How to be A Woman

Finally finished "How To Be a Woman" by Caitlin Moran. There's a funny mix of reactions, for me, finishing a book like this. Simultaneously: I love you, Ms. Moran, please be my best friend; and, this is the book I wanted to write, and here it already is. It's ecstatic tinged with melancholy, which I then battle with thoughts of "well, you'll just have to write your own book like this. You CAN write your own book like this. Do it. DO IT." Sometimes it works. Sometimes I blog instead.

Moran's book is a combination of memoir and feminist theory, hilarious recollections of her childhood and smart, deftly written analyses of those recollections, what they mean to her now, what they might mean to other women. It's the kind of feminism that's entirely accessible, and it's a reminder of how good humor can allow to access otherwise difficult or taboo subject matter. I'd catch myself, sitting on the couch curled up with the book, laughing and laughing and then stopping dead on the page, reading back over the last paragraphs, trying to mine the method of how exactly she went from that funny to that smart with such ease. It's a book that's accessible without being stupid or condescending, and thought provoking, literally: provoking of thought, often provoking further provocative thought, a spiral that continued long after I put it down.

Without sounding too full of ego, I think it's a testament to her skill as a writer that someone like me, a woman well versed in feminism (and to a certain extent, the history of our waves and movements), still couldn't put the book down. None of the theory was revelatory for me (although some of the contexts it came out of were); it was her writing that kept me going.

For all I loved about the book, Moran slips into cissexist or heterosexist language a couple of times, most notably in the very beginning of the book, when she explains:

"Here is a quick way of working out if you're a feminist. Put your hand in your underpants. a) Do you have a vagina? And b) Do you want to be in charge of it?"

And while I appreciate the sentiment (and know that, although feminism can be a whole lot more complex than this, the basic gist is pretty spot on), it's a little alienating to a few groups of people; men who are feminists, trans* people who are feminists, genderqueer people who are feminists. In the context of the rest of Moran's book, though, it's pretty clear that she's sacrificed inclusive language for a bit of glib shorthand; from the overall character of the book, it's clear that she doesn't actually believe much along the lines of cissexist or heterosexist thought. I'm not trying to excuse it, but just to clarify it as an abnormality in what is otherwise a fairly inclusive, sex-positive, progressively-worded book.

Out of everything, I was most struck by her chapters on abortion and pregnancy, and have yet to read anything that talked about giving birth the way Moran recounted her first labor. It was incredible, having gotten through much of the book with laughter and punchy politically-analyzed childhood stories, to be suddenly floored by the power and clarity with which she writes about serious subject matter. It's immediate, physical, and pulled my calloused, feminist heart right up into my throat. It made me want to have children, and it made me want to never have children, and it made me want to hug my partner close against my chest and cry. Which I did, after reading him the chapter out loud.

"How To Be a Woman" is on my favorites list for the year, for sure, and will probably stay there forever. Mostly, though, I can't help fantasizing about what it would be like to meet Moran. After her chapter recounting her exploits with Lady Gaga, I spent hours devising schemes in my head about meeting Moran in a similar context, wanting her to know, for so many reasons, that she was my Gaga, wanting to shout from the rooftops, "Caitlin Moran, you are my feminist hero! Caitlin Moran, I want to make out with your book! Caitlin Moran, I'm star struck and a little giddy, but maybe, if all my dreams come true, we can just get boozy together sometime? And rant about the patriarchy? Or not; or rant about everything else, because they don't even deserve that, especially over such a nice bottle of scotch?"

On that note, it's back to graduate school applications. Here's to modern feminist idols, inspirations, and the generations of them to come.