Norah Vincent has produced a new
book whose simple underlying concept nevertheless seems to possess
all the potential power of, say, John Howard Griffin’s classic
Black Like Me, in which the Caucasian author masqueraded as a
black man and was astonished at the depths of the discrimination and
barriers he discovered. Author Vincent tries to do the same thing
for gender, dressing in drag as “Ned” and entering various supposed
male bastions to report on what she discovers.
Unfortunately, there are some
problems here. Vincent, despite her background as a nationally
syndicated columnist for what I would argue is the best US
newspaper, the Los Angeles Times, nevertheless simply is not
all that perceptive an observer. Too many of her observations
either ring hollow or sound overly familiar. She does manage to
access some fresh insights, but all too often her comments seem
shallow and obvious.
Secondly, the author is a brazen
opportunist. On the one hand, truly, not that many authentic
all-male preserves remain today, with what used to be called men’s
clubs being turned into gender-equity exercises, with all-male
schools existing on the boundaries of legality, and feminism
extending its tentacles into virtually all phases of life. So to
begin with, the potential impact of Vincent’s 1.5 years as a “male”
is blunted. She nevertheless swoops into a monastery, a men’s
group, strip clubs, and the (ostensibly) heterosexual dating scene,
expressing in passing some regrets for the victims of her
deceptions, but never really justifying what she does. Certainly
she cannot retrospectively use her less than stunning analysis to
excuse her lies. The author also participates in an all-male
bowling league and works (with some success) as a “male” in a
heavy-testosterone sales job, but I can’t find it in myself to feel
quite as outraged about her deceptions in these seemingly somewhat
less loaded situations.
I don’t think it is unfair to
add that Vincent is a lesbian, which to my mind puts a further
question mark around her actions. She is trying to analyze men’s
inner and outer lives without herself having a primary emotional
connection to the male world, which I think makes it even easier for
her to swoop in, extract what nuggets she can from the males she
deceives, and fly over to Viking Penguin to collect her advance and
hit the talk show circuit. This is precisely what can be so
peculiarly infuriating about gender setups today, as we observe
women having things both ways, playing vulnerable when this will
enable them to make gains based on their (assertedly) weaker
position, and then at the same time claiming the right to full
equality based on the utter lack of difference between the sexes,
when that perspective is thought to advantage them.
So cue the entry of author Norah
Vincent, with her mishmash of views about the “patriarchy” and about
men’s natures, combined with her ability to ultimately walk away
from it all as a woman who primarily involves herself with other
women.
So what conclusions does Vincent
pass on to the reader from her experiences? In the bowling league,
she finds herself admiring men’s effortless ability to exchange tips
on throwing the ball better, and contributes a nice story on how the
entire league cheered on a man as he bowled a perfect game. She
also notes the unselfconscious, genuine way the men had of greeting
and bantering with each other. Her bowling teammates react well
when she finally tells them the truth about her sex.
At the strip clubs, we
experience the tawdriness of these businesses as well as the all too
obvious emotional pain the men who patronize them are often vainly
trying to escape. Some genuine sympathy for males develops in the
author. In the dating chapter, she comments that it’s a wonder that
men and women ever get together (I have often thought the same thing
myself). She notes the presumptions of guilt that seem to hang over
a man until he proves himself worthy of trust from a woman,
contrasted with the presumption of innocence that seems to be
awarded to a female based on no evidence beyond her sex. I did
appreciate Vincent’s well-phrased observation regarding women’s
hubris in the emotional plane, their assumption that they are the
masters of the world in terms of their understanding of feelings.
Later, in reference to the struggles men must make to balance their
masculinity with their sensitivity, the author writes perceptively
that, “If women are trapped by the whore/Madonna complex, men are
equally trapped by th[e] warrior/minstrel complex.” Men are expected
to fully support feminism and at the same time are often expected
also to be traditional, “to treat a lady like a lady.”
For Vincent, the dating segment
was a lesson in the female power of sexuality. No doubt she
deserves credit for coming to this realization, which she
(plausibly, given her sexual orientation) claims not to have
previously had. Vincent concludes by noting her surprise “to find
nestled inside the confines of female heterosexuality a deep love
and genuine attraction for real men” and by observing that one
untold secret of manhood is that “[e]very man’s armor is borrowed
and ten sizes too big, and beneath it, he’s naked and insecure and
hoping you won’t see.” At another point she comments that her
disguise as a man parallels men’s own disguise as they go out in the
world. Later she truly gets that men work hard and are
underappreciated. No big revelations here but at least she is being
genuine.
I found myself most annoyed by
her men’s group tale. She has no qualms about sharing the men’s
confidential revelations (though without giving their real names, of
course) and at the end of the chapter expresses her desire to return
to the group to wish the men well. But of course, she makes no
effort to actually do so. And at the same time she seems to have
precious little positive (or perceptive) to say about the group or
about the courageous work these men are struggling to perform.
Astonishingly, she professes herself amazed that a person could be
incapable of expressing feelings. I don’t care what her sexual
orientation is, this is a bit rich for me. Also, what kind of men’s
group has 25 men in it?
Things pick up a bit near the
end. Vincent observes that most people seem to have a deep need to
know your sex so they will know how to treat you. Interestingly,
during the period she was playing Ned, she was perceived as male
even when she would go out in public without binding her breasts or
affixing the fake stubble, etc. She entered her “male” phase
expecting to feel the supposed power of a man, but came out of it
realizing all the things she had to not do in order to pass
as a man. Instead she experienced the straightjacket of the male
role and the intense self-scrutiny that all too often goes along
with it. “As a guy, you get about a three-note emotional range.”
As Warren Farrell has perceptively noted, power equals options, and
options are what she did not have as a man. Surprise, surprise,
patriarchy shmatriarchy, being a man isn’t all that great!
To my ears, Vincent’s tone
sounds more than a bit precious. She is nearly as self-involved as
any teenager, worrying to the reader how she will escape if the
men’s group members should happen to discover her identity and
attack her with murderous intent in the woods. Give me a break.
Then toward the end she tosses in a peculiarly incongruous tale
about how she was on the brink of insanity at the end of her 1.5
years researching this book. I’m not sure what the reader is meant
to make of this but to me it’s further evidence of the author’s
flakiness and lack of grounding in reality. I have shared the most
enlightening insights; most of the rest range between tedious and
annoying. The author takes what she likes and leaves the rest in
this awkward, naïve, at times even embarrassing book.
©2002 J. Steven Svoboda
