BLERD WITH A BOOK
STAY-AT-HOME READS #2: Hood Feminism: Notes From the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall9/20/2020 Hello everybody! I hope you are all keeping safe and healthy. Like most of you, I am at home (leaving only to do essential shopping and/or go for safe walks) and trying to think of ways to bide the time until it is officially safer to go outside again. So, I figured that since I have a growing stack of books in my bedroom (some have been read, but most of them have not), I'll just get to reading. With that in mind, I'll start posting about my stay-at-home reads as a way to motivate myself to keep writing and reading-- and, most importantly, to share with you the books and genres I've been digging into at home. TITLE: Hood Feminism: Notes From the Women That a Movement Forgot AUTHOR: Mikki Kendall PUBLISHER & DATE: Viking Books 2020 PAGES: 267 GENRE: Social Sciences; African-American Studies; Feminism Brief Summary: Today's mainstream feminist movement has a glaring blind spot and, paradoxically, it's women. Prominent white feminists rarely discuss meeting basic needs-- from food security and access to quality education to living wages and safe neighborhoods-- as a feminist issue, instead focusing on turning more women into CEOs and calling for one-sided solidarity that forces those living on the margins, from BIPOC women and the disabled to trans sex workers and folks struggling through poverty, to keep showing up for white feminism while white feminists continuously fail, and even oppress, the marginalized. Author Mikki Kendall asks a long-pressing question in need of an answer: How can women stand in solidarity as a movement when there is the distinct likelihood that some women are oppressing others? CONTENT WARNING: The following post contains mentions/discussions of racism, rape culture, misogyny, and feminism, among other topics, some readers may find offensive or problematic. If these topics trigger you, please take the appropriate precautions prior to reading. If you'd rather skip this post entirely, I completely understand. Do not feel bad for choosing to prioritize yourself and your well-being. I have this weird relationship with feminism-- well, mainstream feminism, at least. Now, don't get it twisted. I'm a feminist. Mostly. But the journey to finding, shaping, and defining my feminism was a long and arduous one, and it's far from over. I followed a number of white, female, supposedly feminist nerds in my Baby Blerd days. Their unabashed love for comics, sci-fi, horror, books, and movies made me feel like I belonged somewhere not just as a Blerd but as a young Black girl in America, and I treated that as a life-saving gift. Is that a little melodramatic? Maybe, but it's true. Unfortunately, the joy of being welcomed by women I had something in common with blinded me to their casual racism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, transphobia, and misogynoir (hatred and prejudice directed specifically at Black women). Once I started to catch on to it, I tried to convince myself that it didn't bother me. The more I was exposed to it, however, the quicker my tolerance waned. After one bigoted comment too many, I moved on. Though eventually I clicked with more intersectional and tolerant white, Latinx, Black, Asian, LGBTQIA+ and disabled nerds, a part of me couldn't help but wonder why were some white women out here literally stepping on the necks of marginalized people. Moreover, another part of me began to wonder just how much of that rhetoric was I exposed to over the years. It may sound like I spent a lot of thinking about those things as a teenager, but, in reality, I didn't. I couldn't, largely because I didn't have the language or knowledge about feminism and social justice the way I do now. One of the most fascinating things about staying home for an extended period of time is noticing where your mind wanders to. One minute, you're focused on mundane things like cleaning, the next you start imagining what will life look like once we fully (and safely) re-enter the world. During quarantine, I've given more thought to the mainstream feminism movement and how it has functioned during a global pandemic. First, I thought about singer and self-declared "not not a feminist" Lana Del Rey's viral Instagram screed where she assessed that the music of her colleagues of color-- including Doja Cat, Beyoncé, Kehlani, Cardi B, and Nicki Minaj-- were nothing more but "number one songs about being sexy, wearing no clothes, f***ing, cheating, etc.," undermining a legitimate conversation she apparently wanted to start over what constitutes marketable, corporate feminism and the harm that does toward other women who want tell feminist narratives that diverge from the boundaries set by corporate feminism. As many pointed out, Del Rey seemed to forget that, despite her feelings to the contrary, mainstream feminism is mostly dominated by people like her: white, rich, famous, heterosexual, and cisgender. No one was shutting Del Rey out (In 2019, her album Norman Fucking Rockwell received numerous accolades, even landing in the Top 5 tier of that year's Best Albums of the Year lists in various publications and outlets), but let her tell it, she had her artistic wings clipped because she wasn't Doja Cat or Beyoncé, nor was her music touching on the themes their music did. (Ironically, some of the themes of Del Rey's music are actually breached in the music of the women she unsuccessfully dragged; it's just that they're examining those themes from the perspective of a woman of color.) Next, it was seeing the response of white female celebrities in the wake of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and Tony McDade's deaths at the hands of police officers, which spawned a summer (and, now, fall) of Black Lives Matter protests in the nation. Some passed the mic to activists and educators on social media, while others took the performative activism route, ranging from leaving voice acting jobs where they played Black or mixed race characters (roles they should have thought twice about taking to begin with) to participating in a video that gives off the unintended message that they can't be bothered truly invest genuine time, energy, and care into actually using their power and privilege to curb racism both within the entertainment industry and outside of it. A few even continued to circulate the video of George Floyd's death on social media without considering how they contribute to the continued traumatization of Black people and the continued commodification of Black death. And, lastly, because no year is complete without at least one celebrity ostracizing the LGBTQIA+ community, author J.K. Rowling added transphobe (Calling her a TERF seems to generous, in my opinion.) to her resume and spent her summer attacking trans and non-binary people by likening transitioning to "conversion therapy" and writing a now-released book featuring a cis male serial killer who cross-dresses to kill cis women, because, apparently, profiting off of the lives of and prejudices toward trans people-- who she continues to paint as a danger to society-- is a fun pastime for her. (FUN FACT: The trans and non-binary community are actually far more endangered than they are dangerous, but thanks to transphobes like Rowling--who have no medical or scientific credentials or expertise in gender studies, queer theory, or any form of academic study related to them-- blasting harmful misinformation on their social media channels, folks who are uneducated on trans and non-binary issues are probably more than likely to accept it from their favorite celebs suddenly deciding to play all-knowing expert without giving it a second thought, and for that reason alone, we should really start reconsidering why we keep letting rich celebrities act as spokespeople for various communities suffering from the damaging impact of inequality.) It was unsurprising to see both prominent and general white mainstream feminists fail to either acknowledge their cultural arrogance/ignorance or look beyond their own myopia to realize that their feminism and the mainstream feminist movement overall has failed to consider the ways in which race, class, sexual orientation, ability, and gender identity can affect a woman or marginalized citizen's way of life, especially in the wake of a summer of Black Lives Matter protests and a different kind of Pride Month in the time of Corona. I say "unsurprising" because I've seen this type of behavior from white feminists, famous or otherwise, before. Does that make it less hurtful? Not at all, but it dredged up a long-held suspicion I had about mainstream feminism: it's a movement built for and by white women who help sustain it through various tools of oppression, including racism, misogynoir, transphobia, anti-Semitism, xenophobia, homophobia, and ableism. With these incidents-- among others-- in mind, I started questioning the legitimacy, effectiveness, and future of mainstream feminism. How can those with power, privilege, and status within a movement refuse to acknowledge their own ignorance and arrogance, instead choosing to parrot and use the rhetoric of bigots to build a feminist rhetoric that is inherently oppressive? Most importantly, how can a movement that claims to be for all women and marginalized people-- from LGBTQIA+ and disabled to poor people and sex workers-- truly function if those involved can't acknowledge that some group of women possess the ability to oppress others? Turns out, I'm not the only one with these questions. Author Mikki Kendall has them, too, but her book, Hood Feminism: Notes From the Women That a Movement Forgot, doesn't seek to find the answers to these pressing questions. In fact, she already knows why. "Since its inception," writes Kendall, "mainstream feminism has been insisting that some women have to wait longer for equality, that once one group (usually white women) achieves equality then that opens the way for all other women. But when it comes right down to it, mainstream white feminism often fails to show up for women of color." Those who read Kendall's book may find her words shocking, and that's understandable. It's hard to imagine feminists failing to show up for other women despite being devoted to securing equality, if not equity, for all women. Yet, this has been happening throughout history. For instance, when people celebrated the 100th year since the signing of the 19th Amendment, which granted women the right to vote, some took the route of educating or reminding people of the suffragettes of color who fell victim to a racialized history that worked to erase them for the longest time. The women's suffrage movement failed to check their own racism at the door, despite being led by two women-- Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony-- who championed equality for Black Americans (it is worth noting, however, that the unchecked racism of Stanton and Anthony, which bled into the suffrage movement, has also been scrutinized in recent years), and today's activists reminded people to celebrate women's suffrage but to not forget about both the racism that affected the movement and the women of color-- such as Ida B. Wells-Barnett, who worked to raise awareness on the evils of lynching in the U.S. at the same time suffragettes were trying to plead their case for voting rights, and Shirley Chisholm, the first Black woman to be elected to Congress-- fighting for voting rights and equality for all women simultaneously. So, instead of searching for answers, Kendall's book aims to move the mainstream feminist movement "in a direction that recognizes that an intersectional approach to feminism is key" to creating stronger relationships between communities of women in the hopes of helping feminism achieve a genuine sense of solidarity. It's a tall order, but I'd seen before previous modern feminist texts attempt to do the same, albeit with varying degrees of success. In the past, I've read a few of them, but struggled to connect with them because they rarely addressed issues that I thought to be truly pressing. While, yeah, it wouldn't hurt to let more women be CEOs, I didn't consider that a pressing issue (if anything, I see that becoming a problem because there is a possibility that a white female CEO could continue the cycle of oppression in the workplace, directing it at the women of color working under them). The modern feminist works I've come across over the years, from books and essays to op-ed pieces and blog posts, have done very little to address pertinent issues, such as children of color in the education system, who are at risk of being given harsher punishments and subjected to brutality by school police; creating more inclusive discussions of rape culture that center not only on suburban, white, female college students but also on female students of color and trans sex workers; and implementing meaningful programs that address the struggle to access food and affordable housing. What makes the struggle harder is the constant frustration that comes with the continued ignoring (or, in some cases, dehumanization) of women of color, the disabled, the LGBTQIA+ community, the poor, and sex workers. These works subtly, almost insidiously, insisted that marginalized communities and people have no place in the mainstream feminist movement, despite the fact that it consistently calls for equity, if not equality, for all people. Even when I came across works by feminists who claim to be committed to fighting for marginalized communities, I noticed that there were cultural blind spots in their assessment of said communities and the issues they faced. Some couldn't even refrain from centering themselves and their allyship in the conversation as opposed to the marginalized people they claimed to be in solidarity with. This is all to say that I had my reservations about Hood Feminism. Despite Kendall's insightful interview with Trevor Noah on The Daily Show earlier this year, one where I found myself nodding with everything she said, the disappointment I felt from past feminist works was still present. I didn't have the energy to be disappointed again-- especially not during this climate. Despite the fact that she talked about important issues pertaining to marginalized communities (e.g. hunger, housing, reproductive justice, and one-sided solidarity in mainstream feminism) in her interview, something I'd been wanting mainstream feminism to do for a while, I dragged my feet a little bit when picking up Hood Feminism, but once I started reading, my uneasiness slowly subsided. By the time I finished the introduction, I allowed Kendall to be my guide and listened to what she had to say. And, as I read, an important thing stuck out to me: Kendall wasn't here to pay lip service to the concept of intersectionality, a term coined by Professor Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw that has since morphed into an approach to feminism that aims to create space for the marginalized people white feminism (or corporate feminism, which is used in relation to discussing media and pop culture) ignores. Instead, Kendall treats the need for feminism to become more intersectional as necessary to the future of feminism. As I've pointed out in this post, a majority of mainstream feminism is made up of cis, able-bodied, white, heterosexual women; some of them are famous newsmakers (e.g. actresses, musicians, writers, scholars), others are members of the general public. It is usually their voices that most of us hear, their words that are read, or their tweets that get shared. However, as Kendall argues, because a bulk of this movement is made up of white women, the fact that feminism claims to be for all women gets obscured. Sometimes this is due to the tendency to center cis, white, and able-bodied women at the expense of women of color, trans women, and disabled women. Other times, it's due to, as Kendall notes, a white feminist's inability to engage with the obstacles that non-white, cis, able-bodied, middle-class/rich women face on a daily basis. Again, it would be cool for more women to be given major executive positions, but, for a woman of color, being a CEO might not be her main concern. Maybe she's concerned about being pushed out of her increasingly-gentrified neighborhood or accessing quality health care in an unequal system. For a disabled woman, her main concern might be finding a caregiver that will actually help her rather than take advantage of her or abuse her. For a trans woman, her main concern might be just wanting to navigate the world without fear of being killed or assaulted. Kendall's assessment of white feminists, however, illustrates how little they address these obstacles or consider how they may contribute to these obstacles, whether it be through unknowing oppression or failure to address the issues that affect marginalized people on a daily basis. What I admire most about the book is Kendall's refusal to write in a tone that's cloying. It is too easy for people to seek avenues for relief when faced with negative feelings, but Kendall wants readers-- from white feminists to women of color who may not be well-versed in the issues facing their specific community and women overall--to face that uneasiness head-on. Those who pick up the book might find Kendall's unwillingness to speak in a calm and assuaging tone to be aggressive; some may even say that the tactic she adopts for this book will overshadow her point, but then you'd just be proving her right. Hood Feminism's goal isn't necessarily to call-out toxic behavior from white feminists, though her recollections of recent offenses that various, prominent white feminists (Lena Dunham gets mentioned a couple of times, along with Patricia Arquette's tone-deaf Academy Awards speech that demanded marginalized people to show up for feminism despite white feminists routinely failing to show up for the marginalized and writers Emily Yoffe and Amanda Marcotte's well-intentioned but problematic respective pieces on rape culture and college-aged victims, to name a few) have committed can feel like that. I'd argue that Kendall's recollections are illustrations of the blind spots not just in the behaviors and work of feminists she mentions throughout her book but in mainstream feminism as a whole, not as call-outs. It's tough for people to hear they have said or done something insensitive-- to some extent, I get why when comedians get criticized for incendiary material they immediately react in anger; no one wants to be seen as a bigot unless that's truly something they want to proudly and publicly flaunt (see: J.K. Rowling)-- and Kendall doesn't disregard those feelings, in spite of what the tone of the book suggests. Instead, she requests readers approach her book with an open mind and a willingness to reflect on the past, to consider what to do in the present, and to commit to growth and understanding throughout the future. Kendall's not asking readers to do it to make her feel better, however; she's asking because the future of the feminist movement depends on people's ability to engage with their own unchecked blindspots. If you can't check your cultural ignorance or arrogance at the door, then you run the risk of bringing that into any social movement you want to be a part of, and that can lead to that movement being tainted by rhetoric that is meant to oppress rather than uplift. In a way, Hood Feminism helped me understand the increasingly-normalized prominence of call-out culture, and how it's dangerous to brand it as "call-out culture." Rather, Kendall is in the business of "calling in," which is considered a more compassionate, patient approach to bringing attention to problematic behavior. While I wouldn't consider Kendall or her book to be on-board for patience (throughout the book, it is very clear that Kendall's tired of waiting around for people to check themselves before they wreck themselves in the public eye), I do consider the tone of the voice and her authorial voice to be compassionate, though I do imagine she'd disagree with that assessment. The way that Kendall accomplishes that goal is through a mix of statistics, media/pop culture analysis, political commentary, and personal stories-- and it's the latter tool that strongly benefits the book. As Kendall makes clear in her book, she isn't sharing her experiences with hunger, hypersexualization, the racialization of the education system, poverty, and health care so that you can pity her. She doesn't the time for that; rather, her personal stories are both a snapshot of the life of a Black woman living on the margins in an unequal society and a reminder that the needs, demands, and concerns of Black women and other women in color who have been in similar situations need to be addressed meaningfully and thoroughly in the mainstream feminist movement. It's one thing for white feminists to step back and not speak for a community they do not belong to; it's another to erase or ignore that community entirely. The one issue that Kendall does not address in her book with the same depth is how some white feminists position themselves as the voice of or for the marginalized despite refusing to center them in the movement and their tendency to demand that marginalized people put their feelings into consideration, as if they're telling them that they're lucky someone is even bothering to help marginalized people. It gets some attention in the first chapter, which centers on Kendall's viral 2013 hashtag, "#solidarityisforwhitewomen," and the point she felt white feminists were missing, and pops up now and again, mostly toward the end of the book. In my experiences, I've seen white feminists and even some feminists of color (e.g. Gina Rodriguez) position themselves as a voice for marginalized women yet fail to respect other women of color and their communities. I've seen cishet feminists speak for the LGBTQIA+ community without even considering that means to them. If there's one qualm I have with Hood Feminism, it's this; while Kendall steps back and decides not to speak for communities she does not belong to (which I appreciate), I do wish that she spent more time discussing how harmful it is for feminists to speak for-- and then disrespect-- marginalized communities they do not belong to. Passing the mic is never a bad idea, nor is amplifying the voices of those who can speak on the pressing obstacles their communities face. Although Kendall and her book lead by example, I do wish this topic was touched upon more because the danger of various social movements built by and for specific communities being co-opted is still highly present. It is rare for me to read a book that made me go "THIS!", "Wow, I never knew about this," and, "I never thought about it like that," simultaneously, and I had those moments often while reading Hood Feminism. I'll admit, I am not as well-versed as I should be in the issues not only pertaining to my community, the Black community, but also the issues--and the potential dangers they pose-- that marginalized women constantly stare down the barrel of, issues that affect them socially, economically, or politically. Nor did I know about the far-reaching consequences of said dangers. For instance, I'm familiar with the conversations surrounding gentrification, but I didn't know gentrification can tie into ongoing discussions on police brutality, affordable housing, and food access. I'm familiar with how conversations on rape culture often centered on college campuses, but I knew very little about how the historical hypersexualization of Black women can influence white female students to not view the rape or sexual assault of their Black counterparts as a serious crime despite the fact that they recognize it's a serious crime-- for white women. Hood Feminism expanded on the bits and pieces I already knew while dropping new knowledge in the process, and, for that, I'm thankful. As we inch closer to the finish line for 2020, I think now's a good time to call Hood Feminism my favorite book of the year-- and, maybe, the best modern feminist text I've ever read in a long time. Skip, Wait, or Recommend?: (Highly) Recommend Other Books to Read: Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay; You Play the Girl: On Playboy Bunnies, Stepford Wives, Train Wrecks, and Other Mixed Messages by Carina Chocano; Sensuous Knowledge: A Black Feminist Approach for Everyone by Minna Salami; Women, Race, & Class by Angela Y. Davis; and 90s Bitch: Media, Culture, and the Failed Promise of Gender Equality by Allison Yarrow Next Read: TBA This Blerd is Online!
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