by Joanna Russ
“Mother!” she says in a sudden flood of happiness and excitement, for the importance of what she has just done has suddenly become clear to her, “Mother!” (waving wildly out the window) “Guess what!” Mrs. Dadier, who is on her knees in the carrot bed, straightens up, shading her face with her one hand. “What is it, darling?”
“Mother, I’m getting married!” What comes after this will be very exciting, a sort of dramatic presentation, for Jeannine will have a big wedding. Mrs. Dadier drops her gardening trowel in sheer astonishment. She’ll hurry inside, a tremendous elevation of mood enveloping both women; they will, in fact, embrace and kiss one another, and Jeannine will dance around the kitchen. “Wait ’til Bro hears about this!” Jeannine will exclaim. Both will cry. It’s the first time in Jeannine’s life that she’s managed to do something perfectly O.K. And not too late, either. She thinks that perhaps the lateness of her marriage will be compensated for by a special mellowness; there must be, after all, some reason for all that experimenting, all that reluctance. She imagines the day she will be able to announce even better news: “Mother, I’m going to have a baby.” Cal himself hardly figures in this at all, for Jeannine has forgotten his laconism, his passivity, his strange mournfulness unconnected to any clear emotion, his abruptness, how hard it is to get him to talk about anything. She hugs herself, breathless with joy, waiting for Mrs. Dadier to hurry inside; “My little baby!” Mrs. Dadier will say emotionally, embracing Jeannine. It seems to Jeannine that she has never known anything so solid and beautiful as the kitchen in the morning sunlight, with the walls glowing and everything so delicately outlined in light, so fresh and real. Jeannine, who has almost been killed by an unremitting and drastic discipline not of her own choosing, who has been maimed almost to death by a vigilant self-suppression quite irrelevant to anything she once wanted or loved, here finds her reward. This proves it is all right. Everything is indubitably good and indubitably real. She loves herself, and if I stand like Atropos in the corner, with my arm around the shadow of her dead self, if the other Jeannine (who is desperately tired and knows there is no freedom for her this side the grave) attempts to touch her as she whirls joyfully past, Jeannine does not see or hear it. At one stroke she has amputated her past. She’s going to be fulfilled. She hugs herself and waits. That’s all you have to do if you are a real, first-class Sleeping Beauty. She knows.
I’m so happy.
And there, but for the grace of God, go I.
PART SEVEN
I
I’ll tell you how I turned into a man.
First I had to turn into a woman.
For a long time I had been neuter, not a woman at all but One Of The Boys, because if you walk into a gathering of men, professionally or otherwise, you might as well be wearing a sandwich board that says: LOOK! I HAVE TITS! there is this giggling and this chuckling and this reddening and this Uriah Heep twisting and writhing and this fiddling with ties and fixing of buttons and making of allusions and quoting of courtesies and this self-conscious gallantry plus a smirky insistence on my physique—all this dreary junk just to please me. If you get good at being One Of The Boys it goes away. Of course there’s a certain disembodiment involved, but the sandwich board goes; I back-slapped and laughed at blue jokes, especially the hostile kind. Underneath you keep saying pleasantly but firmly No no no no no no. But it’s necessary to my job and I like my job. I suppose they decided that my tits were not of the best kind, or not real, or that they were someone else’s (my twin sister’s), so they split me from the neck up; as I said, it demands a certain disembodiment. I thought that surely when I had acquired my Ph.D. and my professorship and my tennis medal and my engineer’s contract and my ten thousand a year and my full-time housekeeper and my reputation and the respect of my colleagues, when I had grown strong, tall, and beautiful, when my I.Q. shot past 200, when I had genius, then I could take off my sandwich board. I left my smiles and happy laughter at home. I’m not a woman; I’m a man. I’m a man with a woman’s face. I’m a woman with a man’s mind. Everybody says so. In my pride of intellect I entered a bookstore; I purchased a book; I no longer had to placate The Man; by God, I think I’m going to make it. I purchased a copy of John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women; now who can object to John Stuart Mill? He’s dead. But the clerk did. With familiar archness he waggled his finger at me and said “tsk tsk"; all that writhing and fussing began again, what fun it was for him to have someone automatically not above reproach, and I knew beyond the shadow of a hope that to be female is to be mirror and honeypot, servant and judge, the terrible Rhadamanthus for whom he must perform but whose judgment is not human and whose services are at anyone’s command, the vagina dentata and the stuffed teddy-bear he gets if he passes the test. This is until you’re forty-five, ladies, after which you vanish into thin air like the smile of the Cheshire cat, leaving behind only a disgusting grossness and a subtle poison that automatically infects every man under twenty-one. Nothing can put you above this or below this or beyond it or outside of it, nothing, nothing, nothing at all, not your muscles or your brains, not being one of the boys or being one of the girls or writing books or writing letters or screaming or wringing your hands or cooking lettuce or being too tall or being too short or traveling or staying at home or ugliness or acne or diffidence or cowardice or perpetual shrinking and old age. In the latter cases you’re only doubly damned. I went away—“forever feminine,” as the man says—and I cried as I drove my car, and I wept by the side of the road (because I couldn’t see and I might crash into something) and I howled and wrung my hands as people do only in medieval romances, for an American woman’s closed car is the only place in which she can be alone (if she’s unmarried) and the howl of a sick she-wolf carries around the world, whereupon the world thinks it’s very comical. Privacy in cars, in bathrooms, what ideas we have! If they tell me about the pretty clothes again, I’ll kill myself.
I had a five-year-old self who said: Daddy won’t love you.
I had a ten-year-old self who said: the boys won’t play with you .
I had a fifteen-year-old self who said: nobody will marry you .
I had a twenty-year-old self who said: you can’t be fulfilled without a child. (A year there where I had recurrent nightmares about abdominal cancer which nobody would take out.)
I’m a sick woman, a madwoman, a ball-breaker, a man-eater; I don’t consume men gracefully with my fire-like red hair or my poisoned kiss; I crack their joints with these filthy ghoul’s claws and standing on one foot like a de-clawed cat, rake at your feeble efforts to save yourselves with my taloned hinder feet: my matted hair, my filthy skin, my big flat plaques of green bloody teeth. I don’t think my body would sell anything. I don’t think I would be good to look at. O of all diseases self-hate is the worst and I don’t mean for the one who suffers it!
Do you know, all this time you preached at me? You told me that even Grendel’s mother was actuated by maternal love.
You told me ghouls were male.
Rodan is male—and asinine.
King Kong is male.
I could have been a witch, but the Devil is male.
Faust is male.
The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima was male.
I was never on the moon.
Then there are the birds, with (as Shaw so nobly puts it) the touching poetry of their loves and nestings in which the males sing so well and beautifully and the females sit on the nest, and the baboons who get torn in half (female) by the others (male), and the chimpanzees with their hierarchy (male) written about by professors (male) with their hierarchy, who accept (male) the (male) view of (female) (male). You can see what’s happening. At heart I must be gentle, for I never even thought of the praying mantis or the female wasp; but I guess I am just loyal to my own phylum. One might as well dream of being an oak tree. Chestnut tree, great-rooted hermaphrodite. I won’t tell you what poets and prophets my mind is crammed full of (Deborah, who said “Me, too, pretty please
?” and got struck with leprosy), or Whom I prayed to (exciting my own violent hilarity) or whom I avoided on the street (male) or whom I watched on television (male) excepting in my hatred only—if I remember—Buster Crabbe, who is the former Flash Gordon and a swimming instructor (I think) in real life, and in whose humanly handsome, gentle, puzzled old face I had the absurd but moving fancy that I saw some reflection of my own bewilderment at our mutual prison. Of course I don’t know him and no one is responsible for his shadow on the screen or what madwomen may see there; I lay in my bed (which is not male), made in a factory by a (male) designed by a (male) and sold to me by a (small male) with unusually bad manners. I mean unusually bad manners for anybody.
You see how very different this is from the way things used to be in the bad old days, say five years ago. New Yorkers (female) have had the right to abortion for almost a year now, if you can satisfy the hospital boards that you deserve bed-room and don’t mind the nurses calling you Baby Killer; citizens of Toronto, Canada, have perfectly free access to contraception if they are willing to travel 100 miles to cross the border, I could smoke my very own cigarette if I smoked (and get my very own lung cancer). Forward, eternally forward! Some of my best friends are—I was about to say that some of my best friends are—my friends —
My friends are dead.
Whoever saw women scaring anybody? (This was while I thought it important to be able to scare people.) You cannot say, to paraphrase an old, good friend, that there are the plays of Shakespeare and Shakespeare was a woman, or that Columbus sailed the Atlantic and Columbus was a woman or that Alger Hiss was tried for treason and Alger Hiss was a woman. (Mata Hari was not a spy; she was a fuckeress.) Anyway everyboy (sorry) everybody knows that what women have done that is really important is not to constitute a great, cheap labor force that you can zip in when you’re at war and zip out again afterwards but to Be Mothers, to form the coming generation, to give birth to them, to nurse them, to mop floors for them, to love them, cook for them, clean for them, change their diapers, pick up after them, and mainly sacrifice themselves for them. This is the most important job in the world. That’s why they don’t pay you for it.
I cried, and then stopped crying because otherwise I would never have stopped crying. Things come to an awful dead center that way. You will notice that even my diction is becoming feminine, thus revealing my true nature; I am not saying “Damn” any more, or “Blast"; I am putting in lots of qualifiers like “rather,” I am writing in these breathless little feminine tags, she threw herself down on the bed, I have no structure (she thought), my thoughts seep out shapelessly like menstrual fluid, it is all very female and deep and full of essences, it is very primitive and full of “and’s,” it is called “run-on sentences.”
Very swampy in my mind. Very rotten and badly off. I am a woman. I am a woman with a woman’s brain. I am a woman with a woman’s sickness. I am a woman with the wraps off, bald as an adder, God help me and you.
II
Then I turned into a man.
This was slower and less dramatic.
I think it had something to do with the knowledge you suffer when you’re an outsider—I mean suffer; I do not mean undergo or employ or tolerate or use or enjoy or catalogue or file away or entertain or possess or have .
That knowledge is, of course, the perception of all experience through two sets of eyes, two systems of value, two habits of expectation, almost two minds. This is supposed to be an infallible recipe for driving you gaga. Chasing the hare Reconciliation with the hounds of Persistence—but there, you see? I’m not Sir Thomas Nasshe (or Lady Nasshe, either, tho’ she never wrote a line, poor thing). Rightaway you start something, down comes the portcullis. Blap. To return to knowledge, I think it was seeing the lords of the earth at lunch in the company cafeteria that finally did me in; as another friend of mine once said, men’s suits are designed to inspire confidence even if the men can’t. But their shoes—! Dear God. And their ears! Jesus. The innocence, the fresh-faced naivete of power. The childlike simplicity with which they trust their lives to the Black men who cook for them and their self-esteem and their vanity and their little dangles to me, who everything for them. Their ignorance, their utter, happy ignorance. There was the virgin We sacrificed on the company quad when the moon was full. (You thought a virgin meant a girl, didn’t you?) There was Our thinking about housework—dear God, scholarly papers about housework, what could be more absurd! And Our parties where we pinched and chased Each Other. Our comparing the prices of women’s dresses and men’s suits. Our push-ups. Our crying in Each Other’s company. Our gossip. Our trivia. All trivia, not worth an instant’s notice by any rational being. If you see Us skulking through the bushes at the rising of the moon, don’t look. And don’t wait around. Watch the wall, my darling, you’d better. Like all motion, I couldn’t feel it while it went on, but this is what you have to do:
To resolve contrarieties, unite them in your own person.
This means: in all hopelessness, in terror of your life, without a future, in the sink of the worst despair that you can endure and will yet leave you the sanity to make a choice—take in your bare right hand one naked, severed end of a high-tension wire. Take the other in your left hand. Stand in a puddle. (Don’t worry about letting go; you can’t.) Electricity favors the prepared mind, and if you interfere in this avalanche by accident you will be knocked down dead, you will be charred like a cutlet, and your eyes will be turned to burst red jellies, but if those wires are your own wires—hang on. God will keep your eyes in your head and your joints knit one to the other. When She sends the high voltage alone, well, we’ve all experienced those little shocks—you just shed it over your outside like a duck and it does nothing to you—but when She roars down high voltage and high amperage both, She is after your marrow-bones; you are making yourself a conduit for holy terror and the ecstasy of Hell. But only in that way can the wires heal themselves. Only in that way can they heal you. Women are not used to power; that avalanche of ghastly strain will lock your muscles and your teeth in the attitude of an electrocuted rabbit, but you are a strong woman, you are God’s favorite, and you can endure; if you can say “yes, okay, go on"—after all, where else can you go? What else can you do?—if you let yourself through yourself and into yourself and out of yourself, turn yourself inside out, give yourself the kiss of reconciliation, marry yourself, love yourself —
Well, I turned into a man.
We love, says Plato, that in which we are defective; when we see our magical Self in the mirror of another, we pursue it with desperate cries—Stop! I must possess you!—but if it obligingly stops and turns, how on earth can one then possess it? Fucking, if you will forgive the pun, is an anti-climax. And you are as poor as before. For years I wandered in the desert, crying: Why do you torment me so? and Why do you hate me so ? and Why do you put me down so? and / will abase myself and I will please you and Why, oh why have you forsaken me ? This is very feminine. What I learned late in life, under my rain of lava, under my kill-or-cure, unhappily, slowly, stubbornly, barely, and in really dreadful pain, was that there is one and only one way to possess that in which we are defective, therefore that which we need, therefore that which we want.
Become it.
(Man, one assumes, is the proper study of Mankind. Years ago we were all cave Men. Then there is Java Man and the future of Man and the values of Western Man and existential Man and economic Man and Freudian Man and the Man in the moon and modern Man and eighteenth-century Man and too many Mans to count or look at or believe. There is Mankind. An eerie twinge of laughter garlands these paradoxes. For years I have been saying Let me in, Love me, Approve me, Define me, Regulate me, Validate me, Support me . Now I say Move over . If we are all Mankind, it follows to my interested and righteous and right now very bright and beady little eyes, that I too am a Man and not at all a Woman, for honestly now, whoever heard of Java Woman and existential Woman and the values of Western Woman and scientific Woman and ali
enated nineteenth-century Woman and all the rest of that dingy and antiquated rag-bag? All the rags in it are White, anyway. I think I am a Man; I think you had better call me a Man; I think you will write about me as a Man from now on and speak of me as a Man and employ me as a Man and recognize child-rearing as a Man’s business; you will think of me as a Man and treat me as a Man until it enters your muddled, terrified, preposterous, nine-tenths-fake, loveless, papier-mache-bull-moose head that I am a man . (And you are a woman.) That’s the whole secret. Stop hugging Moses’ tablets to your chest, nitwit; you’ll cave in. Give me your Linus blanket, child. Listen to the female man.
If you don’t, by God and all the Saints, I’ll break your neck.)
III
We would gladly have listened to her (they said) if only she had spoken like a lady. But they are liars and the truth is not in them.
Shrill vituperative no concern for the future of society maunderings of antiquated feminism selfish femlib needs a good lay this shapeless book of course a calm and objective discussion is beyond twisted, neurotic some truth buried in a largely hysterical of very limited interest, I should another tract for the trash-can burned her bra and thought that no characterization, no plot really important issues are neglected while hermetically sealed women’s limited experience another of the screaming sisterhood a not very appealing aggressiveness could have been done with wit if the author had deflowering the pretentious male a man would have given his right arm to hardly girlish a woman’s book another shrill polemic which the a mere male like myself can hardly a brilliant but basically confused study of feminine hysteria which feminine lack of objectivity this pretense at a novel trying to shock the tired tricks of the anti-novelists how often must a poor critic have to the usual boring obligatory references to Lesbianism denial of the profound sexual polarity which an all too womanly refusal to face facts pseudo-masculine brusqueness the ladies’-magazine level trivial topics like housework and the predictable screams of those who cuddled up to ball-breaker Kate will unfortunately sexless in its outlook drivel a warped clinical protest against violently waspish attack formidable self-pity which erodes any chance of formless the inability to accept the female role which the predictable fury at anatomy displaced to without the grace and compassion which we have the right to expect anatomy is destiny destiny is anatomy sharp and funny but without real weight or anything beyond a topical just plain bad we “dear ladies,” whom Russ would do away with, unfortunately just don’t feel ephemeral trash, missiles of the sex war a female lack of experience which