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Amusing Post-Feminist Pyrotechnics.
By Amy Murphy
The Girl in the Flammable Skirt, by Aimee Bender (Doubleday).
Cloth, $29.95.
THE CLIMATE FOR the fostering of feminist thought has become
particularly frosty of late. On its June 29 cover, Time magazine
posed the query: "Is feminism dead?" And indeed,
it appears that while it's not exactly rigor mortis, the
old-guard feminist ideals of social, political and economic equality
for women are barely breathing in an atmosphere of spicy girl
power.
The backlash against feminist inquiry on the edge of the millennium
takes the unassuming guise of women's ability to do whatever they
please. Old-guard feminism has so successfully been co-opted by
the advertising industry (take the famous example of the Virginia
Slims ads) that it often appears the aims of feminism have been
achieved. The idea that women (and everyone else, for that matter)
live in a climate of free-will, blissfully unaffected by political,
social and economic forces, represents a popular mechanism by
which modern oppressions obscured without actually making them
go away.
Yet these vanishing acts have consequences, and sometimes our
willful ignorance results in an internalized self-loathing.
In many of the short stories collected in The Girl in the
Flammable Skirt, Aimee Bender brilliantly chronicles the psychological
effects emanating through the free-wheeling equality women are
supposedly enjoying, on par with their male counterparts. Bender
often demonstrates, through her portrayal of females struggling
in the seemingly egalitarian milieu of late-'90s, fin de siècle
sexuality, the price one pays for such freedom. In the story "Call
My Name," a wealthy, young and gorgeous female narrator dressed
in formal wear rides the subway with the object of "auditioning
men." Her self-absorption and sense of her own attractiveness
are striking: "The men are pleased when I come on the subway
because I am the type who usually drives her own car. I am not
your average subway girl, wearing black pants and reading the
novel the whole time so you can't even get eye contact. Me, I
look at them and smile at them and they love it. I bet they talk
about me at the dinner table--I give boring people something to
discuss over corn." And in "Fell This Girl," another
female narrator describes herself in this way: "I am wearing
a skirt that flows, and a shirt with a scoop neck and I am luscious."
Yet these narrators' vanity, and the sense of desirability in
which they appear to revel, thinly veils their more pressing need
for recognition--after one "auditioned" man in "Call
My Name" dismisses her and leaves the subway car, the protagonist
regretfully muses, "I almost want to chase after him, have
him look down on me with that look and tell me something brilliant
about myself, unveil my whole me with one shining sentence...."
Bender subtly and deftly reveals that what drives these women
is not really the no-holds-barred sexuality perceived in their
male counterparts, but affirmation of their validity and identity
as women in a culture in which other forms of validation aren't
so easily attained.
The central character in "Fell This Girl" trolls for
men; upon meeting an older man in a bar, she remarks, "When
he returns, I want to appear the image of ease and raw sexuality.
I open my legs so there's just a hint of darkness at the crotch.
I lay my arm across the top of the couch like I'm claiming the
world, this is all mine, I'm so confident." When the narrator
reveals that she commonly practices this kind of identity masquerade,
we have to wonder what's behind it: "I was so good at this
kind of fake-out. I rehearsed thoughtfulness, I appeared carefree--and
how many guys did I trick? As I sat there, hair tucked behind
my ear, supposedly lost in a book...waiting for them to see me
and want me, caught in this image of myself as a reader. What
about staring at ants, wanting to seem close to nature and whimsical?
What about staring into space, wanting to seem expansive?...I
fooled so many guys!"
Bender compellingly demonstrates her narrators aren't motivated
by mere ego gratification, either. Such a phenomenon constitutes,
in effect, culturally scripted roles for men and women. Through
sex, or fantasizing about it, these characters are also imagining
power for themselves.
Take Bender's depiction of one woman's thought processduring
sex with a man she hardly knows:
While he fucks me, I imagine
I'm fucking some woman, my mouth set in a grim way. It's the three
of us in bed: me the woman, me the man, and him...He thinks I'm
just some girly girl, receptacle envelope girl, he doesn't know
what I'm thinking. He doesn't know that I'm also a shadow on his
back, pushing in.
These sorts of scenes are sometimes painful
to read, but they illustrate well how the author's characters
shoulder the impact of real-life shifting gender codes that have
yet to stabilize.
The supposed sexual freedoms these characters experience are
fantasies of male power--"the whole dick fantasy," as
the narrator puts it. Yet this fantasy remains a fantasy and does
not ultimately empower any of Bender's female narrators, nor does
it catapult them to a position of equality. Instead, they remain
hostages to a very old dynamic: one in which women act as objects
of conquest.
The Girl in the Flammable Skirt leaves us with a sense
that the personal freedoms women enjoy in a free, apolitical reality
of gender equality is a dream that hasn't yet, nor is it likely,
to come to pass. Better to embrace the convoluted and skewed landscape
of those gender expectations, overt or implied, and try to keep
your balance.
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