Robyn Penrose is a newly minted lecturer in women’s studies and English literature who specialises in the ‘industrial novel’, fiction written in the mid-1800’s that reflected the values and anxieties of the British industrial revolution. She is a feminist academic with an unflagging belief in uprooting social injustice inside and outside the classroom. She joins anti-nuclear marches and strikes against cuts to university funding. Ever the empowered woman of the 1980s, she is also assertive and confident and is clear about what she wants. Somehow the ‘imposter syndrome’ endemic in higher education does not exist in her dictionary.
She is a fictional character after all and springs from David Lodge’s classic 1988 campus novel, Nice Work, in which our academic heroine is pressured by her dean into shadowing a factory manager at work in a higher education-meets-industry programme. Although a character from the Thatcherite 1980s, she is a figure of our times. As an early career researcher who came to a full-time teaching position from a fixed-term research fellowship in a prestigious research university, Robyn does not know if she can keep her job when the next national budget looms. Universities across the UK since Margaret Thatcher’s premiership have faced inexorable cuts to research, teaching, and upkeep. New appointments are frozen and people lose their jobs.
The precarious nature of academic employment, then as now, involving applying to diminishing jobs and accepting them anywhere in the country and beyond has hampered any attempts at a typical romantic or marital relationship. Robyn’s boyfriend whom she’s been with since they were undergraduates at Sussex has accepted a job a great distance away. They see each other every other weekend and the arrangement feels more like a long-distance relationship. But it works for her as she doesn’t believe in marriage and the bourgeois idea of romantic love. Her boyfriend agrees with her as he is slow to develop his own opinion. She does develop meaningful relationships with others, namely with a female colleague and fellow feminist. Though her greatest triumph is her intellectual and sexual conquest of one Vic Wilcox, the middle-aged factory manager whom she is assigned to shadow.
There are many instances in the novel which suggest that Robyn Penrose is a caricature of a feminist academic, all righteous and dominating. Her ability to transform Vic Wilcox from a boring and predictable family man life who sneers at women’s studies into an effortless enunciator of Tennyson and Saussurean semiotics is the stuff of fairy tales for academics. But she is nonetheless an admirable woman of intellectual ambition whose work is admired by established figures in the field. Who wouldn’t want to be offered a tenure-track job in an elite US university based on the strength of an unpublished book manuscript? She speaks and acts in the manner of her thinking and beliefs; unpretentiously provocative, bold, and forthright. She can talk about her sex life in the same breath as structuralism and metonymy. A sapiosexual’s idea of a really sexy pillow talk.
As a caricature, albeit lifted from the lived experience of the author who was an academic himself, Robyn Penrose ticks many of the identifiable and aspirational boxes. As a feminist academic, the boundary that separates professional and personal life is never really clear. She defines the morality that gives shape to her vocation and sexuality rather than having it imposed by others, not least prudes, anti-intellectual people, and sexist men. It makes me wonder how many women out there harbor a fantasy to be like Robyn Penrose whose mind challenges and ignites desire in the most unlikeliest of people. Because I do.
Sasha Jansen and Sally Jay Gorce are the quintessential flâneuse in the birth city of the flânerie, Paris. They represent two sides of the flâneuse’s emotional inner landscape; aimless, lonely, and morally suspect on the one hand, freewheeling and liberated on the other. As single women, they defy the expectations of women in the city of love. They are elusive to love; Sally Jay is a happy bed-hopper, Sasha walks listlessly into crummy hotel rooms with shady men who promise only temporary love. They are a few decades late after the first generation of flânerie but they cannot escape the mark of marginality that comes with walking in Paris free from matrimony or responsibility as Hannah Arendt describes succinctly:
What all other cities seem to permit only reluctantly to the dregs of society – strolling, idling, flânerie – Paris streets actually invite everyone to do. Thus, ever since the Second Empire the city has been the paradise of all those who need to chase after no livelihood, pursue no career, reach no goal – the paradise, then, of bohemians, and not only of artists and writers but of all those who have gather about them because they could not be integrated either politically – being homeless or stateless – or socially. Pg. 174, Men in Dark Times
The two women are the semi-autobiographical protagonists of two novels, Sasha in Good Morning, Midnight (1939) by Jean Rhys and Sally Jay Gorce in The Dud Avocado (1958) by Elaine Dundy, who undertake events drawn from the novelists’ lives, created from a place of ‘write what you know’. Both women are not natives to the city. Sasha is English but has become estranged from her origins in England by virtue of a divorce and death of her child. In Paris, she can reinvent herself, gaining employment as a sales assistant. Like Sasha, Sally Jay seeks fame and fortune in Paris through establishing a career in film and theatre. Paris is also an escape for Sally Jay from a protective family in provincial America.
Born Elaine Rita Brimberg in New York City in 1921, Elaine Dundy grew up under the thumb of her tyrannical father who forbade her to leave New York. Undeterred, she saved enough money for a trip to Paris where she hoped to start her acting career. The career was not to be as Dundy herself concedes when she then moves to London as she watched others rise to great cultural heights and, for the men she knew, become the iconic Young Angry Men of the 1950s. After the birth of her daughter Tracy (who has recently published a book on her parents) Dundy’s ambitions in film and television were finished. Then a career in writing came a-calling.
Dundy and Rhys were born into affluence and whose creative lives were significantly shaped by highly influential male literary types; Dundy by her husband the leading theatre critic of the day Kenneth Tynan and Rhys by her erstwhile lover and benefactor Ford Madox Fox. In fact, their literary careers were said to be spurred by the men. The Dud Avocado, Dundy’s first novel, was written at the behest of her husband. Typical of sexist assumptions about women’s creative abilities, he didn’t think it would amount to much beyond being written. For Tynan would be deeply resentful of Dundy’s critical success following the publication of the novel. ‘You weren’t a writer when I married you, you were an actress’ he said to her angrily. Yet appraisals from other famous men flowed in, the great comic Groucho Marx said it made him ‘laugh, scream and guffaw’. Who said women couldn’t do comedy? Gore Vidal offered his word of encouragement, “You’ve got one thing a writer needs: You’ve got your own voice. Now go” while Ernest Hemingway praised her book for having characters who “all speak differently” unlike, self-deprecatingly, his own.
When we are introduced to Sally Jay Gorce, pink-haired and dressed in an evening dress in the morning because all of her day wear is in the laundry, it is too easy to think: quirky and adorkable. Easily compared to Holly Golightly, Sally Jay embarks on a metropolitan adventure to run away from a dull American life and a mission to be an actress. Her French is good enough and she gravitates towards other elite Americans in Paris. The meaning of ‘dud avocado’ only becomes apparent in the end of the novel when [spoiler alert!], our witty heroine corrects a would-be paramour on the nature of the ‘Typical American Woman’. Full of misfired charm, he creepily described the typical American woman as having ‘a hard center with the tender meat all wrapped up in a shiny casing’ like an avocado and ‘so green – so eternally green’. Well, having a mind of her own she won’t meet his expectations then. She resigns to simply being a dud avocado as she sips her cocktail.
Good Morning, Midnight also makes a reference to the protagonist’s state of being although in Sasha’s case it is derived from a poem by fellow depressive Emily Dickinson:
Good morning, Midnight!
I’m coming home,
Day got tired of me –
How could I of him?
Sunshine was a sweet place,
I liked to stay –
But Morn didn’t want me – now –
So good night, Day!
We first meet Sasha in her crummy hotel room in Paris, a new base from which to rebuild her life. Curtains are always drawn and she needs sleeping tablets to sleep. The streets of Paris and her daily routine of regular places to eat for lunch, dine, and then have a drink provide a much needed respite. In Paris, she is ‘saved, rescued, fished-up, half-drowned, out of the deep, dark river, dry clothes, hair shampooed and set…’ (pg. 4), an image of a woman who has pulled herself out of a wreckage of a failed marriage and death of a child and struggling with mental health.
Regarded as ‘too depressing’ when it was first published, Good Morning, Midnight had been her fifth novel and precedes Rhys’s best known work, Wide Sargasso Sea (1966), the radical prequel to Jane Eyre’s ‘mad woman in the attic’. Before the fame of Wide Sargasso Sea, Rhys lived in obscurity but with an ambition to belong to the upper echelons of literary society. Born Ella Gwendolyn Rees Williams in 1890 in Dominica, a tiny Caribbean island in what was then the British West Indies, Rhys is now known primarily as a ‘postcolonial’ writer before such a term was de rigueur, before notions of class, race, and gender became an inescapable framework from which to intellectually appreciate her output.
A white creole who schooled in Cambridge where she was an alleged victim of racism, Rhys lived a life troubled by alcohol abuse and financial difficulty. Biographers and critics have noted with surprise that Rhys was able to gather the discipline to write fine books despite her chaotic life without emphasising that many men in literature lived similarly precarious lives. That Rhys was a woman, somehow not white enough, a single mother, and that she clung to men for monetary support (a biographical detail that seems to suggest feminist failure) meant that her literary output seemed improbable and against the odds. Like many women after her up to this contemporary moment, her novels mirrored her life. As writers of semi-autobiographical fiction, they enjoy the privilege of (re)writing the self yet cursed by voyeuristic prurience of readers who seek out thinly-veiled self-confessionals of troubled women.
Paris eventually gets the better of Sally Jay who, by the end of the novel, grows to despise the city after she loses her passport and failing to make a breakthrough in film or stage; ‘God, how I hated Paris. Paris was one big flea bag. Everything in Paris moved if you looked at it long enough’ (pg. 234). She had indeed looked at it long enough and decides to pack up and return home where she becomes a librarian and meets her happy-ever-after lover. But Sasha Jansen does not leave Paris, not least physically. She exits the buoyant promise and ebullience of the city and retreats psychologically into herself and submits yet to another man who will dominate and perhaps rape her. In fact in the closing pages of the novel, we are not certain that an actual man has come for her in her hotel bedroom or the ghost of past lovers who haunt her desolate inner chamber.
Despite her preferred theme of downtrodden women, Rhys, who died in 1979, currently enjoys a feminist literary legacy and fame that came too late for her, as she notes with irritation following the success of Wide Sargasso Sea. The Dud Avocado would live on to be a modern fairy tale for single women long after Kenneth Tynan threatened to divorce Dundy if she wrote another book. She continued to write and divorced him in 1964, Dundy writes victoriously in the 2007 republication of the novel one year before her death in 2008. The two novels represent something about women who have not only the privilege to travel abroad but also the relative freedom to become the protagonist – and indeed antagonist – of their life story. Women writers draw from their own lives – as much as men do though they are accused less often of this literary misdemeanor – because writing allows the rewriting of one’s life story when things do not turn out the way we want to.
It’s been nearly two years since I’ve been appointed Senior Lecturer in Gender Studies, my first real job after the PhD. Unlike my cohort, I hadn’t spent too much time applying for many jobs and had been interviewed for only two. Penniless and exhausted, returning to Malaysia seemed like a good idea. It chimed with my old ambition of teaching Gender Studies – back when I didn’t quite understand what it was – at the University of Malaya. And yes, Dear Reader, I got the job.
Being a full-time academic came with the financial independence that I never really had all throughout my 20s. With financial assistance from my parents and younger sister who helped with the initial down-payment, I finally had my own home and car. Most transformative and powerfully addictive of all, I had a disposable income. Being poor for so long leaves behind a psychological scar tissue; to put more simply, the reversal of fortune did not change my attitude with money. Moreover, I had always been cognisant of the precarious nature of jobs and how the living wage anywhere I lived was never commensurate with the rising cost of living.
It took a bit of time thinking about my research trajectory – which would define my academic profile and employability – and whether I wanted to stay in film and cultural studies. It was important to have a putative cut-off time when I knew what research I wanted to do, stick with it, and let it define me for the next five years (or more). I thought very carefully about why I transitioned from the biological sciences to Gender Studies 8 years ago and reassessed if my work was meaningful to me and others.
There have been a few interrelated challenges during the first two years of my career. The sexual harassment allegations that several women and myself have made against AFR resulted in a significant falling-out with many former friends and allies. I should have not been surprised that outrage against sexual harassment is only lip service, only a crime that occurs to others far away – not something their friends would commit, certainly not men who have made a reputation for themselves as ‘progressive’, ‘feminist’, and ‘intellectual’. I had to watch many ‘friends’ and ‘feminists’ express disbelief and when presented with testimony from victims, vacillate on who they thought were the real perpetrator and victims. Others chose to downplay, deny, and accuse me and other women whom I hardly knew but shared the unfortunate fate of being sexually harassed by AFR of lying and planning his downfall. Of course this should have been hardly surprising but it nonetheless was painful and distressing in lived experience. In cases related to gender-based violence and discrimination, women are first presumed to be liars before they are innocent and vindicated.
The emotional impact of the collective sexual harassment case aside, I began to chart my early phase of my academic career in earnest – determining what and where I should publish (the answer to ‘when’ is always ‘now’ but ends up being deferred thanks to the journal publication cycle), and what conference should I organise and when. Teaching was a given – there was little choice on what I could teach but I have been hugely fortunate to teach courses on subjects I really love – feminist and gender theory – and in something I have past professional experience: gender, science and technology.
It all sounds smooth-sailing for those outside looking in but it isn’t always like that. There seems to be two intellectual time-space trajectories running in parallel in my workplace. When working on my own research and teaching, the intellectual time-space trajectory is stimulating, rapid, and at times, frantic. I design the syllabi and prepare all teaching materials from scratch. Every class feels like a high-wire act. Managing, writing, and revising research becomes (on hindsight) an exhilarating race against time. The other intellectual time-space trajectory relates to the habitus of my workplace. There is less urgency for academic publication and rigour; tenured staff either do not publish or do so collectively in dubious Beall’s list journals. The level of discussion during public seminars is low, meandering, and unchallengingly non-intellectual.
Since starting my academic career, I am beginning to fully appreciate my strengths (integrity and hard graft) and weaknesses (failure at building strategic alliances and undiplomatic honesty). I realise now I cannot do everything but while I’m still in my 30s and able-bodied, I should push my boundaries and step out of my comfort zone. My self-knowledge has made me less anxious about my abilities (I can teach and publish in good journals!) and made me more confident at mapping out a future brimming with ambition. Here’s to several more decades as an academic!
The mother-daughter relationship can be the greatest cause of vexation in a woman’s life. This is a platitude no doubt and a sweeping generalisation as many are lucky to have a really splendid mother-daughter relationship. Happy or not, it is characterised by maternal projections of hope, insecurities, anxiety, and disappointments. A mother conceives not just a daughter but undertakes a vicarious project of constructing a Mini-Me whilst must heroically come to terms with the fact that the daughter is a unique individual. Mothering is thus a projection and project that plays out in proximity and across great distances through hugs and long-distance calls.
A daughter’s greatest fear is that they become their mother. Turning into one’s mother confirms a woman’s destiny and annihilates the notion of self-determination and individuality. All women will be become their mothers, thus all women are the same. In Elena Ferrante’s first novel Troubling Love (1996, Original title in Italian, L’amore Molesto), Delia is every daughter who must resist visible signs of becoming one’s mother, as this particular passage demonstrates:
Now that [my mother] was dead, someone had scraped away her hair and had disfigured her face to fit my body. It had happened after years in which, out of hatred, out of fear, I had wanted to eliminate every root I had in her, even the deepest: her gestures, the inflections of her voice, her way of taking a glass or drinking from a cup, her method of putting on a skirt, as if it were a dress, the arrangement of the objects in her kitchen, in her drawers, how she did her most intimate washing, her taste in food, her dislikes, her enthusiasms, and the language, the city, the rhythms of her breath. All of it remade, so that I could become me and detach myself from her.
On the other hand I hadn’t wanted or been able to root anyone in me. Soon I would lose even the possibility of having children. No human being would ever detach itself from me with the anguish which I had detached myself from her, only because I had never been able to attach myself to her definitely
Delia seeks the truth behind the unexplained death of her mother, Amalia. In an attempt to solve the mystery behind Amalia’s death – presumably by drowning – Delia unlocks repressed memories of a childhood scarred by domestic violence and leery male neighbours. Her detective work involves not just discovering startling clues that shed light on her mother’s death but also a woman’s life suppressed by domesticity.
But as Delia makes discoveries of her mother’s identity she never knew, she finds that that they mirror her own repressed desires to be the kind of woman Amalia was. Delia is a disheveled comic strip artist, unmarried but clearly not so young anymore; unlike the glamour of old age eclipsed by the self-abnegating image of Amalia the mother. Amalia had also abandoned a violent marriage and sought to reconstruct herself in middle age as a lover and wearer of sexy underwear. Delia tracks Amalia’s decrepit lover Caserta down, determined to get to the bottom of a possible foul play. However, her confrontation with Caserta would undo the barricade of sexual repression and fantasy that distorted her childhood memories. Who is Caserta in Amalia’s life but simply an unconsummated admirer rather than lover, as it turns out. Still, Delia as a child was jealous and protective of male attention towards her mother. She would tell her father of an imagined affair between her mother and Caserta and unknowingly unleash patriarchal rage. Like the children in The Go-Between and Atonement, Delia would grow up living with the consequences of interfering with the emotional life of adults. It seemed as if Delia would atone by continuing the life of Amalia by being Amalia.
In her classic text, The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender (1978), Nancy Chodorow argues that ‘mothering’ is more than a biological reality and continuation of practices after childbirth. Even without biological mothers performing the act of mothering, women in general take up the role in poorly paid or unpaid capacity.
Responding to Freud, Chodorow develops a feminist analysis of psychosocial development and how women become mothers. All babies perceive their mothers as their ‘external ego’ because they have yet to develop their own individuality separate from their primary caregiver. But as they grow into maturity, separation and the development of the ‘self’ set in in different ways for boys and girls. For boys, Freud postulates the necessity of the Oedipal drama and the threat of castration by the father to result in the psychic rejection of the mother. Rather than fearing castration, daughters already see themselves as castrated like their mother. Thus without the threat of castration and urgent need for separation, daughters maintain an undifferentiated connection with their mother, going as far as duplicating ‘many features of their mothers’ psychotic symptoms’ (Chodorow 1978: 100).
In his symbolic penis-baby equation, Freud would see a woman’s desire to be mothers as a substitute for the phallus, resolving her penis envy. Suggesting a more powerful psychic bond between mothers and daughters, Chodorow goes on to say children do want to unite with their mothers and return to that place of safety and bliss:
Children wish to remain with their mother, and expect that she will never have different interests from them; yet they define their development in terms of growing away from her. In the face of their dependence, lack of certainty of her emotional permanence, fear of merging, and overwhelming love and attachment, a mother looms large and powerful
Mothers in Elena Ferrante’s novels are torn in opposing directions; by their asexual domestic calling and raw feminine sexual desire. Somewhere in between this polarity the mother (in Days of Abandonment) at first fumbles, then confidently carves a space for herself to be both mother and sexual being. Mothers die in Ferrante’s work; the death of mothers results in the reconciliation between mother and daughter (My Brilliant Friend) and awakening of a daughter’s femininity (Troubling Love). I do not need to rehearse the tedious assumptions that Ferrante’s novels are somehow mined from her own life. The themes of the ‘personal’ – motherhood, female friendships, divorce – are said to be depicted with such realness that Ferrante could only write from her own life and that of course Ferrante is a woman, a guess that was shattered in 2016 by the expose of Ferrante’s identity.
What is it about Ferrante’s novels, of her incessant focus on the feminine domestic sphere, that pull in millions of readers? As Margaret Drabble states, there is something quite retro and Second Wavey about her novels. I would also add that there are strong hetero psychosocial dynamics of the private sphere that the novels contend with. And yet, they remain as fresh as the morning dew because the vexed question of the feminine, gender inequalities, and male dominance remains unresolved and returns the next day, like the morning dew that greets us.
Seksualiti merupakan satu perkataan yang secara lazimnya dihubungkaitkan dengan hubungan seks antara lelaki dan perempuan. Namun, ini adalah satu pemahaman istilah yang terlalu sempit. Sebaliknya, seksualiti merangkumi segala yang bersangkut-paut dengan perasaan cinta, hasrat (desire), hubungan intim (intimacy), perkahwinan, kawalan sosial, politik, ekonomi, dan agama. Berpegang tangan antara kekasih adalah satu tanda seksualiti seseorang.
Seksualiti sebagai kategori penyelidikan mempunyai sejarah yang bermula dari abad ke-19 dengan penubuhan bidang seksologi yakni bidang saintifik mengenai seksualiti manusia. Dalam kata lain, abad ke-19 merupakan titik permulaan di mana seksualiti dikenalpasti secara saintifik, namun sebagai satu patologi yang boleh diubati.
‘Homoseksualiti’ adalah rekaan sains perubatan semata-mata…
Sebelum kategori seksualiti yang normatif (heteroseksualiti) diusulkan, kategori homoseksualiti dikaji dahulu. Homoseksualiti dicipta pada tahun 1870-an sebagai satu kategori penyakit minda dan mempunyai sifat-sifat yang hanya boleh dikenalpasti oleh pakar psikiatri.
Mengikut Michel Foucault (1926-1984), seorang homoseksual menjadi satu ‘species’ yang mempunyai ciri-ciri yang boleh dikenalpasti melalui kaedah yang bersifat saintifik. Ini bermakna: melalui wacana perubatan dan penyakit mental, homoseksualiti pertama kali dikenalpasti sebagai satu identiti. Ini tidak bermaksud orang yang bersifat homoseksual tidak pernah wujud sebelum tahun 1870-an, cuma istilah identiti ‘homoseksual’ yang digunakan buat pertama kali diberikan kepada perbuatan dan amalan yang berdasarkan cinta sejenis (same-sex desire).
Mengikut hasil pencarian Foucault dalam History of Sexuality Jilid 1, corak pengaturan dan regulasi sesuatu masyarakat mula berubah daripada regulasi hukum-hakam agama kepada regulasi yang bersifat sekular – melalui sains perubatan. Individu di masyarakat Barat-Kristian beralih daripada membuat pengakuan (confession) dosa seksual di gereja kepada pengakuan mengenai seksualiti mereka kepada para doktor. Perubahan sosial ini sesuai dengan perkembangan sains and teknologi sekitar revolusi pengindustrian dan fahaman humanisme pasca-Pencerahan. Masyakarat pada zaman 1800-an yang mengagungkan sains seperti teori evolusi dan sains genetik disarankan dengan pengaturan sosial yang bersifat saintifik bagi memastikan kemajuan dan kesejahteraan manusia sejagat.
Daripada gagasan Foucault datangnya Queer Theory
Pendekatan ‘queer’ terbit daripada angkatan aktivis gay dan lesbian yang memperjuangkan hak-hak golongan homoseksual.
Perkataan ‘queer’ yang digunakan dalam aktivisme LGBT di Amerika Syarikat pada akhir dekad 1960-an mempunyai maksud yang bertentangan dengan maksud yang menjelekkan golongan LGBT. Objektif disebalik penggunaan perkataan ‘queer’ yang asalnya digunakan untuk menghina lelaki homoseksual adalah untuk ‘memulihkan’ dan meneutralkan bisa homofobik yang terkandung dalamnya, tidak terlalu berbeza dengan golongan berkulit hitam yang menggunakan perkataan ‘nigger’ sesama mereka atau penggunaan perkataan ‘slut’ dalam gerakan Slutwalk. Ini merupakan satu contoh ‘reverse discourse’ atau wacana berbalik yang diusulkan oleh Foucault.
Sumbangan terbesar Foucault kepada Queer Theory adalah teorinya mengenai cara kuasa (power), wacana (discourse), dan bahasa/ilmu (language/knowledge) saling berinteraksi untuk mencipta realiti. Kuasa yang mengatur sesuatu masyarakat (melalui undang-undang, pihak politik dan agamawan) dikuatkuasakan melalui manipulasi wacana (misalnya melalui propaganda). Wacana yang sempit menghasilkan ruang bicara awam dan persendirian yang sempit.
Beberapa ikhtisar penting dalam Queer Theory:
Pendekatan ‘queer’ menolak binari gender dan seksualiti yang terdiri daripada homoseksualiti dan heteroseksualiti / maskuliniti dan feminititi.
Identiti ‘queer’ adalah segala perbuatan, pendirian dan gaya hidup yang melanggar norma-norma yang mengongkong individu.
‘Queer’ bersifat subversif dan menyongsang demi mencari jalan yang baru untuk mengekspresi gender dan seksualiti.
Persamaan / perbezaan antara Queer Theory dan teori feminis:
Kedua-dua mempunyai pendirian yang kritikal terhadap peranan gender dan seksualiti yang binari, tradisional dan normatif dalam masyarakat. Kedua-dua juga memegang pada pendapat bahawa gender dan jantina adalah konstruksi sosial.
Karya pemikir-pemikir utama Queer Theory juga merupakan tokoh-tokoh feminis – seperti Judith Butler, Teresa de Lauretis dan Audre Lorde.
Kedua-dua teori feminis radikal dan Queer Theory menolak heteroseksualiti atas dasar penindasannya terhadap wanita dan lelaki gay. Aktivisme feminis dan LGBT muncul bergiat di sekitar tahun 1960 dan 1970-an sewaktu perjuangan hak-hak asasi membasmi perkauman di Amerika Syarikat berlaku.
Namun, terdapat pelbagai perbezaan yang mewujudkan satu jurang antara teori feminis dan Queer Theory.
Misalnya, teori feminis bermula daripada persoalan mengenai perbezaan antara gender dan jantina/seks, manakala tumpuan Queer Theory lebih kepada jantina/seks dan seksualiti. Walaupun teori feminis radikal yang aktif pada zaman 1970-an dan 1980-an adalah sangat kritikal terhadap heteroseksualiti, kini teori feminis kurang memberi perhatian kepada isu homoseksualiti dan heteroseksualiti.
Jika gender dianggap satu konstruk sosial – yakni terbentuk daripada proses sosial dan budaya yang boleh dimanipulasi dan berubah mengikut rentak zaman – maka ia tidak timbul secara semulajadi dalam diri seorang perempuan atau lelaki. Sebaliknya, gender harus dipupuk, dipelajari, ditegaskan, dan dikawal sepanjang hayat. Tidak cukup untuk digelar ‘perempuan’ or ‘lelaki’ di saat kelahirannya atau dalam sijil kelahiran, keperempuanan dan kelelakian harus ditonjolkan dan bagi Judith Butler, ia seolah-olah ‘dilakonkan’ di pentas sosial.
‘Performativiti‘ merupakan konsep yang dikemukakan oleh Judith Butler untuk menunjukkan bahawa gender dan seksualiti bersifat seperti ‘persembahan’ atau lakonan yang mengikuti ‘skrip’ yang ditetapkan oleh norma masyarakat. Bagi Butler, gender seolah-olah satu ‘lakonan’ yang dilakukan oleh individu mengikut syarat-syarat permakaian dan perlakuan. Dalam kata lain, gender bukan sesuatu yang sedia ada tetapi sesuatu yang perlu diusahakan dan diulangi sepanjang hayat.
Dari sisi lain, gender yang bersifat performatif bermaksud gender dibentuk atau dikonstruk melalui tindakan seorang individu yang mengisyaratkan identiti gender beliau. Bagi Butler, gender tidak wujud dalam ‘batin’ atau teras identiti seseorang individu. Gender adalah sesuatu yang dizahirkan sahaja.
‘Drag’ adalah istilah yang digunakan oleh Butler sebagai kiasan atau metafora bagi menerangkan gaya seorang individu memaparkan identiti gendernya. ‘Drag’ merujuk kepada persembahan drag atau permakaian pakaian yang bertentangan dengan identiti gender seseorang. Istilah ‘drag’ digunakan bagi individu biasa kerana gaya pemaparan gender bagi kebanyakan orang sama ada melalui make-up atau memakai tali leher dan business suit adalah sementara dan untuk di ‘pentas’ awam.
Bagi kebanyakan individu, gaya dan bahasa badan, cara permakaian dan pertuturan diatur dan dikawal apabila di tempat awam atau di situasi yang tertentu, seperti acara formal atau temuduga untuk kerja. Mengikut pendapat Judith Butler, kami sentiasa mempersembahkan diri mengikut citarasa diri, norma masyarakat, dan protokol tertentu.
Seksualiti – sebagai satu kategori – adalah sesuatu yang bersifat historikal. Ini bermaksud konsep heteroseksualiti dan homoseksualiti hanya boleh digunakan dengan tepat daripada zaman 1870-an. Ini adalah kerana definisi, ciri-ciri dan kategori bagi mengenalpasti heteroseksualiti dan homoseksualiti hanya bermula pada 1870-an
Namun, definisi, ciri-ciri dan kategori heteroseksualiti dan homoseksualiti pada zaman itu menggambarkan kedua-duanya sebagai penyakit mental.
Kecenderungan kita untuk menggunakan binari dan dikotomi untuk klasifikasi gender dan jantina mencerminkan corak bahasa dan logik kita tanpa menyedari bahawa fenomena dan realiti sosial dan biologi adalah lebih kompleks dan bukan hitam-putih. Malah, fenomena dan realiti sosial, biologi, gender dan jantina boleh dilihat sebagai kepelbagaian warna dalam pelangi.
The intertwining themes of living dishonorably and dying honorably form the linchpin of Natsume Sōseki’s dark and desolate landmark 1914 novel, Kokoro (Heart). Consumed by guilt of possibly causing his best friend’s suicide in decades prior, the unnamed protagonist Sensei (or literally, ‘Teacher’) takes his own life ‘for the spirit of the Meiji’. In Kokoro, the novel’s ending and of life itself is the real story. Deaths of historical ‘real’ people suddenly make a deus ex machina appearance in the novel’s climax. The death of the Meiji emperor in 1912 results in a domino effect of other deaths. It was a signal to Sensei that he too should die, taking the Meiji era and its conflicting values with him. Following the emperor’s death, his military chief, General Nogi would in turn take his own life in an archaic way that would be the stuff of Western Orientalist images of Japanese peculiarity. In his imperial sati, General Nogi replaced his Western-style military uniform with a samurai armour and committed the act of seppuku, a type of ritual disembowelment, in front of the Meiji emperor’s portrait. In ‘following his master’, General Nogi had accomplished junshi, an honourable death.
Scholars of modern Japanese literature have debated and speculated on the more plausible reasons why the Meiji man, Sensei, committed suicide. Was it for dishonorable reasons (modern individualist selfishness) or honorable ones (to follow one’s master in death)? By Westernised and contemporary sensibilities, suicide, however abysmal its symbolic power, provokes disapproval in the living. In fact, the ‘incomprehensibility’ of suicide in Kokoro is the crux of discussions I have conducted in my Sunday classes on World Literature in the past three years with my Masters students. The genius of Kokoro is how the internal conflict of the central character, Sensei, would mirror those of his own generation who were raised during the Meiji Restoration of unfettered uptake of all things modern and European. As a Meiji man himself, born a year before the beginning of the Meiji era, Sōseki argued that Japan was shocked into change and struggled to reconcile with the human effects of a nation in rapid transition:
“People say that Japan was awakened thirty years ago, but it was awakened by a fire-bell and jumped out of bed. It was not a genuine awakening but a totally confused one. Japan has tried to absorb Western culture in a hurry and as a result has not had time to digest it. Japan must be truly awakened as regards to literature, politics, business, and all other areas” (Sōseki, 16 March 1902)
Living an unsatisfactory life and suffering are the recurring cornerstones that furnish the subtextual conflict of what it means to be a Meiji man – torn in different directions by the allure and promise of modernity and the anchor of tradition. Sensei is the classical Meiji man: highly educated and comfortable with making friends white people. He even drinks black tea. His demeanour piques the interest of a young man, also nameless, who in his first person narrative will be the only interlocutor to Sensei’s internal suffering. They develop a deep friendship built on abstract discussions on loneliness that plagues the zeitgeist:
“You see, loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves”
Sensei had contemplated long about death but would not confide in his wife the cause of his depression. He was convinced that the suicide of his best friend is morally attributed to his cunning acquisition of the woman they both desired and whom Sensei would later marry but could not cherish in a loving relationship. The tragedies in his young adult life and lifelong guilt would arise from the constraints of tradition (of not talking about love with peers and confronting the object of one’s desires) yet mired by the modern appeal of individualistic competition and acquisition. Like a sleepwalking zombie immune to the zest of life, he resolved to continue ‘living as though dead’. Plunged into such psychological suffering, there is really no difference between living and being dead.
The final reveal – an announcement that Sensei has finally decided to die – arrives in a long letter addressed to his young friend. In it Sensei divulges his painful childhood, the powerful bond between him and his best friend, the tragic lead-up to the latter’s death, and how he must live with the pain of guilt for the rest of his life. There are hints that the death of the Meiji emperor and the ritual suicide of General Nogi may have capitulated his suicidal ideation. When the young man finishes reading the letter, its author will be dead. There is an open-endedness in both narrative arc and morality in the novel’s ending that signaled something new and modernist for Japanese readers of the early 20th century. The novel closes with the end of Sensei’s letter in the young man’s hands, contemporaneous with the reader of the novel who speculates on what the young protagonist will do next. Will the spirit of the Meiji era claim the young man as its next victim?
Literary discussion on suicide in literature tends to bring the writer’s suicide into focus. But in the case of Natsume Sōseki, he was no Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, David Foster Wallace, or even Yukio Mishima. Kokoro would be his darkest novel after books lighter in mood; I am a Cat (1905) and Botchan (1906). Trained to be one Japan’s first university lecturers and scholars of Shakespeare and English literature, Sōseki became disillusioned with academia within a few years of teaching. Sōseki turned instead to journalism and became the country’s first professional novelist. His rise as a literary giant was forged alongside the emergence of the modern Japanese literati, the bundan and kokubungaku, Japanese literature as an academic discipline. Salons took place in the homes of much respected authors and patrons of the arts. Sōseki himself held court in such salons in his own home.
A novel published originally in serialised form in the Asahi Shimbun, Kokoro’s preoccupations with suffering and alienation would mirror the life and career of the author himself. The introspective quality of Sōseki’s scholarly work on ‘literature’ parallels the psychological if elliptical preoccupations in Kokoro. In 1900, Soseki left his young family for a two year visit in London to study English literature. His sojourn to the West became both a personal and intellectual discovery of the Japanese self in relation to the Western world. While studying in University College London, he became depressed and oppressed by the alienation of a new arrival unfamiliar with a foreign world. His diminutive stature added to the exoticised reception by the English people he met who were perhaps themselves did not know what to make of a bookish Asian man on an intellectual mission.
He returned to Japan to continue to wrestle with the theory of literature in an approach that would be best called proto postcolonial. However, Sōseki had undertaken a scholarly project of discussing the production of modern Japanese literature that he was himself party to when the theory of ‘literature’ itself was still alien to his contemporaries and readers. In the first decade of the 20th century, his intellectual project was, as Kojin Karatani puts it, ‘a flower that bloomed out of season and therefore left no seed.’ The writing of Kokoro was precipitated by episodes of illness and a brush with death. Soseki suffered from a chronic stomach illness then nearly died from cerebral anaemia; events that jolted him into considering the “living experience with death”
What continues to haunt me is how simultaneously universal and truly of its time Kokoro is. It offers readers unfamiliar with modern Japanese literature a fresh respect for the introspective pause in everyday life to consider changing times and attitudes. Such an introspective pause is ever more necessary now when attention deficits plague so many. But Sōseki offers a pessimistic view on social change and the human cost to live up to expectations that change demands. Though the long-lasting effect of Kokoro is its meditation on life, death, and suffering that erases the boundary that separates the two. Rather than a void and antithesis of all that we can understand and experience, death visits upon the living and leaves its indelible mark on the body and mind.
I was in Jakarta for a quick three-day trip to attend the Women’s March last Saturday morning. The Women’s March was a moving carnival of hundreds of people; mostly young Indonesian women, a few genderqueer individuals, men, and some white people.
Is the Women’s March ‘Indonesian’ in spite of its name?
I’d say the Women’s March in Indonesia – an obvious embrace of the global movement that began as a US response to the election of Donald Trump – has a very Indonesian flavour. We marched from Sarinah to the president’s palace where protesters were dwarfed by the towering National Monument (Monas). The utilisation and subversion of local and nationalist symbols are evident throughout the rally. A young woman carried a poster that said, ‘Sri Kandi is LGBT’, a reference to the mythological female warrior Sri Kandi who is reimagined as a queer protest figure. The famed women’s rights activist Siti Musdah Mulia who spoke of a ‘reformist’ Islam and a country that is governed by no religion in particular recited, along with the crowd, the Pancasila. The Pancasila, or the state philosophy, was thus reclaimed by feminists and queers to hold the state to account.
For years, I have had an affinity for feminism and the women’s movement in Indonesia, learning from them and understanding how they might compare with feminism in Malaysia and Singapore – something I have been observing for about five years now. In many ways, feminism in Indonesia departs significantly from its counterparts in Malaysia and Singapore in its distinct global-locality, an ability to remix local feminist discourses with transnational ones – Rosie the Riveter reimagined as the Acehnese anti-colonial warrior Tjoet Nya Dhien is a fine example. And so is the poster of Raden Ajeng Kartini if she was portrayed by Cath Kidston.
By contrast, there are fewer local and nationalistic symbols appropriated and subverted by Malaysian and Singaporean feminists. A more sedate and circumscribed approach identified by Lynette Chua as ‘pragmatic resistance’ is used to engage with the state in Singapore and Malaysia. Pragmatic resistance presents a bureaucratic-legal challenge against the the state that occurs mostly behind the court doors, with non-women’s/gay rights lawyers as mediating agents. At other times, feminism is a side show for ‘gender neutral’ political dissent. However necessary pragmatic resistance is, it is always to me like figuring out new dance moves within the confines of a telephone booth.
And so a ‘Women’s March’ is to take place in KL this coming Saturday and no doubt many young Malaysian women who have encountered the brilliant photos taken in Jakarta are excited to participate in their own march. However, I wonder how organised the Malaysian ‘women’s march’ is, what its demands are, and how it can make the march meaningful to many young Malaysian women and men beyond the dogma of old-school socialism.