The End of Patriarchy: Radical Feminism for Men

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Preface

BEGIN IN THE BODY

This book began in my body.

I first encountered a radical feminist analysis of patriarchy at the age of thirty when I showed up for graduate school, sat down in a course on freedom of expression and the law, and stumbled upon an article that presented a feminist critique of pornography. My initial reaction was that such a critique was absolutely ridiculous, while at the same time recognizing that it was undeniably true.

It’s not surprising that I was a bit conflicted. As a man with years of socialization into patriarchal masculinity behind me, I was wary of feminists, who I had been told were out to get me. If a feminist critique of anything seemed compelling at first, I had an incentive to eliminate the threat—explain why it must be wrong and move on. But even though I had been trained to reject such ideas, at a deeper level I felt a sense of relief, a recognition that I was reading not only an honest account of the world but of myself, a coherent explanation of my own experience that I had no words for at that moment.

Despite that resonance, as I read more about the critique of pornography and feminism generally, I intensified my skepticism and evaluated the arguments with all the scholarly rigor of a budding academic—identifying assumptions, questioning definitions, evaluating evidence, challenging claims. Such skepticism is appropriate in examining any argument that anyone makes about anything, but skepticism that masks fear can lead us to caricature ideas that feel threatening, and my first attempts at writing about the feminist challenge to men’s use of pornography did just that. Luckily, my body wouldn’t allow me to take the cheap way out.

I first approached feminism through this intellectual work, keeping my distance. But in ways that I could not have articulated in that moment, I was also being pulled into feminist analysis and politics by my body—something just felt right about the critique of patriarchy. We may like to tell neat, tidy stories about how we come to believe what we believe—tales in which we usually are the critical-thinking heroes—but the way all of us come to understand the world involves the complex interaction of emotion and reason, body and mind, conscious mental activity and unconscious body memory. We ‘think’ and we ‘feel’ at the same time, intertwined, even though we often talk as if those two words mark wholly separate activities in walled-off compartments of our brains and bodies.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t think critically, or that an intellectual argument can be defended simply by describing a feeling. In this book I offer an argument for a feminist critique of patriarchy that I believe is based on the rigorous use of reason, and readers should critique my assumptions, definitions, evidence, and claims. But we need not sacrifice rigor to pay attention to our emotional, embodied life and what it teaches us.

As I try to make sense of how this thinking-and-feeling about the sex/gender system unfolded in my life, it’s clear that the story is not neat or tidy and that I am not particularly heroic. Even though I wanted to reject the feminist critique, my body was telling me not to turn away, even when this challenge to patriarchy would demand critical self-reflection that was painful. However intense that pain, it would be worth it. Something in me—call it instinct, or inspiration, or dumb luck—kept me reading and thinking. I remained skeptical but with an increasingly open mind.

So, I could concoct a story about how I embraced radical feminism as a result of a careful intellectual process—how a purely rational evaluation of the analytic power of feminist theory led me to accept a compelling argument for a feminist politics rooted in our shared moral commitment to human dignity, solidarity, and equality. Feminist theory offers such an analysis and feminist politics is compelling, but the more accurate story is that I first embraced feminism out of self-interest, out of a desire for something more in life than what patriarchy offers men. I wanted out of the endless competition to ‘be a man’ as defined by patriarchy and was looking for a way simply to be the human being I imagined I could be. Through feminism, I came to understand that the fear and isolation I felt, and many men feel, was the result of a conception of masculinity in patriarchy that traps us in an endless struggle for control, domination, and conquest. The problem was not my failure to live up to the standards of masculinity but the toxic nature of masculinity in patriarchy. And through feminism, I came to understand that the way I was used as a child by other boys and adults wasn’t the result of my weakness or failure but was the product of patriarchy’s brutal sex/gender system that sexualizes domination and subordination.

I also came to understand that patriarchy had not only constrained my life and left me vulnerable when I was young, but trained me to embrace that domination/subordination dynamic as I got older. I may never have felt ‘man enough’, but eventually I learned enough to act out some of those toxic masculinity norms in ways I was not proud of. We want to understand how we have been hurt, but unless we are sociopaths we also have a moral yearning to understand how and why we have hurt others. Feminism provided a framework to understand the injuries I had endured and the injuries I had inflicted, by explaining how patriarchy’s imposition of a sex/gender hierarchy was one of the key forces that structured the world in which I lived, a world I wanted to understand more clearly and help change.

That story is more accurate, but still too neat and tidy, sounding too much like one of those ‘journey narratives’ in which the hero moves through challenges and braves obstacles to enlightenment. But even when we learn to analyze patriarchy, we still live in patriarchy and face the endless challenges that it presents, complicated even further by the other toxic systems of power that structure the world: white supremacy, capitalism, First World domination, and human arrogance in the larger living world. The more we sharpen our capacity to understand, the more we are able to see our failures.

And through it all we analyze and critique, not as free-floating minds, but as embodied creatures. We think and feel our way through this multifaceted world, using not only our intellectual tools but all of our capacities to understand that complexity the best we can. If we are lucky, we have moments of clarity along the way, but if we are honest we never stop struggling to deepen our understanding.

This book began in my body and I begin this book with that recognition because I know that I am not alone in this experience. While working on this book I received an email from a woman who had read some of my writing on pornography and sent me questions regarding her ongoing research on violence. But before raising those issues, she told me a bit of her story, which she gave me permission to share here. It is a story both unique in its specific trajectory while at the same time commonplace, a reminder of Muriel Rukeyser’s insight: What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.¹

Lisa, a woman in her 30s today, told me this about her world:

Throughout my 20s I thought that I was a normal person. I lived and worked and dated, and I was ok. I was also a person with growing insomnia, an increasing love for substances that could put me to sleep, a disappearing attention span, and a lot of eerie, confusing dreams. I started keeping a journal on nights when I couldn’t sleep. A lot of it was incoherent. Almost all of it was about sex.

By my early 30s sleeplessness, alcohol, and difficulty concentrating were reaching their limit. Unlike in my 20s, anything related to sex—scenes in movies, jokes among friends, sex itself—made me so inexplicably upset that I started to avoid them at all cost. They would give me insomnia for days and weeks, a kind of open-ended insomnia that I couldn’t see the end of.

That’s when I saw a therapist for the first time, and over the course of the next several months a long stream of sexual encounters that I had never described in detail to anyone, that had happened with different people over the course of a decade, that I had always remembered and never forgotten, that had lived in my memories as wordless vignettes, that I had simply assumed were normal but also always known were toxic, started to unravel.

When it was over, I looked at the wreckage and I wondered, how did this happen? How did I nearly die by allowing men to use my body? How could the damage accumulate so much without anyone noticing? I have so much more to offer the world, and I deserve so much more from the world than this.

Therapy saved my life, but looking a cruel and common sexual selfishness in the face while standing in front of its effects made me suddenly at odds with everyone. I’m at odds with people my age, I’m at odds with the movies, I’m at odds with advertisements, I’m at odds with dating websites. Healing myself and daring to ask questions turned out to be the loneliest thing I ever did.

I wanted to look to feminism for answers because I needed to understand, but I was shocked, literally traumatized again, by a brain-puzzle of empowerment and choice rhetoric [common in some contemporary feminist writing] that I can only describe as extremely painful for someone like me to read. I didn’t choose any of this.

Throughout, no one had ever described radical feminist ideas to me, and so when I first found them it was like a small stream of fresh air found its way through a mostly closed window into a room with nearly no oxygen left. I don’t need many people to agree with me, but I do need to know that I’m not completely alone.

I have a lot of ideas about the links between a culture of sexual selfishness and sexual violence itself. I know how it goes from liberated pop fantasy to a real person’s body. I think that I’m not alone. I think that there are probably a lot of me.

Lisa’s experience is not idiosyncratic, nor is her concern that some contemporary feminist analyses sidestep a radical critique of patriarchy and instead focus on ways in which women’s choices within patriarchy can be ‘empowering’ for individual women. As it did for me, radical feminism helped Lisa bring the intellectual and the embodied together. Though her experience as a woman is dramatically different than mine as a man—I can take seriously my own pain without asserting a false equivalency with the threats that women face and the injuries they experience—in her story I recognized the world in which both she and I live.

My hope is that this book contributes to an understanding of the world that helps us deal with our individual pain and understand the system out of which that pain emerges. Central to that task, as Lisa makes clear, is facing our fears.

1     Muriel Rukeyser, Houdini: A Musical (Ashfield, MA: Paris Press, 2002), p. 89.

Introduction

FOLLOW YOUR FEAR

The advice of this age, routinely dispensed to people making major life and career choices, is ‘pursue your passion’. There’s no harm in that cliché if it’s meant to encourage people not to accept spirit-crushing jobs for the sake of material comfort, or to remind us to speak our minds when people around us disagree. But in a society facing multiple, cascading social and ecological crises, the obsession with pursuing passions can be a dangerous diversion when those passions lead us to ignore painful realities. The more important advice—for all of us, individually and collectively—is first to ‘follow your fears’.

If there is to be a decent human future on a robust living planet, we are going to have to confront our deepest fears, not only about ourselves but about the profoundly unjust and fundamentally unsustainable societies we have created. The problems we face are the predictable outcome of the social, political, and economic systems on which our societies operate and the underlying ideas that animate those systems. While it’s true enough that the people running those systems are often greedy, sometimes incompetent, and occasionally cruel, our primary problem is not the nature of the people in charge but the nature of the systems they are in charge of.

In polite company we rarely speak of these systems directly, and when we do we often avoid naming and describing them accurately. In the United States it’s common to hear people speak in favor of diversity but rarely do we confront the pathology of white supremacy, the ideology that Europeans created and used to justify their conquest of most of the world for 500 years. Even with the significant achievements of civil rights movements, this culture struggles to face honestly the effects of an enduring white supremacy that we claim we want to transcend.

The pathological greed that drove that conquest eventually developed into contemporary corporate capitalism, with its demand for endless growth and its inevitable wealth inequality. Yet rather than rejecting an economic system that is at odds with our own basic moral principles and with an ecologically viable future, we pretend that superficial reforms sold with terms such as ‘conscious capitalism’ or ‘green capitalism’ can magically change the trajectory. The extractivist/expansionist obsessions of today’s high-energy/advanced-technology world have brought us to a point where a continued large-scale human presence on the planet is no longer certain; some of the most vulnerable populations around the world already face catastrophic conditions and there’s no guarantee that the affluent will be protected indefinitely from similar fates. Yet critical voices are drowned out by the modern world’s assertion that there is no possible challenge to ‘our way of life’, especially in the United States.

Facing honestly the challenges posed by racist, capitalist, imperialist, and high-energy industrial systems is difficult, but perhaps even more difficult is facing the deep pathology of our sex/gender system. That system has a name—patriarchy—the origins of which take us back further into human history, not just centuries but several thousand years, to the beginning of institutionalized male dominance, when men discovered how to turn ‘difference’ into dominance and laid the ideological foundation for all systems of hierarchy, inequality, and exploitation.²

Men’s assertion in patriarchy of a right to control women’s sexuality and reproduction, backed by violence, was central to a process that created a world rigidly ordered by ‘power-over’—power defined as the ability to impose your will on others or to resist that imposition by others, contrasted with the collaborative conception of ‘power-with’.³ This domination/subordination dynamic would come to define virtually all interactions, both within the human