Bad Feminist: Essays (21 page)

As a black man coming out as gay or bisexual, particularly as part of the notoriously homophobic R&B and hip-hop community, Ocean was taking a bold step, a risk. He was trusting that his music would transcend the prejudices of his audience. So far, that risk seems to have paid off. Many celebrities vocalized their support of Ocean, including Russell Simmons, Beyoncé, 50 Cent, and others. He is standing up to be counted.
Channel Orange
was a critical and commercial success.

Of course, Ocean is also part of the Odd Future collective. His friend and collaborator Tyler, the Creator’s debut album,
Goblin
, contains 213 gay slurs. Tyler, the Creator continues to assert he’s not homophobic with that old canard of having gay friends. He stepped up his defense by also claiming his gay fans were totally fine with his use of the term “faggot” over and over and over—immunity by association. I do not know the man. Maybe he is homophobic, maybe he isn’t. I do know he doesn’t think about language very carefully. He believes that just because you can say something, you should. He is not shamed by using slurs 213 times on one album, no matter how that frequency reflects a lack of imagination.

For every step forward, there is some asshole shoving progress back.

Despite our complex cultural climate and what needs to be done for the greater good, it is still an unreasonable burden that someone who is marginalized must bear an extra set of responsibilities. It is unfair that prominent cultural figures who come out have to forge these inroads on our behalf; they carry the hopes of so many on their shoulders. They stand up and are counted so that someday things might actually be better for everyone, everywhere, not just the camera- or radio-ready celebrities for whom coming out is far easier than most.

I am reminded of the Iowa lesbian couple whose son, Zach Wahls, testified in 2011 before the Iowa House Judiciary Committee about how a child raised by two women turns out. He spoke in support of gay marriage in Iowa. He was passionate and eloquent and a real credit to his parents. The video clip of his testimony was shared across the Internet. Every time I saw it I was both thrilled and angry—angry because queer people always have to fight so much harder for a fraction of the recognition. No one ever asks heterosexual parents to ensure that their children are models of citizenry. The bar for queer parents is unfairly, unnecessarily high, but young men like this one keep vaulting that bar nonetheless.

Perhaps we expect gay public figures and other prominent queer people to come out, to stand and be counted, so they can do the work we’re unwilling to do to change the world, to carry the burdens we are unwilling to shoulder, to take the stands we are unwilling to make. As individuals, we may not be able to do much, but when we’re silent when someone uses the word “gay” as an insult, we are falling short. When we don’t vote to support equal marriage rights for all, we are falling short. When we support musicians like Tyler, the Creator, we are falling short. We are failing our communities. We are failing civil rights. There are injustices great and small, and even if we can only fight the small ones, at least we are fighting.

Too often, we fail to ask ourselves what sacrifices we will make for the greater good. What stands will we take? We expect
role models
to model the behaviors we are perfectly capable of modeling ourselves. We know things are getting better. We know we have far to go. In
Privacy
, Keizer also says, “The plurality of intrusions on our privacy has the cumulative effect of inducing a sense of helplessness.” We are willing—even anxious—to see prominent figures in a state of helplessness as they sacrifice their privacy for the greater good. How helpless are
we
willing to be for the greater good? That question interests me most.

Here we are again.

In the
New York Times Book Review
, Meg Wolitzer addresses the matter of “women’s fiction” in her essay “The Second Shelf.” She highlights the ongoing, fraught conversation about men, women, the books they write, and the disparity in the consideration these books receive.

It is a shame that I can point to any number of essays that take up issues of gender, literary credibility, and the relative lack of critical acceptance and attention women receive from the (male) literary establishment, with equal skill and precision as Wolitzer does. It is absurd that talented writers continue to have to spend their valuable time demonstrating just how serious, pervasive, and far-reaching this problem is instead of writing about more interesting topics.

When we look beyond publishing and consider that the United States is a country where we’re still having an incomprehensible debate about contraception and reproductive freedom, it becomes clear women are dealing with trickle-down misogyny. What starts with the legislature reaches everywhere. The cocreator of
Two and a Half Men
flippantly said, with regard to women-oriented television, “Enough, ladies. I get it. You have periods,” and “We’re approaching peak vagina on television, the point of labia saturation.” The 2012 National Magazine Award finalists were announced, and there were no women included in several categories—reporting, feature writing, profile writing, essays and criticism, and columns and commentary. Every single day there’s a new instance of gender trouble. Some men aren’t interested in the concerns of women, not in society, not on television, not in publishing, not anywhere.

The time for outrage over things we already know is over. The call-and-response of this debate has grown tightly choreographed and tedious. A woman dares to acknowledge the gender problem. Some people say, “Yes, you’re right,” but do nothing to change the status quo. Some people say, “I’m not part of the problem,” and offer up some tired example as to why this is all no big deal, why this is all being blown out of proportion. Some people offer up submission queue ratios and other excuses as if that absolves responsibility. Some people say, “Give me more proof,” or “I want more numbers,” or “Things are so much better,” or “You are wrong.” Some people say, “Stop complaining.” Some people say, “Enough talking about the problem. Let’s talk about solutions.” Another woman dares to acknowledge this gender problem. Rinse. Repeat.

The solutions are obvious. Stop making excuses. Stop saying women run publishing. Stop justifying the lack of parity in prominent publications that have the resources to address gender inequity. Stop parroting the weak notion that you’re simply publishing
the best writing, regardless
. There is ample evidence of the excellence of women writers. Publish more women writers. If women aren’t submitting to your publication or press, ask yourself why, deal with the answers even if those answers make you uncomfortable, and then reach out to women writers. If women don’t respond to your solicitations, go find other women. Keep doing that, issue after issue after issue. Read more widely. Create more inclusive measures of excellence. Ensure that books by men and women are being reviewed in equal numbers. Nominate more
deserving
women for the important awards. Deal with your resentment. Deal with your biases. Vigorously resist the urge to dismiss the
gender problem
. Make the effort and make the effort and make the effort until you no longer need to, until we don’t need to keep having this conversation.

Change requires intent and effort. It really is that simple.

The term “women’s fiction” is so wildly vague it is mostly useless. The book covers are often marked by pastels, the silhouettes of well-accessorized women, or a few body parts ambiguously splayed. In the
New York Times Book Review
Chloë Schama writes, “A plague of women’s backs is upon us in the book cover world.” She goes on to cite an alarming number of recent book covers featuring a woman’s back, her nape exposed, as if we dare not see a woman’s face. Schama concludes, “Sex sells, and this reference to the body without obvious objectification must appeal to an industry that overwhelmingly attracts and employs women.” “Women’s fiction” is a label designed to sell a certain kind of book to a certain kind of reader. As writers, we have little control over how our books are marketed or the covers our books receive. And let’s be clear: “women’s fiction” and the accompanying, often cloying cover designs are marketing choices meant to either encompass the subject matter of a book or its author, or both. We are beholden to these arbitrary categories that are, in many ways, insulting to men, women, and writing.

There are books written by women. There are books written by men. Somehow, though, it is only books by women, or books about certain topics, that require this special “women’s fiction” designation, particularly when those books have the audacity to explore, in some manner, the female experience, which, apparently, includes the topics of marriage, suburban existence, and parenthood, as if women act alone in these endeavors, wedding themselves, immaculately conceiving children, and the like. Women’s fiction is often considered a more intimate brand of storytelling that doesn’t tackle the
big
issues found in men’s fiction. Anyone who reads knows this isn’t the case, but that misperception lingers. As Ruth Franklin notes, “The underlying problem is that while women read books by male writers about male characters, men tend not to do the reverse. Men’s novels about suburbia (Franzen) are about society; women’s novels about suburbia (Wolitzer) are about women.”

Narratives about certain experiences are somehow legitimized when mediated through a man’s perspective. Consider the work of John Updike or Richard Yates. Most of their fiction is grounded in domestic themes that, in the hands of a woman, would render the work “women’s fiction.” While these books may be tagged as “women’s fiction” on Amazon.com, they are also categorized as literary fiction. These books are allowed to be more than what they are by virtue of the writer’s gender, while similar books by women are forced to be less than what they are, forced into narrow, often inaccurate categories that diminish their contents.

James Salter’s excellent short story collection
Last Night
is a book filled with stories about men and women and marriage and the infinite ways people fail one another. It is a gorgeous book, one that is often concerned with the experiences of women. In one story, a wife demands her husband end an affair with his gay lover, and the muted agony of the situation is palpable. In another story, a group of friends catch up on their lives, and at the end, we learn that one of them is dying, doesn’t know how to share that news, and so she tells a stranger, her cabdriver, who, in the wake of her confession, frankly assesses her appearance. A woman meets a poet at a party and becomes fixated on his dog. These stories are not so radically different from stories by, say, Elizabeth Strout.

There are more similarities between the writing of men and women than there are differences. Aren’t we all just trying to tell stories? How do we keep losing sight of this fact?

When did men become the measure? When did we collectively decide writing was more worthy if men embraced it? I suppose it was the “literary establishment” that made this decision when, for too long, men dominated the canon, and it was men whose work was elevated as worthy, who received the majority of the prestigious literary prizes and critical attention.

Male readership shouldn’t be the measure to which we aspire. Excellence should be the measure, and if men and
the establishment
can’t (or won’t) recognize that excellence, we should leave the culpability with them instead of bearing it ourselves. As long as we keep considering male readership the goal, we’re not going to get anywhere.

The label “women’s fiction” is often used with such disdain. I hate how “woman” has become a slur. I hate how some women writers twist themselves into knots to distance themselves from “women’s fiction,” as if we have anything to be ashamed of as women who write what we want to write.

I don’t care if my fiction is labeled as women’s fiction. I know what my writing is and what it isn’t. Someone else’s arbitrary designation can’t change that. I don’t care if men don’t read my books. Don’t get me wrong. I want men to read my books. I want everyone to read my books, but I’m not going to desperately pine for readers who aren’t interested in what I’m writing.

If readers discount certain topics as unworthy of their attention, if readers are going to judge a book by its cover or feel excluded from a certain kind of book because the cover is, say, pink, the failure is with the reader, not the writer. To read narrowly and shallowly is to read from a place of ignorance, and women writers can’t fix that ignorance no matter what kind of books we write or how those books are marketed.

This is where we should start focusing this conversation: how men (as readers, critics, and editors) can start to bear the responsibility for becoming better, broader readers.

Reading remains one of the purest things I do. As anyone who follows me on Twitter knows, I derive a great deal of joy from reading—highbrow, lowbrow, I’m into all of it. Nearly every day I chatter happily about the books I’m reading to my Twitter feed, and it’s great to be able to talk about books without worrying about all the problems of publishing. It’s great to remember that reading is my first love.

I don’t want us to lose sight of the joy of reading because we’re all too focused on the bitter realities of how our reading material finds its way into the world and struggles to have a fighting chance.

Though we are a relatively small community invested in these issues, we keep having these difficult conversations about gender and publishing, no matter where we stand, because we carry a raw and stupid hope that someday we will have acted with enough intent and effort, we will have created enough change, we will have created better measures. We continue having these conversations so someday there is nothing left to talk about but the joy and complexity of the stories we write and read. I want that joy to be the only thing that matters.

Great books remind me that when we spend more time talking about publishing than we talk about books themselves, we’re forgetting what matters most.