Sarah Ahmed has written The Feminist Killyjoy Handbook (2023, Seal Press), and from paragraph one, I realized I already was a FKJ, and didn’t really need the book, but – I am so, so, sooo glad I found and read it. I knew myself immediately in its pages; I saw myself again and again and, as a result, I laughed so hard I nearly fell out of my chair. Finally, a term for what I am and have been for a damned long time: A Feminist Killjoy.
But what is a feminist killjoy? Well, lemme tell youze. A feminist killjoy is a woman who disrupts the flow of the patriarchy. Ok, too broad a brush and far too pat for common telling, so, lemme explicate! A feminist killjoy is a woman who says no, who calls out abuses of power when they appear regardless of personal risk, who ‘tells on’ bad actors in institutions, organizations and in families, who doesn’t laugh at jokes that demean woman and marginalized others – a feminist killjoy is a woman who doesn’t smile when asked to, or smile at all because living while female requires it in this crazy-ass patriarchal world.
Among other disruptive and challenging and truly wonderful characteristics!
I cannot tell you the number of times people have commented on my not smiling, as they’re confused or even upset by what they assume is my bad mood, which isn’t allowed. Or that I refuse to wear make-up. As women, we’re meant to be ‘armored’ – painted faces on – while smiling, breasts out, martinis on a tray 24/7, right? Wrong, and gross. Often this dismay at my serious face has been expressed as my being ‘intimidating’ as well as ‘angry’ at the person for whom my absent smiles are an affront, even at times when in fact I’m in a good mood, a great mood, why would you think I was angry at you? Do I even know you? And even if I am angry – whether at you or someone else – what the fucking hell is wrong with that? Anger is one of my favorite emotions. It’s normal. As is joy. Or lust.
A feminist killjoy is a woman who notices things, inconveniently (to the status quo) pointing these things out – like the absence of women in a room where any important or even seemingly unimportant decisions are being made, like a history of sexual abuse by individuals or groups within academia or business, like the actual deaths of women of all races and backgrounds due to draconian abortion bans set in place by male legislators who don’t know what an ectopic pregnancy is, not to mention a complete misunderstanding of how tampons are used, etc., etc., etc.
A Feminist Killjoy is a woman who, in other words, refuses to play along in a multiplicity of ways; she does not laugh when men (or women) make sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic or other bullshit ‘jokes’, she refuses to ‘lighten up’, she does not engage in excusing bad behavior by men as ‘boys will be boys’ and she does not play nice in order to get along or get ahead.
She is, in other words, a major pain in the ass – as viewed by the institutions and individuals who benefit from the status quo. Greta Thunberg. bell hooks. Rachel Denhollander. Tarana Burke. And so many others. But – to disrupt the status quo, all you really have to do is be a girl or woman who speaks or acts in a manner that is ‘out of your lane, girlie’. This alone might not make you a Feminist Killjoy – but it might qualify you as someone who needs a good public shaming or shellacking to show any and all other women the cost of being uppity. Hillary and Kamala, I’m thinking of you. The glee, the personal, vicious, and often grotesque nature of the attacks against these qualified, competent women! AOC is another public figure men on line and elsewhere are so threatened by, the daily and I suspect hourly abuse – yes, much of it online – she faces is staggering. Ilhan Omar. Rashida Talib.
Many years ago, when I was a little girl, I noticed things – things that were blatantly stupid, unfair, or untrue (being told boys are better at math, for example). And, ultimately, I started talking about and challenging this bullshit. And, it took me a while to become the true – and imperfect – FKJ I am today. I also acknowledge that in being a FKJ, I often kill my own joy – for example while watching TV and the credits as they roll, no or few women involved? That affects my experience of the show, or film. It affects everything. But, it did and does affect everything whether I notice it or not, and being unconscious – going along to get along – is not an option. It never was.
When I was in public office, how many times and how many men did I piss off by not going along to get along and ahead? Many, many, many. This may have made me a less successful politician and thus a less effective leader – and, I just couldn’t. In the end, I know myself, preferring by far to sacrifice anything and everything other than the integrity of my own mind, heart, and conscience.
From the book, a few FKJ maxims and commitments:
When it is not funny, don’t laugh.
Get a no out so that others can follow.
If you are charged with being monstrous, accept the charge and mobilize (and I love that Ahmed reminds that the root of the word monstrous is the same as for demon and demonstrate. disruptive women are deemed, often, monstrous; I was certainly characterized as that by my detractors while in public office)
Be willing to cause unhappiness. (And – be willing to be unhappy. We do not owe anyone a false cheeriness or fake smiles when we are in the midst of social change and struggle – accepting that we’re always in that midst/mist!!)
When critique causes damage, I am willing to cause damage.
“The best thing for being sad…is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honor trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then—to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you.” – T.H. White, The Once and Future King
I recently chatted with a mechanic (my tires had lost air or something, a red light was flashing – or was it yellow? – I don’t do cars), who – for I do not know what reason – mentioned that his grandfather took up knitting after retiring, and didn’t give a damn if anybody thought it was odd or weird for a man to do that, knit. It was meditative, I bet (my word not the mechanics, but he nodded his assent), going on to say that his granddad liked having something to do with his hands. He also enjoyed learning a new skill, one that was practical; he used what he learned to make winter hats and scarves. He’d been a farmer, the mechanic went on, and was used to being on the move all the time. Just because he was old, why did he have to sit in a chair and do nothing, or just watch TV while waiting to die? He wasn’t a reader (I asked, because of course I did), so definitely not from my book-nerdy tribe, but I hear you, gramps! Why not knit?
Learning something is never old, never gets old – and in my case, I am buying either (I haven’t made up my mind, yet!) a trumpet or an oboe. I always, always wanted to play the trumpet but was made – yes, made – to take up a more ‘feminine instrument’ by my mother: the flute. The flute was fine but it was also boring AF because there was a whole flute section (all female, yawn) and what I wanted to do was blow a fucking trumpet!! Or hit some drums, but that, I knew, would never, ever be allowed to happen, so – can I take the trumpet, mah? May I take the trumpet, mother darling? May I take the trumpet, mother darling? No. Flute, oboe, or clarinet. This was all because they were ‘feminine instruments’, and I was a girl so… Plus, the band had enough clarinet and oboe players (I love the sound of an oboe, which is why it’s on my maybe list), and thus, I was made to take the flute.
My mother was friends with the band director, who was another Catholic teacher she’d known since her career began. Sigh. He was very nice, and perhaps, if I had spoken to him directly, he might’ve supported my wish to join the brass section. That wasn’t something I felt I could do at the time – speak to him, especially as it was clear he deeply admired my mom for what reason I could and cannot tell you. She taught Latin; a certain cohort of people thought that knowing Latin was a big deal – other Catholics, mostly, or those for whom a second language, even a dead one, was significant or important; he may’ve been one of that number. Who knows?
What happens when we stop learning or trying new things? Stuffing our heads with reality TV and social media bullshit except, I know, I see, there are tutorials on all sorts of useful things out there too, including a set of yoga sessions that’ve totally helped me out (thank you, Jolene). I once learned bridge, the card game, and I want to get back to it now, thirty years later, intending to create as well a small social circle through playing cards, which I’ve always loved. And didn’t I once love backgammon? Why yes I did. Let’s do that again, shall we?
We are, we all are, living in stressful times. Perhaps we’re not sad, exactly, but to take up something new, to learn, to disconnect from our phones and tablets and computers and get outside our comfort and competency zones, is more important now than ever before. Learning about veggie and herb and flower gardening, how to help the bees and birds, has given me so much joy over the last few years, I cannot begin to tell you how much. Yet I will never be even a medium level gardener. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s wonderful and hilarious, because I love being inept, sometimes, it makes me feel human, it reminds me that I am human, fallible, imperfect – while still being worthy of love and respect, including from myself, my harshest critic historically. Finally, finally I have let that go. Mostly.
I was a terrible knitter (at age 6 or 7) – not doing that again. It was too slow, and the wool was getting dirty in my grubby ass I’d much rather be outside and mostly was kid-hands. But – the trumpet? The oboe? Yes, ma’am!
*Happy Almost Tax Day, y’all. I believe in paying my taxes, and do so joyfully – because I believe in supporting public good, public infrastructure, public education. When I have said this out loud in company, I am often met with a stunned expression – huh?! You what?! We have to change that narrative. among many others. Don’t pay more than your share, y’all – but pay – and hey, let’s get the billionaires to pay their fair share, too.
I also believe in used and second hand books. I love little free libraries, although bigger ones are good too (there is a large one in my local rural post office). My love for second hand books, second hand bookstores, and little free libraries combines several of my passions: reading, books, and cheapitude. Save money? I’m in – within reason, as I also adhere to the adage ‘penny-wise, pound foolish’. But! When it comes to second hand books, what is the foolish downside? Once in a blue moon you might get pages missing, or distracting underlining, notes, and highlighting (people who point out – often in PEN – gasp! – grammatical mistakes or presumed mistakes in texts annoy TF out of me, which is ridiculous, I know), but – but – but – all of that is easily handled, and pretty rare, really. I do recall one horrible night discovering pages missing in a book I was dying to finish, a long time ago. Quelle horreur – but I recovered, finding another copy in another used book store, probably the next day!
Whatever the very occasional challenges might be, there are the fun discoveries: postcards, photos, receipts from years ago or last week, a random quote inside the cover, someone unknown’s signature, a love poem on an old greeting card, and endless charming bookmarks from other wonderful second or first hand book stores. #SecondHandBookLove
“Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.”~Virginia Woolf
“I’ve always loved the language of flowers. I discovered Kate Greenaway’s ‘Language of Flowers’ in a used bookstore when I was 16 and couldn’t believe it was such a well-kept secret. How could something so beautiful and romantic be virtually unknown?” ~ Vanessa Diffenbaugh
“Used books,” as if someone else has had the best of them and you get the sere husk, or the lees, as if a book isn’t the one thing, the one product, that is forever new. There’s no such thing as a used book. Or there’s no such thing as a book if it’s not being used.” ~ Deborah Meyler
“I came across ‘The Song of Achilles’ by Madeline Miller in one of the most romantic ways one can find a story. I was digging through a pile of used books at my local library when my hand gravitated toward its brilliant teal and glistening gold cover.” ~Taylor Jenkins Reid
“Secondhand books had so much life in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. Theyd been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up on a mountain where the air thinned.” ~ Rebecca Raisin
“…when you held one of those volumes in your hands you were leafing through another person’s life. Someone else had once loved that story, too. Someone else had carried that book in a backpack, devoured it over breakfast, mopped up that coffee stain at a Paris café, cried herself to sleep after the last chapter. The scent of their store was distinctive: a slight damp mildew, a pinch of dust. To me, it was the smell of history.” ~ Jodi Picoult
“You might have noticed that I have been sending you used books. I have done this not to save money, but to make a point which is that a used book, unlike a used car, hasn’t lost any of its initial value. A good story rolls off the lot into the hands of its new reader as smoothly as the day it was written. And there’s another reason for these used paperbacks that never cost much even when new; I like the idea of holding a book that someone else has held, of eyes running over lines that have already seen the light of other eyes. That, in one image, is the community of readers, is the communion of literature.” ~ Yann Martel
“With any luck, Heaven itself will resemble a vast used bookstore, with a really good cafe in one corner, serving dark beer and kielbasa to keep up one’s strength while browsing.” ~ Michael Dirda
A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period – When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn, It shows the furthest Tree Upon the furthest Slope you know It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step Or Noons report away Without the Formula of sound It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss Affecting our Content As Trade had suddenly encroached Upon a Sacrament.
*the poem references March as barely being here as spring sprung – where I live, spring may be marked as beginning in March, but it’s now, in April, that we actually begin to feel a little relief from winter…ironically, not today (I create these posts often a day or more ahead of posting), as it’s currently snowing in the Cats – gaaa!!!
*More brilliance that’s pretty durned perfect for this moment from Bertrand Russell. Russell died in 1970, yet these excerpts below could not be more on point, and they’re followed by several links to articles re: the stupefying of America by the current administration. When I read this initially, I could not help but think of Hegseth, Bondi, Stephen Miller, and Fcker Carlson – among many others, and all of those inside and outside the administration who hate on differences, who cannot seems to handle exceptionalism in those who do not look like, think like (thinking might be a stretch with these guys), do religion, fuck like etc. etc. them. Thus the demonization and targeting of DEI – diversity, equity, inclusion and everything civil rights adjacent in culture, sexuality, gender, color – you name it. Childish, and – sadly, currently in power.
These words from Russell are taken from: The Basic Writings of Bertrand (1961), Part. XI: The Philosopher of Politics, Essay 49. The Reconciliation of Individuality and Citizenship, p. 436
“Children are instinctively hostile to anything ‘odd’ in other children, especially in the ages from ten to fifteen. The intolerance of eccentricity that I am speaking of is strongest in the stupidest children, who tend to regard the peculiar tastes of clever children as affording just grounds for persecution. When the authorities also are stupid (which may occur), they will tend to side with the stupid children, and acquiesce, at least tacitly, in rough treatment for those who show intelligence. In that case, a society will be produced in which all the important positions will be won by those whose stupidity enables them to please the herd.
Such a society will have corrupt politicians, ignorant schoolmasters, policemen who are criminals, and judges who condemn innocent men. Such a society, even if it inhabits a country full of natural wealth, will in the end grow poor from inhability to choose able men for important posts. Such a society, though it may prate of Liberty and even erect statues in her honour, will be a persecuting society, which will punish the very men whose ideas might save it from disaster.
All this will spring from the too intense pressure of the herd, first at school and then in the world at large. Where such excessive pressure exists, those who direct education are not, as a rule, aware that it is an evil; indeed, they are quite apt to welcome it as a force making for what they believe is good behaviour.”
