Margaret Atwood’s Imminent Fall From Grace
Margaret Atwood has sacrificed herself to the fires of genderism in a shocking series of tweets that neither side of this polarising debate could have foreseen. [/sarcasm]
Atwood previously made her position undeniably (if unfathomably) known when she published a number of tweets discussing the gender debate. Perhaps most notably when she stunned huge swathes of the scientific community by aligning herself with those drawing a comparison between humans and clownfish. Her contribution to that particular debate? The Baramundi [sic]. For the avoidance of doubt, whilst clownfish are sequentially hermaphroditic, humans are not. Additionally, clownfish have gills and things.
Thus, when Atwood published her recent tweet asking ‘Why can’t we say ‘woman’ anymore?’ shockwaves rolled through the western hemisphere as leftists, rightists and genderists alike fell to the floor; dramatic responses, it seems, have no fixed point on the political spectrum.
The Metro published an embarrassingly partisan piece on the event, the subject matter only marginally more infuriating than the barrage of advertisements crowding the screen. The perspective was clear: pure, unmitigated outrage flowed from the morally righteous as one of history’s greatest writers fell from the pedestal of absolute morality, probably in a bid to find a toilet or some biscuits.
It is true that Atwood received an unsurprising amount of vitriol in response to this tepid yet relevant question, but what is oddly absent in the piece is recognition of the many comments in support of Atwood’s reluctant reconvergence with reality. One tweeter says
Not just “woman”, we are fighting for the word “female” too. We are half the population and we are entitled to a name. We NEED the ability to speak about ourselves, to measure, identify needs, to demand, to organise. We can not be unmentionable.
Dozens more rightfully identify that nobody is seeking to curtail the language used to describe men.
It is noteworthy that when Atwood responded to some of the replies to her tweet, they weren’t in response to gender critical women, even when those women were quite understandably riled by her complicity in the erasure of language. No, Atwood responded to the transactivist contingent, and for good reason. With a speed that would break the sound barrier (or at least result in a bad case of whiplash), Atwood rushed to assure her flock that the author of the piece she promoted, Rosie DiManno, is not a TERF
I said in the wake of this news filling my feeds on all platforms that Atwood would learn some uncomfortable lessons in the coming days, weeks, and months. She may remove the tweet. She may recapitulate and offer a saccharine apology, replete with its pledge to educate herself. Do better. Stay quieter. She may in fact do all of those things, but she will come to understand that nought but complete capitulation will satiate the footsoldiers of genderism.
(She has, since the time of writing, shown considerable effort towards glueing her backside to the fence, offering support to both sides of the debate. Unsurprisingly, she has been unsuccessful in fending off accusations of terfery.)
Atwood is a TERF because women were not involved in defining the parameters of Terfdom. Neither her famousness nor her affluence can shield her from the regrettable circumstance of her female body. I wondered how long it would take for the gender beast to eat its own tail in recognition of Atwood’s failure to agree with — everything — and, as I suspected, it didn’t take long.
The trouble with the base premise of genderism is that inclusivity is to be prioritised and centred at the exclusion of all else. What delicious irony. What is abundantly clear, however, is that this particular brand of inclusivity is conditional. As long as the footsoldier is compliant, she is afforded her dignity. As long as she doesn’t make a nuisance of herself by thinking independently, the Be Kind community will issue out kindness as readily as The Metro sponsors advertisements (I am really quite cross about this). The very moment that the footsoldier is seen to falter — either overtly or through a “dog-whistle”, those axes of oppression evaporate from the halls of recognition.
Thus, Atwood is instantaneously transformed from the sage, wise elder-woman to the past-it old hag. This transformation is remarkably swift; the gender army wastes no time in ridding itself of poisoned apples. There is no careful consideration, no deliberating; the extrication of moral obligation to the needs of anyone whose pronouns are boringly normative is as gleeful as one might expect of a movement whose motives are shrouded in the falsity of feigned philanthropy.
There’s no glitter, no rainbows, no sexy excitement in the needs or concerns of the ageing woman.
Perhaps Atwood can redress the balance by posing for photographs with PVC-clad puppies; it worked for the police. Failing that, she could adopt the role of the doting grandmother to the masses, substituting critical thought for a biscuit tin, resplendent with all the family favourites. She could really lean into the narrative of the faltering cognition of the elderly, pretending much before her time that her incisive capacity for writing the most visually engaging content has all but vanished. Then, perhaps, she would satisfy the recruitment needs of the genderist: docile, agreeable mothers. Allies to wash the pots and forget about themselves. To dress the house in glitter at Christmas and collapse into a heap of exhaustion as the rest of the family plays Charades.
At least there’ll be jammy dodgers.
