"It is very easy for us to die without ever having known … our life." – M. Proust
Den offentlige debat er præget af mennesker, der ikke lytter til hinanden og i stedet forkuserer på krænkelser. Men der er en anden vej. Dialogens vej. At læse den afdøde britiske forfatter Iris Murdoch er en god start.
Det – og mere – har jeg skrevet en kronik om, som Politiken bragte henover julen.
Jeg har længe været af den overbevisning, at filosofi bør udbydes som et selvstændigt fag i folkeskolen. Ikke kun for at fastholde det nysgerrige, legende og fantasifulde, men i lige så høj grad for at fremme en kritisk sans.
Den usikkerhed, som flere forbinder med at leve i en præstationskultur eller en postfaktuel (eller pandemisk) verden, synes nemlig også at have fremmet en moralsk relativisme, til tider en nærmest resignerende ligegyldighed.
Det er, som om ingen helt ved eller bekymrer sig om, hvad der længere er passende og upassende. Eller også mener de – helt modsat – at have patent på den rigtige og ekskluderende ideologiske sandhed.
Læs resten af kronikken i Politiken
Hvordan kan vi som samfund sikre, at alle borgere uddannes i empati, kritisk tænkning og moralsk dannelse? Hvordan kan vi i fællesskab undgå, at små søde, bløde drenge bliver til mænd, der krænker og diskriminerer? I stedet for at overlade opdragelsen af drenge til Jordan Peterson kunne vi som samfund gøre filosofien obligatorisk i folkeskolen, skriver filosof Finn Janning. Han mener, at vi som samfund bør hjælpe hinanden med at frigøre os fra alt det, som holder os fanget.
”Man fødes ikke som kvinde, man bliver det.” Sådan skriver forfatter og filosof Simone de Beauvoir i sit hovedværk Det andet køn.
Det er en ikonisk sætning, der gennem årene er blevet debatteret grundigt. Det afgørende i sætningen er verbet: ”at blive.” På den ene side er der tale om en transformationsproces, der finder sted over en periode. Du bliver pianist, læge eller blikkenslager gennem øvelse, uddannelse og praksistræning.
På den anden side er der tale om en pludselig ændring. Kvinden, der bliver mor, idet babyen fødes. Eller personen, der får stillet en diagnose og bliver kræftpatient. I denne udlægning er der en klar skillelinje mellem før og efter.
Spørgsmålet er, om en pige bliver kvinde på den ene eller anden måde: som noget gradvist eller med et fingerknips. De fleste de Beauvoir-forskere vægter den gradvise tilblivelsesproces – en tilblivelse uden et klart slutmål.
For eksistentialisterne Simone de Beauvoir og Jean-Paul Sartre handler det om, at alle mennesker – uanset køn, race eller seksualitet, skal være frie til at blive – leve – som de ønsker. Af samme grund er der mange måder at være og blive kvinde på.
Problemet, som de Beauvoir belyser i sin bog, er, at samfundets strukturer – biologiske, historiske, kulturelle, psykologiske, religiøse, mytiske, etc. – har virket kontrollerende, hæmmende og diskriminerende, hvorved den enkelte pige ikke frit kunne vælge at blive den kvinde, som hun ønskede at blive.
Jeg tænkte på denne åbning, da jeg læste Isabella Miehe-Renards glimrende anmeldelse af den canadiske psykolog Jordan B. Petersons nye bog Hinsides orden – 12 nye regler for livet.
Psykologen Peterson fremstår som en velment pendant til vores egen danske Svend Brinkmann. Begge taler om at forpligte sig, stå fast og turde satse på noget for at skabe dybere mening.
Begge leverer nogle simple leveregler, der har godt tag i samtiden, hvad enten det drejer sig om at tage nejhatten på, eller ikke at gøre noget, du hader. En væsentlig forskel synes dog at være, at den canadiske professor har et bedre tag i de unge drenge.
Jeg tror, at en del af svaret herpå sandsynligvis kan findes i de Beauvoirs ikoniske sætning. I disse MeToo-tider vokser interessen for de Beauvoirs forfatterskab. Og med god grund.
Men i samme forbindelse kunne det være interessant, hvis hendes tanker blev anvendt mere stringent. En ting er ensidigt at klandre et patriarkalsk system for alle samtidens problemer; en anden ville være, hvis alle samfundets borgere – inklusive kvinderne – kiggede kritisk på deres rolle og ansvar i forbindelse med skabelsen af samtidens borgere – både drenge og piger.
Hvis præmissen er, at mennesket er noget blivende, så gælder dette for både kvinder og mænd.
Og her vender jeg så tilbage til Jordan Peterson, der ”opdragende” taler om at tage vare på sig selv, vælge sine venner med omhu, ikke at lyve og balancere mellem kaos og orden. Hvilket er noget, som mange mænd tilsyneladende har svært ved.
I de sidste halve år er det blevet klart, at flere magtfulde og mindre magtfulde mænd i Danmark har opført sig upassende. De har ikke respekteret andre menneskers grænser, enkelte har sågar foretaget decideret diskriminerende og voldelige overgreb.
Det undrer mig, hvordan det kan være, at flere mænd – og drenge – ikke besidder et anstændigt moralsk kompas. Eksempelvis viser en rapport fra Danske Gymnasielevers Sammenslutning, at hver fjerde kvindelige gymnasieelev har været udsat for krænkende kommentarer.
Det er uacceptabelt.
Hvordan blev umiddelbart uskyldige drenge til mænd, der ikke kan opføre sig ordenligt? Hvad er gået galt i opdragelsen af drengebørn?
Opdragelse er et anliggende for begge forældre – såfremt begge er tilstede – og for staten. Eksempelvis bør folkeskolen sikre, at børn, der opfører sig racistisk eller kvindehadsk, rettes til efter samfundets normer. Det er oplagt at spørge, om uddannelsessystemet har været for tolerant, eller blot ikke besiddet de rette værktøjer til at sætte ind overfor moralsk upassende opførsel eller holdninger?
Har seksualundervisningen været upassende? Jeg tror det.
Antagelsen har sikkert været, at spørgsmål om moral og værdier bør foregå i familien. Dette er dog et sats, da ikke alle familier praktiserer lighed, frihed og retfærdighed omkring spisebordet.
Et andet underbelyst område er, hvorvidt børn – især drenge – overbeskyttes af deres mødre. Personligt – og her er jeg farvet af at være bosiddende i Spanien – tror jeg, at omfanget af overbeskyttende og ekstremt tolerante mødre er relevant at belyse.
Jeg har oplevet flere spanske mødre – også dem, der betegner sig selv som feminister – der ser igennem fingrene, når deres egen søn er involveret i upassende og diskriminerende adfærd. Jeg har sågar hørt mødre undskylde for deres sønner, ligesom jeg har hørt mødre anklage pigerne, fordi de (pigerne) har forledt deres sønner.
Endelig har jeg de sidste par år arbejdet sammen med et par psykologer, der hjælper drenge i alderen 11-14 år med at vende tilbage til folkeskolen. Historien er den samme: Faren er fraværende, drengene sidder derhjemme og spiller computerspil uden megen anden social kontakt end moderen.
Når psykologen foreslår, at drengen vender tilbage til skolen, så er det gerne moderen, der modsætter sig, fordi hun er bange for at miste kontrollen over sin søn, har psykologerne fortalt mig.
Der er tale om et omvendt Ødipus-kompleks, hvor, i dette tilfælde, moderens tiltrækning til et barn er problematisk.
Selvom der ikke er tale om et videnskabeligt bidrag, kan jeg ikke lade være med at tænke på, om der en sammenhæng mellem de ganske ukritiske mødre i Spanien, og så det skræmmende niveau af mandschauvinisme, hustruvold og drab i selvsamme land?
Jeg ved det ikke.
Til gengæld ved jeg, at mange drenge aldrig løsriver sig fra deres mødre (og omvendt). De lærer aldrig at tage ansvar for deres egne handlinger. De formår ikke at stå til regnskab for, hvad de har gjort eller gør.
De forbliver umyndige. Den tyske filosof Immanuel Kant talte om, hvordan barnet går ud af umyndigheden – går ud af hjælpeløsheden – som en modningsproces. Flere danske mænd er tilsyneladende juridisk myndige, men eksistentielt og moralsk umyndige. De besidder ikke modet til at bruge deres egen forstand, ville Kant sige. De fremstår dumme.
Betyder det så, at problemet med mænd, der krænker piger og kvinder, er kvindernes egen skyld? Nej, selvfølgelig ikke. Opdragelse er et fælles anliggende; et fælles ansvar.
Som Camus skriver i Pesten: ”Jeg levede med ideen om min egen uskyldighed, hvilket vil sige, uden nogen som helst ide.”
Det drejer sig om, hvordan vi – som samfund – sikrer, at alle borgere uddannes i empati, kritisk tænkning og moralsk dannelse. Hvordan kan vi i fællesskab undgå, at små søde bløde drenge bliver til mænd, der krænker og diskriminerer?
Set i det lys kan jeg godt forstå, at Peterson er populær blandt drenge, da mange sikkert har savnet, at der bliver opsat nogle klare regler for dem. Grænser er vigtige. Men i stedet for at overlade opdragelsen af drenge til Peterson – der i Isabella Miehe-Renards anmeldelse fremstår som en semireligiøs paternalistisk forkynder – så kunne vi som samfund gøre filosofien obligatorisk i folkeskolen.
Undersøgelsen fra gymnasierne viser, at vi som samfund skal starte tidligere. En eksistentiel feminisme er en påmindelse om, at alle mennesker stræber efter frihed, hvorfor feminisme også er i enhver tænkende mands interesse. Som samfund bør vi hjælpe hinanden med at frigøre os fra alt det, som holder os fanget: Såsom dårlig eller mangelfuld opdragelse.
Først bragt POV International
Filosoffen Rasmus Ugilt kommer i Berlingske med den meget tvivlsomme påstand, at »inderst inde foragter vi #metoo-ofrene og beundrer krænkerne.« Som filosof burde han vide bedre end at tale på vegne af et generaliserende »vi.« Tværtimod, så fremstår krænkerne som personer uden selverkendelse, indsigt og nogen som helst fornemmelse for andre mennesker. Så nej, jeg tror meget få mennesker beundrer disse mænd, fordi der intet er at beundre. Dernæst passer det ikke, at mennesker beundrer magt og foragter smerte og lidelse. Argumentet kunne nemt vendes om.
Eksempelvis dvæler hele selvhjælpslitteraturen i smerte og lidelse. Religioner og spirituelle retninger påpeger, at livet er fuld af lidelse og prøvelser. Meget litteratur handler netop om faldet fra storheden eller livets iboende smerte. Ja, megen kritisk teori foragter ligefrem magten. Endelig kunne Ugilt også, rent empirisk, have kigget rundt i samfundet og bemærket, at flere mænd har mistet positioner og titler samtidig med, at flere kvinder, der har stået frem, står stærkere.
Bragt i Berlingske Tidende, januar 2021
”Og jeg stopper først, når mænd stopper med at begå overgreb,” skriver Sille Kirketerp Berthelsen i en kronik i Information.
Offerrollen er blevet så populær, at alle tilsyneladende drømmer om at påtage sig den. Kvinder og mænd, de fremmede, de syge, de arbejdsløse, de smukke, de tynde, de kloge og mindre kloge. Alle er de til tider ofre. For offeret er det altid den anden eller de andres skyld.
I Berthelsens kronik er det mændenes skyld. De begår overgreb. Og det gør de. Jeg tvivler ikke på statistikkerne eller hendes oprigtighed. Men, modsat hendes spådom, er jeg ikke træt af #MeToo. Tværtimod.
I Spanien, hvor jeg bor, dør der cirka to kvinder om ugen på grund af hustru- eller parvold. I alt for lang tid har holdningen været – helt forrykt – at lidt fysisk vold er okay. Heldigvis har #MeToo og andre vigtige kampagner igangsat en mentalitetsændring i Spanien (se også When Stupidty Rules).
Men kvinder begår også overgreb af den ikkedødelige karakter, som kronikøren nævner. Mange mænd har fået slynget en barm i ansigtet eller presset nogle hårde bryster mod sin ryg. Mange mænd er også blevet reduceret til objekter af kvinder. Mange mænd har oplevet at blive kysset mod deres vilje. Eller haft en hånd i skridtet efterfulgt af en enten såkaldt smigrende eller fornedrende kommentar om, at der er noget henholdsvis ikke noget at komme efter. Jeg har prøvet det hele. Jeg har også mødt en kvindelig blotter.
Adfærd er altså ikke partout kønsbestemt, men snarere tegn på at en person er mere eller mindre velfungerende (se også All Women Are Not Angels).
Mine egne erfaringer til trods ser jeg ikke mig selv som offer. Jeg er snarere et menneske, der har erfaret livet på godt og ondt.
Enkelte vil nok mene, at det skyldes, at jeg er en mand. Og sagen forholder sig unægtelig anderledes for mænd, idet manden ofte er fysisk stærkere og derfor kan virke mere truende (og manden fylder unægteligt væsentligt mere i statistikkerne). Alligevel gjorde den kvindelige blotter mig bange, da jeg mødte hende som niårig.
Jeg tror, at inderst inde i os alle befinder alle de andre sig. Vi former og formes af hinanden.
Stereotyper og generaliseringer er der nok af. De vokser som bekendt, hvor ignorancen trives.
Pointen er, at der findes smukke, respektfulde og tillidsvækkende mænd og kvinder, ligesom der findes mandlige svin og kvindelige orner.
Af samme grund, så vil jeg gerne være en killjoy – noget typisk filosofisk og ikke partout feministisk – og ønske mig, at kronikøren først ville stoppe, når alle mennesker stopper med at begå overgreb.
Dette vil kræve, at vi bevæger os udover denne dualistiske dans mellem offer og krænker, hvor positionerne hele tiden skifter, som i en tenniskamp. Når offeret føler trang til at hævne sig, som i kronikken, så kan jeg godt forstå det, ligesom jeg ofte finder vreden produktiv, men problemet er dog, at taktikken nemt kan ende med at bekæmpe had med had.
Det for småligt til at gøre verden mere rummelig.
En mere frugtbar tilgang ville udspringe af kærlighed. Det vil sige, at i stedet for at gøre et regnskab op, som jo aldrig kan gøres op, når det er så attraktivt at være offer, kunne kræfterne bruges på at skabe et fundament, hvor fremtidens mennesker kan leve frit og kærligt sammen. Som den afroamerikanske feminist bell hooks har påpeget, er kærlighed ikke en naturlig menneskelige evne, men derimod noget vi må lære. Kærlighed forudsætter, at vi mødes med kærlighed, venlighed og medfølelse, hvorved vi også erfarer lighed mellem mennesker – dvs. mellem køn, racer, aldre og seksuelle præferencer. Kærligheden kræver tillid og respekt, hvilket er noget som kultiveres gennem tillidsvækkende og respektfulde handlinger.
At vedkende sig eksistensen af krænkelser og overgreb er første vigtige skridt. Næste skridt må være, at eliminere eller reducere muligheden for fremtidige krænkelser.
Dette projekt kræver, som nævnt, kærlighed, venlighed og respekt, ikke had.
Denne kommentar blev bragt i en redigeret og forkortet version i Information
“Why treat women as children, regarding their “no” and “stop” as nothing but jaunty foreplay that only serves to test a man’s resolve?”
***
“Did he really do it? Did he ignore Kathryn Mayorga, who several times said “no” and “stop” while he penetrated her from behind? Yes, he did. ‘He’ being the Portuguese football (soccer) player Cristiano Ronaldo—one of the world’s most prominent athletes and, for the last three years, the world’s best football player.
Recently, the German news magazine Der Spiegel published a long, well-researched report dealing with what happened in a hotel room in Las Vegas in 2009 …”
In this essay, I use the accusations against Ronaldo as presented by Der Spiegel to reflect upon the question: How far has the #MeToo progressed?
Read the essay in The Mindful Word.
In her essay, “Truth and Politics,” the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote: “Freedom of opinion is a farce unless factual information is guaranteed and the facts themselves are not in dispute” (all quotes from Arendt are taken from Richard J. Bernstein’s brilliant book, Why Read Hannah Arendt Now).
Let me elaborate on that by referring to the #MeToo movement; the movement is, probably, one of the most interesting—and hopefully—sustainable movements of change in recent years. What concerns me here, however, is not who has the power to tell their story—although this is important as well—but how power shapes what any true story could possibly be. In other words, it’s obvious that most reasonable people welcome that women have both the courage and power to tell their stories, and yet, we should be careful not to let the label—#MeToo—paralyze the need for critical thinking regarding what is being said.
One way of blurring the distinction between fact-based truth (factual truth) and falsehood, as Arendt mentioned, is to claim that any factual truth is just another opinion. When dealing with abuse or violence is it enough to have an opinion about whether or not someone is being abusive? Without any sense of what is a so-called factual truth or facts, we too easily move into a fictional world of “alternative facts.”
Seen in this light, the accusation toward the writer Junot Diaz—to mention one recent example—might seem to neglect this distinction between falsehood and truth. Instead, the accusers tend to represent something Arendt would call propaganda. The issue here is not whether Diaz is a good guy or a bad guy, but how the accusers framed him as an abuser “under” the power of #MeToo, regardless of the factual truth of the matter. In doing so, the accusers have not only undermined the movement, but also showed—as Arendt also predicted—that they knew that many people don’t really care if they lie. Instead, many people will admire them (bandwagon mentality) for their tactical skills in accusing a well-known writer to gain publicity for themselves, or perhaps even to sell some books. As Bernstein writes: “Factual truth-telling is frequently powerless against image-making…”
Arendt also wrote: “The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth is not that the lies will now be accepted as truth, and the truth defamed as lies, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world—and the category of truth vs. falsehood is among the mental means to this end—is being destroyed.” The possibilities for lying become limitless and, far too often, are met with little resistance. Referring to the Junot Diaz case and #MeToo, one obvious reason for this little resistance against falsehood can be that no sane person wants to appear as if they are against equality and respect, which the #MeToo movement represents. Yet, quite paradoxically, the power of this movement comes from telling the truth; the truth that is powerful enough without being fictionalized.
Arendt noted: “What convinces the masses are not facts, not even invented facts, but only the consistency of the system of which they are presumably a part.” Assuming that #MeToo is such a system, then, like all systems, it is maintained by the culture that the users install. Here, I prefer people who play fair, that care about the truth, that are capable of putting personal agendas aside to cultivate trust, respect, and equality which, actually, is what #MeToo is all about. Following the Junot Diaz case, the accusers appear deliberately to be committing what looks like a character assassin. Why? Some suggest envy, greed, hate, and even racism as motives… I’ve no idea. All I know is that the opposite of factual truth is deliberate lying. (On a similar note, see #MeToo exists in an ethical twilight zone).
Also I know that literature can help us experience the difference between falsehood and truth, it has the potential to confront us with our moral limitations. It can stimulate our empathy and make us recognize our need for compassion. In many important ways, writers and other artists hold a mirror to society that allows it to see its ugliness and its beauty. I think, we need to keep the madness alive—through art. We need this for the sanity of humanity.
In other words, writers must dare not to follow the herd. This requires writers who doesn’t simply moralize but who risk asking the ugly, offensive questions (see e.g. All women are not angels). The artist creates, imagines, and enlarges—and sometimes that is not pretty.
What is far worse than immoral art is when people—citizens in democratic societies—don’t know the difference between falsehood or truth, or when some people don’t really care. The theme that runs through Arendt’s thinking, according to Bernstein, is “the need to take responsibility for our political lives.” Lying and responsibility, of course, doesn’t go hand in hand. It never has. Instead, Arendt showed that organized lying and fictional image-making are techniques perfected by totalitarian regimes, she showed that the banality of evil comes from our inability to think, that is to say, our inability to question, doubt, wonder, analyze, and constantly debate and clarify the relationship between power, truth, and lying. “Thinking is an activity that must be performed over and over again in order to keep it alive,” Bernstein writes in another book called Violence.
The Junot Diaz case shows that we still, all of us, have a long way to go before the world is a safer place full of trust, respect, compassion, and equality for all.
What do we think about when we think of the #MeToo movement? #MeToo is many things—it’s complex and conflicting; it addresses our collective memory (or lack thereof) and history; it touches upon social and economic class, religion, race, and, of course, most of all on gender. And it touches upon the glue of our society: trust.
A few weeks ago, I heard that the Boston Review had decided to keep the writer Junot Díaz on as a fiction editor. Yesterday, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) cleared Díaz of allegations of sexual misconduct and verbal abuse.
In many ways, the whole “Junot Diaz case” can be placed within the post-truth era of fake news, which again is one of ethics. For example, the journalist Ralph Keyes claims in The Post-Truth Era: Dishonesty and Deception in Contemporary Life, “Deception has become commonplace at all levels of contemporary life.” He goes on to consider that we may have reached a stage in our social evolution that is “beyond honesty.”
The era of post-truth is also an era of moralism. Everything is too easily reduced to good and bad, as if no grey areas exist. This is also part of the rigid identity politics that characterize US politics today, which far too often produce a mindless label—as if only a black person can speak against racism, a homosexual against homophobia, a woman against male abusers. Such assumptions show a lack of imagination. They also avoid staring at all the grey areas. For example, the grey areas are probably the weakest points in the otherwise powerful and very welcome #MeToo movement, in which the Junot Díaz case can be placed since it deals with a man of power accused of behaving badly.
Morality typically deals with whether something is right or wrong. However, being moral is not always the same as being right. For example, a story isn’t true because its moral is, and vice versa. Furthermore, morality is not something unchangeable; rather, it’s a social artefact. Our moral norms change as a result of new knowledge. This knowledge, of course, should be convincing, valid, reliable, and trustworthy. Unfortunately, lack of trust seems to be the protagonist in this particular case.
“Post-truthfulness exists in an ethical twilight zone,” Keyes writes. “It allows us to dissemble without considering ourselves dishonest. When our behavior conflicts with our values, what we’re most likely to do is reconceive our values.” Keyes’ point is interesting. One of Díaz’s main accusers was the writer Carmen Maria Machado, who referred to a Q & A session she had with Díaz, where she claims he was “abusive”, “bullying” and “misogynist.” However, when confronted with a recording of this particular discussion, Machado was forced to admit she had been exaggerating, saying, “I’m not a victim of Junot Díaz. I’m a female writer who had a weird interaction with him.”
Weird, of course, is not necessarily misogynist.
Why did she lie? Did she deliberately stretch her wording to fit the #MeToo vocabulary? So far, Machado has not apologized—perhaps because she is afraid of people’s hate and judgment, or afraid of losing face, or afraid of being accused of lack of empathy. Or, maybe, she doesn’t care, maybe she distrust the institutions who cleared him… no one knows. However, what’s “interesting” is that Machado’s accusations violate trust, which we all need to coexist, regardless of age, gender, religion or sexual orientation, etc.
In an essay entitled “Truth and Politics“, the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote, “Freedom of opinion is a farce unless factual information is guaranteed and that facts themselves are not in dispute.” Truth, therefore, is not the same as having an opinion. For example, Machado might have the opinion that the she was verbally abused, but in reality she is fictionalizing the truth, or creating “alternative facts” as we call it today.
***
The Danish philosopher K.E. Løgstrup said that trust is elementary or fundamental to human existence. Would I leave my three children at a public school every morning if I didn’t trust the teachers? Would I cross the street with them if I didn’t trust people to stop their cars at a red light?
Trust binds us together. It affects marriages, friendships, parents, and society, including politicians and scientists who inform us about the ecological disasters that humans are creating. Løgstrup emphasizes that human interdependence only works if we trust one another. Trust allows me to surrender myself into the hands of another, to make myself vulnerable, because I expect a respectful, compassionate, and trustful feedback.
Therefore, when Carmen Maria Machado lied about Díaz, it was not just a little white lie. Her words impacted everyone. Not only because she accused a well-known writer but because we trusted her. Some may have been skeptical of the validity of the accusations—thinking of sensationalism, etc., but, at the same time, #MeToo taught us the importance of believing the girls and women who had come forward so courageously. For too long, the victim has suffered unnecessarily because being a victim has been associated with shame. Shame is the reason why many women (and men) and children don’t tell about abuse.
When I discovered that Machado lied and didn’t correct her words until she was confronted a month later with an audio recording of the interview, she became less believable. When she was confronted with a recording, she appears annoyed and defensive but, surprisingly, she also appears to be angry for being exposed. “Stop lecturing!” she said. “That’s what’s so fucking weird. The level of condescension.”
And this is perhaps the saddest part. It may cause people to doubt the sincerity of #MeToo. Machado’s behavior perfectly fits with our cultural acceptance of lying. As Keyes notes in The Post-Truth Era regarding the rise in the use of euphemisms for deception: “We no longer tell lies. Instead we ‘misspeak.’ We ‘exaggerate.’ We ‘exercise poor judgment.’ ‘Mistakes were made,’ we say.” It’s as if we—many, at least—have become careless of what is true or not true.
If we want to change society into something better—a society based on equality, respect, and compassion—then we must trust one another. Trust is also the foundation of critical thinking because we assume that people say what they mean for the sake of the truth, not their own agenda (read: self-serving).
We become wiser by admitting our mistakes, that is to say be accountable for our actions and words, but also by acknowledging all the grey areas when it comes to human interaction, not just between men and women but between all kinds of identities—gender, race, age, culture, beliefs, etc. Let’s not forgot that all identities are prisons. They might make us see something more clearly from our own point of view but are often blind to a lot of other aspects. Let’s not forget that men and women should be able to discuss things without fearing being labeled misogynistic. Let’s not forget that nothing is ever completely black or white. Sometimes women lie, use their power; sometimes men are falsely accused.
The great writer Terry Tempest Williams once said that she wanted to bear witness to both the beauty and pain of our world in her writing. By “bearing witness,” she said, “the story told can provide a healing ground.” With regard to the case of Machado and Díaz, healing arises if their conflict is not used to draw a deeper ravine between genders but, instead, to acknowledge that all parties have suffered, and that trust is only gained through apology and change of actions that will make the grey areas less grey.
Recently, Zoë Bossiere raised some questions regarding male writers. For example—while referring to a character in Junot Diaz’s two collections of short stories, Drown and This Is How You Lose Her—she asks: Could a sexist character like Yunior have been written if not for the abuse the women in these men’s lives suffered?
“Maybe not,” she answers.
Maybe not. But just as easily, maybe.
We tend to forget that imagination is a fundamental aspect of literature and art. I find it hard to believe that all the Scandinavian women writing crime literature are murderers. I doubt that Gillian Flynn, author of “Gone Girl,” has killed her old boyfriend, or wants to. Stephen King is probably not wildly evil, or even all that mean. And Han Kang, who wrote “The Vegetarian,” might not be a vegetarian, or like to be painted naked by her sister’s husband, or even have a sister.
Bossiere goes on and ask, “Some might argue that these works [by men]contribute to the greater canon of literature, but in the era of #MeToo, how much is ‘good’ art actually worth?”
I personally feel that it is not worth s–t if someone deliberately suffers in the process. By suffering I do not mean that, say, children might suffer due to parental distraction or absentmindedness. I mean suffering in a violent and abusive way.
Yet, I agree with the Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgård who has defended writers who “run up against the limit of what cannot, shall not, should not or must not be written”, arguing that every time an author “refuses to shy away”, the arbitrary nature of such limits is revealed.
It may be difficult for many to distinguish the writer from his or her work, but it is important to do so. When we too quickly equate a person’s work of fiction with the person him or herself, it shows more a lack of imagination than moral reasoning.
Readers of course have every right to become political consumers and stop reading books by writers whose actions may be reprehensible. But I know that not everyone is Mother Teresa or the Dalai Lama, and I can accept writers with flaws. I can read Jean Genet or Ulrike Meinhof (the brain behind the Baader-Meinhof Gang that operated in Germany in the 1970s), and not feel the urge to steal or kill. Sometimes the best literature can confuse us, nauseate us, show us our moral flaws as well as our ignorance.
Still, men should not be excused on the basis of their literary genius for what they do in real life. Never. The same goes for women. It is not chauvinistic in the slightest to state that all women are not angels, just as all men are not sexual predators. Writing this, however, feels like putting a rope around my neck, because gender issues, especially in the #MeToo era, have become so contentious. Today discussion of the topic is governed by a cowboy mentality, in which everyone shoots first and asks questions later.
For example, in today’s gender debate, some men and women treat one another as men and women—not as human beings. It’s as if gender gets in the way of an unbiased interpretation of what is happening. I think it’s important to acknowledge that all kinds of judgement—about right and wrong, true or false—require time, reflection, and analysis. Today, perhaps due to social media—especially Twitter—it’s easy to contribute blindly. There is a strong herd mentality on social media.
Do we take time to dwell, to reflect, to add perspective, to provide nuance? Or do we just blame? And when we blame, are we doing so out of instinct, out of some latent hatred? And do people—writers included—consider what kind of words they are using to blame other human beings? For example, the term misogynist has become so popular and broadly used that it soon will lose its meaning.
The philosopher Kate Manne defines misogyny as not about hatred toward women but about controlling and pushing women who challenge male dominance. The crucial aspect is how men and women challenge one another—that is, whether the dialogue conveys respect, trust, and equality. In the literary and academic world, people will often defend their ideas or positions. Sometimes people do this with respect and care, other times with hostility. Sometimes it’s women being hostile; sometimes it’s men. Sometimes hostility is due to vanity, arrogance, insecurity, or plain stupidity, and sometimes it’s due to men (or women) being afraid of losing their powerful positions to women—or other men.
A recent example is a recording of a Q and A session with writers Junot Diaz and Carmen Maria Machado, during which Machado describes Diaz as a misogynist and a bully. To me, this interpretation seems wrong, but according to Manne, it’s the potential victim who defines whether Diaz is securing his power or not. And then, of course, we can interpret Machado’s actions and words, words she probably—being a writer—chose deliberately. Nietzsche said thinking is interpretation. It’s an ongoing process, and I would be very careful about labeling Diaz misogynist only on this recording or Machado a liar. Which leaves us where? Perhaps we are witnessing a power game fueled by both historical and current frustration, irritation, and hate—a situation where fiction and nonfiction merge, a situation where we no longer read novels based on their literary qualities but morally on whether the character is a good human being.
In an essay published in The New Yorker, Toni Morrison writes: “The choices made by white men, who are prepared to abandon their humanity out of fear of black men and women, suggest the true horror of lost status.” In other words, perhaps many of the problems debated today are not only about gender but much more about power.
We tend to forget that all human beings are worth the same when we focus too much on gender, skin color, or socioeconomic status. I know there is good reason for doing so (cf. Morrison’s essay on white men); still, the challenge is to encounter the present moment with an open and neutral mind full of compassion.
In short, in this quest for living equally and respectfully together, I think it is crucial that we all keep our heads cool and our hearts warm.
… From my essay on sexism, morality, identity politics, and compassion:
“I remember Rebecca Solnit saying something about men being the problem—not all men, but men. And she’s almost right. Because men, as philosopher Simone de Beauvoir said about women, aren’t born men; they become men. Weinstein didn’t come into this world as a sick misogynist. He, like all those like him, was formed by the culture in which he was brought up.
Luckily, I think, I spent a lot of time with my mother and my sister. Yet, many small boys spend time with their mothers, and less time with their fathers … or, at least, they used to. Does this mean that even women—some mothers—are favouring their sons? Encouraging them to see themselves as better than girls? Telling their daughters to passively obey?”
Read the entire essay here.
FINN JANNING 