By Donna Dees-Thomases, with Alison HendrieRodale
By Marilyn WaringHarper San Francisco
By Susan PinkerScribner
By James Moore and Wayne SlaterThree Rivers Press
By George StephanopoulosBack Bay Books
By Dee Dee MyersHarper
So as far as women ruling in politics, the tally would appear to be: Women are smart, principled, professional, cordial—and just a bit dull (and let’s not even go into Nancy Pelosi’s book, Know Your Power, which her press release dubs, with a telling thud, a “keepsake”). Men are conniving, crude, backbiting—and lively. In Myers’s formulation, women leaders are grown-up Girl Scouts who work toward their noble, humanistic (and at the same time, deftly bottom-line-enhancing) goals cheerfully and with just a little bit of moxie. The role models Myers celebrates include not Hillary Clinton (relations are strained) nor Condoleezza Rice (not actually indexed) but the country’s 16 genial female senators, who even in today’s climate have reached across the aisle, forged friendships, and cooperated on issues. (Myers even applauds Mary Matalin for … being a spirited but civilized co-host on the CNBC show Equal Time. Which is certainly a delicate and singular way of summing up Matalin’s legacy.)
At this point, I added The Architect: Karl Rove and the Dream of Absolute Power to my growing, unhappy heap of political biographies. (And let me tell you, to the Democratic husband, nothing is as sensually appealing as that thick Karl Rove biography tottering on the wife’s bedside table.) My gloom deepened as I read about Rove’s vast, conspiratorial, conservative stealth fog, a fog microdirected by Rove not during official meetings in the White House but during rendezvous on rainy Washington side streets (called to order by Rove’s quietly tapping on a car window). So while Myers’s estimable high-minded-ness about women is understandable for a person who cites, as youthful inspiration, Sally Ride (though God help Sally if she ever decided to enter politics! Under a Rove whisper campaign, even Sally’s thrilling career would be brought down to a fishy silt: “You know those female astronauts—as they age, they get desperate! Lonely! Infatuated! They’ll drive 40 hours! In diapers! Click link to see the funny cartoon Rush Limbaugh just photoshopped!”), if we want women to compete as rulers, I began to think, shouldn’t we be able to do everything men do, succeeding if need be as competitive, manipulative, backstabbing, foulmouthed egomaniacs? Consider dragon ladies Leona Helmsley (ran her own hotel chain), Judith Regan (ran her own O.J.-friendly publishing imprint), and Vogue’s Anna “Nuclear” Wintour, so legendary in her frosty evil. Ah, the state of the world! Here is the one Borgia-like female who could prove to be a match for a sadistic Republican Master Planner, in a Godzilla-versus-Mothra matchup, with much vicious BlackBerrying into the night (“Boots! We’re going to fight back with a mauve suede boot this season!”). But sadly, better lights like Dee Dee Myers have chosen safer, saner career paths—such as stay-at-home pundit.
Not that (more bad news!) women are generally predisposed to zero-sum games like elections, anyway—the caribou-hunting Republican vice- presidential candidate notwithstanding. To my come-hither bedside stack, I added The Sexual Paradox: Men, Women, and the Real Gender Gap, by the Canadian psychologist Susan Pinker. Using the latest neurological and biological findings of brain-imaging and sex-hormone assays, Pinker adds scientific ballast to the anecdotal truisms that women are more consensus-minded and team-oriented, and are better at reading human visual cues, interpreting feelings, and maintaining relationships and relationship networks than men. Since you asked, females score high in math, too, but interestingly, unlike males, mathematically gifted females also tend to be high scorers in other areas, giving them more academic freedom to opt out.
But when it comes to competition, in that great neuroendocrine smackdown, there goes the female advantage. Consider this startling study done with fourth-grade Israeli schoolchildren: when boys and girls each ran alone on a track, there was no measurable speed difference by gender. But when each child was teamed with another child and asked to run again, the boys ran faster and the girls ran slower—slowest of all when running against other girls! What females love is bonding, helping, sharing, and oxytocin—that “opiatelike hormone” dubbed by one anthropologist “the elixir of contentment.” Forget all this tedious racing: what girls would really like to do is carry each other around the track—taking turns! Indeed, studies show that whereas competitive situations drive adrenaline increases in men, they drive adrenaline decreases in most women. Men associate more pleasurable feelings with competition than do women, and even “an eagerness to punish and seek revenge feels more fun.” (Remember “tragedy of Prickarus” and “He’s going to have a clus-ter-fuck; he’s going to have a clus-ter-fuck”? Good times! Good times!) Even more harrowing: for men, not only does the urge to punish correlate with an increase in testosterone, but testosterone can measurably spike when they touch a gun.
And that’s just the dog-eat-dog male aggression you can see. Yet more pernicious is the result when that worldview is encoded, unquestioned, systemic. Indeed, the next layer of female radicalism belongs to those who argue that even the perception of money as a “measuring rod” is itself male-centric. In a hard-to-find yet truly groundbreaking book, Counting for Nothing (1988), Marilyn Waring, a lesbian goat farmer and member (then the youngest) of the New Zealand parliament, reveals few concerns about her hair and outfits and goes way beyond the trepidations and personal politics of being a female in a male-dominated government to hit back at—yes, and why not?—men, with a force so bracingly Old School as to be almost medieval. To one who came of age in the 1970s and ’80s, when feminists had flowing hair and gypsy skirts, Waring’s crew-cutted, steel-belted work is a shock. Formidably literate (tossing Einstein, Marx, Engels in here and there, like little folk proverbs) and unflinchingly numerical (warning her sisters that demystifying the economic system will be tough, calling economic textbooks “generally alienating, turgid, bludgeoning”), Waring eschews metaphysical questions of female selfhood and uses her pussy power to dive into a painstaking analysis of the United Nations System of National Accounts.
Essentially—and I confess, this was all news to me—the modern system of global GNPs and GDPs has its roots in a 1939 paper by John Maynard Keynes and Sir Richard Stone (who was later awarded the Nobel Prize), titled “The National Income and Expenditure of the United Kingdom, and How to Pay for the War.” Let us set aside the fact that zero value is assigned to the traditional household labor of women, including human reproduction—without which, as Waring points out, the whole system would collapse. (Actually, attending doctors, nurses, midwives, and anesthesiologists have quantifiable value, while the laboring mother does not.) An African female villager’s water-carrying, fuel-gathering, food-preparing, 4 a.m.–to–9 p.m. workday counts as a zero, while a male criminal dealing in drugs and prostitution contributes to national growth (according to how the national income is measured in Italy).
As Waring hammers home with example after absurd example, policies that spring from building national GDPs can be destructive to the planet as well as to humans. In calculations of a GDP, a chemical spill is a good thing (think of the labor and expense—that’s national growth!). A beautiful mountain is worth zip, but strip-mining—now there you have your growth again. Fresh fruit picked off your tree—nada. If you want to create growth, you must buy packaged corn chips. “Peace” itself has no value in a war-based economy—so the value of “safety” is determined by the price people pay for it (a town safe enough to leave doors unlocked gets a zero, while the armored cars and private security guards of São Paulo, Brazil, create growth).
Although Waring was not privy, in 1988, to the 21st-century neurobiological discoveries that Susan Pinker describes, she relentlessly ascribes certain behavioral traits to males. The free-market founder himself, 18th-century philosopher Adam Smith, “established the logical foundation for his work by identifying what he thought was essential human nature,” she writes. “He developed an image of humans as materialistic, egoistic, selfish and primarily motivated by pursuit of their own self-interest.” Quoting Smith:
Man [sic] has almost constant occasion for the help of his brethren and it is in vain for him to expect it from their benevolence only … It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.
As we now know, Smith’s assertion would indeed be true in a world made up only of men (a world, that is, in which the dinner on your dining-room table is mysteriously uncooked).
But fortunately, ours is not a world only of men.
All right, so what if wo-men are power-wielding-impaired? Is ruling the world the only way to change the world? Recently, prompted by yet another round of proposed California public-education budget cuts (although California is the 10th-largest global economy, our per-pupil funding is among the lowest in the nation, according to an Education Week analysis adjusted for regional cost differences), I decided, in the heat of motherly perimenopausal ire, to throw a grassroots protest on the front steps of the Sacramento Capitol. At 46—a bit too long in the tooth to be Gen X, while still having managed to miss Woodstock—this was my very first street rally, so the skills I used (permit writing, release filing, Excel spreadsheeting) were those I’d acquired working for the PTA at my daughters’ school. And while parents of both sexes seemed equally outraged about the budget cuts—many fathers passionately blogged about it and rapped out irate e-mails of “big ideas” (Get Jack Black from Kung Fu Panda to appear! How about a line of school buses 20 miles long?)—it was only the mothers who rallied themselves, in groups of two, 10, and 30. It was (surprise, surprise) the mothers who packed 15-person vans with pillows and blankets at 2 a.m., cut up apples and oranges, and hammered stakes in our tent city of 100-plus people (Sacramento is an eight-hour drive from L.A., so we rented RVs and camped).
True, our little rally was nothing compared with Donna Dees-Thomases’s Million Mom March on Washington in 2000, an event she chronicles in her astonishing (and also hard to find!) book, Looking for a Few Good Moms—a volume that contains the most dauntingly titled appendix I’ve ever seen: “How to Organize a Bus.” Dees-Thomases quotes a man, Million Mom Marcher Bill Jenkins—whose 16-year-old son had been shot dead while working at a fast-food restaurant—on the political power of numbers in the crusade she and her grassroots horde are waging:
There are two ways to hunt. In one, the hunter … enters the forest alone … This is how the gun industry has been fought in the past. Dedicated lawyers and lobbyists who have learned its every move have been fighting one-on-one. Sometimes they have gotten clear shots and scored minor victories.
But there is another way to hunt … The entire village enters the forest. Not highly trained, just willing participants. They beat the brush, driving the quarry to open ground, and surround it, and the hunt is over.
Crowding, in fact, may be more effective for women than ruling when it comes to changing the world. While at a biological disadvantage in competitions, women—who even make trips to restaurant bathrooms in pairs—are at a clear advantage when it comes to grouping together and the activities that accompany it: gossiping, sharing, bonding, assisting, scrapbooking, and building networks.
Given the apparent female neuroendocrinic aversion to competitive, winner-take-all activities like elections, unless testosterone shots become a new female norm, even democracy (thanks, Founding Fathers!), with its boastful, chest-beating campaigning, is clearly stacked against female candidates. (Now a monarchy, on the other hand, we could do. Instead of England’s Elizabeths, let’s throw in our own version of royalty like, who, some Kennedy women? Surely Oprah will know whom to choose. And while we’re making wish lists, for the betterment of our planet and our communities I suggest, à la Waring, that we move immediately, on a global level, to a moneyless, relationship-based barter system.)
Barring such fantasies, we should learn to better organize our crowding. Today, the Barnes & Noble “Women’s Studies” shelves are thick with books on women’s self-esteem, on women’s bodies, on women and money. But to exert more true power in the world, we need to pay less attention to our feelings, our clitorises, and even our 401(k)s. Why in five decades of modern feminist writing have we never seen any serious consideration of, for instance, the PTA, a hugely powerful, 100-plus-year-old, women-founded and women-dominated organization, whose well-funded and effective lobbying arm can actually help push through legislation? The women’s movement has ignored millions of PTA women—women busy baking brownies and zooming about in their Kohl’s wear, who can’t rule the world but who can change it. My fellow PTA mothers—“change agents” all—we need more books that teach us to build and direct our networks to do the work we value. Women, that is, need more books on how to organize a bus.