IT’S RAINING PATRIARCHY
I grew up with a traditional grandfather, and after my mother started dating the man who would become my stepfather when I was five, I became the daughter of an equally traditional man. They’re the kind of men who opened doors and pulled out chairs and sometimes put their whole foot sideways down their throat when it came to gender. My grandfather wasn’t a bad man, but he was every bit of what you might expect from someone born in 1919. He was at best benevolently sexist, and at worst sometimes outright misogynistic—though I didn’t have that language for his behavior when he was still alive. I can look back, though, at the things he said about what women could or should do, the ways he balked at me being a tomboy, and see that he bought into the strict gender roles of his time, and then he had to deal with massive social changes over the course of his seventy years, as well as his daughters and granddaughters rejecting so much of what he expected from us. My dad is a little better. By the time he met my mom, I was already showing the tomboy inclinations that were the subject of a lot of family arguments. Sometimes he opens his mouth and the patriarchy comes tumbling out on any topic ranging from what input he thinks my husband should have on my choices for my body to what I do for a living. Then he pulls back (possibly because of my reactions) and says something about “modern women.” Most days my dad just buckles up, shakes his head, and lets my complete lack of investment in the traditional narratives he holds dear wash over him.
He loves me, though he doesn’t understand me, but then I don’t completely understand him either. For instance, I am not totally sure I understand his attachment to being so patriarchal that he once asked me how my husband felt about my hysterectomy. I told him something brisk about it being my body and my husband not getting a vote, and we left it at that. He understands and appreciates that I am educated and employed, but he just can’t quite wrap his mind around why my husband and I are so averse to traditional gender roles in some key (to him) ways. His attitude is patriarchy in action, which from anyone else would be an unequivocal source of conflict with me, but navigating patriarchal norms is complicated when it comes to the men who raised me and the man I love.
I can comfortably talk about feminism and the hood and so many things about masculinity and its damaging impact, and yet the most I could do with my dad was set a quick, crisp boundary. To be fair, we’ve never discussed the hysterectomy again, and he doesn’t say things like that about my body to me anymore, but the fact is, he holds positions that I don’t believe in. The same is true for many women in communities like mine, where the sexism comes from people we love and who we respect, even when we disagree with them.
Feminists need a more realistic understanding of the complex nature of patriarchal influences on marginalized communities. Whether we are talking about inner cities or rural areas, the semi-segregated nature of most working-class communities plays a huge role in the way patriarchal narratives are embraced. These communities are largely socially and culturally homogeneous, and a great majority of the residents are hyper-concerned with respectability because of white patriarchal messaging about respect being reserved for those who are law-abiding, religious, and at least somewhat socially conservative.
The majority of residents advocate conservative values and aspire to a better life for their children. Younger residents tend to share their parent’s or guardian’s values: they work hard, they avoid getting enmeshed in any crime or violence around them, and they tend to either avoid drugs entirely or consume far fewer than their white working- and middle-class counterparts. Yet they face a disproportionate risk of arrest and incarceration for even the most mundane of misdemeanors.
In all communities, there is a minority group of youth that rebel against at least some of their community’s values. They may engage in some measure of illicit activity. Some have been pushed out of school and are chronically out of work, while others are voluntary dropouts or at least not pursuing any further education beyond high school. They lack the skills and the credentials for higher-paying jobs, and cannot subsist on low-wage jobs without some way of supplementing their income. They skirt the poverty line, but generally stay above it through underground economies.
Because of a lack of respect elsewhere, the men in these scenarios value a measure of subservience and submission from women that is intended to make up for what they can’t receive in the wider world. Customs that seem to directly contradict feminism, like making a man’s plate and serving it to him, are part of a configuration of norms, values, and habits that are, at their core, mainstream inside the community. Outside these communities, the idea of a woman being expected to prepare and serve her significant other can be seen as an indication that she is not his equal. As with any custom, there are certainly ways that it can be regarded as harmful, but it’s one of many practices specific not only to a community but also to a relationship. My husband is more likely to plate up my dinner because he cooks more than I do, but I’m more likely to make the plates for the kids. That’s what works for us. And even though the practice is heavily debated inside our community, as a wordless expression of affection and respect, it can be incredibly validating. Making a man’s plate and other similar practices exist in large part because the only place a Black man might experience respect is from someone in his family. Even now, in 2019, the outside world often fails to respect Black people, much less Black men.
It’s also here that the hypermasculinity that can seem so aggressive plays out as an assertion and defense of respect. A lot of narratives about what it means to be a man, to be someone who stands up and stands out in a community as a leader, are created in this space where respect is not only earned, but must be constantly demanded. Whether that means raising your voice or resorting to violence, carving out a space for yourself in a world that denies your right to exist is important. Gang culture, the bravado that permeates and creates toxic masculinity, is also a twisted method of self-defense from the broader world. While the desire for name brands can seem counter to what is needed in low-income communities, there’s a defiance of respectability politics playing out in the attachment to everything from gym shoes to hoodies. Suits, ties, and demure dresses didn’t protect our ancestors from violence before or during the civil rights movement, and they won’t protect residents of the inner city now, no matter how often people try to blame victims of racism for how they are dressed. Individualism, materialism, and a reverence for “traditional” gender roles is filtered through a lens of intracultural norms.
Counter to that centering of hypermasculinity is Black feminism, which recognizes that fighting the white supremacist patriarchy outside the community is different than fighting the toxic masculinity inside the community. There’s a desire to see the same men who are so adversely impacted by racism succeed, but not at the expense of Black women. That means a careful balancing act of prioritizing the safety and health of all without ignoring the harm the patriarchy has done or could do.
Though such culture can be incredibly toxic, particularly where the demand for respect is enforced by the use of emotional and physical violence, in many ways it is simply the inverted image of iconic values, a push for equality, if not equity, as seen through a fun-house mirror. It’s toxic masculinity as medicine for a disease wrought in oppression. When you are used to seeing a broader social narrative that positions some people as disposable, the instinct is to replicate it inside smaller communities, and because it has been so normalized, it is difficult to imagine a different social order. While communities of color are certainly affected by the white patriarchal narratives presented as desirable culture through the media, much of our internal patriarchal dynamic in communities of color is homegrown, an outgrowth of the cultural responses that originated more in reaction to the institutionalized violence of colonialism and imperialism. It’s not the Donna Reed fantasy of the 1950s, that pallid ode to Jim Crow–era myths about the role of moderately well-off white women who were figuring out how to balance work and home with spouses who earned enough for them to afford a housekeeper.