Joanna Russ - The Female Man

Well, I turned into a man.

We love, says Plato, that in which we are defective; when we see our magical Self in the mirror of another, we pursue it with desperate cries— Stop! I must possess you !—but if it obligingly stops and turns, how on earth can one then possess it? Fucking, if you will forgive the pun, is an anti-climax. And you are as poor as before. For years I wandered in the desert, crying: Why do you torment me so ? and Why do you hate me so ? and Why do you put me down so ? and / will abase myself and I will please you and Why, oh why have you forsaken me ? This is very feminine. What I learned late in life, under my rain of lava, under my kill-or-cure, unhappily, slowly, stubbornly, barely, and in really dreadful pain, was that there is one and only one way to possess that in which we are defective, therefore that which we need, therefore that which we want.

Become it.

(Man, one assumes, is the proper study of Mankind. Years ago we were all cave Men. Then there is Java Man and the future of Man and the values of Western Man and existential Man and economic Man and Freudian Man and the Man in the moon and modern Man and eighteenth-century Man and too many Mans to count or look at or believe. There is Mankind. An eerie twinge of laughter garlands these paradoxes. For years I have been saying Let me in, Love me, Approve me, Define me, Regulate me, Validate me, Support me . Now I say Move over . If we are all Mankind, it follows to my interested and righteous and right now very bright and beady little eyes, that I too am a Man and not at all a Woman, for honestly now, whoever heard of Java Woman and existential Woman and the values of Western Woman and scientific Woman and alienated nineteenth-century Woman and all the rest of that dingy and antiquated rag-bag? All the rags in it are White, anyway. I think I am a Man; I think you had better call me a Man; I think you will write about me as a Man from now on and speak of me as a Man and employ me as a Man and recognize child-rearing as a Man’s business; you will think of me as a Man and treat me as a Man until it enters your muddled, terrified, preposterous, nine-tenths-fake, loveless, papier-mache-bull-moose head that I am a man . (And you are a woman.) That’s the whole secret. Stop hugging Moses’ tablets to your chest, nitwit; you’ll cave in. Give me your Linus blanket, child. Listen to the female man.

If you don’t, by God and all the Saints, I’ll break your neck.)

We would gladly have listened to her (they said) if only she had spoken like a lady . But they are liars and the truth is not in them.

Shrill… vituperative… no concern for the future of society… maunderings of antiquated feminism… selfish femlib… needs a good lay… this shapeless book… of course a calm and objective discussion is beyond… twisted, neurotic… some truth buried in a largely hysterical… of very limited interest, I should… another tract for the trash-can… burned her bra and thought that… no characterization, no plot… really important issues are neglected while… hermetically sealed… women’s limited experience… another of the screaming sisterhood… a not very appealing aggressiveness… could have been done with wit if the author had… deflowering the pretentious male… a man would have given his right arm to… hardly girlish… a woman’s book… another shrill polemic which the… a mere male like myself can hardly… a brilliant but basically confused study of feminine hysteria which… feminine lack of objectivity… this pretense at a novel… trying to shock… the tired tricks of the anti-novelists… how often must a poor critic have to… the usual boring obligatory references to Lesbianism… denial of the profound sexual polarity which… an all too womanly refusal to face facts… pseudo-masculine brusqueness… the ladies’-magazine level… trivial topics like housework and the predictable screams of… those who cuddled up to ball-breaker Kate will… unfortunately sexless in its outlook… drivel… a warped clinical protest against… violently waspish attack… formidable self-pity which erodes any chance of… formless… the inability to accept the female role which… the predictable fury at anatomy displaced to… without the grace and compassion which we have the right to expect… anatomy is destiny… destiny is anatomy… sharp and funny but without real weight or anything beyond a topical… just plain bad… we “dear ladies,” whom Russ would do away with, unfortunately just don’t feel… ephemeral trash, missiles of the sex war… a female lack of experience which

Q.E.D. Quod erat demonstrandum. It has been proved.

Janet has begun to follow strange men on the street; whatever will become of her? She does this either out of curiosity or just to annoy me; whenever she sees someone who interests her, woman or man, she swerves automatically (humming a little tune, da-dum, da-dee) and continues walking but in the opposite direction. When Whileawayan 1 meets Whileawayan 2, the first utters a compound Whileawayan word which may be translated as “Hello-yes?” to which the answer may be the same phrase repeated (but without the rising inflection), “Hello-no.”

“Hello” alone, silence, or “No!”

“Hello-yes” means I wish to strike up a conversation, “Hello” means I don’t mind your remaining here but I don’t wish to talk; “Hello-no” Stay here if you like but don’t bother me in any way; silence I’d be much obliged if you’d get out of here; I’m in a foul temper . Silence accompanied by a quick shake of the head means I’m not ill-tempered but I have other reasons for wanting to be alone . “No!” means Get away or I’ll do that to you which you won’t like . (In contradistinction to our customs, it is the late-comer who has the moral edge, Whileawayan 1 having already got some relief or enjoyment out of the convenient bench or flowers or spectacular mountain or whatever’s at issue.) Each of these responses may be used as salutations, of course.

I asked Janet what happens if both Whileawayans say “No!”

“Oh” she says (bored), “they fight.”

“Usually one of us runs away,” she added.

Janet is sitting next to Laura Rose on my nubbly-brown couch, half-asleep, half all over her friend in a confiding way, her head resting on Laur’s responsible shoulder. A young she-tiger with a large, floppy cub. In her dozing Janet has shed ten years’ anxiety and twenty pounds of trying-to-impress-others; she must be so much younger and sillier with her own people; grubbing in the tomato patch or chasing lost cows; what Safety and Peace officers do is beyond me. (A cow found her way into the Mountainpersons’ common room and backed a stranger through a foam wall by trying to start a conversation—Whileawayans have a passion for improving the capacities of domestic animals—she kept nudging this visitor and saying “Friend? Friend?” in a great, wistful moo, like the monster in the movie, until a Mountainperson shooed her away: You don’t want to make trouble, do you, child? You want to be milked, don’t you? Come on, now.)

’Tell us about the cow,” says Laura Rose. “Tell Jeannine about it,” (who’s vainly trying to flow into the wall, O agony, those two women are touching) .

“No,” mutters Janet sleepily.

“Then tell us about the Zdubakovs,” says Laur.

“You’re a vicious little beast!” says Janet and sits bolt upright.

“Oh come on, giraffe,” says Laura Rose. “Tell!” She has sewn embroidered bunches of flowers all over her denim jacket and jeans with a red, red rose on the crotch, but she doesn’t wear these clothes at home, only when visiting.