Journalist Sarah Ditum has little time for this argument. ‘Come on now,’ she chided in a column. ‘You’ve played games as a blue hedgehog. As a cybernetically augmented space marine. As a sodding dragon-tamer. [. . .B]ut the idea that women can be protagonists with an inner life and an active nature is somehow beyond your imaginative capacities?’70 Ditum is of course technically right. It should be easier to imagine yourself as a woman than as a blue hedgehog. But on the other hand she’s also wrong, because that blue hedgehog has one particularly important similarity with male players, even more so than species alignment, and that is that Sonic the hedgehog is male. We know this because he isn’t pink, he doesn’t have a bow in his hair, and he doesn’t simper. He is the standard, unmarked gender, not the atypical one.
This kind of negative reaction to the introduction of women is witnessed all over the cultural landscape. When in 2013 I campaigned to have a female historical figure on the back of English banknotes some men got so angry that they felt compelled to threaten me with rape, mutilation and death. Not all the men who disliked the campaign went that far, of course, but the sense of injustice was still clear in the more measured responses I got. I remember one man expostulating, ‘but women are everywhere now!’ Clearly, given I was having to campaign so hard for the inclusion of one woman, they aren’t, but his perspective was nevertheless telling. These men were experiencing even minor female representation as an iniquity. As far as they were concerned, the playing field was already level, and the entirely male line-up was just an objective reflection of merit.
Before they caved, the Bank of England’s case for their all-male line-up also rested on the meritocracy argument: historical figures were, they said, chosen using an ‘objective selection criteria’. To join the ‘gilded list’ of ‘key figures from our past’, a person must fulfil the following: have broad name recognition; have good artwork; not be controversial; and have made ‘a lasting contribution which is universally recognised and has enduring benefits’. Reading these subjective designations of worth, I realised how the Bank had ended up with five white men on its banknotes: the historical gender data gap means that women are just far less likely to be able to fulfil any of these ‘objective’ criteria.
In 1839 the composer Clara Schumann wrote in her diary, ‘I once thought that I possessed creative talent, but I have given up this idea; a woman must not desire to compose – not one has been able to do it, and why should I expect to?’ The tragedy is, Schumann was wrong. Women before her had been able to do it, and they included some of the most successful, prolific and influential composers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.71 It’s just that they didn’t have ‘broad name recognition’, because a woman barely has to die before she is forgotten – or before we consign her work to the gender data gap by attributing it to a man.
Felix Mendelssohn published six of his sister Fanny Hensel’s pieces under his own name and in 2010 another manuscript previously thought to be his was proven to be Hensel’s.72 For years classical scholars argued that the Roman poet Sulpicia couldn’t possibly have written the verses signed with her name – they were too good, not to mention too smutty.73 Judith Leyster, one of the first Dutch women to be admitted to an artists’ guild, was renowned in her time, but after her death in 1660 she was erased, her work attributed to her husband. In 2017, new works by nineteenth-century artist Caroline Louisa Daly were discovered – they had been previously attributed to men, one of whom was not even an artist.74
At the turn of the twentieth century, award-winning British engineer, physicist and inventor Hertha Ayrton remarked that while errors overall are ‘notoriously hard to kill [. . .] an error that ascribes to a man what was actually the work of a woman has more lives than a cat’. She was right. Textbooks still routinely name Thomas Hunt Morgan as the person who discovered that sex was determined by chromosomes rather than environment, despite the fact that it was Nettie Stevens’ experiments on mealworms that established this – and despite the existence of correspondence between them where Morgan writes to ask Stevens for details of her experiment.75 Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin’s discovery that the sun is predominantly composed of hydrogen is often credited to her male supervisor.76 Perhaps the most famous example of this kind of injustice is Rosalind Franklin, whose work (she had concluded via her X-ray experiments and unit cell measurements that DNA consisted of two chains and a phosphate backbone) led James Watson and Francis Crick (now Nobel Prize-winning household names) to ‘discover’ DNA.
None of this means that the Bank of England deliberately set out to exclude women. It just means that what may seem objective can actually be highly male-biased: in this case, the historically widespread practice of attributing women’s work to men made it much harder for a woman to fulfil the Bank’s requirements. The fact is that worth is a matter of opinion, and opinion is informed by culture. And if that culture is as male-biased as ours is, it can’t help but be biased against women. By default.
The case of the Bank’s subjective selection criteria also shows how male default can be both a cause and a consequence of the gender data gap. By neglecting to account for the historical gender data gap, the Bank’s selection procedure for historical figures was designed around the kind of success typically achieved by men; even a requirement as seemingly benign as that the figure not be controversial, well, as the historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich famously put it, ‘well-behaved women seldom make history’. The result was that the Bank not only failed to correct for the historical gender data gap: it perpetuated it.
Such subjective designations of worth masquerading as objectivity crop up all over the place. In 2015 a British A level student called Jesse McCabe noticed that of the sixty-three set works included in her music syllabus, not a single one was by a woman. When she wrote to her exam board, Edexcel, they defended the syllabus. ‘Given that female composers were not prominent in the western classical tradition (or others for that matter),’ they wrote, ‘there would be very few female composers that could be included.’ The phrasing here is important. Edexcel doesn’t mean that there simply aren’t any female composers – after all, the International Encyclopaedia of Women Composers alone has more than 6,000 entries. What they are talking about here is ‘the canon’, that is, the body of works generally agreed to have been the most influential in shaping western culture.
Canon formation is passed off as the objective trickle-down of the musical marketplace, but in truth it is as subjective as any other value judgment made in an unequal society. Women have been locked out of the canon wholesale because what success looked like in composing has historically been almost impossible for women to achieve. For most of history, if women were allowed to compose at all, it was for a private audience and domestic setting. Large orchestral works, so crucial for the development of a composer’s reputation, were usually off limits, considered ‘improper’.77 Music was an ‘ornament’ for women, not a career.78 Even by the twentieth century, Elizabeth Maconchy (who was the first woman ever to chair the Composers’ Guild of Great Britain), was being curtailed in her ambitions by publishers such as Leslie Boosey, who ‘couldn’t take anything except little songs from a woman’.
Even if the ‘little songs’ women were allowed to write were enough to earn you a place in the canon, women simply didn’t have the resources or position to ensure their legacy. In her book Sounds and Sweet Airs: The Forgotten Women of Classical Music, Anna Brer compares the prolific seventeenth-century composer Barbara Strozzi (who ‘had more music in print in her lifetime than any other composer of the era’) to one of her male contemporaries, Francesco Cavalli. As head of music at St Mark’s in Venice (a position not open to women at the time), Cavalli had the money and the stature to ensure all his works, including the many he did not publish in his lifetime, were kept in a library. He could pay for an archivist to look after them, and he could, and did, pay for the Masses he composed to be sung on the anniversary of his death. In the face of such inequality of resources,
Strozzi never stood a chance of being remembered on an equal footing. And to continue to insist on the primacy of a canon that excludes women like her is to perpetuate the male-biased injustices of the past.
As well as going some way to explaining their exclusion from cultural history, the exclusion of women from positions of power is often given as an excuse for why, when we teach them about the past, we teach children almost exclusively about the lives of men. In 2013, a battle raged in Britain over what we mean by ‘history’. On one side was the then British Secretary of State for Education, Michael Gove, brandishing his proposed new ‘back to basics’ national history curriculum.79 An army of twenty-first-century Gradgrinds, he and his supporters insisted that children needed ‘facts’.80 They needed a ‘foundation of knowledge’.
This ‘foundation of knowledge’, the ‘basic’ blocks of ‘facts’ which every child should know, was notable, amongst other gaps, for its almost wholesale absence of women. No women appeared in Key Stage 2 (ages seven to eleven) at all, other than two Tudor queens. Key Stage 3 (ages eleven to fourteen) included only five women, four of whom (Florence Nightingale, Mary Seacole, George Eliot and Annie Besant) were lumped together under ‘The Changing Role of Women’ – rather implying, not without reason, that the rest of the curriculum was about men.
In 2009, prominent British historian David Starkey criticised female historians for, in his opinion, focusing too much on Henry VIII’s wives rather than the king himself who, he railed, should be ‘centre stage’.81 Dismissing the ‘soap opera’ of his personal life as secondary to the formal political consequences of his rule, such as the Reformation, Starkey insisted that ‘[i]f you are to do a proper history of Europe before the last five minutes it is a history of white males because they were the power players, and to pretend anything else is to falsify’.
Starkey’s position rests on the assumption that what takes place in the private realm is unimportant. But is that a fact? The private life of Agnes Huntingdon (born after 1320) is revealed through snippets in public documents from the court cases concerning her two marriages.82 We discover that she was a victim of domestic abuse, and that her first marriage was disputed because her family disapproved of her choice. On the evening of 25 July 1345 she ran away from her second husband after he attacked her; later that night he turned up at her brother’s house with a knife. Is the abuse (and lack of freedom of choice) of a fourteenth-century woman private irrelevancies, or part of the history of female subjugation?
The arbitrary division of the world into ‘private’ and ‘public’ is in any case arguably a false distinction. Invariably both bleed into each other. When I spoke to Katherine Edwards, a history teacher who was heavily involved in the fight against Gove’s reforms, she pointed to recent research on women’s role in the American Civil War. Far from being an irrelevance, ‘women and their conception of their own role completely undermined the whole Confederate war effort’.
Elite women, brought up to believe absolutely in the myth of their own helplessness, simply could not get over their understanding of work as intrinsically unfeminine. Unable to bring themselves to take up the jobs vacated by enlisted men, they wrote to their husbands begging them to desert, to come home and protect them. Poorer women proved a headache in a more proactive way, as they organised resistance to Confederate policies, ‘because they were starving basically, and they needed to feed their families’. Excluding women from an analysis of the outcome of the American Civil War not only constitutes a gender data gap, but also a data gap in the understanding of the construction of the United States itself. That seems like a ‘fact’ worth knowing.
The history of humanity. The history of art, literature and music. The history of evolution itself. All have been presented to us as objective facts. But the reality is, these facts have been lying to us. They have all been distorted by a failure to account for half of humanity – not least by the very words we use to convey our half-truths. This failure has led to gaps in the data. A corruption in what we think we know about ourselves. It has fuelled the myth of male universality. And that is a fact.
The persistence of this myth continues to affect how we see ourselves today – and if the past few years have shown us anything it is that how we see ourselves is not a minor concern. Identity is a potent force that we ignore and misread at our peril: Trump, Brexit and ISIS (to name just three recent examples) are global phenomena that have upended the world order – and they are all, at heart, identity-driven projects. But misreading and ignoring identity is exactly what obfuscating maleness under the guise of gender-neutral universality causes us to do.
A man I briefly dated tried to win arguments with me by telling me I was blinded by ideology. I couldn’t see the world objectively, he said, or rationally, because I was a feminist and I saw everything through feminist eyes. When I pointed out that this was true for him too (he identified as a libertarian) he demurred. No. That was just objective, common sense – de Beauvoir’s ‘absolute truth’. For him, the way he saw the world was universal, while feminism – seeing the world from a female perspective – was niche. Ideological.
I was reminded of this man in the wake of the 2016 US presidential election, when it felt you couldn’t move for tweets, speeches and op-eds by (usually) white men decrying the ills of what they called ‘identity politics’. Ten days after Donald Trump’s victory, the New York Times published an article by Mark Lilla, professor of humanities at Columbia University, that criticised Clinton for ‘calling out explicitly to African American, Latino, LGBT and women voters’.83 This left out, he said, ‘the white working class’. Lilla presented Clinton’s ‘rhetoric of diversity’ as mutually exclusive with ‘a large vision’, linking this ‘narrow’ vision (clearly, Lilla has been reading his V. S. Naipaul) with what he felt he was witnessing with college students. Students today, he claimed, were so primed to focus on diversity that they ‘have shockingly little to say about such perennial questions as class, war, the economy and the common good’.
Two days after this was published, ex-Democratic candidate Bernie Sanders was in Boston at a stop on his book tour84 explaining that ‘It is not good enough for someone to say, I’m a woman! Vote for me!’85 In Australia, Paul Kelly, editor of the Australian, described Trump’s victory as ‘a revolt against identity politics’,86 while over in the UK, Labour MP Richard Burgon tweeted that Trump’s inauguration was ‘what can happen when centre/left parties abandon transformation of economic system and rely on identity politics’.87
The Guardian’s Simon Jenkins concluded the annus horribilis that was 2016 with a diatribe against ‘the identity apostles’, who had been ‘over-defensive’ of minorities, and thus killed off liberalism. ‘I have no tribe,’ he wrote. He could not ‘join the prevailing hysteria’. What he wanted was ‘to re-enact the glorious revolution of 1832’ – which resulted in the extension of the British franchise to a few extra hundred thousand men of property.88 Heady days, indeed.
These white men have in common the following opinions: that identity politics is only identity politics when it’s about race or sex; that race and sex have nothing to do with ‘wider’ issues like ‘the economy’; that it is ‘narrow’ to specifically address the concerns of female voters and voters of colour; and that working class means white working-class men. Incidentally, according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics, the coal mining industry, which during the 2016 election became the shibboleth for (implicitly male) working-class jobs, provides 53,420 jobs in total, at a median annual wage of $59,380.89 Compare this to the majority female 924,640-strong cleaning and housekeeper workforce, whose median annual income is $21,820.90 So who’s the real working class?
These white men also have in common that they are white men. And I labour this point because it is exactly their whiteness and maleness that caused them to seriously vocalise the logical absurdity that identities exist only for those who happen not to be white or male. When you have been so used, as a white man, to white and male
going without saying, it’s understandable that you might forget that white and male is an identity too.
Pierre Bourdieu wrote in 1977 that ‘what is essential goes without saying because it comes without saying: the tradition is silent, not least about itself as a tradition’.91 Whiteness and maleness are silent precisely because they do not need to be vocalised. Whiteness and maleness are implicit. They are unquestioned. They are the default. And this reality is inescapable for anyone whose identity does not go without saying, for anyone whose needs and perspective are routinely forgotten. For anyone who is used to jarring up against a world that has not been designed around them and their needs.
The way whiteness and maleness go without saying brings me back to my bad date (OK, dates), because it is intrinsically linked to the misguided belief in the objectivity, the rationality, the, as Catherine Mackinnon has it, ‘point-of-viewlessness’ of the white, male perspective. Because this perspective is not articulated as white and male (because it doesn’t need to be), because it is the norm, it is presumed not to be subjective. It is presumed to be objective. Universal, even.
This presumption is unsound. The truth is that white and male is just as much an identity as black and female. One study which looked specifically at white Americans’ attitudes and candidate preferences found that Trump’s success reflected the rise of ‘white identity politics’, which the researchers defined as ‘an attempt to protect the collective interests of white voters via the ballot box’.92 White identity, they concluded, ‘strongly predicts a preference for Trump’. And so did male identity. Analysis of how gender affected support for Trump revealed that ‘the more hostile voters were toward women, the more likely they were to support Trump’.93 In fact, hostile sexism was nearly as good at predicting support for Trump as party identification. And the only reason this is a surprise to us is because we are so used to the myth of male universality.
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