships to men – who are by no means obligated to reciprocate their exclusive, submissive devotion, and who (in this case) are ultimately primarily interested in acquiring descendants – is it any wonder that interactions between them become fraught with competition and resentment?
[In today's West, of course, things have moved on: we modern, liberated women have the same sexual freedoms and life opportunities as our male counterparts, and our identity and worth are completely independent of the approval and validation we do or don't receive from men. *Ahem*.]
The Bible, I'm glad to say, also testifies to the possibilities which unfold when women don't allow patriarchal pressures and values to define their relationships with one another, or their collective actions. Here's two of my favourites:
The first is the interwoven involvement of five women in a pivotal phase of God's plan to rescue His people from slavery in Egypt (see Exodus 1 and 2). Pharaoh, intimidated by the rapid growth of the Hebrew population, has ordered the killing of all Jewish male babies at birth. But the midwives, Shiprah and Puah – taking courage, perhaps, from each other's resolve – together defy the despotic decree (Exodus 1:17). God blesses them for their bravery and godly priorities, but Pharaoh pursues other means to his murderous ends (Exodus 1:20-22). So when Jochebed (Numbers 26:59) gives birth to a 'fine child' she is determined to do what little she can for him. Perhaps trusting to God's loving providence, perhaps to fellow womanly feeling (the passage doesn't say what's going on in her head), she nestles him among the reeds of the Nile in a water-proofed basket, right at the time when the Pharaoh's daughter arrives for a bit of a bathe. The Egyptian royal-woman finds the basket, recognises the child as Hebrew, and is moved to compassion – at which point the boy's sister emerges from her concealed lookout with the offer to summon "a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child" for her (see Exodus 2:8). Now, it's possible that when Pharaoh's daughter hands Moses over to Jochebed she doesn't realise that she is entrusting the child whom she has saved from her own father into the hands of his own mother ... it's possible. But personally I suspect a witting conspiracy of the most noble and affectionate kind.
Eighty years later, the book of Exodus has it, it was that rescued child, along with his brother Aaron, "...to whom the LORD said: “Bring out the people of Israel from the land of Egypt by their hosts.” It was they who spoke to Pharaoh king of Egypt about bringing out the people of Israel from Egypt, this Moses and this Aaron." (Exodus 6:26-27)
My second example is the story of Ruth (which I've written a bit about before) – a widow from Moab who is so affectionately committed to her (also widowed) Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, that she prefers the risks, marginalisation and cultural upheaval of a new life in Judah – without one male protector between them – to the ready security of a new husband and family among her own people (Ruth 1:11-18). The women make the (dangerous, presumably unaccompanied) 7+-day journey and set up home together in Bethlehem (Ruth 1:19-22) where, as an older woman and a foreigner, their prospects of marriage – and with it provision and meaningful integration into patriarchal society – are slim. But they make the best of it, Ruth taking advantage of the right to glean (the social security system of its day) in order to support the two of them (Ruth 2:1-7).
The tale takes a felicitous turn when Naomi realises that the man who has so warmly welcomed Ruth into his field is her husband's relative and their "kinsman redeemer". When Ruth quietly but assertively "makes the first move" on Boaz, he counts himself honoured by her attention, gladly marrying her and fulfilling his responsibilities to the family (Ruth 3-4). Oh, and by the way, he happens to become "... the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of David the king. And David was the father of [...] and Eliud the father of Eleazar, and Eleazar the father of Matthan, and Matthan the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called Christ." (Matthew 1:5b-6a, 15-16) ... Just sayin'!
Dearest Alan, if you're reading this (you know who you are): what do you reckon? Have I persuaded you that women have a bit more to contend with than our fraught and fractious selves? I hope so. But much more I hope to have begun to show that, regardless of what else might be against us, God is not. He may have moved in patriarchal cultures but He has His own ways of bringing things about ... Ways which find expression in stories like Ruth's, and Jochebed's ... and ultimately, it seems to me, in Jesus, who "emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant..." (Philippians 2:7)
[1] I am also reminded of that bit at the end of the second season of the wonderful Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, where Phoebe from Friends turns up as Kimmy's somewhat chaotic mum, and they talk (/scream) out their various unresolved issues around the teenage Kimmy's abduction whilst riding roller-coasters ("the only place no-one looks at you weird"): “You think this is my fault somehow? [...] A crazy man snatched you and locked you up. Men keep doing that every dang day, every dang way. When are we gonna talk about that, world? I don’t hurt kids! And women don’t rape things!” [Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Season 2, Episode 13]
[2] The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love, bell hooks, 2004; quoting from Blood Rites: Origins and History of the Passions of War, Barbara Ehrenreich, 1997.
[Thumbnail CC BY 4.0, from Wellcome Images via Wikimedia Commons.]
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