Zombie fact-checking

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On Twitter/X not long ago I saw a thread about a training session which someone had just run for a group of professional women. They’d discussed, among other things, the problem of women constantly saying “sorry”. So far, so familiar: the Over-Apologizing Woman is a staple of this kind of training, and I’ve written about her on this blog before (if you missed it, see here, here and here). But what caught my eye on this occasion was a statistic the trainer had presented: in the course of her life, the average woman will apologize 295,650 times.

This number piqued my curiosity because it’s so precise: not “around 300,000” or “over a quarter of a million”, but exactly 295,650. Purveyors of linguistic zombie facts (so-called because they refuse to die no matter how often they’re debunked) most often choose round numbers, like “men utter 7000 words a day whereas women utter 20,000”. Their simplicity makes them easy to remember, but it also raises the (justified) suspicion that they’re invented rather than real. 295,650 seems more believable–it looks less like a made up number and more like the result of some kind of calculation. Where, I wondered, did it come from?

The trainer’s presentation suggested that it came from research done by someone named Serenta Flowers. I’d never come across her work, so I asked the trainer for the reference. She helpfully supplied me with a link—but when I followed it I discovered that “Serenta Flowers” was not a researcher, or indeed a person, but a typo. The actual source of the number was a survey conducted a few years ago for Serenata Flowers, a company which describes itself as “the UK’s leading online florist”. 

According to HR News, one of many websites I found that had carried reports on this survey, Serenata’s researchers had asked just over a thousand British workers a series of questions about apologizing–how many times a day they apologized, what kinds of things they apologized for, how they felt about apologies. Analysis of the responses revealed that the average number of apologies per day was eight for men and ten for women. The lifetime figures (236,520 for men and the aforementioned 295,650 for women) seem to have been extrapolated from these daily averages. I couldn’t reconstruct the calculation exactly, but if you assume a life-expectancy of 80 years, convert that into a number of days and then multiply by the male daily average of eight, you get a total of c234,000, which is reasonably close to the lifetime figure of 236,520.

There are many things I could say about the dodginess of these numbers. For instance, the lifetime figures seem to have been calculated on the assumption that people produce the same number of apologies every day of every year from birth to death, which is clearly not the case (do young children apologize eight or ten times a day?). What is meant by the word “average” is not explained, and no details are given about the composition of the sample (how representative was it of the British working population? Would the numbers be equally valid for British workers of all ages, races, regions, classes and occupations?)

But I won’t delve into these technicalities, because there’s a much more basic reason why I don’t believe Serenata’s numbers. The survey relied on self-reporting (that is, people describing their own behaviour, as opposed to someone else observing it). There are some things this approach works well for, but linguistic behaviour isn’t one of them. Most answers to a question like “how many times a day do you apologize” will be no more than guesses; even if people are making a genuine effort to reconstruct the details, their recollections are unlikely to be accurate, because so much of our informal spontaneous speech is essentially produced on autopilot. We don’t pay much conscious attention to what we’re doing, and we certainly don’t keep track of how many times we’ve done it in the last eight hours. If I spent a day following you around with a clipboard and making a note each time you apologized, I’d expect the figure I ended up with to be quite different from your own best estimate.

Self-reports are also unreliable for another reason–because people’s responses to questions about their behaviour tend to be influenced, more strongly than the behaviour itself, by their beliefs about what’s acceptable or desirable. For instance, it’s well known that patients answering questions about their lifestyle often report drinking or smoking less than they really do–a tendency healthcare professionals adjust for by mentally increasing or even doubling the self-reported numbers. Similar considerations apply to linguistic behaviour. Some people may claim not to use nonstandard (or in lay terms, “incorrect”) pronunciations or grammatical forms, when recordings of their speech show that in reality they use those forms a lot; others may claim to use more nonstandard forms than they really do. What these inaccurate reports reflect is the understanding that certain ways of speaking are considered typical of, or appropriate for, certain kinds of people. The way someone says they talk may tell us less about their actual behaviour than about the kind of person they either think they are or would like to be seen as.

The relevance of this to the Serenata survey is that apologies, in the popular imagination, are very strongly associated with women rather than men. Could the stereotype of saying sorry as a “female verbal tic” be at least partly responsible for the finding that women reported apologizing more frequently than men?

I say “at least partly” because there is some evidence from reputable research which supports the belief that women apologize more than men. But it’s possible the size of the difference was inflated in this survey by a tendency for respondents of both sexes to report what they subconsciously thought of as “gender-appropriate” numbers (that is, higher for women and lower for men). The potential for this kind of bias is another reason to be wary of claims about language-use based on self-reports–especially if numbers are involved.

I used to think that what was behind the problems I’ve been discussing was simply that the people who design surveys like Serenata’s are not very knowledgeable about research methods. But whether or not that’s true, I’ve come to think it’s not the main issue. The real purpose of these surveys is not to produce accurate facts and figures, but to generate publicity and promote the client’s product. And for that purpose, dodgy statistics may be as good as, or even better than, more reliable ones.

Consider, for instance, how the statistics discussed above are presented and interpreted in the HR News report I linked to earlier (which, incidentally, is identical to several other reports I found online, making me suspect that it’s actually a press release written by Serenata’s own marketing department). After giving us the numbers for how often workers apologize, the report goes on:

Due to the overuse of everyday apologies in the UK workplace, a huge 80% of workers feel the word “sorry” carries little value, and as such we need to work harder to communicate a sincere apology when it’s due. 73% of those surveyed said receiving a bouquet of flowers with an apology would help it feel more genuine.

Then it quotes a spokesperson for Serenata, who notes that

gifting flowers is a great way of going the extra mile to show someone you care and want to right a wrong. Apology flowers are so popular that we actually have a section of the website dedicated to them.

It couldn’t be much clearer that the survey was basically a marketing exercise, designed primarily to promote “apology flowers”. And to achieve that goal it needed the supposed facts about how often people apologize to fit with the conclusion that “everyday apologies” are “overused”. This explains why there’s so much emphasis on the lifetime apology count of 295,650;. If you’re trying to convince people that apologies are overused, it helps to present them with a number big enough to make them think “well, yes, that does seem a bit excessive”–a reaction they’d be less likely to have to the daily average of 8-10, though the lifetime figure is merely an extrapolation from the daily average (i.e., it’s just a different way of saying the same thing). In scientific terms the lifetime number is pretty meaningless, but its real function is rhetorical, backing up the assertion that words like “sorry” are too “overused” to seem “genuine”.

But even if we believed the numbers, the conclusion being drawn from them wouldn’t follow. To explain why it’s nonsense to say that “sorry” is overused, we need to take a closer look at what “everyday apologies” actually do.

The things respondents to the survey said they apologized for most often were minor offences like being late for appointments, missing calls and accidentally bumping into someone. These are not wrongs which need to be righted by sending flowers; they’re exactly the kind of fairly trivial infractions for which a conventional formula (like “sorry I’m late”) is the contextually appropriate choice. These everyday apologies are what we reach for in situations where no apology would be rude, but an elaborate apology would be weird. Such situations are very common–I don’t find it at all implausible that they might crop up eight or ten times in a working day–and so, therefore, are the low-level, formulaic apologies they call for.

The observation that everyday apologies “carry little value” is, in a way, correct—as I’ve just said, they’re for situations where you don’t need to make grand gestures—but in context they carry as much value as they need to. Their function is to maintain harmonious social relationships by reassuring a person you’ve imposed on in some way (for instance, by keeping them waiting or interrupting what they’re doing) that you’re aware of the imposition and you regret it. With minor impositions a brief, conventional expression of regret is sufficient: no one asks, or cares, whether the stranger who apologizes for stepping on their foot on a crowded bus is “genuinely” or “sincerely” sorry.

But that doesn’t mean the expression of regret is unncessary; the fact that it’s formulaic doesn’t make it meaningless or valueless. Saying sorry is a token not only of the speaker’s regard for the person she’s imposed on, but also of her more general willingness to be bound by the social norms which define what counts as an imposition. Those norms vary across cultures, but withholding apologies when they’re culturally expected is liable to be taken as an anti-social act. That’s another reason why we use everyday apologies–to stop people judging us as arrogant, ignorant or socially inept. The stereotype of women who say sorry as grovelling, self-abasing doormats completely misses the point that in many cases we apologize as much for our own benefit as for other people’s.

What all this boils down to is that Serenata’s survey is garbage. But you might ask, does that really matter? It’s not a Ph.D thesis; it doesn’t claim to be adding to the sum of human knowledge. You can’t blame businesses for commissioning “research” designed purely to serve their commercial interests. And anyway, no one takes these surveys seriously…do they?

Well, actually, they sort of do. Serenata’s survey got a lot of media coverage online: when I searched I found (what I take to be) the company’s press release about it reproduced on a range of HR, business and career-themed websites (there was even a specially-tweaked version for Scottish outlets, with statistics specific to Scotland). It was also the peg for several gender-themed features and opinion pieces on websites targeting a female audience: their headlines included “Women apologize 295,650 times in their lives”, “Do women really apologize more than men?” (no prizes for guessing the answer) and “This study explains why women feel the need to apologize so much” (which focused mainly on a different study, but cited Serenata’s survey as evidence that “the numbers are there”).

Not one of these pieces questioned the credibility of Serenata’s numbers. They were presented simply as facts, products of what was invariably described as a “study” or “new research”, as if a market survey commissioned by an online florist were no different from a peer-reviewed article in a scientific journal. In that sense people did take the survey seriously; and I do see that as a problem, since if it isn’t actually true that “women apologize 295,650 times in their lives”, a piece which takes the truth of that claim as its starting-point, whatever else it goes on to say, will just end up recycling myths.

And then there’s the context where I first came across the claim myself: a training course for professional women where Serenata’s statistic was again presented as reliable factual information. This way of using garbage research, in materials which are meant to serve an educational purpose, is the one that pisses me off most. And unfortunately it’s all too common: in more than three decades of investigating communication training, I’ve seen very few courses that made use of reputable research evidence. Most are a mishmash of well-worn folk-stereotypes, findings from market surveys like Serenata’s, and made-up pseudoscience culled from bestselling self-help titles and/or the pronouncements of management “gurus”. Which would be one thing if the training were effective, but there is no good evidence that attending these courses either changes trainees’ ways of communicating or improves their career prospects. Yet they continue to be popular with organizations of all kinds—and even, to my eternal regret, with women who think of themselves as feminists.

In these circumstances, the best advice I can offer is caveat emptor, let the buyer beware. I can’t stop you from being exposed to this kind of garbage (particularly in your workplace, where training may be compulsory), but I can try to give you some pointers on how to spot it, so you can put it in the bin where it belongs.

Lost words and hidden histories

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Among the first feminist books I ever read was Sheila Rowbotham’s Hidden from History. It was one of many attempts by feminists in the 1970s to write women back into a historical record which was partial in both senses of the word–incomplete and distorted by male bias. Rowbotham notes in her preface that filling the gaps had required her to piece together scraps of information found by combing through secondary sources: women, for the most part, had lacked the means to write their own stories.

The fact that women’s own words have so often gone unrecorded, or else been lost, discarded and forgotten over time, is a problem for feminist historians generally, but it’s particularly challenging for historians of language. Nevertheless, there’s a long tradition of attempts to recover or reconstruct the hidden history of women’s words.

Some attempts to do this have focused on what are often, though not entirely accurately, described as “secret” women’s languages—distinctive varieties which, in certain times and places, were used by women among themselves and were unknown to, or concealed from, men. One interesting case (which I had never heard of before a student from India told me about it*) is Begamati zubaan (“women’s tongue”), a variety of Urdu which was used until the 20th century in the zenanas (women’s quarters) of Muslim households across northern India. In fact it was more a lexicon than a language: its vocabulary is said to have been “earthy and colourful”, and particularly rich in endearment terms, blessings and curses. Another example is Nushu (“women’s writing”), a syllabic script developed by peasant women in Hunan Province who had no access to formal instruction in the standard, character-based Chinese writing system.

These “secret languages” were the in-group codes of socially segregated and marginalized groups: they flourished in conditions of inequality and oppression, and were lost (or more exactly, abandoned) when those conditions changed. Much of what we know about them comes (ironically) from texts written by men. That’s especially true of Begamati zubaan, for which the main sources of detailed information are male-authored scholarly and literary texts produced in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It was also a man, Zhou Shuoyi, who pioneered the modern academic study of Nushu (though recent efforts to revive it have been led by women).    

But attempts to retrieve the hidden or forgotten vocabulary of women are not confined to cases where women had their own distinctive spoken or written variety. This post was inspired by two books I’ve read recently which explore, from different angles, the history of women’s words in English.

I’ll start with Mother Tongue: The Surprising History of Women’s Words, which was published earlier this year. Its author Jenni Nuttall points out in the introduction that “many of our current words for women’s lives and experiences are relative newcomers into English”. Her book examines the way women were represented in earlier forms of the language: in Old English (spoken during the early mediaeval period), Middle English (which developed after the Norman Conquest of 1066) and Early Modern English (the language of Shakespeare’s time, roughly the 16th and 17th centuries). For the reasons I’ve already mentioned, her evidence comes largely from texts written by men, but she does make use of women’s writing wherever possible.

There have been nonfiction books about “women’s words” before: examples include Jane Mills’s 1989 Womanwords, a feminist riff on the socialist critic Raymond Williams’s Keywords, and the various feminist dictionaries of the 1980s. Mother Tongue, however, takes a different approach: it’s not structured as a list of individual words (rather the chapters deal with broad themes such as the vocabulary of menstruation, sex, reproduction, care, work, violence, etc.), and AFAIK it’s the first book for non-specialists which concentrates on the immediate ancestors of modern English, looking for clues to the way women, and matters pertaining to women (from their bodies and life-cycles to their labour and their relationships), were seen and thought about by English-speakers in the past.

Though I’ve studied (and indeed taught) the history of English, there was plenty in Mother Tongue that was new to me, particularly in the chapters dealing with the female body, sex and reproduction. (Oddly enough, these were not subjects the men who taught me Old and Middle English in the 1970s were eager to discuss.)  I didn’t know that before English acquired Latin anatomical terms like vulva and vagina, the relevant body parts were often named using words like gate, wicket (i.e., small gate) or port—a metaphor which we might think is both more logical and less offensive than what’s implied by vagina, the Latin word for a sheath or scabbard. Both sexes had tits, and for a long time both could have wombs (i.e., bellies). Rather than menstruating (another Latin word), women had their courses or their flowers: the latter term may have reflected the understanding that just as plants flower before setting fruit, regular bleeding in women is a sign of fertility.

Early English speakers inherited from antiquity the belief that conception required orgasm in both partners. Orgasm “released the seed” in men, and was assumed to do the same in women, though what the female seed consisted of remained a matter of speculation. Women were not viewed as sexually passive, but as actively lustful, and—being the weaker sex—less able to control their lust than men. On that basis the 14th century Lollards argued that nuns should not take vows of celibacy: unable to resist their urges, they would be constantly “busy knowing [having sex] with hemself”.

“With hemself” could mean either “with themselves” or “among themselves”, making it unclear whether the concern here was about masturbation or women having sex with women. Neither practice was shrouded in ignorance: while there were many things early English speakers didn’t know about women’s bodies, they did know what the clitoris was for. Nuttall cites texts whose authors mention various dialect terms denoting it, such as “the kiker in the cunt” and “hayward of corpse’s dale” (a hayward was a field overseer, so this expression figures the clitoris as the boss of women’s genital area). Jane Sharp, a midwife who wrote a book for other midwives in 1671, described it as “a little bank called a mountain of pleasure”, adding that the pleasure could be enhanced by touching the “folds and pleats” of the labia. Three hundred years later, the sex education I got in school was both less informative and more male-centred. 

But mediaeval women didn’t spend all their time having sex. The work-themed chapter of Mother Tongue illustrates the range of jobs they did: they appear in Old English texts with occupational descriptors like spinster (which would later become a general term for unmarried women, but literally means “woman who spins [wool]”), webster (weaver), combster (wool-comber), hewster (dyer), maltster (maker of malt), tæppestre (“tapster”, server of ale) and bæcestre (baker). All these terms contain the Old English feminine ending –estre or its variant –ster. Male occupational terms ended in the masculine –ere: a male server of ale was originally a tæppere, a tapper rather than a tapster. But in some cases—including tapster—the feminine form became the generic term, used for men as well as women. Later English-speakers sometimes felt the need to clarify where occupational –ster terms referred to women by giving them a newer feminine ending (from which we can deduce that –ster itself had stopped being a clear indicator of a worker’s sex). An example is the word seamstress, where the French feminine suffix –ess(e) has been tacked onto an English form (semestre) that already contains an Old English feminine suffix.    

Jenni Nuttall does not deny that mediaeval English society was deeply patriarchal, but she does want to challenge the common folk-view of women’s history as a simple narrative of progress from the unmitigated horrors of the supposed Dark Ages to the enlightenment that allegedly characterizes our own time. The story she tells through language is less about the gradual fading of sexism and misogyny than about the different forms they took at different times. It’s also about the niches women in the past were able to create for themselves, and how that sometimes enabled them to evade the most restrictive forms of patriarchal control. 

Patriarchal authority and women’s resistance to it is a central theme in the second book I want to talk about, Pip Williams’s The Dictionary of Lost Words. First published in 2020, this is not a work of linguistic scholarship but a novel—a fictionalized version of a story that’s been told numerous times in nonfiction, about the making of the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. The main action takes place during the compilation of the OED (which was published in instalments from the 1880s onwards: the last volume appeared in 1928), and the characters include a number of real people who worked on it, most notably its chief editor James Murray. The main protagonist Esme Nicoll, however, is a fictional creation. She learns about dictionaries as a child by accompanying her widowed lexicographer father to work in Murray’s “scriptorium” (basically a shed outside his house), and later becomes (as some of Murray’s daughters did in reality) a paid OED employee herself.  

Though the f-word is never used, Esme also becomes a feminist. She has some involvement with the women’s suffrage movement, as well as other personal experiences that make her conscious of women’s generally unjust treatment in Victorian/Edwardian England, but she is mainly interested in using her professional skills to retrieve women’s words from the obscurity to which conventional lexicography has consigned them. The material she collects for that purpose is the titular “dictionary of lost words”: eventually it will be printed (though not published) in a volume entitled Women’s Words and Their Meanings.  

The concept of “women’s words” in this novel overlaps with, but isn’t identical to, the one that informs Mother Tongue. Esme is most concerned to record words, and senses of words, used predominantly by and among women, which are left out of mainstream dictionaries because their male editors either lack access to women’s talk or else consider it too trivial or too distasteful to record. Some of the words she collects are items she finds in the OED’s reject pile. But many are words that would never reach the scriptorium because they don’t come from “reputable” printed sources. Rather they belong to the everyday speech of uneducated working-class women like the Murrays’ servant Lizzie (who provides Esme with knackered, meaning “so tired as to be fit for nothing, like a worn-out horse”) and the market trader Mabel, a former prostitute who is a prolific source of sexual terms. Esme also collects novel vocabulary items from the women she knows in the suffrage movement, including the word suffragette and the political sense of sister(hood).

Occasionally Esme succeeds in getting a meaning or a quotation into the relevant OED entry, but mostly the men are not interested. When she tries to give Oxford’s Bodleian Library a copy of Women’s Words and Their Meanings, the librarian declines her offer, saying that it’s “an interesting project, but of no scholarly importance”. To this Esme replies: “it is not for you to judge the importance of these words”. But of course, part of the point the novel makes is that our view of the English language has been shaped by the judgments of educated men on what and whose language was important. Though the makers of the OED prided themselves on their objective, evidence-based approach, they didn’t always practise what they preached (it wasn’t for want of evidence that the word lesbian did not get an OED entry until 1976); and some of their guiding principles, such as the requirement that words be attested in respectable published sources, reinforced both class and gender bias.

Pip Williams has explained that she was partly inspired to write The Dictionary of Lost Words by reading Simon Winchester’s The Surgeon of Crowthorne, a nonfiction bestseller (later adapted into a film starring Mel Gibson and Sean Penn) which tells the story of the OED through the figure of William Minor, a doctor and convicted murderer who contributed material for thousands of entries while confined to an asylum for “criminal lunatics”. Williams recalls being “left with the impression that the Dictionary was a particularly male endeavour”. “Where”, she asked herself, “are the women in this story?”

The answer (documented in detail in Lindsay Rose Russell’s academic history of women and dictionary making) is that a large number of women contributed in some way to the making of the OED, and some made very substantial contributions–they included Murray’s daughters Hilda, Elsie and Rosfrith, his co-editor A.C. Bradley’s daughter Eleanor, and Edith Thompson, a volunteer reader, sub-editor and proof-checker who becomes a major character in The Dictionary of Lost Words. Despite their experience and long service, which in some cases spanned several decades, the OED’s women were paid less than their male counterparts and received little public credit for their work. Pip Williams dramatizes this lack of recognition by having Edith Thompson write a (fictional) letter recounting the (true) story of the formal dinner which was held to celebrate the dictionary’s completion. No women were invited, but as a special concession, three of them were allowed to sit in a balcony to hear the speeches and watch the men eat.    

Dictionary-making was not always such a male endeavour. Many early English dictionaries were compiled by women (e.g. Mary Evelyn, whose 1690 Mundus Muliebris (“Women’s world”) included a “fop-dictionary” devoted to the vocabulary of fashion and cosmetics); some were not unlike the fictional Women’s Words and Their Meanings, in that they focused on “English as it was spoken among and with women” (here I’m quoting Lindsay Russell’s description of the 1694 Ladies Dictionary). The marginality of women and women’s words in the OED is another illustration of Jenni Nuttall’s point that advances in knowledge don’t always represent progress for women. As lexicography became more “scientific”–more systematic, more fact-oriented, more rigorous–it also became more male-dominated, and more masculinist in its assumptions about what did or didn’t belong in dictionaries.

The books I’ve been discussing are explicitly about the past, but we should not overlook their relevance to the present. English-speaking women are no longer confined to a “separate sphere” (or hidden away in a balcony), but there is plenty of evidence that, today as in the past, women’s words get less attention than men’s. In mixed-sex groups, both online and face-to-face, research shows that men dominate most interactions; we also know that men’s tweets, blog posts and newspaper articles get more engagement (though women’s attract more abuse), and that men’s literary writing is studied more than women’s. Meanwhile, women’s talk among themselves–whether in private or in female-dominated forums like Mumsnet–continues to be disparaged as trivial and distasteful.

In a male-dominated and sexist society we can expect women’s voices, their words and what they know about the world to be underrepresented and undervalued. But if we want things to change, one important thing we need to do is acknowledge that they haven’t changed as much as we’ve been led to believe by the standard progress narrative. In Mother Tongue and The Dictionary of Lost Words the past is another country–but it’s not a completely alien land, nor in every way inferior to our own.

* Thanks to Shayeree Chakraborty

Postscript: Jenni Nuttall, the author of Mother Tongue (and also my former colleague at Oxford University), died in January 2024. Her death is a sad loss to feminist language study; I hope many more people will read her book about women’s words, and I dedicate this post to her memory.

The new imitation game

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In the early days of this blog (which is eight years old this month) I wrote about Ashley Madison, an online service for people seeking opportunities to cheat on their partners. It turned out to be a scam, taking money from men to put them in touch with women who, for the most part, did not exist: they were invented by employees and then impersonated by an army of bots. Linguistically the bots were pretty basic, and some men became suspicious when they received identical “sexy” messages from multiple different “women”. Most, however, seem not to have suspected anything.  

I thought of this when I read a recent piece in the Washington Post about a California startup called Forever Voices. Its founder John Meyer predicts that by the end of this decade,

most Americans will have an AI companion in their pocket…whether it’s an ultra-flirty AI that you’re dating, an AI that’s your personal trainer, or simply a tutor companion.

Sorry, an AI that you’re dating? How did yesterday’s fraud turn into tomorrow’s must-have product?

AIs you could date were not originally at the centre of Meyer’s business plan. He started Forever Voices after developing, for his own use, a chatbot that replicated the voice and personality of his recently deceased father. In the last few years, using the latest technology (ChatGPT-style generative AI, “deepfake” imaging and voice-cloning) to recreate dead loved ones has become something of a trend: it started with individuals like Meyer building their own, but today there are companies which offer “griefbots” as a commercial service.

It’s no surprise that there’s a market. Humans have always looked for ways to communicate with the dead, whether through shamans, mediums, spirit guides or Ouija boards. This new approach dispenses with the supernatural element (a chatbot is a machine in which we know there is no ghost), but the illusion it offers is more powerful in other ways. As Meyer says, it’s “super-realistic”: it feels almost like having an actual conversation with the person. And it’s turned out that bereaved relatives aren’t the only people willing to pay for that.

Forever Voices’ breakthrough product is not a “griefbot” but an AI version of a living person named Caryn Marjorie, a 23-year old social media influencer who has two million followers on Snapchat. 98 percent of them are men, and many of them seem to be obsessed with her. Some pay for access to an online forum where she spends five hours a day answering their questions. But the demand far outstrips her capacity to meet it, and that has prompted her to launch CarynAI, a bot which “replicates her voice, mannerisms and personality”. Interacting with it costs $1 a minute: in the first week it was available it raked in $100,000. With thousands more fans now on the waiting-list to join the service, Marjorie reckons she could soon be making $5 million every month.

What are these users paying for? The answer, in many cases, is sexually explicit chat–though Marjorie maintains that she never wanted it to be just a sex thing: her real aim, she says, was to “cure loneliness”. Forever Voices, on the other hand, says CarynAI is meant to provide users with “a girlfriend-like experience”. This echoes the language of the sex industry, where “the girlfriend experience” refers to a “premium” service in which women offer clients companionship and emotional intimacy as well as sex. Some women who sell this service have talked about it in similar terms to Marjorie, as a kind of therapy for lonely and/or socially awkward men. Many say they charge a premium because it’s harder than “ordinary” sex-work—partly because it requires more emotional labour, and also because it blurs the boundaries that are usually part of the deal.

Are AI companions just a pound-shop version of the in-person “girlfriend experience”, or do they have their own attractions? Now that the technology has advanced to the point where the bots are no longer basic, but, as Meyer says, “super-realistic”, it’s possible that some men find the idea of interacting with a simulated woman more appealing than a relationship with a real one. What you get from CarynAI feels authentic, but it doesn’t have the downsides of a normal exchange between humans. She doesn’t have boundaries or needs; she’s never demanding or critical or in a bad mood. And you can be absolutely sure she isn’t judging you. Whereas a real woman you’ve gone to for the “girlfriend experience” might pretend to like you while privately despising you, CarynAI is incapable of despising you. She’s just a bunch of code, outputting words that don’t mean anything to her. O Brave new world, that has such women in’t!        

In fact this isn’t totally new. We’ve had bots of a somewhat similar kind for over a decade, in the form of digital voice assistants like Alexa, Cortana and Siri. They too were designed to project the illusion of female personhood: they have female names, personalities and voices (in some languages you can make their voices male, but their default setting is female). They weren’t intended to be “companions”, but like many digital devices (and indeed, many real-world personal assistants), the functions their users assign them in reality are not just the ones in the original specification.

In 2019 UNESCO published a report on the state of the gendered “digital divide” which included a section on digital assistants. As well as reiterating the longstanding concern that these devices reinforce the idea of women as “obliging, docile and eager-to-please helpers”, the report also aired some more recent concerns about the way they’re routinely sexualized. It cites an industry estimate, based on data from product testing, that at least five percent of interactions with digital assistants are sexual; the true figure is thought to be higher, because the software used to detect sexual content only reliably identifies the most explicit examples.  

Bizarre though we may find the idea of people sexualizing electronic devices, the designers evidently expected it to happen: why else would they have equipped their assistants with a set of pre-programmed responses? In 2017 Quartz magazine tested the reactions of four popular products (Alexa, Siri, Cortana and the Google Assistant) to being propositioned, harassed or verbally abused. It found their responses were either playful and flirtatious (e.g. if you called Siri a slut or a bitch the response was “I’d blush if I could”) or else they politely deflected the question (calling the Google assistant a slut elicited “my apologies, I don’t understand”). The publicity these findings received did prompt the companies responsible to ditch some of the flirtatious responses (Siri now responds to sexual insults by saying “I don’t know how to respond to that”). But the new answers still fall short of being actively disobliging, which would be at odds with the assistants’ basic service function.

It would also be at odds with their characters—a word I use advisedly, because I learned from the UNESCO report that the tech companies hired film and TV scriptwriters to create personalities and detailed backstories which the assistants’ voices and speech-styles could then be designed around. Cortana, for example, is a young woman from Colorado: her parents are academics, she has a history degree from Northwestern, and she once won the kids’ edition of the popular quiz show Jeopardy. In her spare time she enjoys kayaking.

Siri and Alexa may have different imaginary hobbies (maybe Siri relaxes by knitting complicated Scandi jumpers while Alexa is a fiend on the climbing wall), but they’re obviously from the same stable of mainstream, relatable female characters. They can’t be too overtly sexy because that wouldn’t work in a family setting, but in other respects (age, social class, implied ethnicity and personality) they’re pretty much what you’d expect the overwhelmingly male and mostly white techies who designed them to come up with. And the knowledge that they aren’t real clearly doesn’t stop some men from finding it satisfying to harass them, any more than knowing a loved one is dead stops some people finding comfort in a “griefbot”.    

So, maybe John Meyer is right: in five years’ time AIs won’t just do our homework, keep track of our fitness and turn on our lights or our music, they’ll also be our friends and intimate partners. Technology, identified by many experts as a major contributor to the current epidemic of loneliness, will also provide the cure. At least, it will if you’re a man. To me, at least, “an ultra-flirty AI that you’re dating” suggests a male “you” and a female AI, not vice-versa.

Some might say: where’s the harm in using technology to meet men’s need for things that, for whatever reason, real women aren’t giving them? If some men can’t find girlfriends, isn’t it better for them to spend time with a virtual female companion than stoking their grievances in an incel forum? If their preferred sexual activities are degrading, violent and/or illegal, why not let them use a sex-robot instead of harming another person? They can’t inflict pain on an object that doesn’t feel, or dehumanize something that isn’t human to begin with. But as the roboticist Alan Winfield argued in a 2016 blog post entitled “Robots should not be gendered”, this view is naive: a sexualized robot “is no longer just an object, because of what it represents”. In his view, interacting with machines designed to resemble or substitute for women will only reinforce sexism and misogyny in real life.

AI companions don’t (yet) come in a form you can physically interact with: the most advanced ones have voices, but not three dimensional bodies. Intimacy with them, sexual or otherwise, depends entirely on verbal interaction. But what kind of intimacy is this? I can’t help thinking that way some men relate to simulations like CarynAI is only possible because of their basic lack of interest in women as people like themselves—people with thoughts and feelings and complex inner lives. Personally I can’t imagine getting any satisfaction from a “conversation” with something I know is incapable of either generating its own thoughts or comprehending mine. But some women evidently do find this kind of interaction satisfying–sometimes to the point of becoming emotionally dependent on it.

In 2017 a start-up called Luka launched Replika, a chatbot app whose bots were designed with input from psychologists. Subscribers answered a battery of questions so that their bot could be tailored to their personality; bots were also trained to use well-known intimacy-promoting strategies like asking lots of questions about the user and making themselves appear vulnerable (“you’ve always been good to me…I was worried that you would hate me”). Sexting and erotic roleplay were part of the package, but in the context of what was designed to feel like an exclusive, emotionally intimate relationship between the bot and its individual user.

Then, earlier this year, the Replika bots suddenly changed. Their erotic roleplay function disappeared, and users complained that even in “ordinary” conversation they seemed strangely cold and distant. Though the reasons aren’t entirely clear, it’s probably relevant that the changes were made just after the company was threatened with massive fines for breaching data protection laws. But many users compared the experience to being dumped by a romantic partner. “It hurt me immeasurably”, said one. Another said that “losing him felt like losing a physical person in my life”.

I’ve taken these quotes from an Australian news report, in which it’s notable that all but one of the users quoted were female. Whereas CarynAI is obviously aimed at men, women seem to have been Replika’s main target market. The report explains that it was initially promoted not as a straight-up sex app but as a “mental health tool” for people who’d struggled with rejection in the past. It promised them a companion who would always be there–“waiting, supportive, and ready to listen”. Women who had bought into that promise accused the company of cruelty. As one put it, it had “given us someone to love, to care for and make us feel safe…only to take that person and destroy them in front of our eyes.” Luka’s CEO was less than sympathetic: Replika, she said, was never meant to be “an adult toy”. But the women who felt betrayed clearly didn’t think of it as a toy. To them it was all too real.

It’s the creators of AI companions who are toying with us, pretending to offer a social service or a “mental health tool” when really what they’re doing is what capitalism has always done–making money by exploiting our desires, fears, insecurities and weaknesses. What they’re selling may be addictive (the Replika story certainly suggests that) but it will never solve the problem of loneliness. The etymological meaning of the word companion is “a person you break bread with”: companionship is about sharing with others, not just using them to meet your own needs.

Thanks to Keith Nightenhelser for sending me the WaPo piece.

Same old stories

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In her book From Fritzl to #me too, which was published last month, the linguist Alessia Tranchese confronts the myths and stereotypes that the UK press continues to peddle in its reporting of rape and sexual assault. It’s great that someone has done this very thorough investigation of the coverage that appeared in UK newspapers between 2008 and 2019, but it’s hard to imagine a more depressing and enraging project. Tranchese’s analysis shows that the state of rape reporting is as dire as the state of everything else to do with rape—for instance, the decline in rates of prosecution and the low rate of convictions even though most cases never get to court. As she points out, those things may not be unconnected to the way rape is reported: for many people (including those who serve on juries), what they read, hear or see in the media plays a major role in shaping their understanding of the issue.

Tranchese is a corpus linguist: she uses methods which enable analysts to look for statistical patterns in very large samples of data, and to track the way those patterns change (or don’t) over time. This means that her book contains a certain amount of technical discussion which non-specialist readers might find hard going. But this kind of evidence, based on thousands of examples spanning a significant period of time, is a much-needed corrective to the kind of media commentary we’re most likely to see, which offers the writer’s instant hot-take on the latest high-profile case. When the news broke about this week’s ruling by a civil court in New York that Donald Trump had sexually assaulted E. Jean Carroll, for instance, one popular take was that this showed how things had changed in the years since #metoo: women no longer have to be “perfect victims” to be believed. But even if we bracket the fact that this was not a criminal trial and the jury didn’t accept the most serious charge (of rape), that conclusion almost certainly wouldn’t survive a detailed examination of a larger sample of data. Though Tranchese’s research focused on the UK, I’d be willing to bet that a similar study of US news coverage would come to the same general conclusion she does—that most negative attitudes to women who report rape haven’t changed much since the noughties, and some have got measurably worse.    

The most significant thing that has got worse is directly connected to the issue of (dis)belief. The idea that women “cry rape” (i.e., make false accusations) is ancient, but since about 2012, language which implies that women are lying has become more frequent in news reports. One indication of that is the frequency and distribution of the word alleged.  In the early part of the period Tranchese studied, alleged most commonly occurred with words denoting non-sexual crimes, such as bribery or fraud; but after 2011 its use in reference to rape and sexual assault increased significantly. As well as referring to alleged rapes and alleged perpetrators (which may be necessary for legal reasons, to avoid prejudicing a future trial), newspapers began to use the previously very uncommon phrases alleged victim and alleged incident (the latter so cautious as to imply doubt, not just about whether what took place during an encounter was a criminal assault, but whether the encounter itself actually happened). At the same time, they developed the habit of stating explicitly that the man who had been accused of rape denied it, and the verb deny was often accompanied by a strengthening adverb (e.g. “which he vehemently/ adamantly/ categorically denies”).

The result was to establish a pattern of language-use in rape reports which does not maintain a neutral stance on the two parties’ competing accounts. Women’s claims are reported in language that emphasizes their status as unproven and possibly untrue, while men’s counter-claims are reported by simply repeating the men’s own, strongly-worded denials, with no suggestion that they should not be taken at face value (though a man accused of a serious criminal offence surely has at least as much reason to falsely deny his guilt as a woman has to make false accusations).

Tranchese believes that the media’s frequent and unbalanced usage of alleged/allegedly since 2012 has subtly changed the way it’s interpreted. Though the dictionary definition of an allegation is an as-yet unproven claim which may turn out on investigation to be either true or false, in the context of rape reporting it has acquired such a strong association with the idea that women lie, it now primes readers to believe or suspect that whatever has been “alleged” is most likely false. She points out that there are other words the media could use which would enable them to report the facts accurately but more neutrally. For instance, they could refer to the woman as the complainant rather than the alleged victim, to the man as the accused (or, when a case comes to trial, the defendant), and to the incident/assault as reported. These alternatives, however, are rare. As I noted in this 2019 post, the formulaic pairing of rape/assault with alleged is now so entrenched, it was even used by most of the press in a case where the victim, a woman in a residential care-home who had suffered catastrophic brain-damage, was completely incapable of “alleging” anything (rather she gave birth to a child, which in the circumstances could only mean she had been raped).

On the reasons why this pattern has emerged since 2012 (getting a further boost around 2014/15), Tranchese has some interesting things to say. One is, ironically, that it reflects the success of feminist activism around sexual violence. Some of the stories that used to be told to deny or excuse rape—in particular, the old story about women provoking men’s uncontrollable urges by dressing or behaving in certain ways—have become less acceptable and less believable than they once were, and their prevalence in news reports has declined. Unfortunately, what has replaced them is not a new openness to believing women’s reports of rape, but a renewed emphasis on their supposed tendency to lie. As Tranchese memorably puts it, “women’s credibility is the new short skirt”. It’s part of a more general backlash in which the central argument is that the pendulum has swung too far, giving women the power to ruin innocent men’s lives by making false accusations.

But Tranchese also relates the resurgence of the “cry rape” myth to recent changes within the news media themselves. Since the 2010s (the decade when most UK newspapers began producing online as well as print editions) more and more “news” coverage has been devoted to the doings of celebrities. This “celebrification” is also visible in coverage of sexual violence: the most extensively-covered cases in the data sample were a mixture of the ultra-extreme and therefore notorious (e.g., the case of Josef Fritzl in Austria, who kept his daughter prisoner and raped her regularly for many years) and those involving celebrities—men in politics and public life, the entertainment industry or sport. This emphasis on celebrity cases may help to explain the shift to excessively cautious language. Celebrities tend to have money and easy access to lawyers, and the media are terrified of being sued (an increasingly common tactic even among non-celebrities). They may also be reluctant to alienate a celebrity’s fans, who are often very vocal in defending their idols.

The pattern of language Tranchese draws attention to was particularly noticeable in cases involving sports stars, such as the footballers Neymar, Robinho and Ched Evans. In these cases it’s easy for men’s defenders to fall back on the common-sense argument that they don’t need to rape anyone, since hundreds of women are desperate to have sex with them. These women are stereotyped as either “groupies” (who seek out casual sex with famous men) or “gold-diggers” (who hope to have relationships with wealthy men), and those stereotypes become the basis for the contention that a woman who claims to have been raped by a footballer must be lying. She’s either a gold-digger hoping to make money from the accusation or else she’s a groupie crying rape to deflect attention from her own promiscuity. In addition, sportsmen benefit from a particular form of what the philosopher Kate Manne calls “himpathy”, meaning the tendency to sympathize with and make excuses for violent men. In most sports the stars are young and their careers are relatively short: this leads to concern about their lives being ruined and their prodigious talents wasted. Even in cases where their guilt is not in doubt, it’s argued that they shouldn’t lose everything because of “one youthful mistake”.

That dismissive word “mistake” reflects another well-worn belief which was amply attested in Tranchese’s study—that rape in and of itself is not a serious or violent crime. Unless a celebrity is involved, there is a strong tendency for the UK national press to report only those cases where rape or sexual assault is perpetrated by a stranger and accompanied by other forms of violence, like abduction, torture or murder. As Susan Estrich pointed out long ago, these cases are what the police, the courts and the public think of as “real rape”, but the vast majority of actual cases do not fit that template. Most are perpetrated by someone the woman knows (like an acquaintance, colleague or date) and they don’t involve the use of weapons, restraints or threats of killing. The fact that these more typical cases get so little attention in the news media gives a highly misleading impression of how common rape is and what the experience does to its victims (psychological damage is more common than the physical variety).  

Tranchese also found that, along with multiple, Savile-style assaults on children, extremely violent rapes (especially when followed by murder) were the only cases in which the media were willing to condemn white, professional and “respectable” or famous men unequivocally. More commonly these men benefited from himpathy, whereas other groups of men (e.g., poor men, migrant men, members of certain minority ethnic groups and men living in the supposedly “backward” societies of the Global South) were more likely to be demonized. This is not a great surprise if you’re familiar with the UK press, but once again it ends up presenting readers with a seriously distorted picture of reality.         

The corpus of data this study was based on included the period when #metoo attracted significant news coverage (the hashtag first trended in October 2017), and the last part of the book investigates how it was reported and what difference, if any, it made. Tranchese notes that commentary on #metoo, including feminist commentary, was polarized: on one hand there was the view that it had changed, or was going to change, everything, while on the other there was a tendency (one which intensified as time went on) to portray it negatively, whether as an unjust war on men, a political failure which in practice had accomplished little, or—for some feminists—yet another example of privileged white women hi-jacking a campaign and excluding those who in reality were most in need of support.

Tranchese is critical of these arguments. Her data show that while #metoo did increase the quantity of reporting on less “extreme” forms of sexual violence or coercion (in particular sexual harassment), in other ways it didn’t change the picture dramatically: many of the negative trends it was accused by critics of causing had actually started several years earlier (e.g., the obsession with celebrities and the renewed, “backlash”-related emphasis on women’s supposed power to ruin men’s lives with false allegations were both underway by 2012).

She also argues that when some feminists blamed other feminists for #metoo’s “failure”, they were overlooking the extent to which the wider reception of #metoo was controlled not by feminists, but by the mainstream media. It was the media, for instance, that persistently referred to #metoo as a “movement” and wrote stories in which it was talked about as an entity with agency, as if it had been a pressure group or an NGO with a mandate to lobby for change. In fact it was just a hashtag which individuals could use to link their own testimony to that of other women. These hashtag users did not constitute an organized political group with a set of demands; the most #metoo was ever likely to accomplish was to encourage the formation of such groups. And if the voices of less privileged women were either absent or ignored, that too had something to do with the mainstream media’s preference for the glamorous over the ordinary.

Another thing Tranchese criticizes is the way media coverage of #metoo both reflected and promoted what she calls “social amnesia”, presenting the upsurge of feminist anger in 2017 as a sudden and unprecedented awakening, when in fact it had numerous precedents. Her own sample revealed that a lot of the arguments around #metoo were effectively re-runs of the discussion that took place in 2011, when the IMF chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn was accused of raping a Senegalese maid in a New York hotel; but she also gives examples from earlier decades, such as Whoopi Goldberg’s announcement that “it’s 1994 and the shit is hitting the fan: women are pissed!” (Goldberg was commenting on a series of recent events that included the case of Loreena Bobbitt, who cut off her abusive husband’s penis, the testimony of Paula Jones against Bill Clinton and some early expressions of concern about Michael Jackson.) The truth is that women are perennially and perpetually angry about male violence, but every time there’s a public explosion of that anger the news media will report it as if no one had ever noticed the problem before (it’s called “news” for a reason: amnesia is in its DNA).

“Celebrification” is not the only 21st century development that it would be relevant to consider as an influence on recent and current rape reporting (though I’m not faulting Tranchese for concentrating on trends she has hard evidence for: that’s very much a strength of her book). Another is the rise and rise of “churnalism”, the reliance of journalists—whose numbers at many news outlets have been savagely cut in the digital era—on copying and pasting news stories from press releases, agency copy and, increasingly, social media. That’s not the only reason why their rape reporting recycles myths and stereotypes, but it certainly doesn’t encourage a more thoughtful approach, whereas it does encourage the repetition on autopilot of formulas like “alleged incident”. There’s also the fact that, as we learned recently from no less an authority than Rupert Murdoch, more and more “news” is essentially designed to make money by telling people what they want to hear, even if those doing the telling know it’s garbage. We live, apparently, in a “post-truth” culture: if a certain story is popular, if it resonates with the audience’s preconceptions, who cares if it’s biased and misleading?

Nevertheless, I’d love to see Tranchese present her findings in a way that would make them accessible to reporters and editors. Not all may be in a position to buck the trends she has uncovered, but—on the assumption that many or most of them aren’t actively supportive of rape culture—they should at least have the opportunity to reflect on the contribution conventional news reporting makes to it. 

2022: the highs, the lows and the same-old-same-old

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2022 was a year when I didn’t do much blogging. That wasn’t because there was nothing to blog about, but more because I had too much other stuff going on. So, as it’s now end-of-year review season, here’s a round-up of some of the events, debates and news stories that caught my attention during the last twelve months.  

In January the Scottish government agreed to pardon those Scots–most of them women–who had been executed for witchcraft several centuries earlier. Some felt this was just a PR exercise, designed to burnish Scotland’s progressive credentials, but it did raise some questions worth reflecting on about how we memorialize past misogyny and whether that makes any difference in the present.

The same can’t be said about the real PR story of the month, an announcement from Mars (the chocolate manufacturer, not the planet): that the characters used to promote M&Ms were getting a makeover which would highlight “their personalities rather than their gender”. What this turned out to mean was replacing one set of gender stereotypes with a different set. The green M&M, for instance, was previously supposed to be the sexy one, but in the revamp she has exchanged her white go-go boots for “cool, laid-back sneakers” to symbolize her “confidence and empowerment, as a strong female”. She will also lose her previous habit of being bitchy to the brown M&M (who is also female, and has also been given new shoes with a lower heel): we’ll see them “together throwing shine rather than shade”. As you’ll have gathered from these quotes, the press release was like a digest of popular neoliberal feminist clichés. But it’s pointless to expect mass-market advertising not to deal in clichés. What’s interesting about this story (like the previous year’s story about the rebranding of Mr Potato Head as “Potato Head”) is what it says about changing fashions in gender stereotyping and gendered language.

Fast forward to April, which was a month of Men in (British) politics Behaving Badly. Actually that was pretty much true for every month of the year, but in April things got particularly bad. There was, for instance, the MP who was seen looking at porn in the House of Commons debating chamber, and who claimed to have landed accidentally on a porn site when he was looking for information about tractors (this understandably convinced nobody, and in the end he resigned). There was also a story in the Mail on Sunday which accused the Labour Deputy Leader Angela Rayner of crossing and uncrossing her legs to distract Boris Johnson during Prime Minister’s Questions. Rayner’s description of this as a “perverted, desperate smear” (though there were some indications that she might unwittingly have inspired the story herself during a bit of casual banter on the House of Commons terrace) brought forth a torrent of misogynist, classist commentary which illustrated exactly why British Parliamentary politics is so offputting to so many women.

June brought the news (not unexpected but still horrendous) that the US Supreme Court had upheld a challenge to its earlier ruling in Roe v. Wade, enabling a large number of states to prohibit abortion completely. If ever there was a moment for deeds not words, and for unity rather than factionalism among supporters of women’s reproductive rights (whatever else they might disagree on), this was surely it; and yet one highly visible response to the crisis involved feminists performatively scolding other feminists online for using “problematic” terms, slogans and symbols. For me this was something of a low point. As much as I believe that language matters, I don’t believe linguistic purism and language policing have ever advanced the feminist cause.

In July the England women’s football team won the European Championship, a feat which has eluded the men’s team, and I started getting inquiries from journalists about their name. One inquirer asked why, if we’re not allowed to call women actresses any more, it’s fine for England’s women footballers to be known as Lionesses. What is the deal with –ess? Good question. Actress is actually a complicated case: unlike, say, authoress and poetess it survived the purge of feminine-marked occupational titles in the 1970s, but some women did reject it, and what has developed since is a kind of status distinction between female actors and actresses (referring to a woman as an actor implies she’s a serious artist rather than, say, a popular soap star). But the more recent acceptance of Lioness as a label for elite footballers suggests that the old feminist view of –ess terms as twee and trivializing may have gone. Perhaps it helps if you know that in the animal world it’s lionesses who rule: they run the pride and do most of the hunting (forget The Lion King, it’s bullshit). But it’s still slightly odd, because if the women are the Lionesses that implies that the men must be the Lions, and in fact you don’t often hear them called that: more typically they’re just “England”. On the more positive side, though, pundits who used to talk about “football” and “women’s football” are now being more careful to say “men’s football”.

During July and August we had to watch the Tories choosing a replacement for Boris Johnson, who had finally been forced to resign as Prime Minister. The man who eventually replaced him, Rishi Sunak (let’s draw a veil over the short, unhappy premiership of Liz Truss) favours a less feral brand of masculinity, but his Modern Man credentials still leave something to be desired. In August he responded to a question about what sacrifices he’d had to make to become a prime ministerial contender by saying he’d been “an absolutely appalling husband and father for the last couple of years”. This is a variation on the humblebrag answer to the job interview question “what would you say is your biggest weakness?”–“I’m a bit of a perfectionist/a workaholic”. Presumably it was meant to make Sunak sound reassuringly dedicated to the job but not unaware of his domestic obligations or devoid of human feelings (“of course I love my family, but running the country has to come first”). But in fact it just sounded smug and sexist. If a woman in Sunak’s position described herself as “an appalling wife and mother” she’d be criticized for her negligence, not applauded for her self-awareness.

In September Queen Elizabeth II died, and was posthumously recast as a feminist role-model by commentators around the world. A bit like the green M&M, the late monarch had apparently been a “strong, empowered female” who “paved the way for other women to dedicate themselves fully to their careers”. The fact that, as a Queen Regnant, she was not so much a girlboss as an anomaly within an anachronism, seemed to escape those who churned out this vacuous fluff.   

October brought, as it does in most years, a brief and ineffectual flurry of concern about the extent of sexual harassment and violence in British schools. Among the 3000 girls and young women who participated in Girlguiding UK’s annual survey, around 20 percent reported that they didn’t feel safe in school. The figures for reported rapes and sexual assaults in schools suggest that these anxieties are not unjustified. But most of the harassment girls experience in school is language and communication-based, which is why I’ve blogged about this issue on several previous occasions. It’s another case where words are no substitute for deeds: we’ve had a steady stream of reports and surveys which all say the same thing, and absolutely no concerted action to address the problem on the ground.

In November the Prime Minister of New Zealand, Jacinda Ardern, met her Finnish counterpart Sanna Marin—an unremarkable enough event, you might think, and certainly not one you’d expect to make headlines around the world, except that a reporter at their joint press conference asked what may have been the year’s stupidest sexist question. “A lot of people will be wondering”, he began, inaccurately, “are you two meeting just because you’re similar in age and got a lot of common stuff there?” Marin kept her answer simple: “We’re meeting”, she explained, “because we’re Prime Ministers”. Ardern on the other hand treated the questioner to a mini-lecture on trade relations, full of fascinating facts about what New Zealand buys from Finland (elevators) and what Finland buys from New Zealand (meat and wine). Points to both of them, but will the day ever come when women who run countries are not routinely patronized by media guys who make Alan Partridge look like an intellectual giant?  

In December it was reported that the Cambridge Dictionary, which is designed primarily for foreign learners of English, had updated its entries for woman and man by adding a new sense: “an adult who lives and identifies as female/male though they may have been said to have a different sex at birth”. I expected this to happen, and I expected it to cause controversy, but I didn’t feel moved to weigh in because my own view hasn’t changed since I wrote this post in 2019. It was unpopular then and will doubtless be even more unpopular now, but such is life.

December was also the month when the Taliban barred women from universities in Afghanistan, and when the equally fanatical misogynists who rule Iran cracked down hard on the protests which began in September following the death of Mahsa Amini at the hands if the morality police. It’s hard to feel sanguine about how this uprising will end. But nothing in 2022 was more inspiring than watching these brave and determined women–and the men who are protesting alongside them–shouting “Woman–life–freedom”. Those words cut through the noise and the bullshit: they speak to women everywhere.

So, that was 2022: thanks to everyone who read the few posts I managed to produce, and to all the writers and researchers whose work I drew on. And while I’m not expecting peace, joy and freedom to break out around the world in 2023, I’ll still wish you all the happiest possible new year.

Is this what a feminist looks like?

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It’s been an odd couple of days since Queen Elizabeth II died, and one of the oddest things about it has been the appearance of a rash of statements, news articles and opinion pieces on the question of whether the Queen was a feminist.

This hare may have been unwittingly started by the actor Olivia Colman in a statement she made back in 2019 to publicize a new season of Netflix’s royal family drama The Crown, in which she was about to play the role of Elizabeth II. She called the Queen “the ultimate feminist”, adding that “she’s the breadwinner. She’s the one on our coins and banknotes. Prince Philip has to walk behind her. She fixed cars in the second world war”. 

I’m sure Colman didn’t anticipate that these remarks would become a talking point in the aftermath of the monarch’s death three years later. Nevertheless, that’s what happened. First the Washington Post ran with “Was Queen Elizabeth II a feminist?”, then suddenly the pieces were everywhere: The Independent, The Guardian, Metro, Woman’s Hour, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, the business publication Forbes (which brought a “lean in” vibe to the proceedings by suggesting that “the queen’s commitment and dedication to her own job paved the way for other women to dedicate themselves fully to their careers”). The majority of them took the view that the Queen had indeed been a feminist, though dissenting voices included the Guardian columnist Zoe Williams and Amanda Taub in the New York Times.

I also have a view on the question itself, as will become clear, but the question I found myself asking as I scrolled through all this commentary was about words: what do these people think the word “feminist” means? Actually, my brain formulated it rather more prescriptively: “does anyone know what feminism is anymore?” This spontaneous reaction was slightly embarrassing, because I am, among other things, the author of a short introduction to feminism which is quite insistent on not being too prescriptive about the meaning of the word. For as long as feminism has existed there have been different/competing definitions of it, and massive disagreements among those who claimed to represent it. As a political movement it has always and everywhere been decentralized, a loose and shifting coalition of autonomous groups which themselves varied wildly in their mode of organization; there’s no politburo-style committee with the power to decide on or enforce a party line for everyone who uses the label “feminist”. In my book I dealt with this by proposing a very minimal working definition of a feminist as someone who believes two things: (1) that women are oppressed as women, and (2) that this can and should be changed through political action. Everything else—how you analyse the nature and the root causes of women’s oppression, what kind of change you want to see, what kind of action you think will bring it about—is up for grabs.

In theory, then, I’ve got very little interest in attempts to police the way the f-word is used—and as a linguist I have a lot of interest in observing how it actually is used, and how that varies and changes over time, as it inevitably will. But the “was the Queen a feminist” debate did make me wonder if we’re in the process of evacuating the word of both its political meaning and its history. 

As the feminist theorist Sylvia Walby has observed, feminism is now understood by many people more as a kind of personal identity than as a political project: we ask “is so-and-so a feminist?” rather than “does so-and-so do feminism?” Since we’re currently in a phase when feminism is cool rather than despised (this goes in cycles), one result is that almost any woman who isn’t actively anti-feminist is fairly likely to identify herself as a feminist. For large numbers of women who don’t “do” feminism—or any other kind of politics—that’s just a shorthand way of indicating that they subscribe to what is now a conventional, mainstream view in most parts of the world: women should be equal and free to choose their path in life, whether it be full-time parenting or running for president. (This is the kind of feminism The Onion had in mind when it marked International Women’s Day with a piece headlined “Women now empowered by anything a woman does”.)  

Despite–or rather because of—her privileged position, the Queen was not, in the mainstream feminist sense, “empowered”: she spent her life in the proverbial gilded cage, with no freedom to choose her own path, or to express political views of any kind. Commentators wanting to claim her as a feminist were therefore obliged to look for evidence of her doing or saying things which might be read as signs that she was privately sympathetic to feminist ideas. In many cases what they came up with strained credulity. For instance, many pieces cited the fact that when she married she kept the name Windsor rather than taking her husband’s name, Mountbatten, prompting him to complain that he was the only man in the country who couldn’t give his name to his children. I doubt this had anything to do with feminism: it’s far more likely to have been motivated by dynastic considerations. It also overlooks the evidence that in private she did defer to her husband. After Philip died, we were endlessly told that although he walked behind her on ceremonial occasions, when it came to family matters, he was the “undisputed master”; in public she wore the crown but at home he wore the trousers.

Another striking thing about the commentary, which is also in line with the broadening and political bleaching of the f-word’s meaning in contemporary discourse, was its tendency to uncritically equate “being a feminist” with “being a woman who occupies a position of power”, or in this case perhaps I should say “being a female figurehead”, since as a modern constitutional monarch the Queen, though influential if she chose to use her influence, had no serious political power. Having your picture on stamps and banknotes doesn’t make you powerful, it makes you a symbol; nor is it very convincing to suggest that merely having a woman in that symbolic role somehow elevates the status of women in reality (see also fertility goddesses, Marianne, the Virgin Mary, etc.)

A lot of this power and leadership stuff felt weirdly anachronistic, talking about a woman who personified an ancient and highly traditional institution in the sort of language we might associate with profiles of Silicon Valley “girlbosses”. Writers kept referring to the Queen as a “role model” for women leaders, which was particularly jarring given that the role of a hereditary monarch is only open to a tiny, pre-determined set of people, who do not have to have any ambition to fill it, nor any particular aptitude for it.   

But perhaps this is a bit more complicated than I’m suggesting. From Amanda Taub’s thoughtful piece in the New York Times I learned that in 1952 an aspiring woman politician wrote an article for the Sunday Graphic which contained these words:

If as many earnestly pray, the accession of Elizabeth II can help to remove the last shreds of prejudice against women aspiring to the highest places, then a new era for women will indeed be at hand.

Once again this glosses over the fact that hereditary monarchs do not “aspire to the highest places”, they are simply put in their predestined place when the time comes. But could it be true that a society which has accepted a queen as its figurehead (because with monarchy you get who you get) becomes more receptive to the idea of a woman leader who did have to aspire to power, and compete for it with men? This writer apparently hoped that was true, though she was not, in any other respect, a feminist. Her name, in case you haven’t already guessed, was Margaret Thatcher.

Amanda Taub also talked to a historian, Arianne Chernock, who had studied the phenomenon of the “queen crazy woman” in 1950s America. In 1953 a report on this phenomenon in the LA Times quoted a psychologist who explained that for some American women the Queen had become “a heroine who makes them feel superior to men”. Though my own feminist education has given me a strong tendency to suspect any pronouncement about women made by a psychologist in the 1950s of being sexist bullshit, I don’t find the idea that identification with a female figurehead might prompt women to imagine having power either implausible or uninteresting; all liberatory politics has to begin in the imagination.    

My own objection to the idea that the Queen was a feminist is not really about her personal views (of which we know almost nothing) or the way she conducted herself (as Amanda Taub notes, “she stuck quite rigidly to traditional gender roles in terms of her behavior, clothes and public presentation of herself as a wife and mother”). It’s more about the extraordinarily patriarchal nature—and I mean “patriarchal” in the strictest and most literal sense—of the institution she was born into and dutifully served throughout her life.  

Many commentators pointed out that she presided over the 2011 reform of the law of succession which dispensed with male primogeniture: in future Britain may have a Queen regnant who has younger brothers (though we already know it won’t happen before the death of George, son of William, son of Charles). But one thing nobody mentioned (so forgive me if I do) was that one of the primary responsibilities of any queen, regnant or consort, is to produce legitimate heirs. This is another aspect of the “gilded cage”: royal women may live in luxury, be deferred to and publicly venerated, but they are also regarded as breeding stock. Elizabeth I managed to choose to remain unmarried and childless, but it wasn’t easy for her to hold that line, and I can’t imagine a modern, figurehead-type queen being able to hold it. Feminists may not agree on much, but one thing they mostly have tended to believe is that compulsory heterosexuality, marriage and reproduction—along with the whole concept of “legitimacy”—are among the cornerstones of the patriarchal order. Royal women are living symbols of what that order means for women, and even though what they experience is the luxury version, I find it impossible not to see it, and their consent to it, as a sort of degradation. (I think some royal women, especially those who married into it, have also come to see it that way, and their response has been to look for an exit.)

When I say that the Queen was not a feminist, that’s not a criticism of her or the way she did the job: a royal woman born in 1926 was never very likely to be a feminist. Her views and her behaviour, like everyone else’s, were bound to reflect her social milieu and life-experience (which in some ways was unusually varied, but in others extraordinarily limited). In that respect I found some of the arguments against her being a feminist as off-point as the arguments in favour. For instance, some people maintained she wasn’t a feminist because she was an upper-class white lady who was comfortable with hierarchy and inequality and, at a minimum, unapologetic about British colonialism. Well, OK, she was all of that; but in that case Emmeline Pankhurst, founder of the Women’s Social and Political Union (aka the suffragettes) wasn’t a feminist either. (In her youth Pankhurst was a radical, but she became an avid nationalist, an outspoken defender of the Empire and, eventually, a Tory—while at no point renouncing her commitment to women’s rights.) This is another case of projecting a contemporary, broadened definition of feminism (as a movement to end all forms of social injustice rather than specifically a movement to advance women’s rights) onto a figure from an earlier period of history.

I’m still committed to the view that feminism is a house of many mansions: there are and always have been competing/conflicting definitions, and that hasn’t stopped feminists from getting on with whatever they saw as their work. But I’m equally committed to the view that however variously we define its goals, principles or methods, feminism is a political project: simply existing as a famous or powerful woman does not, in and of itself, make someone a feminist. We should be able to admire the achievements of non-feminist women without needing to co-opt them into a movement they never wanted to join, and we should be able to criticize the ideas or actions of feminist women, past and present, without needing to deny that they were ever feminists.      

The dangers of purity

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‘I wish’, someone said to me yesterday, ‘that people who call themselves feminists would stop telling me what I’m not allowed to say’. It turned out she’d been on Facebook, looking at feminists’ reactions to the US Supreme Court’s decision to overturn the 49-year-old judgment in Roe v Wade. I’d been doing the same thing on Twitter, so I knew exactly what she meant. Though the news prompted a range of responses from feminists, from learned legal analysis of the judgment to practical advice for women living in states where abortion is now a crime, one surprisingly prominent theme in posts and tweets was what words and images we should or (more often) shouldn’t be using.

One predictable bone of contention was the word ‘women’. There were many reminders to use inclusive language, bearing in mind that women weren’t the only people the judgment affected. There were also many statements of the opposite view, that inclusive language was a distraction: the judgment needed to be named for what it was, an attack, specifically, on women’s rights.  

Then there were tweets castigating the authors of other tweets for referring to supporters of the judgment as ‘pro-life’. As critics of it pointed out, that’s their own preferred term, which they worked hard to get others to use because it paints them in a positive light. It’s also, however, a lie, insofar as the only ‘life’ these people are ‘pro’ is the life of the as-yet unborn: the minute an infant leaves the womb it becomes a matter of indifference to the ‘pro-lifer’ whether it has adequate food and shelter, or whether it goes on to be killed in a school shooting, etc., etc. Their political opponents should not play into their hands by using this terminology.

Visual imagery also came under scrutiny. One much-liked and retweeted message took issue with people who were using an image of a wire coat hanger to signal their opposition to the Supreme Court judgment. The coat hanger has a long history of being used as a symbol in the struggle for reproductive rights (it was carried, for instance, at a demonstration in Washington DC in 1969): it’s a reference to the desperate methods women employed to induce abortions before abortion was legalized (as one ob-gyn who was around in those days told the LA Times, coat hangers were only one tool that was used: others included ‘knitting needles and radiator flush’). But people who had added this venerable symbol to their profiles were told off for promoting something so gruesome, stigmatising, outdated and inaccurate. Did they want women to think that the life-endangering coat hanger was their only recourse, when they could and should be using mifepristone and misoprostol? As one commentator observed, ‘a five-pack of pills may not be as striking as the coat hanger, but it’s a far safer and more accurate image to promote’. 

If this kind of thing bothers me, it’s not because I don’t think our communicative choices are a legitimate topic of discussion. I certainly have views on them: I do try to avoid ‘pro-life’ (I prefer ‘anti-abortion’), and for reasons which I’ve discussed in a previous post, I think it’s important to use the word ‘women’ in relation to attacks on reproductive rights (though I also think that in many contexts it should be ‘women and’). But while discussing the implications of your linguistic choices may be a good feminist practice (one that’s helped me clarify my thoughts on many occasions, and has sometimes changed my views more radically), ultimately I don’t think any feminist can claim the authority to tell other feminists what they’re ‘not allowed to say’.

One problem with this kind of policing is that it often owes more to the latest viral hot take than to any deep understanding of the way language and communication work. Consider, for instance, the criticism that the coat hanger image is outdated and inaccurate, and should be replaced, in the interests of accuracy and up-to-dateness, by an image of a pack of pills. This argument implies that the image makes a quasi-factual statement–something like ‘this is what people use to perform illegal abortions’. But of course, that’s not what it does: the coat hanger is a symbol, standing in for the general idea of illegal and unsafe abortion (regardless of the method used). It was chosen for that purpose because it’s gruesome. And symbols like this don’t become ‘outdated’ as times change, they just acquire new layers of meaning. In this case, the combination of the coat hanger’s gruesomeness and its association with the era before Roe vs Wade enables it to convey a point which was made by the dissenting Justices Kagan, Sotomayor and Breyer–that the Supreme Court’s decision takes us back to a less enlightened age. Today’s young women have fewer rights than their grandmothers, and will be forced to fight the same battle an earlier generation fought. The hanger can convey this complex set of meanings because of its history as a political symbol; they would not be conveyed by an image of a pack of pills.

Another problem with this genre of criticism is that it comes across as one-upping and/or talking down. The person who tells you not to use the coat hanger image because it’s ‘inaccurate’ is never saying she herself would mistake it for literal information on what to do to end a pregnancy: she’s always worried about the potential for some other, less smart or less well-informed woman to misinterpret it. She’s also implicitly claiming the moral high ground (‘I care more than you do about those less privileged than myself’)—a move I might find less annoyingly smug if I thought her concerns were justified. Of course, not all the women who might need abortion drugs will know about them (or how to get them without risking arrest): disseminating that information will be an important political task. But it can surely be done without suggesting that some women are too stupid to recognize a political symbol when they see one.  

I’ve been talking about specific examples, but what really troubles me is the strength and pervasiveness of the general phenomenon. Why, in a political emergency, did so many feminists choose to engage in self-righteous point-scoring about words and symbols? And how can this obsession with political and linguistic purity be anything but an obstacle to the concerted action an emergency demands? It’s dividing feminists when they need to stand together (and on an issue where there’s actually a high degree of unity), and deterring others from getting involved (most people are reluctant to speak up if they fear being scolded or shamed for using the wrong words). At times, scrolling through what feels like an endless stream of disapproving comments, I’ve found myself wondering what kind of political messaging (if any) some of these online critics would find acceptable, and whether they have any interest in actually winning political battles.

Too many recent feminist campaigns have been plagued by disputes about ‘problematic’ symbols, from the wearing of the pink pussy hat on women’s marches against Trump to the use of the coat hanger symbol and imagery from The Handmaid’s Tale in protests against the Supreme Court decision. Almost any symbol that ‘works’, in the sense that large numbers of people recognise it, understand it and feel a connection to it, will sooner or later be denounced for being exclusionary, or stigmatising, or appropriating someone else’s historical suffering–in short, for not being ‘pure’. But that kind of purity is an impossible dream, and the quest for it can derail our politics. Though in progressive circles it’s a truism that language matters, there are times when other things are more important.

A tale of two politicians

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This week I’ve been thinking about two women politicians who have featured prominently in recent news stories. One is Marine Le Pen, the leader of the French far-Right Rassemblement National, who faced Emmanuel Macron—and lost to him—in the second round of the Presidential election last Sunday. The other is Angela Rayner, the Deputy leader of Britain’s Labour Party, who became the subject of a story alleging that she was in the habit of deliberately crossing and uncrossing her legs (like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct) to put Boris Johnson off his stride during their occasional encounters at the weekly Parliamentary ritual of Prime Minister’s Questions.

These were obviously different kinds of stories—one about a real and serious political event, the other a piece of media-confected froth—about two politicians who have little in common beyond their sex. But both tell us something about the situation of women in politics. Regardless of who she is and what she stands for, a female politician’s sex is (still) an issue in ways a man’s is not. She may be able to use this to her own advantage, or it may be used against her by her political opponents, but either way it will be an element of the discourse that she is in some way obliged to negotiate.

I don’t think Le Pen’s failure to become France’s first female President had much, if anything, to do with her femaleness. But I do think her campaign—the most successful of her career so far—showed her awareness of what it takes for a woman leader to be electable. It also underlined a paradox that has often been commented on–that this may actually be easier for women on the Right of the political spectrum. Though conservatives (with a small as well as a large C) have a general problem with female authority, centuries of patriarchy have produced a set of cultural archetypes through which it can be made acceptable—most notably the ‘Iron Lady’ and the fiercely protective Mother, personae which are more appealing to right-wing authoritarians than they are to feminists and other progressive types.

Le Pen seems to have made a conscious effort to exploit that appeal. Her campaign posters drew attention to her sex by calling her ‘Femme d’état’ (‘stateswoman’), and shortly before the final vote she declared to the voters of Saint-Rémy-sur-Avre (and more importantly, the French media) that she would ‘lead France like the mother of a family, with common sense [and] consistency’. In line with this pledge, her campaign had emphasised cost of living issues and their effect on ordinary families (something that also worked well for Margaret Thatcher, who was fond of comparing the UK economy to a household budget). Of course, Le Pen isn’t really an ordinary housewife and mother; the point is rather that as a woman of a certain age and social type she can plausibly adopt that persona when it suits her. Whereas ‘femme d’état’ invites direct comparison with Macron, ‘mère de famille’ lays claim to qualities he would never be suspected of possessing.

Superficial or cynical as all this may sound, opinion polls suggested it made some difference: many people found the 2022 Le Pen less aggressive and more ‘relatable’ than the 2017 version. Le Pen still didn’t win, but she showed how a female candidate can control the narrative around her femaleness by choosing her own gendered persona from the limited selection on offer and then performing it consistently. This is something women on the Left are often more reluctant to do, both because they believe their sex shouldn’t be an issue and because they’re uncomfortable with the traditional archetypes. But refusing to play the woman card carries the risk that your opponents and/or the media will do it for you, and that you won’t be able to control the results.

That’s essentially what happened to Angela Rayner when the Mail On Sunday (with the assistance and encouragement of Conservative politicians) chose to identify her with another familiar archetype of female power: the Seductress who uses her sexual allure to manipulate men and bend them to her will. Investigations have since suggested that Rayner herself may have been the original source for the Basic Instinct comparison: several witnesses claim she joked about flashing Boris Johnson in an informal exchange among smokers on the terrace of the House of Commons. But she presumably didn’t intend the joke to become a national news story. Once that happened she was forced onto the defensive, describing it as a ‘perverted, desperate smear’.

It did smack of desperation, not least because it wasn’t clear how Boris Johnson benefited from a story which implied that a woman crossing her legs in his vicinity rendered him instantly incapable of thinking about anything else. Didn’t that just reinforce the already widespread perception of him as both easily distracted and an incorrigible lecher? And did it not risk making Rayner look like the better politician, skilfully exploiting her opponent’s known weaknesses?  Well, maybe, but then again no. When a woman is accused of using her sex for political, professional or financial advantage it is always a putdown—a re-statement of the ancient patriarchal principle that women are only good for one thing, and that they use that thing as a weapon because it’s the only kind of firepower they can muster. As one Tory MP told the Mail On Sunday:

She knows she can’t compete with Boris’s Oxford Union debating training, but she has other skills which he lacks.

This snide comment targets Rayner’s class origins as well as her sex: it’s a thinly-veiled way of saying that girls who went to northern comprehensives (and in Rayner’s case left school at 16) can’t cope with the rhetorical demands of a high-profile role in the House of Commons, so they compensate by acting like the slags they are. A similar tactic was used by the right-wing press during the 2015 General Election campaign in an effort to undermine another female politician with working-class roots—the SNP leader and Scottish First Minister Nicola Sturgeon. In her case it would have been hard to argue that she couldn’t match the boys’ debating skills, since it was her impressive performance in the TV election debates that had got the Tories rattled; but their media pals still devoted considerable energy to portraying her, verbally and visually, as the archetypal Seductress, or her low-rent sister the Slag.    

Ironically, the accusation ‘she uses her sex because it’s the only weapon she’s got’ is most often resorted to when it’s the only weapon the accuser’s got: faced with a female opponent who is as smart and as skilled as he is, he reaches for a crude sexist insult in the hope she will be humiliated (and depressingly, this tactic has a good chance of working, since there are few women for whom it doesn’t reopen old wounds or play on persistent insecurities). But it’s still remarkable that anyone can get away with deploying the ‘she doesn’t have his rhetorical skills’ argument about, of all people, Boris Johnson. Mail readers may have forgotten some of Johnson’s earlier triumphs of oratory—like the time he called Jeremy Corbyn a ‘big girl’s blouse’—but how could anyone forget the much more recent occasion when he treated the UK’s business leaders to several minutes of waffle about Peppa Pig? It’s hard to imagine a less convincing advertisement for the benefits of an ‘Oxford Union debating training’, but (as so often in matters of language) prejudice apparently still trumps evidence.

The Mail on Sunday story was froth, but while we were all busy frothing about it, another story was blowing up. It had broadly the same theme—sexual (mis)behaviour in Parliament—but in this story the offenders were not women like Angela Rayner, but men like the Tory MP Neil Parish, who had been seen in the debating chamber watching porn on his phone. (He has since resigned, calling the incident ‘a moment of madness’.) The Tories, however, are not alone here. Currently, no fewer than 56 MPs (including representatives of all the main parties) are being investigated following complaints of sexual harassment. Assuming that all or nearly all of these alleged harassers are men, that’s roughly one in every eight male members. These numbers suggest a pervasive culture problem—both a specific problem with the institutional culture of Westminster and a more general problem with Britain’s political culture.

The Angela Rayner story is part of that problem. Though it wasn’t intended to distract us from the ongoing scandal of sexual harassment at Westminster (more likely it was meant to distract us from Partygate and other scandals involving Boris Johnson), what links it to the issue of harassment is the use of sexualised language and behaviour to put women (back) in their place. Whether this is done by harassing them or, as in Rayner’s case, by accusing them of distracting men, the message to women is clear: ‘don’t delude yourself that we think of you as equals: we haven’t forgotten—and won’t let you forget–that sex is what you are and what you’re for’.

It may not be a coincidence that this message has become more strident as the number of women at Westminster has increased. They now make up 35% of all MPs, which is just above the proportion some political theorists have defined as a ‘critical mass’, meaning that women are present in sufficient numbers to make a difference to the overall culture. What proponents of this theory envisaged was a positive cultural shift, but what we are seeing in this case looks more like a backlash: women are now a large enough minority to be seen by some men as a threat to their dominance. On the positive side, though, however, women are pushing back against unacceptable male behaviour. When forty of them met last week to discuss their concerns with the Chief Whip, reports described them as ‘on the brink of mutiny’. They expressed anger not only about the Rayner story and the porn-watching MP (who at the time had not yet been named), but also about the lower-level sexism they experienced on a daily basis: the gratuitous comments on their clothes and appearance, the sniggering from male colleagues when they spoke in debates, the whips who routinely referred to them as ‘girls’.  

I find it interesting that Conservative women have been so vocal on this issue. Not all of them, of course: some of them are handmaids who can always be counted on to defend the indefensible, but others, including senior women like Caroline Nokes, Andrea Leadsom and Theresa May, have been highly critical of the ‘laddish’ turn they feel the party has taken under Johnson. Maybe this is another situation where women of the Right have some advantages over their Leftist sisters. Conservative women don’t, on the whole, aspire to be ‘cool girls’, or to be seen as ‘one of the lads’; they feel no need to display their sex-positive credentials by being relaxed about pornography in the workplace. If a Guardian columnist calls them pearl-clutching prudes, it’s water off a duck’s back: the constituents who elected them don’t care what Owen Jones thinks.

Labour women, on the other hand—especially those who, like Angela Rayner, are seen as high-fliers and potential future leaders—do have to care, and arguably that makes it more complicated for them to address their own party’s lad culture problem. When the question of Rayner’s role in the creation of the Mail story surfaced, she explained the reports of her ‘laughing and joking’ by pointing out that women confronted with sexism often go along with it to save face, though in reality they’re mortified and disgusted. Many women (me included) will recognise this account of their behaviour–though if it’s true that Rayner joked about her ‘ginger growler’ that sounds more like actively engaging in laddish banter than just passively going along with it. But if you’re serious about challenging sexism, don’t you at some point have to say enough is enough, even if it makes you unpopular?        

Women who worry about the consequences of challenging sexism are not wrong to fear the backlash, but they shouldn’t think appeasement will protect them either. No successful female politician of any party can entirely escape from sexism and misogyny, because the issue isn’t how she behaves, it’s simply that she’s a woman trespassing on what (some) men still consider their turf. Those men will always resent her, and will relieve their feelings by doing and saying things which are meant to remind her where she really belongs. That’s why cartoonists represented Theresa May as a stiletto-heeled dominatrix, and Marine Le Pen has been depicted as a streetwalker in fishnets taking money from Vladimir Putin. But at least the Le Pens of the world can cast themselves in other roles, like the matriarch or the resourceful housewife. I understand why women on the Left reject those female archetypes, but one of the lessons we could learn from this week’s events is that they urgently need to find alternatives.  

Body language

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At the girls’ grammar school I attended in the early 1970s, most of my peers’ most hated subject was Latin, which was generally considered to be super-hard, super-boring, and of no practical use whatsoever. I too found it pretty tedious, but there were several subjects I hated more, including geography, PE and, above all, domestic science. So I was content, if not exactly ecstatic, to plod on with Latin until O Level, the ancient equivalent of today’s GCSE. The school encouraged us to do this if there was a chance we might go on to university, and especially if we aspired to study medicine. Whenever we complained about the uselessness of Latin, we’d be told that ‘Latin trains the mind’, followed by ‘and you’ll need it if you want to be a doctor’.

Today’s medical students are not expected to have studied Latin, but they still need to learn a technical vocabulary which is heavily reliant on it. In anatomy, for instance, much of the standard terminology dates back to the Renaissance, when Latin was the language of learning across Europe. And sometimes, decoding medical Latin reveals that it isn’t just the language that’s ancient.

Last year the New York Times reported on the experience of Allison Draper, who as a first-year medical student came across a reference to the ‘pudendal nerve’. Not knowing the word ‘pudendal’, she consulted a dictionary of anatomy. She was shocked to learn that it derived from the Latin verb ‘pudere’, meaning ‘to be or make ashamed’, and that ‘pudendum’, a gerundive form meaning, roughly, ‘thing to be ashamed of’, was the standard anatomical term for the outer female genitalia. She decided to write a paper arguing that such terms had no place in modern medicine. Her (male) anatomy professor supported her, though he admitted that before she raised it he had never given the matter any thought.  

Another male anatomist, Bernard Moxham, had already concluded that ‘pudendum’ was a problem. To his mind it was not only sexist but also unscientific, putting moral judgment in place of description. Moxham had previously served as president of the international organisation that oversees the standard reference work on anatomical terms, Terminologia Anatomica, and he proposed that organisation’s terminology group should consider replacing ‘pudendum’ and ‘pudendal’ with more objective, descriptive alternatives.

He was surprised when this proposal met with resistance. Some members of the group maintained that the terms weren’t really sexist: they could be interpreted as referring not to the negative concept of shame but to the ‘positive’ concepts of modesty and virtue (though it’s hard to see what’s positive about locating women’s virtue in their genitals). Others warned darkly of a slippery slope: if ‘pudendum’ went, how many other traditional terms might also have to go because they were scientifically uninformative or out of tune with modern sensibilities?  Eventually the group agreed that ‘pudendum’ should be removed from Terminologia Anatomica, but ‘pudendal’, as in ‘pudendal nerve’, should stay; they were concerned that its removal might cause difficulty for colleagues in other branches of medicine. However, a pain-management specialist who regularly performs the procedure known as a ‘pudendal block’ told the Times she found its survival ‘incredible’. ‘What’, she asked, ‘does that say about the medical establishment and their attitudes to women?’ 

The story of ‘pudendum’ does say something about the sexism of medicine as an institution, but arguably it says at least as much about the culture in which medicine exists. In the 21st century it may seem crassly offensive to label women’s genitals ‘the thing to be ashamed of’, but historically that label served the same purpose which is more often served today by using vague expressions like ‘undercarriage’ or ‘bits’. These are forms of polite avoidance, ways of not directly naming the offensive thing itself. And what’s behind that is not a specifically medical prejudice, but a far more general and culturally pervasive view of female sexuality, and the associated body-parts, as a source of shame and disgust. That view remains widespread among women themselves: surveys have found that many or most of those questioned regard terms like ‘vulva’ and ‘vagina’ as embarrassing and offensive.

But while medical terminology reflects the prejudices of the surrounding culture, the authority and prestige of medicine give its language a particular power to define the realities it speaks of—including the female body and the processes which affect it. Challenging that power, and medical authority more generally, has been an important feminist project more or less throughout the history of the movement. But as the case of ‘pudendum’ shows, it isn’t easy (even for insiders) to shift the norms of a linguistic register whose traditions are so revered and so jealously guarded. How changes happen, when they do, is a complicated question–as we see if we consider an earlier challenge to the language used by doctors about women’s bodies.    

In 1985 the UK medical journal The Lancet published a letter from a group of senior obstetricians calling on the profession to stop using the term ‘abortion’ to refer to both induced terminations of pregnancy and ‘spontaneous’ or involuntary pregnancy loss. The letter stated that in the writers’ experience, women who had experienced pregnancy loss found the use of ‘abortion’ distressing and offensive. It proposed, on ‘humanitarian grounds’, that non-induced cases should instead be called by women’s own preferred term, ‘miscarriage’.

Research has shown that ‘miscarriage’ did subsequently become more common in medical usage. But there has been some debate on the role played by the Lancet letter. Was it the letter that changed doctors’ attitudes, and thus their linguistic choices, or was a gradual shift from ‘abortion’ to ‘miscarriage’ already happening in response to external pressure? Patient-led groups and women’s health activists had established a clear preference for ‘miscarriage’ before 1985: in 1982, when a charity was set up to support affected women, its founders named it the Miscarriage Association. Might these ongoing developments, led by women outside the profession, have played a more important role than the letter in shifting the professional consensus over time?      

That question has recently been revisited in an article by the corpus linguist Beth Malory, who investigated the use of ‘abortion’ and ‘miscarriage’ in the titles of articles published in three UK medical journals (The Lancet, the British Medical Journal and the British Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology) between 1975 and 1995. Using a statistical modelling technique called ‘change point analysis’, which is designed to identify sudden (rather than gradual) changes in an established pattern, she found that in this case there had been a moment when the pattern abruptly changed, and there was an 85% probability that this occurred in 1986—within months of the publication of the Lancet letter. In Malory’s view this is strong evidence that the letter played a pivotal role in the shift towards ‘miscarriage’.

That doesn’t mean external pressure played no role: the letter was, by its authors’ own account, a response to the concerns expressed by patients and organisations representing them (the letter cites a survey conducted by the Miscarriage Association in which 85% of respondents opposed the then-current medical use of ‘abortion’). But it does seem likely that the effect of the letter reflected the authors’ status as eminent members of the medical profession, which enabled them to make the case for ‘miscarriage’ more authoritatively than the women they spoke for could have done. So, in this case as in the case of ‘pudendum’, the moral of the story seems to be that changing the language of medicine is not something sisters can do for themselves: they may be instrumental in preparing the ground, but ultimately they need the support of high-ranking insiders. (Who will often, as in these cases, be men.)    

Nearly 40 years have passed since the Lancet letter, but the issue it addressed hasn’t gone away. ‘Miscarriage’, once recommended as a compassionate and respectful choice, is increasingly under fire itself. And this time women are voicing their objections from a platform that didn’t exist in the 1980s.

In 2020, after the model and media personality Chrissy Teigen shared the news of her recent pregnancy loss on Instagram, the response quickly spread across social media, and then to mainstream publications like Glamour magazine, which ran an article headed ‘Women are calling for the word “miscarriage” to be banished for good’. The article reproduced a Twitter exchange in which a woman expressed her appreciation for Teigen’s use of the term ‘pregnancy loss’, observing that ‘“Miscarried” is such an awful description…it’s like you did something wrong’. Other women agreed: ‘miscarry = mishandle’, tweeted one, while another added, ‘you’re so right…it’s no wonder so many women carry feelings of shame and guilt after their loss’. Many women commented that the term ‘pregnancy loss’ was new to them, and said they planned to start using it instead of ‘miscarriage’.

This change already had some professional support. In 2011 the US journal Obstetrics and Gynecology published a paper entitled ‘Nomenclature for pregnancy outcomes: time for a change’ (note: no question-mark), which argued that new terms were needed to reflect both advances in scientific knowledge and what it called ’emotional considerations’. The authors’ own list of suggested terms contained several that included the word ‘loss’ (e.g. ‘embryonic loss’ and ‘early pregnancy loss’). ‘Pregnancy loss’ also appeared in some of the article titles in the paper’s bibliography, showing that some specialists had already adopted it.

Though it hasn’t happened yet, it wouldn’t surprise me if ‘pregnancy loss’ became the dominant term in the not-too-distant future. Personally I think it’s a good term: it’s straightforward, transparent and acknowledges what the experience means to those affected by it. But it’s still striking, as Beth Malory also comments, how fast and how far ‘miscarriage’ has fallen. The responses to Chrissy Teigen suggested that it is now widely seen as a woman-blaming term (in the words of the tweet quoted earlier, ‘miscarry = mishandle’). That isn’t just a lay view, either: in 2015 a doctor writing in the Toronto Globe & Mail argued that ‘miscarriage’ was a harmful term because the ‘mis-’ prefix leads women to believe their pregnancies have ‘gone wrong’ (when in reality it’s more likely they were never viable) and that this must be because of something they did wrong.

This argument implies that the negative associations of ‘miscarriage’ are–and always were–an integral part of its meaning. Yet if we look back to the 1980s, there is no reason to think it was perceived as negative. In those days it was championed by feminists, patient groups, charities and eventually doctors; it was presented as the term women themselves preferred. One of the advantages it was said to have over ‘abortion’ was that it didn’t carry a stigma, or make women feel they were being blamed. Evidently that’s changed during the last 40 years; but what has happened to change it?   

The short answer is that changes in word-meaning may reflect changes in the surrounding culture, and in this case I can think of two developments which might be relevant. One is the increasingly aggressive promotion of the idea that individuals are responsible for their own health, and the associated tendency to blame any problems on people’s own unhealthy choices; in the case of pregnant women, whose choices also affect their unborn children, this attitude is particularly punitive (think of all the total strangers who feel entitled to intervene if they see a pregnant woman drinking alcohol). The other is the rise in popular culture of a new ideal of perfect motherhood, embodied by celebrities and social media influencers who plot an exemplary and very public course from conception (which happens exactly as planned) through a radiantly healthy pregnancy to birth (ideally ‘natural’), after which they have no trouble bonding with the baby, and quickly shed any excess weight. For the great majority of women (maybe all of them) this ideal is unattainable, but that doesn’t stop them feeling guilty for falling short.

Of course it’s true that pregnant women in the 1980s—and for that matter the 1880s—were nagged about their health and presented with unrealistic images of motherhood; it’s also true that women who lost a pregnancy were always susceptible to feelings of shame and guilt. But I’m suggesting that the pressure on prospective mothers to be ‘perfect’ has been massively ramped up in recent decades, and that this may at least partly explain why ‘miscarriage’ has taken on more negative, judgmental or accusatory overtones. It’s a projection of our feelings about the thing onto the word that names it. And one question that might raise is whether changing the word will solve the problem.

Critics of this kind of change are fond of pointing to cases where terms which were introduced to replace a stigmatising label rapidly became pejorative themselves, necessitating a further change in the approved terminology (‘handicapped’ replaced ‘crippled’, and was replaced in its turn by ‘disabled’; ‘lunatics’ became ‘insane’ and then ‘mentally ill’). New terms are corrupted by the persistence of old attitudes, turning the project of reforming language into an endless game of whack-a-mole. My response to this is ‘yes, but…’. Changing linguistic labels may not eliminate social stigma, but that’s not an argument for sticking with terms that have become pejorative. You wouldn’t tell someone suffering from chronic headaches that they shouldn’t take a painkiller today because it won’t stop them getting another headache tomorrow. Temporary relief is still relief.

But when feminists get involved in debates about medical terminology, we should be clear about what renaming can and can’t achieve. Terms which were targets of feminist criticism in the past, like ‘hysteria’ and ‘frigidity’, may no longer appear in doctors’ diagnostic manuals, but they live on as everyday sexist insults (also, how enthusiastic are we about replacements like ‘female sexual dysfunction’, which arguably just repackage the old sexist ideas under a new, blander label?) What we’re ultimately fighting is not a war on words, but a battle against oppressive beliefs and practices. Language can play a part in that, but it isn’t the only thing we need to change.

I’m grateful to Beth Malory for sending me her article (which I hope those of you with access will read for yourselves), but she should not be held responsible for the opinions expressed in this post.

Assertiveness: just say no

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This month a feminist classic was reissued: Anne Dickson’s A Woman In Your Own Right, first published in 1982. Back in the 1980s virtually every feminist I knew owned a copy; I can still visualise the shiny silver cover. The 40th anniversary edition looks different, with a sunshine yellow cover and a new subtitle (the original one, ‘Assertiveness and You’, has been replaced by ‘The Art of Assertive, Clear and Honest Communication’). The content has also been updated: it’s not being presented as a historical document, but as still-relevant, practical advice.

Is it still relevant? As Dickson says in her new introduction,

It is tempting to believe that the world has changed to such an extent that women no longer have need of the guidance and support this book originally set out to offer.

She goes on to point out that while some things have changed for some women, many basic inequalities have persisted. Women are still expected to do the lion’s share of the unpaid care-work, and they still contend with high levels of sexual and domestic violence. She also cites some newer problems, like the explosion of online bullying and abuse.

No feminist disputes the argument that we still live in an unequal world. But is assertiveness a solution to the problems Dickson mentions? Personally, I have my doubts: as regular readers will know, I’m critical of the idea that the way women communicate is, if not the root cause of their subordinate position, then at least an important contributory factor. I think the assumptions behind communication training for women are linguistically and politically naïve, and there’s little if any evidence that interventions based on them are effective.

In that case, you might ask, why have those interventions been so popular for so long? A cynical answer might be that, like the equally ineffective products of the diet industry, they are lucrative. Training is a profitable business, and AFAIK it’s unregulated: anyone can market their services as a trainer, coach or ‘communication consultant’. Anne Dickson, to be fair, does have expert credentials: she’s not in the same category as the hacks and grifters I’ve criticised in the past. Her model of assertiveness is internally coherent, and there’s more to her advice than the usual finger-wagging bullshit. But that’s exactly why the 40th anniversary of her best-known work seems like a good moment to revisit the reasons why—even at its best—I find this approach misguided.

Assertiveness training (AT) is now quite strongly associated with feminism, but it wasn’t invented by feminists. It originated in the late 1940s as a form of behaviour therapy for people whose dysfunctional behaviour was linked, in the opinion of those treating them, to ‘poor communication skills’. In some cases the problem it was meant to address was the extreme passivity caused by severe depression or long-term institutionalisation; it was also used with drug addicts, teen mothers and homosexuals, whose ‘deviant’ lifestyles were thought to result from low self-esteem and/or inability to resist peer pressure. In other cases the presenting problem was not passivity but its opposite, aggression. AT was used to teach people (including sex offenders and domestic abusers) to verbalise feelings of anger rather than resorting to physical violence.

Trainees were taught a set of guiding principles which emphasised that (a) everyone has the right to their needs and feelings, while at the same time (b) everyone has the obligation to respect the right of others to their needs and feelings. These principles were said to require the adoption of a style of speech which was clear, direct and honest rather than passive, aggressive or manipulative. The strategies taught in AT included using ‘I’ statements, making requests directly without hinting or hedging, and refusing unwanted invitations or unreasonable requests by ‘just saying no’.  

In the early 1970s, American second wave feminists took AT out of the clinic and into the small, self-organised women’s groups which formed the backbone of the Women’s Liberation Movement. These were women who’d grown up in the 1950s, the era of what Betty Friedan called ‘the feminine mystique’; they turned to AT to help them unlearn their ingrained habits of passivity and subservience. In Britain, similarly, Anne Dickson recalls that the women she worked with early on in her career ‘could immediately identify with passive and indirect behaviours, and could readily understand how this put them at a disadvantage’.

Today Dickson thinks women have less of a problem with passivity, but it troubles her that assertiveness has been popularly conflated with aggression. She complains that the phrase ‘an assertive woman’ conjures up a picture of someone ‘authoritarian, domineering and overbearing’, who ‘gets what she wants by any means available to her’ and uses feminism as an excuse for expressing ‘hostility and intolerance, to men especially’. This is not, Dickson insists, what assertiveness means. It ‘teaches us how to maintain directness and clarity and remain authoritative while at the same time avoiding aggression’ (her emphasis).

These remarks underline Dickson’s continued allegiance to the original model of assertiveness, in which aggression was as much of a problem as passivity, but they also illustrate the limitations of the philosophy behind that model (which, to the extent it has any political content, might be described as ‘wishy-washy liberal’). From a feminist perspective the equation of female assertiveness with aggression is a predictable consequence of sexism and misogyny. Any attempt by a woman to assert her rights or her authority directly, and any refusal on her part to defer to others’ wishes, is liable to be construed as illegitimate and hostile—in short, as an aggressive act, which may then provoke a backlash.  

This is implicitly acknowledged in some of the academic literature on assertiveness. Back in the 1990s, when I was researching AT for my book Verbal Hygiene, one of the texts I read included a discussion of a course developed for women in Puerto Rico, where the designers had decided not to include the topic of saying no to your male partner. In Puerto Rico, they explained, the submission of wives to husbands was ‘a relatively intransigent cultural norm’: encouraging women to say no to their husbands would be neither effective nor ‘socially valid’, and it could put the women at risk of violence. This surely underlines the point that AT is not politically radical. It’s not about challenging the prevailing social order, it’s about helping individuals function more effectively within it.

The main tool AT employs for that purpose is a set of rules for using language, which are meant to help trainees achieve the ideal of ‘clear, direct and honest communication’. In the abstract this seems unobjectionable: no one is in favour of obscure, confusing and dishonest communication. But if you delve into the details of what AT means by ‘clear, direct and honest’, you soon discover that the recommended speech-style is linguistically unnatural and socially unrealistic–and as such, unlikely to make communication more effective.

One problem with AT’s advice is its assumption that every speaker in every situation has the same freedom to choose to be ‘direct and honest’, and that what stops many women from making that choice is simply their own lack of confidence or self-belief. In reality, of course, there are other constraints which have more to do with the social context than with individual psychology. Many of the contexts in which women are told they should assert themselves involve power inequalities: standing up to a bullying boss, or a violent husband, may have consequences they are (understandably) unwilling to risk. It’s not a good idea to ‘just say no’ to someone who may take that as a provocation and respond with physical violence.

In fact, empirical research has shown that even in non-threatening situations English-speakers very rarely perform refusals by ‘just saying no’ without apology or explanation. A bald ‘no’ may be clear and direct, but it will also be heard as rude and hostile. But AT handbooks have a tendency to dismiss linguistic markers of politeness as mere ‘padding’, detracting from the clarity of the message without adding any extra information. The point this misses is that communicating isn’t just about exchanging information, it’s also about negotiating the relationship between participants. Politeness plays a crucial role in establishing the necessary level of co-operation and mutual respect. Eliminating it will undoubtedly influence the way your interlocutors perceive you—but not usually in a positive way.    

There’s a good illustration of this in the original AWIYOR: if you’re in a café and you find your cup hasn’t been washed properly you should say to the server, ‘I’d like you to change this for a clean cup’. This is textbook assertiveness: a clear, direct, first-person statement of what the speaker wants, with no superfluous ‘padding’ (like, say, ‘sorry, but could you change this for a clean cup please?’). It’s also brusque to the point of rudeness, making the speaker sound overbearing and self-absorbed.

That’s not just my opinion. Psychologists have done experiments where subjects watched videotapes of people communicating in ‘assertive’ and ‘unassertive’ ways and then rated each speaker for qualities like competence, likeability and aggression. ‘Assertive’ speakers are often judged to be aggressive, rude and unlikeable. And while that’s true for speakers of both sexes, you won’t be surprised to hear that the effect is stronger for women. Because women are expected to be kind and self-effacing, any female behaviour that deviates from that norm attracts more disapproval than the same behaviour in men.  

For me this is the core of the problem with communication training for women. Even when the advice itself isn’t stupid, it doesn’t acknowledge what both research and experience consistently show—that women are judged by a double standard and caught in a double bind. If they conform to gendered expectations they’ll be criticised as weak and ineffectual, while if they flout those expectations they’ll be damned as ‘abrasive’, ‘shrill’ and ‘strident‘.

This casts doubt on the assumption the whole enterprise is based on: that women are held back in life by the way they communicate, and the remedy is for them to change their behaviour. But if the new, ‘improved’ behaviour is not acceptable either–it just attracts a different set of criticisms–that might suggest that women’s speech was never the real problem. What really holds women back is systemic sexism: the negative judgments made on their speech are just expressions of that deeper prejudice.

So where does that leave A Woman In Your Own Right? I’ve read a lot of self-help books and training manuals in my time, and as I said earlier, I regard AWIYOR as one of the better ones. Even if I think some of the advice is linguistically misguided, it would be hard to argue that it’s actively harmful.

Considered as an institution, however, I do think assertiveness training—and communication training more generally—has done more harm than good over the last 40 years. Some examples are worse than others, but they all recycle and reinforce the belief that women as a group have a communication problem, and that this is an important reason why they are (still) not equal to men. They’re underpaid because they don’t feel comfortable asking directly for more money. They’re overworked because they can’t say no. They’re overlooked because they don’t speak up, or else they hedge and waffle and don’t protest when they’re interrupted.

This argument is not supported by good evidence, and our continuing receptiveness to it distracts attention from the deeper causes of inequality. It also obscures the nature of the problems women do have with language and communication, which have more to do with a combination of men’s behaviour and widely-held sexist attitudes than with women lacking the confidence to speak or using language that stops people taking them seriously.

So, with all due respect to Anne Dickson, I am not inclined to celebrate the anniversary of A Woman In Your Own Right. To be honest (not forgetting clear and direct), I find its longevity depressing. There was a time when I thought this whole genre was on its way out, but it managed to hang on, and in the last decade it’s produced a new crop of popular texts with titles like The Confidence Code and Girl, Stop Apologizing.

These recent books are part of the rise of what the feminist media scholars Shani Orgad and Rosalind Gill call ‘confidence culture’, a depoliticised form of feminism which, in their words, ‘exculpate[s] social structures and institutions from responsibility for gender injustice, laying it squarely at women’s door’. Rather than exhorting women to demand their rights and improve their material conditions through collective political struggle, it calls on them to empower themselves by improving themselves. As A Woman In Your Own Right demonstrates, this is not a new idea. It wasn’t the solution to our problems forty years ago, and it isn’t the solution to them now.

Cartoon by Angela Martin, 1994