The other day PZ Myers had a brief post about the incredible ickiness (that's the clinical term) of Father-Daughter Purity Balls. These are celebrations in which a teenage girl pledges to remain a virgin until her father approves her marriage. Everyone is dolled up as though for a wedding, with men in tuxes, and girls in fluffy bridesmaid dresses. Well, that's not the weird part. Quinceaneras are superficially similar rites of passage, and they don't strike me as creepy at all, maybe because, while the original purpose was to announce a girl was available for marriage, the modern function of these celebrations seems to be to introduce the daughter of a family to her community as a young adult while also honoring her cultural heritage; a quinceanera marks her debut into greater society.
At Purity Balls, on the other hand, Daddy and His Little Princess participate in a formal ceremony during which they exchange rings and kisses on the mouth after she promises God & everyone else present that Daddy will be her "boyfriend" until she is given away to her future husband.
This is the belief system underlying patriarchy taken to its logical extreme: that a woman "belongs" to a man (a father, a husband, possibly later a son) who controls her sexuality. For all the problems and social injustices we face in the 21st century, most of us have come to recognize that no one can legitimately claim ownership of another person's (living) body.
I can almost guarantee that if my own father were still alive, he'd find "Purity Balls" as viscerally abhorrent as I do although he would have had a hard time articulating exactly why. Even attending my Campfire Girls' annual Father/Daughter Buffet was excruciating for the poor guy, although he enjoyed sharing activities in which our gender difference played no part (riding motorcycles, camping and boating). My father, for all his faults, was a man who absolutely respected his daughters' sexual and physical boundaries. (He could be a little uptight, in fact. Once, having returned home after a two year absence, I flung my arms around him at the airport and he was so mortified that it was like embracing a marble column.)
Neither did my father ever tell me I should expect to find a man who would treat me "like a queen." In fact, to the extent to which he advised me about my future, it was to nag me to take more math and science classes and quit wasting my time with my head in a novel, and not get married too early. Once, during a long car ride home from college, he confided that he hoped I would find a job I liked because "working would have made your mom a happier person."
In other words, my father more than anyone made me a feminist.
Someday, if I can do so tactfully, I'm going to ask my fundamentalist Christian neighbors what they think about these "purity" covenants. Or maybe I won't because... well, maybe there are some things I just shouldn't know.
Meanwhile, the little girl below is clearly having none of this nonsense!
Whoever says that hasn't been paying attention to the tireless, nonstop efforts of Attila Vinczer, the Canadian Activism Director for A Voice for Men. I'd never heard of Attila Vinczer before, probably because I've not hung out on AVfM all that much. He certainly came to my attention yesterday, via David Futrelle's post about the AVfM's reaction to Danielle D'Entremont's assault, when Mr. Vinczer announced his bold intention tointerview the victim at police headquarters himself. Now I have very little idea how Canadian criminal investigations are conducted -- and it's probably chauvinistic for me to assume they are not very different than those in the U.S. -- but this struck Futrelle and his readers as... well, a tad presumptuous. And it made me rather curious about this fellow. So I did what any serious researcher does; I googled. And oh my!
First of all, at the risk of being creepy and objectifying, may I confess that I find Attila Vinczer to be a remarkably handsome man? In fact, he's a real dish compared to the other guys at AVfM (sorry Dean! sorry John! sorry Karen!). He makes me think of the sommelier at an elegant French restaurant, the kind of gentleman with whom one would not hesitate to entrust one's wine choices for the evening.
And also, may I just share that I have always been rather partial to the name
"Attila?" (Also "Genghiz.") Blame this on spending so much time in my
youth immersed in All Things Turkish and learning that, after all, those
alpha Huns and Mongols had just gotten a bad rap from the chroniclers of Western
Civilization. Second, I have discovered that Mr. Vinczer is, in his words, "a benevolent man" who loves children and animals, and is not shy about documenting his efforts to rescue dogs in distress. So I've learned that we have this passion in common, and for me, that is no trivial matter. Third, given Mr. Vinczer's appetite for litigation, may I suggest that he is living in the wrong country? He's really missing out on the big action by staying north of the border. Because Mr. Vinczer has sued -- or threatened to sue -- a helluva lot of people, including a fellow "dangerous feminist blogger" at Mancheez (for being "vexatiously malicious"). To whit:
He has sued the principal and vice-principal of his son's school, as well as the police constable called in to investigate, for fabricating evidence and providing misleading information to police that resulted in his son being arrested. (It appears that the boy had been accused of assault against a classmate; the charges were dropped.)
He reported an acquaintance to police for allegedly giving his son booze at a party (and helpfully provided photos to the news media of the 12 year old boy being treated for alcohol poisoning in hospital).
He's on record for refusing to support breast cancer awareness until the Canadian government gives men free prostate cancer screenings. Because of course breast cancer affects only women and prostate cancer affects only men! (Tell that to the widow I know whose life was devastated by losing her husband to the latter disease, or the young man I worked with who was left a single dad when his 29 year old wife died within months of diagnosis of a particularly aggressive form of the disease, HER2-positive breast cancer.)
Mr. Vinczer has even threatened TMZ to "contact authorities" because they posted a comment that was fraudulently made in his name.
He has also written a very long and very turgid letter to the Queen herself to beseech her support on behalf of fathers' rights (a letter copied to all members of the Canadian Parliament, the Provincial Parliament in Ontario, the Pope, the Prime Mister [sic] of Canada, etc.). When Mr. Vinczer isn't lodging official complaints, he's posting Youtube videos of various acts of misandry (or just plain "unladylike" behavior), including teenage girls rudely pushing to the front of amusement park queues or women picking their noses in public. This guy is truly indefatigable, and gives lie to the scurrilous accusation that MRAs are not true "activists" at all.
David Futrelle posted today about the attack on a university student in Kingston, Canada, possibly by an MRA, and the hay that AVfM (A Voice for Men) was having with this news. AVfM is vigorously denying any culpability, whilst at the same time attacking the victim as either (1) a liar (who presumably punched herself?), or (2) an instigator who got what was coming to her for protesting the presence of an MRA speaker on her campus. The usual cast of characters weigh in, including some weird over-sharing by Karen Straughan, the manosphere's version of Camille Paglia. Straughan, while conceding the perpetrator might have been influenced by anti-feminist rhetoric, suggests he was in some way justified: if you kick a dog enough he will eventually bite. (Because, you know, men are dogs in danger of being "metaphorically castrated" by feminists. Or something.) As sad and scary as this news is, I am glad the young woman wasn't more seriously injured. And I take some bitter satisfaction in the way this incident will discredit Paul Elam and his gang of thugs even further, which is perhaps in the long run for the good.
Amongst the comments was a link to an article by feminist blogger Sady Doyle that was written three years ago. The title ("A Girl's Guide to Staying Safe Online") is ironic, given that the list of "suggestions" that follow are impossible for anyone who wishes to have an online voice. The bottom line? Being a feminist blogger = abuse. Of course it's one thing to be called "a cunt" "a slut" or a lunatic, it's quite another to have your teeth knocked in.
Of course, the AVfM Grand Pooh Bah had a word or two to say about Sady's article: "But no matter what you do, you are going to see a lot more of the
things you don’t like in the future... courtesy of
the men’s movement. Simply put, we are coming for you. All of you. And by the time we are done you will wax nostalgic over the days when
all you had to deal with was someone expressing a desire to fuck you up
your shopworn ass." So what is the answer? "Ultimately," Sady concludes, "the best way to 'stay safe' online may simply be to stay
online. After all: If there’s no one left willing to complain about the
harassment, what are the odds that it’s going to change?"
A few days ago, Roosh V wrote an ostensibly serious piece, "The Internet Is Doing You More Harm Than Good" in which he points out that "The internet has solved the cost barrier to idea distribution... [but]... This
ability, upon closer inspection, is actually causing us harm. We would
all better off limiting our internet usage than expanding it further."
He goes on to say, "There used to be a dearth of reading material for humans but now
there is too much, and we are wasting time on content that we shouldn’t
just to be entertained, just to feel a little emotional rush that we
may not be getting through our normal lives. Consider that people now purposefully read content they hate just to stir their emotions. They do this as part of their daily routine."
This is an excellent point, one which even I have addressed. We won't point out the irony that Roosh has made his living by publishing provocative material on his blogs, has crowed with delight when a particularly vile post goes "viral", and retweets every tweet that references himself (positively or negatively). Let's not look at the way his example has inspired hundreds of men to beg for donations on their own little blogs. Perhaps what he is really saying is "Quit talking and listen to me."
I will also refrain from pointing out that long before the days of "yellow journalism," much less the internet, the public managed to waste a lot of time on idle entertainments that included dog fighting, gambling, public executions, and mystery plays.
A couple of days later, Matt Forney announced he was "unfollowing" people on Twitter in preparation for a social media blackout. The "addiction" was too much and was interfering with his "productivity." I think this is a good step for Forney. Like Roosh, he wants more than anything to be taken seriously as a writer and an intellectual, an aim that is incompatible with "click-baiting." It occurs to me that, besides being hypocritical to the nth degree, Roosh misunderstands the nature of the manosphere. It is not a place to exchange ideas, obtain information, or engage in serious debate. It is a place where disaffected men go to experience a sense of community and belonging. The element they have in common is their hatred & desire for women; bashing "feminism" is just a pretext for bonding with one another.
And to be honest, the same could be said for the "anti-anti-feminist" bloggers like myself. It's a place where we go to be reassured that we are not alone; we have "friends" out there in cyberspace. Of course these are not "friends" in a conventional sense. We might find, as Eseld Bosustow has mused, that we actually have little in common besides a shared disdain for misogyny, bigotry, and ignorance. And yet that is not an insignificant basis for friendship either, as it suggests a number of shared core values, a certain sympathy of perspective. I have experienced and observed real acts of support -- the sort of reaching out I associate with friendship -- amongst complete strangers on the internet. The fact that, as of today, Karen Stollznow's legal fund has surpassed its goal by over $10,000 is an example. (I'll bet she's feeling the love right now!) The fact that a very busy man like P.Z. Myers agreed to help "rescue" my name is another example: I can never not consider him a good friend although we will always remain "strangers." And because he inspired others to champion me, I now feel much less alone. There are a handful of readers here that, should the opportunity ever present itself, I would be delighted to meet in "real life." Maybe we would find out we didn't really care for one another -- but somehow I doubt that. Meanwhile, there is no question that when the internet starts interfering with the opportunity to mix and mingle with flesh-and-blood people, it's high time to step away from the keyboard and (in my case) toddle down to the Eagles for a round of bingo.
Seriously, let's do this. Give me your ideas and I'll post them. OK, I'll start: Every time a dude describes himself as "an alpha male" = 1 shot of tequila.
UPDATE: I posted this yesterday. Today I read, via Pharyngula, about Karen Stollznow's plight. It appears that sexual harassment is alive and well in academia. I've sent a small amount to her legal fund, a token really. And ordered a couple of her books, which look fascinating. Maybe I should try writing a really crappy porn book, tailored to the rich sexual fantasies of your average manospherean reader, so I could afford to give more? Anyone care to collaborate on such a project? ______________________________________________________________________
I'm old enough to have experienced sexual harassment before "sexual harassment" was A Thing, much less a cause for legal action. When I was a graduate student I took a part time job taking dictation for a much respected and frequently cited law professor, renowned for his work in civil rights. I got the gig through the student job center. Although the work schedule was erratic and inconvenient -- the professor was most productive in the wee hours -- my small stipend as a TA (teaching assistant) wasn't quite enough to live on. So I felt lucky to have another small stream of income to make ends meet. The job entailed the professor picking me up around midnight at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, and driving me to his house across town. Our voices were hushed as we climbed the dark stairs to the upstairs bedroom he used as his study; his wife and children were sleeping in adjoining bedrooms. I settled myself in front of an IBM Selectric (this was a couple of years before personal computers had rendered typewriters obsolete). The professor stood behind me and... well, talked to himself. He was the kind of guy who needed to have an audience, to hear himself form his own ideas out loud, and the fact that I had little idea what he was talking about did not deter him in the least. I was a pretty fast typist, and I did my best to capture every word. Still, it took a lot of focus to follow the unrelenting stream of consciousness through the dark, unmeasured hours. Sometimes he would make sudden detours, backtracks, need to annotate. Sometimes he got annoyed (at himself? at me?) and raised his voice impatiently, or stomped about. These exhausting sessions usually lasted a few hours, sometimes only a couple, depending on the professor's inspiration and energy level. When he was finished for the night, he drove me back home as though I were the family babysitter (which in retrospect I might have been), and I fell into bed half-dressed, curled up against my boyfriend's bony back, and tried to catch a couple of hours of sleep before getting up to attend classes. One evening the professor announced that he appreciated my work so much that he wanted to reward me with an excursion. He drove me to the town's only porn theater and invited me to attend a movie with him. I demurred. At that time, the notion of watching a "dirty movie" in a public venue was akin to parading down Main Street nude. The fact that a professor was encouraging me to do so made me dizzy with confusion and shame. Reluctantly, the professor turned the car around and we headed to his house where we resumed our work. However, about an hour in, his voice trailed off... He had another idea. "You seem like an adventurous girl, Cynthia," he said. "Would you like to listen in on a phone call?" It was 1:00 am. I couldn't imagine who he might call at that hour. I obediently picked up the extension in the office while the professor disappeared downstairs. For the next twenty minutes or so, he engaged in what I would now describe as "phone sex" with an unknown but apparently willing woman in another state. I don't know if she was a former student or a colleague. I knew it was a long distance call, and I couldn't stop worrying about how expensive it was, and whether the professor's wife would be cross when she saw the bill, or whether these calls were itemized research expenses (like my services) that the university reimbursed him for. When the conversation had reached its conclusion, the professor returned, looking pleased with himself. "Well, what did you think?" he asked. "It was interesting," I replied dully, my cheeks scorching. Nonplussed by my disappointing response, the professor continued to dictate and the evening proceeded as usual. The next morning I called the student job center to tender my resignation. "I can't work with Prof. X," I said. "And I can't explain why." Of course, the job center director, a woman, knew exactly why, but she wasn't about to press for details. Yes, she conceded, they'd had similar reports before. She understood. She didn't offer me an alternative job, and I didn't ask for one.
And so the matter rested... but not quite. A couple of weeks later, the professor's wife called me at home, imploring me to return. "My husband works so well with you," she told me. "You're not like the other girls." I fibbed, telling her a change in my teaching schedule made it, much to my regret, impossible.
The next day I took a job at a shopping mall kiosk, selling hot dogs. It was a little embarrassing when my students passed by and giggled at the sight of my silly orange plastic visor, but I preferred that variety of humiliation. I didn't think about this incident for almost two decades because I didn't have the language to describe what had happened. And I knew, I just knew on some level, that it had all been my fault anyway. I must have been giving off some signal that convinced the professor I was receptive to that behavior. There was something dirty and damaged in me that he had picked up on... If only I could figure out what I had done! (Certainly my boyfriend at the time thought so.) Not long ago, I looked up the professor. I figured he was retired by now, but I was curious if he had ever been implicated in sexually harassing other female students. I was shocked and saddened to learn he had committed suicide years before. I don't know if anyone understands why, but he apparently had fallen into a deep depression following a lawsuit brought, not by a woman, but by a group of African American students, charging him with -- of all things! -- racism. Given that he had devoted his career to civil rights legislation, the nature of this dishonor and his subsequent death seemed impossibly ironic and sad. My little anecdote is common stuff, hardly to be remarked upon, for women my generation. I wonder if I shared it with younger women, they would dismiss it as part of a quaint and troublesome era, as irrelevant to their professional lives as a Mad Men episode. It would be rather pleasant to believe we have come so far.
And so... Is the fact that there is a generation out there who don't recognize the name "Anita Hill" yet another reminder of how old I am? Fortunately, there's a new documentary that will familiarize younger people with her ordeal during the 1991 confirmation hearings of Supreme Justice Clarence Thomas.
It's comforting to learn that Hill prevailed, despite the dirt she was dragged through, with her sanity and dignity intact, and went on to establish the rewarding career she still enjoys.
Today Matt Forney revealed he is the creator of Virginia's Secret Garden, the confessional blog of a sexually submissive Christian housewife that somehow never picked up much steam in the manosphere. Will we find out he is actually Femitheist Divine and Desiree Myers-Leibowitz next?
The past few weeks have seen quite a flurry of hoaxes exposed and identities doxxed in the manosphere. Their twitters and forums are buzzing with scandal and gossip. The blatant contempt figures like Roosh and Matt Forney have for their own readership is shocking and, on some level, very pathetic. I guess the good news is that it gives them less time to pick on women.
Matt explains his motivations here. That he boasts of generating a "three figure income" from a crappy porn book reminds us, once again, that he is still struggling to find a way to make a living as a writer. His claim that by writing porn (for men) he has mastered the feminine voice is debatable. And his criticism of a buddy's wife (who chronicles her wifely sexploits in her own embarrassing blog) reminds me of St. Theresa of Avila's scolding remark to the Lord, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few."
However, there is no doubt in my mind that his observation that most "Red Pill Women" are complete nut-burgers℠ is right on the money.
