Bitch Doctrine

  BITCH DOCTRINE

  For my sisters, now and always

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Unspeakable Things

  BITCH DOCTRINE

  Essays for Dissenting Adults

  LAURIE PENNY

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Bitch Logic

  1Of Madness and Resistance: A US Election Diary 2016

  2Love and Other Chores

  3Culture

  4Gender

  5Agency

  6Backlash

  7Violence

  8Future

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  A Note on the Author

  Individuals bearing witness do not change history; only movements that understand their social world can do that.

  Ellen Willis

  Sometimes you have to be a bitch to get things done.

  Madonna

  BITCH LOGIC

  In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war on. The field of battle is the human imagination. This is a book about the hard stuff, about the painful places where theory crashes into flesh and bone. It’s a book about desire and control and contested bodies. It’s a book about gender and power and violence, and about a world beyond them, which is scarier still.

  As I write, it feels like the world is falling apart. A craven billionaire real-estate mogul and reality television shyster has just been elected to the presidency of the United States, swept to power by a wave of racist rage and violent populism. The British government is collapsing after the worst political crisis in living memory, the centre-left opposition is eating itself, bigots are getting brave in the streets and the stock markets are tumbling. Not for the first time in my years as a writer and a political thinker, I find myself wondering why I still care as much as I do about gender, about sexism, about power and identity. Aren’t there bigger things to worry about? Why can’t we put these girlish things aside until after the revolution, when it comes, if it comes?

  I’ll tell you why. Because if the women don’t win, nobody wins. If queer people and marginalised people and freaks and outsiders cannot live free, freedom is not worth the paper it’s printed on.

  It is no longer an overstatement to suggest that toxic masculinity is killing the world. Feminists, of course, have been banging on about this in our shrill, hysterical way for years, but until the election of Donald J. Trump, the victories of the far right across Europe and the waves of violence against women and minorities that followed, nobody took us seriously. This book deals directly with that violence – with the alt-right and the radicalisation of young men into extremism across the world, with the apoplectic male resentment that is consuming our culture from within. The feeling that men, particularly white, working-class men, have been cheated of their birthright is the root and centre of this discord. They are right that they have been cheated, but dangerously wrong about who pulled the con.

  Some people believe that at times like this, the correct approach is to abandon ‘identity politics’ and speak, instead, about class and only class. Even on the notional left, the usual suspects are at pains to point out that geopolitical disaster could have been avoided if we had all been less precious about gay rights and women’s rights and Black Lives and concentrated on the issues that matter to real people. Real people meaning, of course, people who aren’t female, or queer, or brown, or from another country. You know, the people who really matter.

  In the wake of successive victories for a new, frightening Nationalist Capitalism, commentators from all sides of the self-satisfied chin-stroking debate school are blaming ‘identity politics’. What they seem to mean by ‘identity politics’ is ‘politics that matter to people who aren’t white men in rural towns or young boys in bedrooms convinced that their inability to get laid is an injustice that must be answered in blood and suffering’.

  This is an idea that has remarkable staying power across a fractious and divided left: the idea that issues of race, gender and sexuality are at best a distraction from class politics and at worst a bourgeois tendency that will be destroyed after the revolution. The logic is that by focusing on issues of social justice, the political class has abandoned ‘real’ working people to the vicissitudes of economic hardship.

  This notion is horribly wrong, and the worst thing is that it’s wrong in the right direction, in the manner of a passenger plane that maintains a perfect flight path right until it slams into the field next to the runway. The political class has indeed rolled over and let kamikaze capitalism wreck the lives of working people around the world. ‘Identity politics’, however, have little to do with that cowardice. That the two are now yoked together in the popular imagination is something everyone who believes in a better world must answer for.

  All politics are identity politics, but some identities are more politicised than others. The notion that the politics of identity and belonging have been allowed to overwhelm seemingly intractable issues of class, power and poverty is, in fact, entirely correct – but this is not a problem for the traditional left. It is a problem for the traditional right, which has pursued a divide-and-conquer strategy for centuries, pitting white workers against black and brown workers, men against women, native-born citizens against foreigners in a hierarchy of victimhood that diverts energy and anger away from the vested interests bankrolling the entire scheme. When they promise to give you ‘your country back’, is that not identity politics? When they tell you that Muslims and migrants and uppity women are the real threat to your security, is that not identity politics? When they tell you that you will feel ‘great again’ if only you stand behind the strong men waving the flag of white nationalism and chauvinist violence, what is that, if not a politics of identity infinitely more dangerous than any we’ve seen since the 1930s?

  It’s a shell game. A con. It did not start with Donald Trump, but the real-estate mogul and social-media tantrum artist has taken the Ponzi scheme to its logical conclusion. The president and his fellow travellers and sugar daddies have committed political fraud against the entire Western world. They have compounded it by making us believe – as all good fraudsters do – that it was our fault for being so naive in the first place.

  It is, to some extent, reassuring to believe that it’s all our fault. If it’s all our fault for being too politically correct, too committed to ‘diversity’, if it was liberals and leftists who messed up by listening to these whining hippies with their patchouli-scented ideals of fairness and tolerance and police not shooting young black men dead for no reason, we might not have to face the more frightening notion that what’s happening is, in fact, beyond our control.

  The truth is that social justice and economic justice are not mutually exclusive. Those who would sacrifice one for the other will end up with neither, which is of course what the unscrupulous narcissists manspreading at the gates of power are counting on. The mainstream political left has, for generations, been unable to answer the core economic issues that – shocking, I know, but hear me out – affect the lives of all human beings, of every race, gender and background. For decades, in the face of late capitalist hegemony, all that the established left could realistically achieve has been to tweak the system incrementally, making things a little fairer for individual groups, without challenging the structural inequalities that created the injustice in the first place. This must change, and soon. Not just because of ‘fine moral principles’. Trying to fix economic policy without tackling structural inequality is not just morally misguided – it is intellectually bankrupt.

  Race, gender and sexuality are not side-issues in the current crisis. They are the bedrock and expression of that crisis. Capitalism has always divided its labour supply along lines of race and gender, ensuring that in times of crisis, we don
’t start setting fire to the machine, but to one another. All politics are identity politics, and this is no time to back away from our commitment to women’s rights, racial justice and sexual equality. This is when we double down. The fight against the corporate neo-fascism funnelling out of every television set is not a fight that can be won if liberals, leftists and social-justice campaigners turn on one another. It is a fight that we will win together, or not at all.

  I called this book Bitch Doctrine because when I present what seem to me quite logical, reasonable arguments for social change, I find myself called a bitch, and worse. Bitches, however, to borrow a phrase from Tina Fey, get stuff done.

  The title is a provocation, but so is the rest of the book. How could it be otherwise? Anything any woman ever writes about politics is considered provocative, an invitation to dismissal and disgust and abuse, in much the same way that a short skirt is considered an invitation to sexual violence. That’s the point. I have learned through years of writing in public that if you are a woman and political, they will come for you whatever you say – so you may as well say what you really feel. If that makes me a bitch, I can live with that.

  Bitch is a verb as well as a noun: to bitch, meaning to complain groundlessly about petty, unimportant things. When I tell people I’m a political writer, they often ask me when I’m going to chuck in ‘the women thing’ and concentrate on ‘real politics’ – but gender and power and love and sex and selfhood are not footnotes to political reality. They are the places where identity and economics meet. I have always placed women’s politics and gender politics front and centre in my writing and analysis because I believe it is not just wrong to do otherwise, it is also intellectually bankrupt. I am told on a daily basis that the things I write about gender and identity, about love and work and the way that one, by degrees, becomes the other, are insignificant next to the struggles of women somewhere across the sea. I am usually told this by those who have no interest in those struggles except as a means to silence women closer to home.

  I’ve been a journalist, a columnist and an essayist since I was nineteen. I tell stories about people, and I listen to the stories they tell about what it means to be human in this anxious age where all the old rules are cracked open and spilt on the shifting ground of socio-economic certainty. People often ask me if I’m a journalist or an activist. The answer is yes. The answer is both. To write and speak and think about the world is to act on it. Everyone who does so brings their own issues to the table, their own passions, their own prejudices, their foibles and broken hearts.

  Any writer who claims objectivity is lying to you or to themselves, or both. I have never held with the notion of objective journalism: too often that’s a modesty slip for the enduring suspicion that only a certain sort of well-to-do Western man can possibly have a viewpoint worth listening to. When I started out, my world was overfull of stern men imploring me to strive for objectivity – which meant, in practice, that I ought to tell the story as a rich older man might see it. To wash all the dirty politics out of what I wrote. I have never been equal to the work of that compromise, and I’ve walked out of jobs that wanted me to make it. That still feels far too much like arrogance, but the alternative was complicity, which was, and still is, worse.

  Arrogance is an occupational hazard for any writer, especially those who manage to make writing their living, but only in women writers is it seen as a problem. Women writers aren’t supposed to be too brave, too sure of ourselves. Instead, we are supposed to dissemble, to approach with one knee bent, supplicant, to thank the men who helped us on our way, to blush and prevaricate if anyone asks what we hope to achieve. We’re taught, as women – especially as women – that before anything else, we must make ourselves likeable. We must make ourselves agreeable. We must shrink ourselves to fit the room, and shave down our ideas to fit the times. That sort of thing is death to creativity, death to good writing, death to clear thinking. Accepting that you’re going to be called a bitch isn’t about acquiescence. It’s about choosing freedom. There are a great many worse things that can happen to you than someone not liking what you have to say.

  I have great respect for those who are able to write and speak about gender in a more conciliatory fashion than I do. For those who are able to put on the dress and the heels and do the thankless work of pretending to men in power that feminism isn’t coming to destroy every certainty they cling to. I’ve never been able to do it, so I thank those who can. I consider my work well done whenever I receive emails from teenage strangers telling me that something I wrote helped them feel a little less alone, even for a moment. There is a school of liberal thought that seeks only to persuade the undecided through sober and sanguine debate. This has never been my approach to culture war. I place as much importance on comforting the afflicted as I do on afflicting the comfortable, and doing the former with any success tends to achieve the latter.

  In the ten years since I started writing about feminism online, tentatively posting about assault statistics in blogs read by fifteen people and their flatmates, there has been an explosion in thought, writing and action about gender politics, and those ideas have translated directly into lived experience. There is no longer any ‘view from nowhere’. There is, as the writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie puts it, no single story to tell about the world – and there never has been. The best we can do is strive to be honest – to identify and interrogate our assumptions, and to stand firm where it matters. To be honest with our readers and ourselves.

  So here’s some honesty. All I’ve ever wanted to achieve with writing is to move the world in small ways with words. That’s no more or less valuable than any other way of making change. I write simply because it’s the best way I know to make change in the world while bringing in rent money. I’m beyond lucky to be able to do this for a living. I hope for nothing more for myself than to be able to do it until such time as writing about social change is unnecessary, at which point I will happily go away and write about shoes. Every so often I wonder why I didn’t become a restaurant critic. They get free dinners. Being a feminist journalist, I get free death threats.

  Being a woman and a writer these days means being told by armies of strangers every day that you don’t deserve to speak or to live, that you’re ugly and worthless and stupid. I considered growing a thick skin, then I remembered a thick skin is the last thing a writer needs. One of their hypotheses is that all these carping bitches really need is a good shag. I have empirically tested this hypothesis, and I still have a list of demands. Top of that list is a kinder world.

  I’m not going to tell you that it gets better. I can’t pretend that there’s a point where they stop coming for you. What happens is that you get stronger. You grow up, and you find your allies in the most curious places. Life, including political and creative life, is as much the result of the choices you don’t make as the ones you do. Every time I make a choice not to capitulate, it gets easier to make that choice again. Every time I make a choice to be a difficult bitch, I notice other difficult bitches standing beside me and wonder what sort of trouble we might make together.

  It’s easier for me to make those choices, of course, than it is for some people. I’m middle-class, white, well educated. I have less to lose by taking my own advice than others do. I have less to lose by seeking freedom than my mother did, and she had less to lose than her mother, although they both had far more to win. There is still a world to win.

  I’m not writing as everygirl, because there is no such thing. The idea that any person could speak ‘for women’ is cartoonish in its misunderstanding of what feminism is, what women are. No man is ever asked to speak for his entire sex. The experiences of men are acknowledged to be broad, varied, complex, but women are always women first, no matter what else we are. This must change if we are to be taken seriously, not just as writers but as human beings.

  When I write about gender and power and desire, I know that my experience and understanding are not, and nev
er will be, complete. Not all women’s struggles are the same. My audience is largely European and North American, but even here there’s a diversity in pent-up experience that terrifies those with a vested interest in shutting up women and queers. I could read and research for a lifetime and still not know what it is to be a woman of colour, or a woman in a non-English-speaking country, or a working-class woman. I have done my best to listen, and to educate myself on experiences outside my own. I continue to be challenged. If it’s true that nobody can speak for all women, that goes double for someone like me.

  Women of colour, indigenous women, trans women, poor and working-class women are never asked to speak for ‘all women’ – even though they have more right to do so. The assumption is that a person’s thinking gets more universal the more they look like the accepted face of social power in the West – white, straight, cis, well educated, well-to-do and, if possible, male. In fact, if anything, the opposite is true. The theory and writing of oppressed people already contains within it the assumptions of the oppressor class it has been forced by the nature of its oppression to acknowledge. Queer and LGBT people, for example, know more about straight people than straight people will ever know about us, because we grew up in a homonormative world, were taught its customs and punished for insulting them, if only by our existence. Black women know more about the total experience of womanhood than white women ever will in a white supremacist world.

  So this book, like any other book written by a white, middle-class author, cannot be universal. That does not mean it lacks value. It means I will inevitably get things wrong, leave things out, mess up and have to make amends. I mean to do so in good faith, if I get the chance.

  I draw on my own experiences here, but they are not representative. At best, they are symptomatic. When women write and speak the truth of their own lives, it is called ‘confessional’, with the implication of wrongdoing, of sharing secrets that ought not to be spoken aloud, at least not by nice girls. When men do the same, it is called literature, and they win prizes. The reason that society at large is dismissive of and disgusted by the avalanche of personal writing by women, girls and queer people is the same reason we’re doing it: because these stories have not been told before in such numbers.