feminism and disregard

I woke up angry today. Old anger—a fire that’s never gone out, but recent iron prods to my coals have revived the flames. I kicked some clothes on the floor. I accidentally cut my finger, yelped, cursed, kicked some more, and had to go teach anyway. (Like many women, for me, anger often inspires self-injury.) Luckily, I was showing a movie; I showed Sylvia to my American Women Writers class after a month focused on Plath. It’s not bad. It’s Hollywood, it’s Gwyneth Paltrow, but it’s too easy to dismiss her because she’s become an oprafied byproduct, a clotheshorse. She can act. She’s smart enough and she delivered the lines well, intuited something about embodying the physicality despite the fact that she’s coltish and sleek, lacks Plath's ironic sturdiness. Her rage was too contained and pretty, but Plath's too was tempered by deep vulnerability. I liked that they used her height—had her dancing with Daniel Craig, (with his ill-defined accent) and looking aggressively at him eye to eye. When they fought they looked well-matched. I’d liked to have seen Plath played by Janet McTeer, who I saw play Nora in A Doll's House on Broadway. By casting an actress who was large boned and towering rather than frail, the director fused the battles with a palpable sexual tension that upped the ante.

Been thinking about feminism lately. I dabbled in the primary texts in college, like we all did at those small liberal arts schools in the 90's. I can't say I've kept up with all the recent players, but I know enough to know I'm not interested in the pseudo-backlash wolfian feminism or sassy short skirt wurtzeled upper east side feminism, but our good old Steinem foremothers, the ones who spoke up when there was something at stake. There’s something at stake again.

I read Katha Pollitt's review of Hughes' Birthday Letters from the NY Times while researching prep for class and ordered Reasonable Creatures from amazon on the spot. I’d read a few poems in the past and liked them; her prose held the poet’s unflinching rage, a woman who speaks with her hand on the coals. Only after I was well into the book did I realize that she was the same woman who’d written the controversial, confessional essay in the New Yorker a few years ago about cyber-stalking her ex. I don’t talk to a lot of people, but even among my small circles there was a buzz about it, (the way there was a buzz about Kathryn Chetkovich's piece Envy in the British Granta). Every woman I’ve spoken to about it admits to relating to it; every man seems either amused, unnerved, irked or threatened. The question is as old as time: why do otherwise intelligent, capable, fascinating women turn into driveling, needy, terrorists when it comes to romantic disappointment. Why do they spend hard earned cash on books with titles like “He’s Just Not That Into You,” (I prefer this recent spin-off). It strikes me, (and, well, duh) that it’s a problem with the framework. All that needy stalking drivel is aggression without an outlet, outrage, utter frustration, a demand to not be disregarded.

I was thinking this morning about a time an ex told me a story about his past. I’d asked if he’d ever impregnated anyone and he told a story about a woman faraway, in the third world. He'd unceremoniously paid for a makeshift abortion and put the whole thing behind him. Washed his hands, so to speak. What bothered me the most was his tone. He told it in the conspiratorial tone that the upper class uses to talk about homelessness, the way the Bush administration talked about those affected by Katrina. It’s unfortunate that they suffered, but they’re like those Guatamalan worry dolls; it’s their job to suffer for us. We whisper our problems to them, close the lid and go on with our lives. I couldn't help but wonder how the story would have been told differently if she was a college girlfriend, a friend of the family, someone more similar to him economically (and, perhaps, racially). And I was complicit. I felt thankful to be in his inner circle. I was in love. I think I might have asked what became of her, whether they were still in touch, then buried my subsequent uneasiness in the protection of being the one chosen for once, at least for awhile. But I wish I'd turned to him and said, she's me. It's what the 70’s feminists called sisterhood, and we can’t afford to dismiss their efforts on account of aesthetics. Women, girls, if you ever hear a man talking about disregarding a woman from his past, know that he’s talking about all of us. One way or another, it will come back around. What you do after taking this in is up to you. Walk out, run, or turn to him, take a deep breath and tell him what’s wrong. Who knows, maybe he’ll be strong enough to stick around to see what comes next. This hasn't happened yet in my experience, but I'm told such things are possible.