THE word “patriarchal” has been running through my mind ever since I heard of the death of feminist writer Andrea Dworkin. I once shouted it at a colleague who had annoyed me: a pretty lame epithet, but the anger behind it was real and shared by most women of my generation. It wasn’t that we hated our fathers, but that we hated the way society tried to keep us forever children. We could be teachers, secretaries or shop assistants so long as we were mothers, wives or mistresses as well; we could be anything we wanted so long as we depended on men.
It’s over 35 years since the first bras were burned, and the women’s movement launched into public consciousness. The women of that baby boomer generation thought they’d invented feminism, though of course they hadn’t. They had come up with the most powerful image of female revolt since Emily Davidson flung herself under the hooves of King George V’s horse in the 1913 Derby. There’s doubt now as to whether anyone actually burned anything in 1968, but they did throw bras, girdles and suspender belts into a trashcan at that year’s Miss America contest.
They also lit a match to a prolonged public debate about gender equality. Andrea Dworkin brought an elemental fury to the debate, a volcanic outpouring of fiery emotion and radical thought. She wasn’t a particular heroine of mine – the denseness of her ideas could be so impenetrable that at times you felt as if you were reading hieroglyphics.
For Dworkin, patriarchy was a life and death matter. We are still in a world where adults make war, not love; where the culture has led women to become more female and men more male. If a young Dworkin came onto the scene today, she would probably just be ridiculed for the size of her thighs.
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