by Meghan Daum
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Dedicated to the memory of my father, the original critical thinker
The half-truths, repeated, authenticated themselves.
—Joan Didion, “The Women’s Movement,” 1972
Introduction
This began as a book about feminism and only feminism.
I started in the fall of 2016, on the cusp of what would obviously be Hillary Clinton’s election to the presidency. The book was a critique of the current state of the women’s movement. It wasn’t going to make every feminist happy, but we were about to have a female president, so I figured they could handle it.
My criticisms were centered on what are sometimes referred to as the “excesses” of contemporary feminism. I was tired of what I saw as the movement’s lack of shading and dimension. I was tired of the one-note outrage, the snarky memes, the exhibitionism, the ironic misandry in the vein of #KillAllMen, the commodification of the concept of “giving zero fucks” (the number of T-shirts for sale on Etsy displaying some iteration of DGAF, or “don’t give a fuck,” amounts to a genuine fuckton). I supported the fundamentals of the message, of course; women deserve equal status to men and should have autonomy over their bodies (at least these were the fundamentals as I saw them). But I was wary that the blustering tone of the media, social media especially, had set up an overcorrection that was veering into self-parody.
Feminism had achieved many of its goals, the passage of laws around equal pay and reproductive rights, the ability of wives to initiate divorce, and access to education for women, to name a few. There was more work to be done, of course. Which is why I was so worried that feminism was in danger, especially on the social media front, of becoming a noisepool—and from there an echo chamber—of manufactured or at least highly exaggerated problems. And these weren’t problems as we usually think of them but, rather, everyday phenomena now reclassified as “problematic.” Some of this problematica (my word) grew out of the sudden problematization (their word, alas) of masculinity. Men, with their unchecked power and privilege, were purveyors of intolerable scourges like mansplaining and manspreading. In fact, so unassailable was their power that women who bashed them could do no damage because these women were effectively “punching up” to unassailable male power. Articles like Bustle’s “6 Reasons Men Can Literally Never Be Victims of Sexism,” Jezebel’s “Men (Wrongly) Think They’re Smarter Than They Are” (that one dates back to 2008), and Everyday Feminism’s “160+ Examples of Male Privilege in All Areas of Life” were emblematic of that mentality—and endemic in the feminist blogosphere.
On its face, most of this stuff was too silly to get all that exercised about. We know by now that a lot of what’s on the internet is much ado about nothing. But what bothered me most about this new feminism was something more general—something ambient, really. What bothered me was the way the prototypical young feminist had adopted the sort of swaggering, wise-ass persona you see most often in people who deep down might not be all that swaggering or wise. This young feminist frequently referred to herself as a badass.
Originally, this book was going to be called You Are Not a Badass. Then Hillary Clinton lost the election to Donald Trump. Along the way, much of the country lost its appetite for the sort of critique I was offering. There is no doubt that had Clinton won, a special kind of pernicious and ugly sexism would have underscored her presidency. The badass feminists would still have had their hands full calling out all the sexist barbs—subtle and otherwise—aimed in Clinton’s direction. But the way things turned out, there was no subtlety to be found. There was no room for left-on-left critique of any variety.
The word “tribal” was suddenly everywhere. It now referred not to ethnic ties dating back thousands of years but to more recently established affiliations of class and culture. According to the pundits, it was tribalism that had formed those information silos that kept us from seeing this coming. It was tribalism that had caused so many people to pull the lever for someone they found morally reprehensible yet somehow less threatening than the alternative. And though feminism occupied a large space in this expanding conversation about identity and American values, there was clearly now much more to talk about than silly memes and shallow expressions of badassedness (or, to use my preferred construction, badassery).
The country was falling apart. I now realize I was falling apart, too—at least a bit.
As with the country, my meltdown was already in progress by the fall of 2016, but up until then I’d been only partially aware of the extent of it. I knew I was experiencing some stress from (to borrow a term from insurance companies) a “qualifying life event,” namely divorce. I knew I’d probably added to that stress by moving across the country by myself with no steady work and a Saint Bernard (the move was an effort to make a clean break from my marriage, since the marriage had never been quite bad enough to break cleanly on its own). What I did not fully comprehend were the ways in which my unrest ran deeper than divorce and relocation.
I was suddenly obsessed with aging—my own as well as that of others. I had up until then lived a life of precociousness, having mostly older friends and often being the youngest person in any given room. Now, though, my joints were literally and figuratively beginning to creak. I was hearing voices inside my head yelling the equivalent of “get off my lawn.” I supported social justice causes as much as the next self-respecting liberal, yet I was irritated by the smug vibe of many young activists within the new left. This vibe was especially observable in the ones who had embraced the concept of being “woke,” a term borrowed from the black civil rights movement that signaled one’s allegiance to a more general ethos of progressive righteousness. (In the spirit of all of this, I coined my own term to describe the class of NPR-listening, New Yorker–reading, Slate-podcast-downloading elites once called the cognoscenti. They were now the wokescenti.)
Meanwhile, the pace at which the digital revolution was moving had me feeling old before my time, even physically dizzy on a near-daily basis. At my computer, the tweets and memes and hot takes scrolled down my screen so fast I could scarcely comprehend a fraction of them. Whereas my life had once felt like a road trip on which I was usually running ahead of schedule, I now felt like I was running on a treadmill, the mat churning beneath me at high speed while I held on to the handlebars for dear life. I wanted to slow the machine down so I could catch my breath. Sometimes I even thought it might be nice to go to sleep for five or ten years, until this madness somehow ran its course. The phrase “woke me when it’s over” became a little in-joke with myself.
I hesitate to characterize this as a midlife crisis. That seems too generic in the same way it would be too generic to call the Trump election a political crisis (not that it wasn’t; it was just so much more than that). As I think about it, I suspect the crisis I suffered was a personal one that happened to get intensified by the fallout of a political catastrophe.
That is not to say my personal problems were political or vice versa. I never much believed that the personal is political. As a slogan, “The personal is political” has a patina of earnestness, even gravitas, but, let’s face it, more often than not the personal is just personal. In my case, the personal wasn’t unique or even necessarily all that interesting.
> Over time, I began to see the ways in which my wariness toward what I saw as hollow indignation and performed outrage—my resistance to certain aspects of the resistance, if you will—was in many ways fundamentally generational.
This book still has a lot to do with the conflicted and tortured state of liberalism generally and feminism in particular. But it’s now also a personal story of feeling existentially unmoored against the backdrop of a country falling apart. It’s a story about aging and feeling obsolete as the world spins madly—and maddeningly—on. It’s also, by dint of my age, about the particular experience of Generation Xers, the last cohort to have experienced both the analog and the digital world as adults. Because of this—and for reasons I’ll explain more later—we’re also the first generation that younger generations don’t especially want or need to look up to. Any wisdom we might have to share is already obsolete.
* * *
If 2018 was the year that the concept of “cancel culture” went mainstream (foolish tweets caused Roseanne Barr to lose her show and Kevin Hart to lose his Oscars-hosting gig, the holiday song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” was shunned as an example of rape culture, the previously canceled Louis C.K. was secretly taped at a comedy gig and informed that he’d violated the terms of his banishment), then 2019 may be the year that cancel culture cancels itself. Late last winter, within just a few weeks of one another, two young-adult fiction authors withdrew their soon-to-be-published books when social media mobs attacked them for racial insensitivity. This was, for the most part, not based on anyone actually reading the books in question. Instead, it was the noxious effects of the approval vortex of “YA Twitter,” a small but loud minority of readers who have perfected the art of ruining careers under the guise of social justice. One of these self-canceled authors was already known as a punishing patrolman of cultural appropriation and was even employed as a “sensitivity reader” for big publishing houses (this is a real job in which books are vetted for ways in which they may be offensive to marginalized groups). Needless to say, that detail made the whole affair an especially delicious example of the ways social justice activism was eating itself.
Around this same time, a devastating documentary about Michael Jackson’s sexual abuse of children had people calling for his music to never, ever be listened to again. A few weeks before that, Jussie Smollett, a gay black television actor, had elicited torrents of sympathy and outraged solidarity when he reported being the victim of a crime where the perpetrators tied a noose around his neck and shouted “MAGA country!” After an investigation, police said they believed the actor staged the whole thing in an effort to gain publicity and, reportedly, boost his salary. Smollett denied these reports and maintained his innocence, and county prosecutors eventually made the controversial decision to drop all charges. The reasons behind this decision remain murky, but amid the official hand-wringing, this much seemed clear: two years into the Trump era, the weaponization of “social justice culture” was headed toward some kind of peak.
As for never again listening to Michael Jackson’s music, all I can say is, seriously?
This is where we stand at the moment. Believe me, the shakiness of this ground terrifies me. I continue to be horrified and disgusted by the extreme anti-abortion measures proposed in states such as Alabama and Georgia in May. After being one of those skeptics who refused to believe Roe v. Wade would ever be overturned, I now think this fate is entirely possible (though I also fear the decision was based on a wobbly legal premise that, in some sense, was set up to eventually fail). So I get that these are bad times. Very, very, very bad times. But by framing Trumpism as a moral emergency that required an all-hands-on-deck, no-deviation-from-the-narrative approach to cultural and political thought, I fear the left has cleared the way for a kind of purity policing—enforced and amplified by social media—that is sure to backfire somehow or other. Even if we manage to get rid of Trump, either by voting him out of office in 2020 or somehow kicking him out before then, the political left still needs a course correction. We need to stop devouring our own and canceling ourselves. We need fewer sensitivity readers and more empathy as a matter of course. We need to recognize that to deny people their complications and contradictions is to deny them their humanity.
This book is a product of its times, which is in part to say it’s a casualty of the news cycle that churns around it. Short of publishing this as a living document that I update around the clock to ward off the wolves of obsolescence (there’s a Black Mirror episode in the making here), there is nothing I can do to keep this book from essentially being frozen in time as of the last proofreading pass. There have been moments in the months leading up to publication in which I’ve fretted that the focus on feminism, which felt so acute a few years ago, is now yesterday’s baguette compared to fresher, more contemporary conversations about gender and race.
But the old adage “Write what you know” never becomes obsolete. A friend who will remain nameless put a new spin on that adage recently, advising me to “write about feminism, because as a straight, cisgendered, able-bodied, (mostly) heteronormative white chick, it’s the only thing available to you anyway.”
Much as I hate to duck out on my responsibility, I’m happy to use the current rules of authorship as an excuse for not writing more about other forms of identity-driven politics. Actually, let me rephrase that: I’m not necessarily happy to avoid it (I do have a few things to say). But I’m committed enough to saying what I have to say about basic, boring feminism and the generational divides therein to know better than to sabotage it by touching certain third rails of current public debate. (I’ll let you guess as to what those third rails might be. As with so much in life, their potency is in the eye of the beholder.)
Some items of business before I wrap this up and get on with the show. I talk a great deal in the first half of the book about various waves of feminism. Definitionally, the first and second waves are pretty universally understood. The first wave refers to the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century movements around things like voting and property rights. The second wave refers to the 1960s and 1970s, the era of Gloria Steinem and Ms. magazine and collective action around reproductive rights and workplace equality.
After that, the terms get a little fuzzy. “Third wave,” which was coined in the early 1990s by the writer Rebecca Walker (daughter of famous second-wave author Alice Walker, from whom she became estranged over their conflicting interpretations of feminism), I can really only describe as a mishmash of aesthetics that correspond with loosely defined philosophies: essentially rock bands with vague ideologies attached to them. From the riot grrrl scene to the sex-positive, reclaimed trashiness of the Girls Gone Wild franchise, the contradictions of the third wave were probably best captured by the feminist scholar Elizabeth Evans, who wrote that “the confusion surrounding what constitutes third-wave feminism is in some respects its defining feature.”
This brings me to the fourth wave. When I say “contemporary feminism” in this book, I am talking primarily about the fourth wave. This is a feminism largely shaped by social media. If the imprimaturs of the second and third waves were the burning of bras and the wearing of Doc Martens boots, respectively (though, to be accurate, the bra burning happened far less frequently than is often assumed), the signature of the fourth wave is the hashtag, the eye-rolling GIF, and, more seriously, the beginnings of questioning the whole idea of a gender binary.
Fourth-wave feminism is heavily influenced by the theory of intersectionality, a framework for thinking about how different types of oppression and privilege can overlap and interact with each other. In a general sense, intersectionality can be a useful tool for understanding power structures, particularly economic ones, but, as I’ll talk about, it’s frequently reduced by fourth-wave feminism into a shorthand for wokeness, which itself is shorthand for an entire system of thought rooted in postmodernism and Marxism and a whole lot of other isms that most people don’t think about when they’re throwing
the term around on Twitter. (Indeed, there is now a segment—or, more precisely, several intersecting segments—of Twitter casually referred to as Woke Twitter. At its best, Woke Twitter elicits greater awareness and sensitivity around issues of social justice. At its worst, it functions as the purity police and calls people out for the slightest missteps beyond the bounds of intersectionalist doctrine.)
You may be wondering exactly what form this book purports to be taking. Is it a memoir? A manifesto? A report from the trenches of the culture wars? A series of essays? A series of arguments for which there is no winning, only crazy-making equivocation?
The answer is all of the above and none of the above. If I were forced to give it a label, I’d probably call the book an extended rumination, eight chapters of method-driven meandering. It consists of research and reporting as well as reflection and, at moments, occasionally inflamed, possibly unhinged gut reactions. Though I’ve changed the names of a few interview subjects to protect their privacy, most of the people who talked with me for this book did so on the record and transparently. Many of those conversations, like all great conversations, ended in a place we couldn’t have anticipated when they started.
The same could be said for me in the writing of this book. The place I took off from three years ago is not the place where I’ve landed. And though I’m still not sure what to make of this terrain, I can tell you that the intellectual uncertainty into which it has forced me is a lot more interesting—and a lot more honest—than some of the convictions that carried me along before. If nothing else, this is a story of its time, which means it’s a story for which we don’t yet know the ending.
I’ve never been more afraid of writing a book. I’ve never been more certain I had to.