Not Just For Girls

I recently attended a book discussion group, which, on that particular evening, was focused on Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. After discussing everything from social class to the role of parents in the novel, one of the male attendees confessed that he’d initially been leery about reading it—you know, female author, female protagonist, story about love and marriage—but that he ended up really enjoying it and was really impressed by the quality of Austen’s writing. This sentiment was echoed not only by some of the other male participants, but also by one of the female attendees, who said that she’d initially been reluctant to read it thinking it was “just a chick lit” novel, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that it had real depth to it.

Aside from feeling a bit defensive towards anyone who might harbor any doubts as to the quality of Jane Austen’s novels (I will kung fu fight anyone who doesn’t recognize her skill as a writer, FYI), I was struck by both how (unintentionally) insulting the comments were beneath their praise, as well as by how naturally most of us tend to accept such comments as perfectly legitimate and reasonable. But really, they’re a bit ludicrous, if it’s possible for anything to be a “bit” ludicrous. When was the last time you heard a woman express reluctance to read a novel because it was written by a man and featured a male protagonist? As in, “Yeah, I know that Crime and Punishment is considered a classic, but I don’t know if I really want to read a book written by a guy about a guy’s experience.” Apparently, the sexist notion that male works and male experiences are universal while female works and female experiences are relevant only to women, and only might be a worthwhile read for men (or intellectual women, at that) if they are extremely well written and have withstood the test of time and/or have been critically acclaimed, is still alive and well and so integral to our culture that most people don’t even notice this double-standard. I fall prey to it myself sometimes, hesitating to recommend novels written by and about women to my male friends, internally questioning the novels’ “worthiness” in ways I wouldn’t think twice about with my female friends.

I partly blame the invention of that ubiquitous term “chick lit.” While it’s catchy and fun to say, it’s a bit of an oxymoron. Certainly there is a plethora of fiction aimed primarily (if not solely) at women, who seem to consume it in abundance—novels that feature the development of a romantic relationship of some sort or other and focus only on that relationship and its fulfillment without any particular concern for larger thematic content, social commentary, or psychological insight. But no one in their right minds would call those novels “literature.” The very definition of that term suggests some kind of deeper, universal quality. And if that is the case, why shouldn’t any work of literature be relevant to both men and women regardless of the gender of its author and/or the protagonist? But that term has come to represent, in some people’s minds, any and all novels written by and about women, which in turn allows them to be dismissed as a whole.

Well, Jane Austen always writes about marriage, is one dismissive comment I’ve heard in the past—and more than once, at that. If you want to be that reductive, then you could argue that John Updike also writes a lot about marriage. Usually very dysfunctional marriages, but marriages occupy a great portion of his fiction nonetheless, and no male ever seems to be sheepish about reading John Updike. Granted, we females probably haven’t helped the issue in all of our romanticized co-opting of Jane Austen and our swooning over Mr. Darcy in his various film incarnations. But I’ve seen the same dismissive male reaction to any number of other female authors whose novels feature female protagonists (the same could be said for films as well—“chick lit,” meet “chick flick”).

When I raised this issue within the group, I mostly got a few “hmms,” nods, and the odd look or two. My friend, who was hosting, chimed in that she completely agreed, but there were no other serious takers and the issue dropped quietly to the side. When the discussion moved on to something else, my friend leaned over and whispered, “We women are just more versatile.” She said it in a half-joking manner, but after reflecting on it some, I think she’s absolutely right. And I realized that not only are women more open-minded in our approach to literature, but also that it’s probably, in part, because we are given far more permission to be so than men are. We enjoy a reading latitude that is not as readily available to men in our culture. In my junior high and early high school years, I discovered the novels of Louis L’Amour and devoured them by the dozens. After exhausting myself on those, I then switched to Georgette Heyer’s regency romance novels, and then, after finding myself enthralled by Jack Higgins’ military thriller The Eagle Has Landed, went and checked out every other novel of his I could find in my local library. I never once had to endure a single mocking comment or raised eyebrow over what I was reading no matter what was on the cover. Had a boy my age carried around a copy of a Georgette Heyer novel featuring women in empire-styled dresses and hats with feathers, however, he probably would have had to endure more than a few—that is, if he had ever felt comfortable enough to take it off the shelf to begin with. No one ever teased me for being a girl reading a western or a military thriller, but you can be sure there would be some taunts and snickers directed at a boy reading a female coming-of-age novel, a romance, or anything else with a girl on the cover.

I am not denying that there are gender differences, and I realize that at times there is some true and legitimate gravitation amongst each gender towards certain genres or subject matter over others. I have no problem with that. But I do have a problem with equating worthwhile and universal human experience to only (or mostly) the male experience and perspective, not only for women’s sake but for men’s as well. Surely if women are expected and allowed to legitimately enjoy the full spectrum of novels available, men should be expected and allowed to as well. And that freedom and breadth of experience for men, somewhat ironically, starts by all of us consciously acknowledging and affirming that women’s experiences and interests have just as much value as men’s—something we ought to be able to do easily in our current “advanced” society, and yet, as I recently experienced, something that still goes against the grain.