A manifesta for Third Wave feminism

By Tamara Straus

IT IS EASY to be cynical about feminist activism today. The quest for equality–in the workplace, at home, on the street, and particularly in the corridors of power–is far from what advocates of the 1970s women’s movement, the so-called Second Wave, fought for. There are few women in government; a glass ceiling in the workplace, although wearing thin, still looms overhead; and perhaps most important of all, American women–though mostly free of the centuries’ long economic dependence on men–are now hamstrung between the pressures of making money or pursuing a profession and raising children.

Go to the magazine shelves, pick up any glossy rag–Redbook, Mademoiselle, Cosmo–and there you will read one benumbing article after another in reaction to (though rarely insightful about) the hackneyed belief that “you can’t have it all”; that Second Wave feminism, with its derogation of marriage and emphasis on social and economic justice, has sold out a whole generation of women, who can’t get hitched in the booming marketplace of sexual liberation.

It’s no wonder that people aren’t even familiar with the term “Third Wave feminism.” The more general assumption is that feminism is dead, that the Second Wavers did their work –and not particularly well–and now we’re stuck with a bucket-load of unsolvable problems.

But hark! Feminism is not dead, nor has it ever found itself in the throes of final expiration. It just, like all movements, has mutated and transformed.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon: ‘Girlies’ create a feminism of their own.

JENNIFER Baumgardner and Amy Richards know this implicitly, which is one of the reasons they wrote Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism, and the Future (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2000), a book that argues for the continued importance of feminism in politics, education, and culture. The other reason they spent five years dissecting the state of the women’s movement is to define the controversial ascendance of “girlie culture,” a phenomenon of female self-empowerment that emerged in the 1990s with movies like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, activist groups like Riot Grrrl, and books like Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Bitch.

Baumgardner and Richards advocate girlie culture. They have done so as journalists (both 30-year-olds got their start at Ms. magazine) and as activists (both are leaders of the Third Wave, an activist group for young women). But their main problem is that Second Wave feminists, and especially Second Wave politicians and journalists, are largely against their advocation. Women like former New York Times columnist Anna Quindlen have argued that equating lipstick with empowerment, however playful or ironic, and reclaiming such words as bitch and slut make a mockery of feminism’s longtime and still unachieved goals of social and economic equality.

So it seems an intergenerational struggle has sprung forth between mothers and daughters. On the one side are Second Wavers who lashed out against their sexually limiting roles as wives and mothers in exchange for equal pay and egalitarian partnerships. And on the other are Third Wavers who, perhaps dismissive of the battles fought and often won by their mothers, aspire to be Madonna, the woman who rose to fame as the ultimate virgin whore. Third Wavers, say Baumgardner and Richards, want to continue the fight for equal rights, but not to the detriment of their sexuality. They want to be both subject and object.

As the following interview and accompanying excerpt disclose, Baumgardner and Richards believe the generational struggle over feminism marks a new era: the tapering off of the Second Wave and the growing pains of Third.

The question you must ask yourself as a reader is: Can a Third Wave that tries to push forward urgent feminist issues–such as national heath care and child care as well as the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment–also champion girlie power with its penchant for adolescent role playing and baby-doll T-shirts? Can Baumgardner and Richards’ Third Wave manifesto be taken seriously not only by the Second Wave but also by young American women in general?

Bohemian: Why is sex or sexual self-esteem so important for this generation rather than issues of economic and social equality? Why has so-called lipstick or girlie feminism emerged?

Richards: What people don’t understand is that talking about sex and sexual self-esteem is talking about equality. When I meet with high school students and they want to discuss sex, I realize we are talking about equality. It’s just a different path to the same goal. In our book, we put emphasis on the “Do-Mes,” the lipstick feminists, because that’s been our culture. I think we’ve seen women in our generation–Bust magazine is a great example of this–who say, adamantly, “I’m going to be female, and being female is just as valuable as being male.” I don’t think these women are saying, “I’m going to be female, going to be objectified, going to wear sexy clothes and so on, and be part of the backlash against feminism.” I think they’re saying, “I’m going to do all these things because I want to embrace my femininity.”

Baumgardner: They’re also not saying, “I am inherently female. I am essentially female.” They’re saying, “I am not going to put on this female dress, role, what have you, because I do not want this thing that’s called female to be considered stupid. And I like it!” What we were responding to [in Second Wavers’ accusations that girlie culture is not real feminism] is that they are doing to younger women what men have done to them. Second Wavers are saying to us, “You’re silly. That isn’t an important issue. What you talk about is dumb. Let me tell you what real feminism is. It’s what we talk about.” We focus on the intergenerational issue because we think it has gone unexamined.

Bohemian: You embrace several new, and for some, outrageous feminist epithets: girl, bitch, slut, and cunt. What does the use of these words by Third Wave feminists mean?

Richards: Well, I think it stems from the perception that the discussion of sex was shut off to feminists, except if it involved violent or invasive sex. But I think there’s also a question of who is in control of those words. For so long those words were used against women. Now using them is women’s attempt to reclaim them and to say, “Yes, I am difficult. I am a bitch. Call me a bitch. I’m going to reclaim bitch and make it my own word, because the word has more hostility when it’s being used against me than when it’s being used by me.” Slut, too. Slut is just a girl with a libido, whereas a boy with a libido is just a boy.

Baumgardner: You also have to remember that the word feminist is used against us and is entirely different when we use it ourselves. Often women, younger women especially, refuse to use the term “feminist” to describe themselves. They do this for really good, self-protective reasons, because they see the term being used against women and perhaps they see it as too confining. In our chapter on girlie culture, “Barbie vs. the Menstrual Kit,” we argue that young women’s primary expression these days is a joy and ownership of sexuality and that’s a form of power, a type of energy.

Bohemian: Why is competition so difficult for women who see themselves as feminists? And is the recent focus on preadolescent girls’ self-esteem–by Harvard psychologist Carol Gilligan in particular–a way for feminists to address the issue of female power, to teach girls to be competitive and not feel uncomfortable about it?

Richards: What’s difficult for feminists is that competition implies a winner and a loser. Since for so long women have been the losers in society, the notion of competition is very threatening. But I think young women are giving older women an alternative. We do not say, “Get over your differences,” but we show them that there can be disagreement that’s productive. I was on a panel recently for a documentary called The Strength to Resist, based on Jean Kilbourne’s book on women and advertising, and the question posed to me was: “What would your advice be to girls to help them find their strength?” I said, “Play sports. Be athletic.” And all of these older women jumped on me because they thought I implied competitive sports and that’s not what we should be teaching girls. So there’s fear of competition.

Baumgardner: I don’t think feminists talk about self-esteem in terms of competition, and maybe that’s a mistake because girls should know what we really mean. Competition would be a very good word for the struggle for self-esteem. But Amy is right: competition isn’t so much a feminist word, because it implies a winner and a loser, and so it runs counter to feminist cooperation. I’m in an intergenerational feminist activist group, and the women in it, many of whom are prominent writers, fight constantly, and competition is one of the issues that comes up. They say, “God, we never had these conversations in front of each other.” And even though these fights are hard for me to watch, I can appreciate that they’re trying to work out demons from 30 years ago. What used to happen in feminist activism was that there was a fight and women would form different groups and keep dividing because it was too painful to disagree.

Bohemian: In this way, do you think Second Wavers did not come to grips with the power of their sexuality, that since it had been practically the only source of their power, they had to repress it in order to fight for economic and social justice–and now what has been repressed is resurfacing?

Richards: Yes, I think it’s also that we realize there’s more than one way to be sexual. Historically, there was only one way, at least it was perceived that way, and that’s what people were resisting. And I think now there are many ways to be sexual–athleticism is sexy, different body types are sexy, androgyny is sexy.

Bohemian: Does defining Third Wave feminism raise problems?

Baumgardner: Yes. If we had defined Third Wave activism in strict terms in the book, we would have been criticized for it. People always ask us what the most important issue is, and my response is: “Name an issue. If that’s what you’re interested in, then it’s the most important, whether it’s eating disorders, sexual harassment, child care, etc.” This insistence on definitions is really frustrating because feminism gets backed into a corner. People keep insisting on defining and defining and defining and making a smaller and smaller definition–and it’s just lazy thinking on their part. Feminism is something individual to each feminist.

Bohemian: Does the Third Wave movement need a leader, someone like Gloria Steinem?

Richards: Steinem didn’t make herself a leader, the media did, which is more and more the case. We live in a culture dominated by a cult of celebrity, in which leadership is based on who gets the most face time and who gets the most PR time. But a leader is made because she or he does something different. This is muddied now–leadership is dependent on who gets the most press. Hollywood actors are treated like leaders because they get the most PR. I’m constantly screaming: “What did Leonardo DiCaprio ever do?” And so while it’s wonderful that certain celebrities put their money and personality behind a certain cause, it masks who really is fighting for that cause.

Baumgardner: The other way I’ve always read the quote Amy mentions is: The people who in one generation are totally singular because they were brave enough to challenge the system, in the next inherit their victories. We are all Gloria Steinems now–without the fame, of course–because we all have the rights that she fought for: to be single and financially independent and so on. So we are the private citizens who have the same rights as yesterday’s public heroines.

From the November 9-15, 2000 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

Dog Wars

By C. D. Payne

IT’S NOT EXACTLY Bosnia, but I live in the middle of a war zone. In my neighborhood, windows are flung open at 3 a.m. and anguished voices can be heard screaming, “Stop that damn barking!” In dog language this must mean, “Yes, do add your vigorous voice to the nighttime chorus that is so pleasing to the sleeping humans.”

It used to be that when people bought a home in the country, real estate agents would leave a celebratory bottle of champagne in the frig. Now I think they must chain several large and vociferous canines in the backyard.

Dogs out here are like sex lives. Even the most unlikely people have one.

Down the road, two of my neighbors–formerly friendly–are now warring over their pets. Threats have been hurled and allusions to guns have been made. Curiously, both have throngs of yap-happy canines. You’d think having so much in common would bring them together.

Another neighbor, when confronted with noise complaints, responds in three ways: (1) She denies that her dogs bark; (2) she states they bark to protect her property; and (3) she informs other neighbors that the complainant has pepper-sprayed her dogs. She obviously believes that the best defense is a strong offense.

The good news is that there’s an easy solution to this problem. And no, it doesn’t involve any pie-in-the-sky strategy like requiring pet owners to act responsibly.

My solution: we can all have as many dogs as we want, but we’d be limited to one breed–Boston terriers.

Scooter, my Boston, doesn’t bark. Oh, he may give out with a feeble yelp when the doorbell rings. And he may voice his objections if a cat dares to jump on a car he’s occupying. But other than those provocations, he’s as silent as a goldfish.

Boston terriers are intelligent, ecological (they eat less than big dogs), loyal, and cute. They’re also 100 percent all-American, being the only breed that originated in the United States. They do have a shortish intestine, so you may want to open a window when confined with your Boston to a small room.

But that’s a small price to pay for all that peace and quiet.

Sebastopol novelist and dog lover C. D. Payne recently published ‘Frisco Pigeon Mambo,’ hailed by the author’s agent as “the great American pigeon novel.”

From the November 9-15, 2000 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Midnight Rider

Taking the long way home– driving the coastal highway after dark

By Stephen Kessler

FINISHING DINNER with friends in San Francisco, I consider whether to spend the night in the city or make the long drive home to Gualala Ridge–some 120 miles, two and a half hours or so on a normal day but usually less than that after dark, when fewer cars are on the coast road. If I set out no later than 10 o’clock and cruise north across the Golden Gate into a clear night–no ferocious storms or fog to obscure the stars or the highway, and no sneaky California Highway Patrol parked in the dark on Valley Ford Road to cite me for doing a safe but illegal speed–I can be in my own bed by 1 a.m. and have a whole day ahead of me in which, who knows, I might even get something done. Otherwise it means a morning in the car and losing the most productive part of the day. Doing it now, in the dark, when I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway, seems like a sound idea.

My dinner companions give me that you-must-be-out-of-your-mind- to-want-to-drive-that-nauseating-road-this-time-of-night look, and maybe I am, but they haven’t mastered those 10,000 curves as I have over the years, and they don’t appreciate the meditative solitude of moving smoothly by moonlit headlights through country that smells of grass, of stinky herds, of oak or eucalyptus smoke, of skunk, but finally of crashing surf and the fresh shock of ocean air and the oxygen-rich infusion of redwoods’ breath. A decaf espresso is all the stimulant I need to keep me perky for the trip. The night is wide, the bridge glows golden in its orangey light, and quicker than you can say San Quentin I’m streaming into Marin.

Beyond the neon of the car dealerships, fast-food franchises, cheap motels, and upscale shopping malls; past the streamlined architecture of the industrial parks and office complexes and retail outlets and the rosy arches and funny blue domes of Frank Lloyd Wright’s great Dr. Seuss­like space-age Civic Center; skirting the landfill and zooming into the rustic darkness of Sonoma County and taking one of the Petaluma exits through the ranchlands of west Sonoma toward Bodega Bay, you know you’re beyond the suburbs by the pungent stench of cow dung that, even with the windows up, is more intense at night, the cool dark air conducting that funky aroma into the car as surely as essence of crushed skunk and making you grateful, by the time you get there, for the salty tonic of Bodega’s fishing harbor and the increasingly bracing ocean-and-mountain freshness above Jenner.

Yes, you still have to watch for those random cattle out for a sleepwalk, but the highway from the Russian River north has a cosmic desolation at these hours that induces a heightened sense of perception. You can reduce the loneliness a little by playing your favorite tapes or tuning in some radio show beamed over the water from Berkeley or San Francisco, but sometimes it’s best to let the sound of the motor be your mantra, or to open a window, if it’s not too cold, and hear what the wind is singing.

It’s true that in the dark you don’t see the ospreys, redtails, kites, and kestrels lacing their gorgeous predatory choreographies through the sky, and if the moon’s not up, you may miss most of that oceanic expansiveness to the west. But even if you can’t see it, you can sense the immensity out there; even if fog is forcing you to creep along following the line with your low beams, grateful for those little reflectors, you can feel the vastness of the space you’re traversing, and it humbles you in a different way from the awe you may feel when faced with the view in daylight.

So maybe you’re visually stymied or deprived as you climb the switchbacks of the Jenner Grade, or maybe over your shoulder you catch a glimpse of the Pacific reflecting the splendor of the heavens, and maybe the hour of strenuous cornering ahead to Mendocino County is a little daunting this time of night, but look, there’s scarcely a trace of traffic–hardly a log truck or lumbering Winnebago or flabbergasted tourist turned incompetent by the vistas; at worst perhaps some hot-rodding mountain man roaring up behind you in a monster pickup, so you pull over at the first chance and let him pass, or the headlights of some tanker truck coming the other way on the run down the coast from Fort Bragg. But mainly it’s just you and the hardcore, frequently washed-out, cracked-in-places, rock-strewn, cliff-skirting, gravity-testing, giddily dangerous pavement, and you get into a groove and you drive.

Alert for deer, which are constantly appearing when you least want to see them, you may be surprised by creatures you seldom meet in the light of day: waggling raccoons, those stealthy black-masked bandits; the occasional owl that swoops out of nowhere just to give your adrenaline a jump; the tawny, compact, long-legged bobcat; a silver fox with its elegant tapered snout and feline quickness of foot and fluffy tail. Or once in a while, if you’re really lucky, late, a certain unmistakable sinewy shape bounding with confidence across the road, long tail trailing a loping gait–the puma, cougar, California panther, a mountain lion by any other name is equally magnificent: one such sighting is a lifetime gift.

Sometimes you can smell the eucalyptus spice as you pass that huge grove at Kruse Ranch, or redwoods’ oxygen refreshes you as you take the hairpins over various gulches and around the public campsites. Benny Bufano’s moonlit totem pole is always good for a gasp at Timber Cove. And even the charred snags of cypresses and pines at Salt Point Park as you pass them in the dark seem to exude a spooky perfume you’d seldom get a whiff of during the day; although their crispy Giacometti skeletons may be more visible in the daytime, the other cars and the long spectacular views and the brilliant light distract from those ghostly figures, signature of the wildfire of ’93.

I remember vividly the night of that fire because I was driving back from SFO after a weekend away and had to take a detour via Healdsburg and over Skaggs Springs Road to Stewart’s Point–a route about whose blind curves and shoulderless, tortuous twists I have no romantic illusions.

But the Shoreline Highway is another story, practically civilized by comparison, full of sensory subtleties, nocturnal mysteries, midnight nuances, a drive that is more like dozens of different drives, depending on the weather and your mood and your state of responsiveness and your stamina. It’s grueling in a way, exhausting. You can’t relax, your arms and legs are constantly in play, especially if you’re driving a stick, but it’s a vigorous workout. And by the time you reach the Sea Ranch and its straightaways, a few lights glimmering in the windows of that discreetly subdivided countryside, you’re elated and relieved to be nearing home.

The silhouette of the ridge above the Gualala River as you cross the bridge into Mendocino is like the profile of a lover awaiting your return, coolly reliable, keeping the fire alive.

From the November 2-8, 2000 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.