Part 2 (2/2)
Okay, let's start with a quiz. Who do you like better: Rosie O'Donnell or Kathie Lee Gifford?
If you're reading this book-which presumably means you have taste-you, like me, chose Rosie. Hands down. And presumably you understand, too, what I mean when I say that it's better to be fabulous than to be ”nice.” Yeah, both Rosie and Kathie are considered nice, but Rosie is nice as in ”kind,” whereas Kathie is nice as in ”a sanctimonious goody-goody.”
In our culture, people tend to be valued for being inspiring and entertaining. With perhaps the notable exception of some morning-show hostesses, people are rewarded for being bold and inventive. For being a.s.sertive, funny, and individualistic. For having a bit of an edge.
Yet, when it comes right down to it, women are still encouraged to be, above all else, capital-N ”nice.” We learn that it's more important to be nice than to be interesting. It's more important to be nice than to be ourselves. It's certainly more important to be nice than to keep it real.
Nice might be ”nice,” but c'mon.
First of all, as we brazen, down-'n'-dirty gals know: Nice is usually not nearly nice enough. I mean, just look at our girl Kathie Lee. Tell me she's not the queen of pa.s.sive-aggression. Nine times out of ten, ”perfect good girls” like her live in a straightjacket fabricated out of appearances-and, boy, does that make them resent the h.e.l.l out of the rest of us. And so they wind up using their niceness as a cudgel: They bludgeon us with their perfection-see how good I am, see how great my kids are, see how dreamy my marriage is. See how my ca.s.serole doesn't leak over the sides of the Tupperware. Ugh. It's enough to make you want to get puking stinking drunk, if only so that you can throw up on them.
Second, niceness alone just doesn't get a gal that far. Kathie Lee herself has got to know this. It took a lot more than fresh breath and good white teeth to get where she is today. Those million-dollar incisors better be d.a.m.n sharp, too.
Interestingly, throughout the 1990s, Republicans insisted that political races should be about ”character.” They elevated character to an ”issue.” The problem, however, was that the Republicans confused character with virtue-with being a close-minded, sniggling, sanctimonious do-gooder.
In trying to present himself as a ”man of character,” Dan Quayle actually bragged that he had the same moral beliefs that he'd had twenty years ago.
He was proud of this? h.e.l.l, I wouldn't brag about having the same haircut as I did twenty years ago, let alone the same belief system. And I certainly wouldn't vote for anybody who did.
Well, as we've all learned, Americans aren't really interested in character in terms of virtue or niceness. We're interested in character in terms of personality. We're a country that prefers Scarlett to Melanie and Rhett to Ashley. We like our leaders large, colorful, mythic, entertaining. We're not nearly so compelled by leaders having character as by their being one. As in a cartoon. The right wing may think America should be governed by the equivialent of Saint Francis of a.s.sisi, but most of us are happier casting our ballots for the political equivalent of, say, Foghorn Leghorn.
Why else would people have voted for Ronald Reagan? Or Sonny Bono? Or Jesse ”the Body” Ventura? Why else would people prefer Bill Clinton to Al Gore? ”Gore is boring,” people whined. Meanwhile, my grandmother voted for Clinton precisely because he ate p.u.s.s.y and jogged to McDonald's. ”Hey, he's as h.o.r.n.y, hungry, and morally inept as the rest of us,” she said. ”I like that guy.”
Face it, if we really cared about character in terms of traditional virtue-if we really wanted our politicians to be goody-goodies-Mister Rogers would be president. But on some level, we know: niceness alone doesn't cut it.
And yet, here we women are: still striving to be pleasing, sweet, cheerful, agreeable-we're still hoping to get voted Most Likeable, even though that stuff won't get us into the White House.
All the supposedly racy, ”modern” women's magazines are filled with articles on: ”Want to up your like-ability?” ”Do you make your lover feel loved?” ”Are you a good friend?” ”Ten tips toward being a better co-worker.” The underlying premise is that, above all else, women should strive to be good and nice and pleasing.
”Good girls” are accommodating and giving. Good girls don't hurt other people's feelings. Good girls are not overly ”aggressive,” compet.i.tive, or boastful. Good girls please others. But what good girls are good for is a good question. I mean, it's one thing to be decent; it's another to be a doormat.
Ironically, just as the right wing of the Republican party staked out virtue as part of its ideological territory, traditional feminism did little to truly liberate women from what Naomi Wolf once called ”the dragons of niceness.”
And let me tell you: Wolf has had trouble slaying these ”dragons of niceness” herself. I once attended a lecture she gave at the University of Michigan where she actually said-I am not making this up-that women shouldn't make p.e.n.i.s jokes.
No p.e.n.i.s jokes?
Apparently it's okay for us to practice self-deprecating humor, or even to chide men in a ladylike, giggly, bell-tinkling, really-we-don't-mean-it kind of way. But by all means, no laughing at the Staff! No fooling about the Tool! No jokers about the Pokers, or hecklers about the p.e.c.k.e.rs! No hee-hees about the Pee-pees, please! Those little fleshy appendages attached to men that go up and down of their own accord are serious body parts. Good girls and friendly feminists shouldn't laugh at them. It isn't nice, Wolf said. We'll alienate people.
Yeah, well: no p.e.n.i.s jokes, my a.s.s.
Look, if there's one thing that can truly unite women-that can cut across all racial, ethnic, religious, and cla.s.s lines-it's a good p.e.n.i.s joke. You wanna make a roomful of women crack up? Just roll your eyes and say ”p.e.n.i.s.” In fact, this probably works in a roomful of men, too. p.e.n.i.s jokes are crowd pleasers: Why else does everybody watch Friends? Besides, take away a woman's right to laugh about anything, including p.e.n.i.ses, and in my book you're no longer ent.i.tled to say with a straight face that you are pro-choice.
But Wolf is hardly alone. While feminism may have freed women's bodies from bras, laws, and oppressive morals, it has also helped stuff our personalities into the girdle of Political Correctness and the corset of Victimhood-both variations of the Tyranny of Niceness.
For example, oodles of feminist theorists have claimed that men are inherently violent (i.e., sc.u.m), while women are inherently peaceful (i.e., nice). And I've got to admit that when I was in college, I agreed with this wholeheartedly. After all, it was the guys who were playing paint-ball, date-raping women, getting crazy drunk, and throwing sofas out the window. Meanwhile, what were we gals doing? Sitting around the womyn's center, sipping herb tea, and talking about how men were suffering from testosterone poisoning.
It's so easy to buy the feminist rap that ”men are naturally aggressive, women are naturally nurturing”-especially because, hey, in this scenario, we win! We're nicer! Sounds great, right?
That is, until someone grabs our a.s.s on the street, threatens our children, or burglarizes our home. Then we see how ”inherently peaceful,” ”nurturing,” and ”nonviolent” we really are. Then we see where self-righteous niceness gets us. Then we see how claiming the moral high ground as our chromosomal birthright is like volunteering to spend our life in a playpen.
Funny, but for all our supposed man-hating, bra-burning, radical, hairy-legged rage, a lot of mainstream white feminists have really been uncomfortable with anger and a.s.sertiveness. These qualities have been portrayed as ”inherently male,” implying that women who exhibit them are somehow unfeminine and not nice. When it comes right down to it, a lot of feminists I know prefer their personal politics wrapped in a doily, tied with a bow. They prefer that ”everybody play nice.”
At past Holly Near concerts, I've seen the audience holding hands and singing sweetly, in harmony, ”We are gentle, angry people. And we are singing, singing for our lives.”
Oh, right. Like singing is really going to keep us from getting s.e.xually hara.s.sed? Try singing to a pervert. Better yet, to a tank. And let's not kid ourselves: We can be gentle. And we can be angry. But usually not at the same time.
Most of the women's events and feminist functions I've attended are so sugary, in fact, they could give you diabetes. The partic.i.p.ants are constantly going around in circles, discussing our feelings about the event, our feelings about each other's feelings about the event, our ”issues” with each other's issues about our feelings about the event. Oh, my G.o.ddess-there's so much touchy-feeliness, it makes you want to clobber somebody with a Birkenstock. And everyone gets a turn to speak, everything is done by consensus, everyone is praised for speaking, everyone is praised for praising each other. As my girl Ophi once said, ”There's so much a.s.s-kissing at those events, they should hand out ChapStick at the door.”
Yeah, civility is important. Ditto for democracy. And inclusion. And respect. And certainly, kindness and compa.s.sion are crucial in this brutal world. But niceness? Niceness can be fascist in its own way. When a movement is run as if it's orchestrated by Miss Manners, the underlying message becomes that it's more important for women to accommodate everyone, and to be nice to everyone, and to worry about not offending anyone, than it is to be effective or truthful. It winds up reinforcing the idea that women should behave like good girls. And in doing so, it constrains us just like everything else. It's not much different from our fourth-grade teacher telling us to lower our voice and play nice. Or our parents telling us not to say we hate our peas: Good girls don't talk that way.
Is it any wonder that there's been a backlash? That we've got Camille Paglia lobbing verbal grenades at feminism? Or Alanis Morissette's edgy, rage-filled alb.u.ms going platinum? Or Elizabeth Wurtzel, posing s.h.i.+rtless and giving the world the finger on the cover of a book that praises ”difficult women,” including a teen adulteress who shot a housewife in the face? Or cult adoration for Gwen Stefani singing ”I'm just a girl,” while she karate kicks around the stage, flexes her muscles, and revels in teasing and humiliating the boys?
Nowadays, it seems, we gals are presented with two idealized modes of behavior. We can either be nice or nasty, a p.u.s.s.ycat or a b.i.t.c.h. Ironically, the same dichotomy that used to apply to our s.e.x lives now applies to our personality. We stand to be cast-or to cast ourselves-as either Katie Couric or Katie Roiphe. Courtney c.o.x or Courtney Love. Yech.
In the long run, of course, neither choice serves us well. We shouldn't really have to choose. Most of the greatest, most enduring women of our culture are hybrids. Take Mae West. Barbara Jordan. Eleanor Roosevelt. Julia Child. Molly Ivins. Queen Latifah. They're complicated women. They're not afraid to be strong, rich personalities. And they're not afraid to be ”not nice.”
Beyond everything else, these women have got personality. They've got chutzpah. Sometimes they're brash. Sometimes they make mistakes. Not everybody adores them-and they don't really give a s.h.i.+t if everyone does. But their appeal has endured-and in certain cases their words, work, and influence have outlived them. Why? In part, because they refused to be constrained or confined to the roles of either a good girl or a b.i.t.c.h. They've had the courage to be themselves.
So if you're ever feeling cowed or self-conscious-if you worry about what people will think of you or whether you're not being nice-think about the power and the importance of cultivating your own personality and keepin' it real.
And if this doesn't help, hey, think about all the reasons Rosie O'Donnell leaves Kathie Lee Gifford in the dust.
Rosie has a big fresh mouth and a big fresh heart. And while she became the new queen of daytime largely because she was the Queen of Nice, n.o.body in the audience ever kids themselves. We all know that if Rosie gets good and p.i.s.sed-say, about the NRA-hey, she's from Noo Yawk. She's going to tell you exactly what she thinks. She's not going to get all pa.s.sive-aggressive and manipulative or simpering on your a.s.s. Girlfriend's got an edge. She is nice but she is tough, too. More to the point, she's true to herself, thank you. And that's what makes her-as it makes any of us gals who are true to ourselves-far more likeable, and genuinely nicer in the end, than that waffle-topping Kathie Lee.
Chapter 6.
PMS Is a Power Tool.
Why harangue our loved ones when we can harangue our legislators?
Recently, my friend Jerome told me that, while he's certainly ”not a s.e.xist or anything,” he thinks that sometimes women ”exploit PMS” as an excuse for bad behavior.
Yeah, right.
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