“I’m not a Feminist, I’m an Equalist” (GamerGate, Misogyny, and Me)

(Warning: strong language, but honestly not as strong as I wanted to use.) 

I’m sick of GamerGate, sick that anyone would be treated this way, that Anita Sarkeesian would be driven from her home by death threats over criticism of video games. I’m sick that anyone would be threatened with death, by anyone, but especially by gamers, a tribe I felt I belonged to once.

So let me address one comment that drives me up the muggle-loving wall.

“I’m not a feminist, I’m an equalist.”

Equalist? What does that mean? Weren’t they the villians in The Legend of Korra, season 1?

I know some of the people using that phrase are just using it as a smokescreen for their own misogyny. I’m not talking about them. If you really think women and men are equal, you don’t call women who point out sexism “stupid cunts” and tell them you hope they get raped.

For the ones who truly believe it, let me say this. I thought that way once, too. Feminism has gotten a black eye largely because of a handful of loud, outspoken feminists who apparently hated men. They said some things that maybe were taken out of context, or maybe weren’t, but they created quite a lot of controversy..

But they had their day about 30 years ago, and they’ve mostly either mellowed, died, or faded into obscurity. And I don’t think they truly represented the main body of feminism, even at the height of their fame.

And honestly, I think their actual opinions were exaggerated into caricatures because it was easier to dismiss straw feminists than real feminists, easier to dismiss misandrist boogeymen (er, boogey-womyn) than actual human beings.

In the last fifteen years or so I’ve been looking into actual feminism as it actually exists. And what I’ve found is this: if you want men and women to be equal, if you love men and women, you should be a feminist.

That’s what “feminist” means. Why? Because patriarchy hurts men, too.

You think only women are hurt by the powers and principalities of sexism? Let me run some scenarios by you.

Think about the (heterosexual) boy who is called a faggot, excluded, and threatened or even assaulted because he doesn’t like sports or isn’t good at them.

Think about the boy who wants to play flute, but is told (after a good ass-whipping) that he will play drums, or tuba, or trumpet, or maybe football, even if he hates it, because only girls and faggots play flute.

Gamers, think how you and your fellow-gamers were treated by the jocks and bullies at school. It’s because spending all your time gaming online or playing D&D doesn’t measure up. You’re not a man. Men don’t respect you. Women don’t want you.

Think about the kid who’s actually gay. If the straight kids who don’t fit the mold get treated like that, how does he get treated?

Now, let’s flip it around and look at the kid who does fit in, who does what the culture tells him.

Think of the kid who fits the mold perfectly. He plays football in the fall and hunts deer in the winter. He drinks beer, drives a hot rod, and fucks the cheerleaders, just like he’s supposed to.

And when he gets older, he gets a manly job and settles down to raise a family, just like he’s supposed to. He still hunts in the winter. He watches football live every chance he can, and never misses a game on TV. The hot rod is in the garage, and he swears he’ll get it running again someday. He has kids, raises his son to be a man like he is.

He hardly knows how to talk to his daughter, other than to tell her to keep her legs closed, and to make sure she’s in by ten (his son doesn’t get a curfew). She chafes against the double-standard, but Dad’s rule is iron.

And then his son comes out. And he doesn’t know how to deal with it. And he rages, and he threatens, and he pleads, and he punches the wall. And he loses his son forever, maybe to suicide, maybe to estrangement. And his daughter? She blames him. Maybe his wife does, too.

And forty years of doing what he’s supposed to do leaves him with a wife he barely knows and a son who’s dead or may as well be. Forty years of doing what he’s supposed to do leaves him with a beer gut, an empty bed, and a mouth full of ashes.

Patriarchy hurts men, too.

So yes, feminists want to burn down the powers and principalities of sexism, to utterly destroy the privilege systems that try to force men and women into ancient molds of macho subject and sexual object, of tooth-and-nail competitor and prize.

Feminists have been pouring the gas for one hundred and fifty years, and if you actually want men and women to be equal, to be free, you should be bringing the matches.

One Night with the Mayor…Retelling the Esther Story

Esther in King Xerxes's Harem, by Edwin Long 1878

Esther in King Xerxes’s Harem, by Edwin Long 1878

“Your daughter sure is pretty,” the sheriff said.  Then he spat.  A line of tobacco flew from his mouth, splattering like a twisted branch on the dry ground.  He reeked of stale sweat and old chew, and his pale eyes gleamed from within the fleshy folds of his face. “All willow-thin and fresh-faced. Oh, my.”

Essie looked up at her uncle, then back at the hulking lawman, her dark eyes wide.

The big man with the big leather belt and the big black gun just grinned and tipped his hat.  “Even her nose is perfect.  Not a big beak like most o’ you Jews.”  He ran his thumb across the side of his nose, then continued, not even looking at Mordecai.  “Course, I know she’s not really your daughter.  Her parents are dead, aren’t they?”

“Please,” Mordecai said, “she’s only thirteen.”

Even in the heat of August, Essie shuddered.  Her Bat Mitzvah – and her first flow – had come only two month ago.

“That’s okay.  The Mayor likes ’em young.”  The sheriff tugged at the strap of his Sam Browne belt while his gaze crept over every inch of Esther’s body.  “Maybe not this young.  I think we’ll keep her around the mansion for a while, till she ripens up a little.”  He cupped his hands at chest level and mimed squeezing.  “I think a year will do it.”

“Sheriff -”  Mordecai’s face grew red.  He knew not to appeal any further to this pig’s sense of decency.  Obviously, he had none.

The sheriff laughed so hard his belly shook.  “I told you the Mayor likes ’em young.  Don’t worry, little Essie, you’ll have plenty of company.  He’s got every pretty little thing in the county livin’ up there.  I think you’ll be the only Jew-girl, but that don’t matter much. I’m sure you’ll pretty up just as well as the rest of them, if they can get your hair to behave.  I declare, girl, it’s wild as a badger’s backside.”

“Damn you -”

“What are you upset about?” The Sheriff said, turning on Mordecai, “The Mayor’s gon’ choose a new wife when all this is over.  Your little Essie here could be the new first lady, live in that mansion forever, maybe even do some good for your scrawny little tribe.”  He snorted. “If she pleases him.”  He leaned in close to Esther, his breath thick and dank, his eyes hard as diamonds.  “You know anything about pleasing a man, little girl?”

“That’s enough!” Mordecai snarled, pulling Esther back and raising his fist.

The sheriff stepped back, surprisingly nimble for all his bulk.   “Watch your step, boy.  We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”  He tapped the butt of his revolver, as if to remind them both what ‘the hard way’ meant.  “Either way, the girl goes with me.”

Mordecai swallowed hard.  “Go with him,” he whispered, “I’ll find a way to be there for you.  Just keep yourself alive.  And remember who you are.  Remember where you come from.”

Esther swallowed hard, tensing her jaw and raising her head.  She would not let him see her tears.  She walked, head held high,  to the sheriff’s car, sliding into the back seat like a prisoner, and like a queen.

The preceding, despite being time-shifted 2,500 years, and despite the liberties I took with Mordecai’s social status and the secrecy surrounding Esther’s religion and ethnicity, was still a far more accurate and truthful retelling of how Esther came to be in King Xerxes’ Harem than the rape-apologist, misogynist “exegesis” Mark Driscoll posted and preached Sunday.  An “exegesis” so wrong, so dangerous, that refutations have sprung up like white blood cells at the site of infection.  Rachel Held Evans has a good one (and kudos to her for bringing this to my attention).  So does Sarah Over the Moon.  So does Can’t Catch My Breath.

Honestly, I think (and hope) there can be some value to seeing an old story in a different setting.  Maybe we can see Esther’s humanity and stop slut-shaming one of God’s heroes, a true woman of valor.