BITCHfest: Ten Years of Cultural Criticism From the Pages of Bitch Magazine

by Lisa Jervis

  Without widespread recognition of the true scope of feminism’s influence on all social justice activism, the notion of feminism as defanged girl-power fluff is inevitable: It comes straight from the way record producers, screenwriters, women’s-magazine editors, chick lit publishers, and ad copywriters lift selections from movement rhetoric and use them to dress up their retrogressive pap. That Enjoli ad has more than a few contemporary equivalents: Take mining giant De Beers’s invention of the right-hand ring, which the company claims is all about “the strength, success, and independence of women of the twenty-first century.” Or check out Stouffer’s launch of a new frozen diet pizza, which was marketed with ads that said: “The vote. The stay-at-home dad. The push-up bra. The Lean Cuisine pizza.”

  The distinction between feminism’s vibrancy, nuance, and commitment to social justice and the superficial appropriation of its catchphrases could not be more crucial. The messages of mainstream culture, commercial forces, conservative political trends, and the like all too often combine to make audiences unable to sort feminism’s unfinished business from its failures; they make it all too easy to confuse the reality and range of our movement with distortions and misrepresentations of it. The writers in this section are wrestling with the way the mainstream seeks to use, abuse, and misuse feminism—and what we need to do to stop them.—L.J.

  And Now a Word from Our Sponsors

  Feminism for Sale

  Rita Hao / FALL 1998

  AS WE APPROACH THE END OF THE MILLENNIUM, FEMINISM appears to have made significant strides into mainstream culture—we have a surfeit of women’s magazines aimed at all permutations of politics, ethnicities, orientations, appearances, lifestyles, interests, and ages (Ms., Mode, Latina, and Women and Guns, to name just a few), we have TV shows targeted specifically at us (leading women Buffy, Ally, Sabrina, Veronica), we have our own cottage industry in music (the Lilith Fair, Missy Elliot, Fiona Apple, the Spice Girls). This is indeed something to celebrate—but before we rest, smug and Katie Roiphe—like, on our laurels of “battle’s already won, stop whining already” feminism, it might be interesting to explore the ways the media has constructed its apparently unquestioning acceptance of women and feminism.

  Sure, it’s great that we have, for once, so many options to choose from. But the main reason the media can support this diversity of voices rests on what the corporate world refers to as … well, money. So who’s paying for those articles on Courtney Love in Spin magazine? Who’s supporting the WNBA on ESPN? Who keeps Jane afloat? Advertisers. And what are they saying?

  I’ve noticed recently that advertisements have started trying to speak to me in my own voice. Part of this stems from the fact that, as a twenty-five-year-old woman working a corporate day job, I represent that new cash cow, the Generation X slacker/corporate drone. (I “slack.” Yet I also save in a 401(k)! I am deeply cynical yet also hopeful in the new economic upswing! I am replete with contradiction. Make colas and candy and clothing for me!) But advertisers have also learned that the best way to sell to women is to make them feel as if they’re important. As if they matter. In short, to speak to them as feminists.

  Okay, I admit, I fall for this trick every time. Give me a pseudofeminist slogan and I’ll go for the product in a second. Strong enough for a man—but made for a woman? I love that shit. This little light of mine? Well, of course I’m gonna let it shine, goddammit. Give me two pairs of Lees, posthaste! Sports gear? I don’t even play sports, but you know I’m elevating my self-esteem with those grainy black-and-white shots of women doing something sports-related to inspirational music. And the ad for Clairol where the women all turn down dates with “Steve” to “wash their hair”? I mean, the Beavis and Butt-Head-y turn of phrase (“a totally organic [huh-huh, huh-huh] experience”) indicates fairly clearly to me, at least, that this particular ad campaign was penned by some sweaty twenty-six-year-old male, but I must admit I find the implication that Steve is somehow, you know, not a hot tamale in the sack to be hysterically funny. Sisters doing it for themselves is always a good message to send.

  So—on the one hand, I guess it’s good that advertisers have finally realized that smart women are a viable market at which to aim their pitches. I mean, I’m heartened that Ms.’s No Comment page, once chock-full of pictures of women being torn to pieces by dogs or something similarly horrific, has now been reduced to a bare three or four entries, one of which is usually a nude shot from a European magazine and another of which is usually an ad for skateboarding equipment. I’m pleased that those throat-clearingly discomfiting douche commercials have been replaced with up-front and frank (but, interestingly enough, equally discomfiting) yeast infection medication ads. I’m glad that the market now views women in a variety of roles—daughters, schoolgirls, teenagers, sexual beings, mothers, businesswomen, sports figures, activists, everything. Rah, rah and yay for us.

  But what makes this particular cultural manifestation of quote-unquote feminism (which, arguably, is nothing more than the advertising industry’s realization that “hey! women buy things!”) an effective way to move units? And what makes this particular movement one that makes advertisers think you’ll spend money to hear its messages? What drives this union of feminism and capitalism? I mean, I have my doubts about Baffler-chic cultural punditry (“It’s all about the Benjamins, baby,” is a particularly wanker way to view culture, I think), but let’s explore a little, shall we?

  Clearly, the strong, self-actualized woman is an image that sells. It makes sense, right? You see one of these ads, you get that strange sensation of—could it be? Could it actually be? Elevating self-esteem? Identification with an image in the media? Oh, my God! Ideally, advertisers are thinking, you’ll associate that good feeling (especially since it’s so rare) with their brand and think, “Wow, Nike—they make me feel great!” Then you’ll rush out and spend the seventy-five cents that you earn to the male dollar on their product.

  It strikes me as hypocritical, though, to push this limited, you-can-do-anything vision of feminism on women when even Vogue admits that part of the reason why women have self-esteem low enough to need to hear that we can do anything is that this same industry goes around telling us we’re too fat/too dark/too loud/too aggressive in the first place, and thus need retail therapy to make ourselves feel validated again. This little light of mine is supposed to shine in jeans that I swear must be deliberately cut to make me look both hipless and paunchy? I’m supposed to feel better about myself because I run my anorexia-inducing fitness routine in “if you let me play, I won’t drop out of school” shoes? I don’t care if Calvin Klein is telling me to “be fun. be fearless. just be.” I still don’t think his company puts forth a particularly helpful vision of womanhood. (And, for God’s sake, like I really want to be like Kate fucking Moss. Excuse me, I practice dental hygiene.)

  Furthermore, this sort of pro-woman schlock isn’t even about feminism at all. It’s not like we’re all supposed to get together and think about the ways gender roles have created artificial barriers between people, or how sexism keeps us from reaching our goals. Oh, no—we’re supposed to race out to the mall and buy things. Yeah, that’s going to help women secure their right to choose.

  Now, I’m not saying that buying things is automatically antifeminist. I, for one, have been espied at Union Square toting bags from the Gap, Macy’s, Virgin, Nine West, and Ann Taylor. All at once, even. I love to shop. (Thus, interestingly, perpetuating the idea in some adman’s mind that I’m buying nicely made business casual because “Ann Taylor is about being real.” No. Ann Taylor is, in actuality, about an extensively stocked line of petite clothing. You compromise where you have to.) But capitalism is a system that maintains its momentum by encouraging people to think only in terms of me, me, me. Interesting that now it’s using rhetoric from a movement that has tried, since its inception, to encourage people to understand the ways that sort of self-centered thinking exists as a cover for the exploitation of the labor of people who, f
or reasons such as color, class, and gender, have been historically considered somehow inferior to the people who actually count. Capitalist feminism welcomes the woman whose Visa card will be accepted at the door into the ranks of the worthy. But what about everyone else?

  Ultimately, these ads put forth a vision of feminism that is increasingly devoid of any sense of community or vitality: I am a strong feminist, thus I deserve new shoes/cute clothes/fattening food/beauty products.

  And that I have a problem with—because if feminism is about anything, it’s about the hidden power dynamics of entitlement. You don’t deserve to make more money than me because you pee standing up. You don’t deserve to get into college just because your dad went there before you. To take feminist rhetoric and turn it into just another self-centered Ayn Randian trip (Fuck everyone else! Where do I want to go today?) is dangerous.

  That said, I feel slightly guilty trashing these ads because I know they disturb the status quo in a lot of ways. I know this because, you know, the only thing in advertising that irritates me more than faux-feminist ads is the backlash against faux-feminist ads. Nike, for instance, has an ad that says, “Breaking the glass ceiling … What do[es that] have to do with shoes?” In other words, “Fuck all that pro-woman shit we told you last year; why don’t you just go running instead?” Feminism sells, but backlash sells even better.

  Even worse is the way Sprite’s “image is nothing, thirst is everything” campaign has taken on the recent rise of the Angry Rock Chick with its parody of Courtney/Alanis/Meredith Brooks, which runs basically to the point of: “I can’t write lyrics and I can’t sing, but I look really good in tight skirts. I hate men and I can’t play guitar, but I sell lots of records because I talk about sex.” And they also have a Spice Girls version: “We look cute and we look sharp, and we have to do what Sprite says because next month we won’t be famous.”

  Okay, now. Deep breath, deep breath. Let’s think about it this way: I know I’m ambivalent about the recent marketing of girl power. But I’m ambivalent about it in a different way than Sprite is. It’s not like Sprite’s ads are saying, “Hey, Rita, you are so totally right about this angry-Alanis phenomenon turning riot grrrl rhetoric into the same old I-can’t-live-without-a-man shtick. Gosh, Rita, isn’t it irritating that the Lilith Fair is turning girl rage inward again? We hear you about how the Spice Girls end up pushing a vision of femininity and feminism that re-creates women as rather dim.” Oh, no—Sprite’s ads are for that most bizarre of phenomena, the nervous Ben Folds Five/Verve Pipe fan who feels threatened by feminist empowerment (“How come them chicks get their own concert tour and us guys don’t?”).

  These advertisers are ultimately trying to have it both ways—get those Gen XX girls who already feel ambivalent about the marketing of feminism by the media, and those Gen XY boys who just feel ambivalent about feminism. Capitalism isn’t about welcoming women into the fold, or using our newfound economic clout to make changes in the way the system works. It’s about making money. It’s about tapping into what really is a very new and powerful phenomenon—the woman who makes enough to pay the rent and several credit card balances, but is young enough to be free of major money-sucking responsibilities—and channeling her for its own ends. So go on, go buy cute things. Buy cute things you want. But make sure you know why you want them. Retail therapy works only if you know what you’re trying to cure.

  I Can’t Believe It’s Not Feminism!

  On the Feminists Who Aren’t

  Julie Craig / SPRING 2002

  THE TITLE OF CHRISTINA HOFF SOMMERS’S FIRST BOOK ASKED, Who Stole Feminism? Daphne Patai gave one of her books the provocative subtitle Cautionary Tales from the Strange World of Women’s Studies. Elizabeth Fox-Genovese paraphrased the women she interviewed in the title of her book, “Feminism Is Not the Story of My Life.” Yet all of these women call themselves feminists.

  What all of them have in common is that while they label themselves feminists—and their books show up in the women’s studies section of your local bookstore—their theories are overwhelmingly hostile to feminist goals such as holding men responsible for rape and promoting gender equality in the classroom. More important, these authors’ close ties to antifeminist organizations, combined with the potent selling power of all things controversial, have made them into media darlings—and given them access to the kind of publicity that writers with more, well, feminist feminist views rarely get.

  So who are these women? Are they outspoken feminists or traitors to the cause? Unlike the many social critics who vocally oppose feminism as a concept, these authors loudly and publicly embrace the label, despite the fact that “feminism” is a dirty word within the conservative circles that have nurtured them. They defy feminism to make some serious choices about the future of the movement and who fits into it: Can a conservative woman be a feminist? Has feminism become so radical that mainstream proponents of equal rights are alienated by its rhetoric?

  These are all interesting questions, but more relevant ones might be: Do these authors actually contribute to the body of feminist work, or do they merely perpetuate the delusion that feminism is a dangerous force with power disproportionate to the number of its adherents?

  Camille Paglia: Grandstanding Contrarian

  Camille Paglia is, perhaps, the original antifeminist feminist. She maintains that contemporary feminism is faltering “in a reactionary phase of hysterical moralism and prudery” and delights in baiting other public feminists. (She calls Naomi Wolf “Little Miss Pravda” and quotes approvingly another writer who said of Gloria Steinem, “Once we needed her, now we’re stuck with her.”) Of course, she purports to be the one true feminist, declaring, “My feminism stresses courage, independence, self-reliance, and pride,” and leaving no room for feminism as a more political or communal effort.

  Paglia’s first book, Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson, was published in 1990; 1992’s Sex, Art, and American Culture and 1994’s Vamps and Tramps followed in quick succession (more recently, Paglia has dispensed her wisdom in a regular column for Salon). Riddled with forceful proclamations backed by scant evidence (as well as a harping nostalgia for the 1960s that would make even the most die-hard hippie cringe), Paglia’s critical essays on everything from music to the sexual peccadilloes of politicians are certainly dramatic, but they rarely hold up to scrutiny. Pop culture, she exclaims, is “an eruption of the never-defeated paganism of the West,” which sounds edgy and transgressive but fails to explain how today’s mass-media Touched by an Angel pap is an eruption of anything other than unadulterated smarm. Her platitudes might hold true for the narrow examples she chooses; everything that contradicts her arguments is ignored.

  Femmes fatales (such as Elizabeth Taylor, Jackie Onassis, and Madonna) are the only iconic feminists in her worldview, leaving readers to wonder how feminist political leaders, artists, scientists, and other women whose lives don’t read like a B-grade romance novel fit into her theories. She champions male sexuality while deriding female sexuality (which is interesting, given that she is a woman) and is particularly hostile on the subject of lesbianism (which is interesting, given that her partner is a woman). “When women cut themselves off from men,” she writes, “they sink backward into psychological and spiritual stagnancy.” Similarly, she dismisses women’s art, asserting that creativity and innovation are essentially masculine traits.

  But Paglia really steps on feminism’s dress when it comes to rape, as she makes it clear that the celebration of all things masculine extends to sexual coercion. “Feminism … does not see what is for men the eroticism or fun element in rape, especially the wild, infectious delirium of gang rape.” (Pardon us if we just can’t understand that giddy delight.) Paglia’s hardheaded advice style, while appealing for its release from the heavy theorizing of academic feminism, lays the blame on women while adamantly refusing to suggest that men take responsibility for their actions.

  Christina Hoff Somme
rs: The War Against Feminism

  In her 1994 book, Who Stole Feminism? How Women Have Betrayed Women, Christina Hoff Sommers claims that feminism has split into two competing camps: the equality feminists and the gender feminists. Under her definitions, equality feminists have fought for issues like equal pay (and, earlier in history, suffrage) but have now been effectively marginalized within the movement by more vocal gender feminists. This latter species, according to Sommers, wants a radical reworking of society—from education to economics—eliminating all structures they deem patriarchal, overhauling capitalism, and generally disrupting life as we know it. (This division between so-called equality and gender feminists sounds suspiciously similar to the long-standing split between the liberal and radical branches of feminism—with Sommers’s answer to the question “Who stole feminism?” clearly being “radical feminists.”)

  Though her second book, 2000’s The War Against Boys: How Misguided Feminism Is Harming Our Young Men, focuses on feminist reform in the elementary classroom, feminist pedagogy in the university setting (especially in the formalized context of women’s studies) is a particular bee in Sommers’s bonnet. The book makes one or two valid criticisms; for example, she rightly questions female students’ need for a sensitive, feelings-based classroom (which, of course, plays into stereotypes of women as emotional rather than rational). But for the most part she paints a myopic portrait of women’s studies that dwells exclusively on the discipline’s worst excesses. Caricaturing the supposed radicalism of the feminist classroom, Sommers muses that women’s studies departments should be required to hand out a letter to parents of prospective students declaring, “We will help your daughter discover the extent to which she has been in complicity with the patriarchy. She may become enraged and chronically offended. She will very likely reject the religious and moral codes you raised her with. She may end up hating you (her father) and pitying you (her mother). After she has completed her re-education with us, you will certainly be out tens of thousands of dollars and very possibly be out one daughter as well.” Sommers’s shortsighted analysis ignores the diversity of women’s studies faculties and the existence of other critics of classroom radicalism, and her generalizations do not paint an accurate picture of feminist education any more than they adhere honestly to the realities of feminist philosophy.