Loving Her Was Red: The Dichotomy of Love and Desire According To Sappho and Taylor Swift

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by Kristy Kwok

Love is complicated, and the Greek poet Sappho knew this all too well. The lyrical beauty of Sappho’s poetry, and its intensely personal depiction of love and desire, led to acclaim from many of her contemporaries. In many ways, singer-songwriter Taylor Swift is Sappho’s modern analogue. Like Sappho, Swift is an acclaimed poet whose words are intended to be set to music; also like Sappho, much of Swift’s writing revolves around feelings of love and desire. I draw this comparison not to imply that Sappho was an influence for Swift, but to examine the cultural and personal artistic influences that differentiate Swift’s representation of female sensuality from Sappho’s, despite the similar themes the two poets explore. One of these themes is that of love and desire. I do not perceive these words as being synonymous in either woman’s work, but instead as unique concepts with unique impacts. Both poets’ exploration of this theme can be divided into several smaller dichotomies—present versus past, fulfillment versus unfulfillment, romanticization versus reality—and by examining these distinctions, this paper will investigate how Sappho and Taylor Swift depict love and desire.

One attribute of desire, as opposed to love, is that both women place it firmly in the present. Desire is frequently written about in the present tense, as when Sappho tells a bridegroom that “desire is poured upon [his] lovely face” (fr. 112 tr. Carson). Her phrasing indicates that his feelings are being ‘poured on’ by an outside force, and this gives the sense of desire being so immediate, and felt so viscerally, that it is not fully under one’s own control. Swift describes something similar in a lover she has not seen in “a while”, who “can’t keep his wild eyes on the road” while driving her home (“Style”). Both of these relationships carry a sense of newness—Sappho’s newlyweds, the rekindling of Swift’s old relationship—and with that newness comes a certain lack of self-restraint. Sappho blames this on Aphrodite, declaring in another fragment that the goddess has made her so “broken with longing” (fr. 102 tr. Carson) that she cannot even work her loom. Here, desire is also very much in the present, and we are encouraged to experience the same pull of longing that Sappho does. Swift, however, has no goddess to fault for her own feelings, so she blames them instead on her lover: “So yeah, it’s a fire | It’s a goddamn blaze in the dark | And you started it” (“ivy”). These lyrics share their heated passion with Sappho’s “you burn me” (fr. 38 tr. Carson). Both poets renounce responsibility for their desire due to the pain it causes them, and accuse someone else of placing the burden of these feelings on their shoulders.

If desire is a fire that one did not light, love—portrayed frequently in the past tense—is the embers from a fire that has already burned out. We see a past love depicted in the very first fragment of If Not, Winter, where Aphrodite asks, “Whom should I persuade (now again) | to lead you back into her love?” (fr. 1 tr. Carson). The imagery in this poem evokes events that have already occured; Sappho asks Aphrodite to come if “ever before [she] caught [Sappho’s] voice far off”, and recalls that Aphrodite once “smiled in [her] deathless face”. Sappho’s love is rooted in the past in a way that desire is not. Despite this, it affects her so deeply in the present that she cries out to Aphrodite for help. This prompts Carson to describe Sappho as “stuck in the pain of ‘now’,” even while Aphrodite “calmly surveys a larger pattern of ‘again’s” (1.18n), but I see Sappho as being frozen somewhere between‘again’ and ‘now’. She inhabits a present that carries not the lucid yearning of desire but the ghostly pain from a love that is already over. In the same way, Swift writes, “Can’t breathe whenever you’re gone | Can’t turn back now, I’m haunted” (“Haunted”). The word ‘haunted’ gives the sense of a love that has already died, and yet is unnaturally prolonged through the pain it causes the survivor. As Swift writes elsewhere, “Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it” (“All Too Well”). Both poets are held captive by the passage of time, which separates them from their pain but cannot fully erase it.

Another contrast between desire and love is visible in the way Swift and Sappho respond to them: in opposition to their anger at unwanted desire, they respond to lapsed love by entreating their lover to return. Just as Sappho pleads with Aphrodite to be led back to her lover, Swift begs in “Haunted”, “Come on, come on, don’t leave me like this”. As she does, the string orchestra that plays in the song’s chorus reflects the chaos and pain portrayed in the lyrics. Sappho’s listeners may have also been struck by the musical arrangement that accompanied her plaintive words. But Sappho has a certain hope that Swift is denied: in Giacomelli’s discussion of fragment 1, she suggests that “time itself . . . will enact the justice of Aphrodite on the unjust beloved” (140). That is, the woman who has so pained Sappho will “inevitably become a lover . . . and experience rejection at least once” (137). Sappho and her lover occupy clear-cut roles, defined by time, and Giacomelli argues that these roles will eventually be reversed, causing Sappho’s beloved to understand the pain of being a lover. Thus, Sappho’s ‘now’ is informed by the knowledge of a future ‘again’. Swift does not have this divine assurance, however, because the dynamics of a heterosexual relationship in our time are not defined in the same way. She describes one relationship where she was the beloved who wronged her lover: he “gave [her] roses, and [she] left them there to die” (“Back to December”). Without Aphrodite there to promise eventual justice, Swift is left to “go back to December all the time”, wishing that the lover she neglected would let her back in. In both situations, the poets inhabit a complicated intersection of past and present, informed by the pain of past love. Where desire lives, love relives, echoing through the past to resonate in the present.

This analogy of desire and love to the present and past is not always so clear-cut, however, and when the poets deviate from this theme, they illustrate another: the yearner’s obsession with satisfaction as the ultimate goal, versus the lover’s acknowledgment that this fulfilment is not certain. In one song, Swift emphasizes desire as a need to be met, but she sets the actual moment of satisfaction in the future rather than the present: “My hands are shaking from holding back from you | . . . | Only bought this dress so you could take it off” (“Dress”). The dress itself is much less important than what lies underneath, and Swift anxiously anticipates its removal so that her desire can be satisfied. Sappho writes about another girl in a dress who has similar allure, albeit in a more tongue-in-cheek manner: “[W]hat country girl seduces your wits | wearing a country dress | not knowing how to pull the cloth to her ankles?” (fr. 57 tr. Carson). Sappho seems to be almost laughing at the idea that a country girl incapable of wearing her dress properly should be seductive in any form. But as with Swift, the dress, whether worn properly or not, is unimportant; whoever Sappho is speaking to has clearly been entranced regardless. Like Swift, Sappho depicts desire as a kind of hunger that will overcome any obstacle, be it fabric or faux pas, to achieve satisfaction.

The same cannot be said of love, for unlike desire, it recognizes that fulfillment is not certain. Love is the marathon being run while the end is not yet in sight. Sappho illustrates this in her discussion of the story of Helen, who had “not . . . a thought” (fr. 16 tr. Carson) for her family when she left them to follow her beloved Paris. This may seem incongruous with Sappho’s statement in the same fragment that the most beautiful thing is what one loves, but Pfeijffer offers a sensible interpretation:

For the fact that Helen chose to follow Paris with the consequence of war gives rise to the idea that she followed him in spite of the consequence of war. This makes Helen not only an example of someone who took the person she loved for the most beautiful thing on earth; she also becomes an example of someone giving a higher priority to the object of her love than to possible belligerent effects of her preference. (Pfeijffer 4)

In other words, Helen found Paris so beautiful that she was willing to abandon everything else for him. It is unusual that Sappho would frame this as a choice on Helen’s part. Herodotus, among others, describes how “Alexandros son of Priam . . . abducted Helen” (The Landmark Herodotus: The Histories4 tr. Purvis); Sappho, however, depicts events in the more romantic light of Helen knowing the risks she was taking and going with Paris simply because she loved him. Those risks are made clear to us as readers through the phrasing of Sappho’s war imagery, which “is reminiscent of a Homeric formula” and thus “steers us to think of the Trojan War” (Pfeijffer 2). By bringing the results of this war to her readers’ mind, Sappho emphasizes the gravity of Helen’s decision. She was willing to risk everything for her love, and promised herself to Paris despite their future being unpromised.

Swift writes about a similar situation in which she and her lover are portrayed as criminals escaping a crime scene: “Well, he was running after us | I was screaming ‘go, go, go’ | . . . | You were driving the getaway car | We were flying, but we’d never get far” (“Getaway Car”).  Like Sappho’s Helen, Swift is escaping with her lover, and their stories have similarly unfortunate endings. At the end of the song, Swift reveals herself to be a traitor who “switched to the other side” and “left [him] in [a] motel bar”. For Swift, love is also a promise made in the face of uncertainty, but this uncertainty is owed to her own traitorous tendencies. She made her decision knowing that she would not face the fallout. Perhaps Helen weighed the risks and came to the same conclusion, for Swift and Helen are the ones left standing after their lovers have been betrayed and killed, respectively. The love that ultimately prevails in “Getaway Car”is Swift’s love for herself. She reminds her lover that he “[s]hould’ve known [she’d] be the first to leave,” because of “the place where [he] first met [her],” which is presumably the metaphorical crime scene where Swift was looking out for herself before she ever met him. In both this story and Helen’s, the poets portray women that could be seen as victims of love as instead having full agency over it, with the ability to make their own choices despite the very real possibility of disaster.

Sometimes, however, love is able to overcome these risks, and the poets acknowledge happier endings in other poems. When writing about her own love, rather than Helen’s, Sappho includes the simple promise to her lover that she “shall love | ] as long as there is in [her]” (fr. 88A tr. Carson). As with almost all of Sappho’s writing, it is hard for us to know what she meant because so much of the context is missing, but I see something of a declaration in these lines. Sappho acknowledges her own limits, while still declaring that she will commit to her lover. Swift similarly writes, “Swear to be over-dramatic and true to my | Lover | . . . | And at every table, I’ll save you a seat” (“Lover”). In lieu of grand vows, this song sees her simply promising to make room for her partner in her life. These lines are phrased very differently from the poets’ dramatic depictions of desire, as well as the life-changing, unpredictable love they have written about elsewhere. Thus we see the difference between love in the past and the future, as the poets think back to broken commitments and look ahead to those that have yet to be made.

It makes sense, then, that love also has more to do with reality, whereas desire leans towards romanticization. Love discerns more clearly because it is less obsessed with the here and now. We see this when Sappho writes, “I loved you, Atthis, once long ago | a little child you seemed to me and graceless” (fr. 49 tr. Carson). The dreamy veneer of desire is wholly absent, replaced by a ‘gracelessness’ that was evident even when Sappho loved Atthis in the past. By keeping her description of Atthis in the past tense—‘seemed’ as opposed to ‘seems’—Sappho implies that she, in the past, saw Atthis’ imperfections and loved her in spite of them. Swift writes about a childhood relationship with a similar nostalgic fondness: “And though I can’t recall your face | I still got love for you” (“seven”). References to the other person’s “braids” and “dolls” make it clear that this is about another young woman, but phrases such as “[hiding] in the closet” and “cross your heart, won’t tell no other” lend themselves to a specifically queer interpretation of the song, in which it becomes a story about two young women who shared a sweet, secret love during their childhoods.

In fact, viewing “seven” through a queer lens illustrates a key cultural difference in the way we engage with Swift and Sappho’s portrayals of love. We know much more about twenty-first-century America’s view of homosexuality than we do about sixth-century Lesbos’; Sappho’s surviving poetry, which moves easily between her feelings about men and women, does not include the secrecy or fear of reprisal that I see in “seven”. Nor do Sappho’s fragments clarify whether her adoration of other women was a daring rebellion against gender roles or if her society had a more neutral, or even positive, attitude toward said feelings. Swift’s discography is more explicit about her own culture: in New York, “you can want who you want | Boys and boys and girls and girls” (“Welcome To New York”), but Swift also has to tell homophobes to “calm down” because “shade never made anybody less gay” (“You Need To Calm Down”). Although Swift is by no means a historian, or even necessarily a member of the queer community herself, these lyrics still capture some of the cultural perspective we do not have in Sappho’s fragments—particularly the homophobia that causes the secrecy necessary in my reading of “seven”. We do not know if Sappho and Atthis could have had a future together, but we know that Swift’s protagonists, due to the society they inhabit, could not.

This awareness infuses “seven”, and the love it depicts, with a groundedness in reality. Rather than treating her past self as a naive child, Swift asks to be consciously associated with her: “Please picture me | In the weeds | Before I learned civility”, she writes. This framing of civility as something to be learned suggests its artificiality, as if Swift was more authentic before she learned civility—and, perhaps, compulsive heteronormativity. The younger version of Swift, “high in the sky | With Pennsylvania under [her]”, is the one who saw clearly, leaving the older Swift to ask if there are “still beautiful things”, or if they were lost along with Swift’s childhood. Thus, the subject of “seven” represents the unvarnished candor of love as much as Atthis does. For Sappho, it is outward truth about Atthis, but for Swift, it is inward truth about herself.

We can contrast the honest perspective of love with the more sentimental view of desire. In one fragment, Sappho is fully absorbed by her lover’s outward appearance, writing, “[T]o yellowhaired Helen I liken you | ] ] among mortal women, know this | ]from every care | ]you could release me” (fr. 23 tr. Carson). Sappho holds her partner as being somehow superior to all mortal women; her only equal is the extraordinary Helen. This is an impossible standard to meet, but Sappho, caught up in this woman’s beauty, does not notice. Swift has more mixed feelings about the person she idolizes: “I don’t like that anyone would die to feel your touch | Everybody wants you” (“gold rush”). Just as we saw Sappho reminding her readers of the Trojan War that was fought over Helen, Swift similarly describes the fierce competition engendered by her own lover. She admits, however, that her glamorization conveys only partial truth by repeatedly saying “it could never be” after daydreaming about her partner. Swift is self-aware enough to dislike the “double vision in rose blush” of her romanticized perspective, but like Sappho, she is too entranced by her lover to let go of it.

The poets’ different methods of establishing their lovers’ beauty also show the different ways they connect to their audiences. Sappho draws on her listeners’ shared knowledge of Helen of Troy, trusting them to understand the significance of the comparison; Swift’s modern-day mythos instead takes the form of an “Eagles T-shirt hanging from the door” (“gold rush”). Though this sounds like a reference to the seventies rock band The Eagles, Swift liked a Tweet by a fan (@TJack94) who posited that this line is actually about the Philadelphia Eagles, the football team of Swift’s hometown. In contrast to the widely known mythological figure chosen by Sappho, Swift picks a less-known one that is much more personal to her. She explicitly centers herself in these lyrics in a way that Sappho does not.

Swift is still drawing on widespread cultural knowledge, though—the T-shirt on the door clearly indicates to the twenty-first-century listener that Swift spent the night in her lover’s room—and it is this combination of general knowledge and personal description that makes both poets’ writing so relatable. This appears to be the case even when listeners lack the experience that would allow to them directly relate to Swift’s songs in particular. According to Chittenden, Swift’s younger fans, listening to songs about desires and loves they have presumably never experienced, are able to handle the “‘firsts’ (boyfriend, car, job, leaving home) which are deemed to trigger nostalgic episodes in adulthood” by “substitut[ing] their own missing past with Swift’s”. That is, they experience a sort of “nostalgia in reverse”, which gives them a way to acknowledge and deal with their experiences. This is another way that Swift connects with her audience. She and Sappho may have set out to only explore their own feelings in their art, but in expressing them, they are also giving voice to the feelings of thousands of other women—even those who have yet to experience love and desire for themselves.

The gift of poetry is its ability to feel both intensely personal and universally relatable, and through the exploration of several smaller contrasts—‘now’ versus ‘then’, satisfaction versus dissatisfaction, sentimentality versus sensibility—Sappho and Taylor Swift illuminate, for a global audience, the subtle but vital difference between their experiences of desire and love. Their wide-reaching relatability does not make Swift and Sappho easier to understand, however; in some ways, it does the opposite. Carson writes that fragment 31 is about the “geometrical figure formed by [Sappho, the woman, and the man’s] perception of one another” (Eros the Bittersweet 13), and even in this essay there is distance: another geometrical figure is formed between Carson, Sappho, Taylor Swift, and me. By studying Swift and Sappho together, I have attempted to navigate this distance by discovering what two poets’ discussion of the same themes can tell us about the cultural and personal contexts that make their art so compelling. Though separated by thousands of years, some of those contexts are strikingly similar. Both women display remarkable agency as they examine the undervalued world of female love and desire; both women, as Swift says in “Fearless (Taylor’s Version)”, invite us to dive into this world with them “head first, fearless”.

Works Cited

Carson, Anne. Eros the Bittersweet. Princeton University Press. 1986.

Chittenden, Tara. “In My Rearview Mirror.” Journal of Children and Media, vol. 7, no. 2, 2013, pp. 186-200, https://doi.org/10.1080/17482798.2012.673500, doi:10.1080/17482798.2012.673500.

Giacomelli, Anne. “The Justice of Aphrodite in Sappho Fr. 1.” Transactions of the American Philological Association, vol. 110, 1980, pp. 135–142. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/284214.

Herodotus. “Book One.” The Landmark Herodotus: The Histories. Edited by Robert B. Strassler. Translated by Andrea L. Purvis. Anchor Books, 2009.

Pfeijffer, Ilja Leonard. “Shifting Helen: An Interpretation of Sappho, Fragment 16 (Voigt).” The Classical Quarterly, vol. 50, no. 1, 2000, pp. 1–6. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/1558930.

Sappho.If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho. Translated by Anne Carson, Random House, 2002.

Taylor Swift. “All Too Well.” Red, Big Machine Records, 2012. CD.

Taylor Swift. “Back to December.” Speak Now, Big Machine Records, 2010. CD.

Taylor Swift. “Dress.” reputation, Big Machine Records, 2017. CD.

Taylor Swift. “False God.” Lover (Target Exclusive Deluxe Version 1 CD), Republic Records, 2019. CD.

Taylor Swift. “Fearless (Taylor’s Version).” Fearless (Taylor’s Version), Republic Records, 2021. Spotify, https://open.spotify.com/track/77sMIMlNaSURUAXq5coCxE?si=gtquvUYPTtm7UJhlLhvSgg.

Taylor Swift. “Getaway Car.” reputation, Big Machine Records, 2017. CD.

Taylor Swift. “gold rush.” evermore,Republic Records, 2020. Spotify, https://open.spotify.com/track/5BK0uqwY9DNfZ630STAEaq?si=kV3hG5M6RsueVZbzP83taQ.

Taylor Swift. “Haunted.” Speak Now, Big Machine Records, 2010. CD.

Taylor Swift. “ivy.” evermore, Republic Records, 2020. Spotify, https://open.spotify.com/track/5BK0uqwY9DNfZ630STAEaq?si=LHvcLUIEQd6aLm3_tZZsSA.

Taylor Swift. “Lover.” Lover (Target Exclusive Deluxe Version 1 CD), Republic Records, 2019. CD.

Taylor Swift. “seven.” folklore,Republic Records, 2020. Spotify, https://open.spotify.com/track/6KJqZcs9XDgVck7Lg9QOTC?si=7jmoFAz1QpO7oMksc-BaXA.

Taylor Swift. “Style.” 1989, Big Machine Records, 2014. CD.

Taylor Swift. “Welcome to New York.”1989, Big Machine Records, 2014. CD.

Taylor Swift. “Wildest Dreams.” 1989, Big Machine Records, 2014. CD.

Taylor Swift. “You Need To Calm Down.” Lover (Target Exclusive Deluxe Version 1 CD), Republic Records, 2019. CD.

@TJack94. “It’s officially canon #evermorealbum.” Twitter, 10 Dec. 2020, 9:26 p.m., https://twitter.com/TJack94/status/1337267509192515585?s=20. Accessed 11 Jun. 2021.

Photo via Unsplash

by Marian Manapat

When sisters Lana and Lilly Wachowski wrote and directed the 1999 film, The Matrix, it was highly improbable they had Jane Austen’s novel Emma in mind. The Matrix takes place in a dystopian future where sentient machines have taken over all facets of society. To sustain their new civilization, these machines utilize the comatose humans as power sources, farming them from birth to death, while placing their subconscious in a programmed, controlled simulation called the Matrix. Throughout the movie, the protagonist Neo struggles to accept the grim reality of his world and embrace his role among the rebels as human civilization’s savior, named the One. On the other hand, Emma is set in England in the early nineteenth century, following the lives of those searching for the perfect spouse in lower to upper-middle-class society in Highbury. In the novel, Emma must face the truth that her many arrogant assumptions and righteous behaviour have hurt others along the way. Despite these differences, the Wachowskis and Austen express Neo and Emma’s two epiphanies in a similar fashion: both use pleasant or unpleasant weather, light or lack of light, air or lack of air, open or cramped space, and peaceful quiet or intense sounds, among other factors, to construct the atmosphere, or mood, of each scene. Emma’s moments of self-realization parallel those of Neo through the symbolic use of these atmospheric techniques, which serves to emphasize first the reluctance and doubt, then later the freeing acceptance of truth for both characters.

There are many moments at the beginning of The Matrix where the Wachowskis place Neo in dark, claustrophobic spaces, such as in his room (00:07:17-00:09:02) and in his office cubicle at work (00:12:57-00:14:37), to represent his impaired understanding about his world’s reality. Therefore, on the way to enlightenment, the Wachowskis utilize tumultuous weather and tight spaces to show the intensity of Neo’s initial epiphany alongside his muddled understanding. Until the epiphany, Neo believes that the Matrix is his world and his reality, although he has his suspicions (00:27:00-00:28:10). Trusting his instincts, Neo thus meets with his new acquaintance, Morpheus, who promises to lead him closer to the “truth” that Neo seeks (00:25:51-00:28:45). In between their lines of dialogue and actions, the Wachowskis underscore a consistent drumming of rain from outside the dark window and effect sudden claps of thunder (00:25:16-00:32:20). Meanwhile, the darker, marshy tint and low-key lighting of the scene emphasize the shadows of the room, altogether creating a muddy, heavy atmosphere. This makes the room eerie and claustrophobic, a tone the Wachowskis use to reflect the all-consuming, disquieting storms of fear and doubt inside Neo. Moreover, the Wachowskis apply this stormy atmosphere to Neo’s jarring awakening in the real world (00:32:42-00:33:50). During this epiphany, when he realizes that he and other humans have been sleeping in fluid-filled pods, thunderous sounds escalate alongside crackles of electricity. The thunder is louder now and less muffled compared to the sound in the Matrix, supported by a low hum and contorted by highpitched choral sounds in an unsettling minor key (00:33:14-00:34:02). This sudden intensification of atmosphere represents Neo’s heightened panic and confusion when confronted by the total reality of his environment. A self-realization such as this should have sparked clarity. However, because, as symbolized by the suffocating and terrifying nature that the Wachowskis created, Neo is too overwhelmed and shocked to think clearly. He is still closed-minded, with previous beliefs about the real world and panic preventing him from fully grasping the truth. Neo’s limited, clouded understanding is summarized by his being encased in a bubble of fluid, in which he chokes on the thick liquid and pipes, and a claustrophobic pod with barely any room to move or breathe (00:32:47-00:33:18). The Wachowskis combine these sounds and sensations to create an atmosphere that personifies the fearful, suppressed state of Neo’s mind. Therefore, until his next epiphany, Neo is symbolically still caged in his old understanding of the world and emotions, prolonging his discovery of his full capabilities.

In the same way, Austen exhibits Emma’s insufficient epiphany through a dark, suffocating atmosphere and a cramped carriage ride. After Emma helps pair her former Governess Miss Taylor (now Mrs. Weston) with the respectable and kind Mr. Weston, Emma believes that she has an infallible knack for matchmaking (Austen 11). Thus, Emma dismisses her new friend Harriet’s infatuation with the farmer Mr. Martin and, instead, believes that a vicar named Mr. Elton is “an excellent match” for Harriet due to his higher social status and his interest in her (28). Although Emma is warned that Mr. Elton is, conversely, enamoured with her and not Harriet, she haughtily brushes off the statement (89). Emma attends a Christmas banquet at Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s estate carrying this condescending mindset, accompanied by Mr. Elton while Harriet is ill. During the banquet, however, one of the guests predicts an upcoming snowstorm that would make the road “impassible” and potentially cause their carriages to be blown over on the road (100). The attendants leave early in fear of being “blocked up” and are alarmed at the “discovery of a much darker night than . . . prepared for” (102). Just as the Wachowskis employ a rainstorm with thunder and lightning to enhance the overwhelming sensation of a physical and mental cage, Austen uses snow and darkness to set up a quiet, but anxious scene. Snow traps people where they are in stillness and silence, causing a sense of claustrophobia and inward panic, while darkness hinders the ability of sight, creating a sense of helplessness and disorientation. Thus, this dark, snowy atmosphere symbolizes Emma’s state of mind during her epiphany, when, in their carriage, Mr. Elton confesses his love for Emma and his indifference towards Harriet. Austen describes Emma to feel “unpleasant sensations” at war with each other and “completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply” (104). After Emma denies him fervently, the two experience “mutually deep mortification” (105). Similar to Neo’s flurry of conflicting emotions during his first epiphany in The Matrix, Emma is overwhelmed with increasing confusion and fear, questioning her once unfailing wit and afraid to disappoint Harriet. Emma has no choice but to remain “confined” in these emotions as they are in the carriage until they reach their destinations (105). Additionally, like Neo, Emma does not fully comprehend the entire truth that she is overly self-important and that her assumptions are errors which cause more harm than good. Instead of taking full responsibility for these mistakes and acknowledge her consistent ignorance and arrogance, she continues to make haughty assumptions. Austen uses the cramped carriage ride as a claustrophobic metaphor for Emma’s narrow understanding. She and Neo are exposed to the truth early in their respective stories but are too short-sighted to embrace the whole reality because of the environments they hail from—Neo’s realistic simulation has convinced him to believe a fantasy, and Emma’s status and home life have made her accustomed to praise and authority, being the righteous “mistress” of the house from an early age (68). Thus, they are both trapped in their old mindsets and tortured by their conflicting emotions until time and acceptance free them.

Although many characters around Neo suggest that he is the One, Neo continues to doubt his powerful abilities until his second epiphany, where the Wachowskis contrast a claustrophobic atmosphere with a freeing one to represent Neo’s change. After Agent Smith, a program designed to kill rebels of the Matrix, shoots Neo multiple times, Neo dies in a dreary, narrow hallway in the simulation (The Matrix 02:02:54-02:03:55). The scene is presented with a dim, stale green tint, creating an airless and melancholy atmosphere. However, there is light pouring in from the windows instead of the deep darkness and pouring rain during the first epiphany. This signifies the difference between the two scenes, as, now, Neo is closer to enlightenment than he was before. Back in the real world, the rebels’ ship, the Nebuchadnezzar, is under attack by sentinels, with lasers cutting into the ship at all corners, electric sparks surrounding the rebels, and an orchestra launching into a chaotic crescendo (02:02:23-02:03:54). The Wachowskis use these effects and sounds to create a tense and paralyzing atmosphere, symbolizing Neo’s physical death. It is during this moment that Trinity, one of the rebels, realizes that she is “not afraid anymore” and declares that her love for Neo means that he is the One (02:03:54-02:04:43). Trinity’s epiphany allows her to break out of the atmosphere of fear and confusion, as portrayed through the sudden quiet that occurs while she speaks. Her acceptance of the truth sparks Neo’s understanding of the truth, reviving him (02:04:43-02:04:57). While a resurrected Neo stands up in the Matrix, the Wachowskis underscore bright, floating choral tones, shifting the atmosphere from heavy to light. As well, Neo freezes the bullets shooting in his direction, takes one from the air, and releases it from its forced path, causing the other bullets to be released too (02:05:00- 02:05:34). These freed bullets are symbols for Neo and his fellow rebels, as they all have the epiphany that he is the One and are then released from their tight paths of fear and doubt. The music, now in a triumphant major key, swells as Neo sees the Matrix in its true form—as code— creating an open atmosphere of true freedom (02:05:34-02:05:41). Further, in an allusion to Neo’s claustrophobic pod and mindset from his first epiphany, Neo smoothly joins Agent Smith’s body and explodes within it, figuratively and literally breaking free from his suffocating cage in golden light (02:06:13-02:06:53). Lastly, Neo stretches and flexes to bend the narrow walls around him, then takes a deep breath in and out (02:06:53-02:07:00). Neo is finally able to move and breathe freely and peacefully, representing his liberated state of mind in the wake of his epiphany. This new change is most reflected by the final scene of the film, when Neo embraces his newfound abilities, and thereby also his role as the One, and blasts off into the open, bright, and no longer stormy sky (02:09:14-02:09:28). Although he is still in the Matrix, Neo can bend his situation to his will and escape the claustrophobic control of the simulation towards freedom. This allows him to fight the program and lead humanity out of the machines’ chains. Evidently, the Wachowskis successfully utilize a range of atmospheres to reflect Neo’s understanding of his role and reality.

Photo via Wikimedia Commons

by Tiffany Williams

Satirically critiquing her characters’ behaviours and the English society in which they—and she—live, Jane Austen sketches a vivid portrait of her characters, their flaws, and the confines under which they operate in Emma. Austen’s Emma focuses chiefly on Emma’s blunders, imperfections, and progression; by letting go of her prideful notions and uncompromising supervision of the people around her, empathizing and identifying with them, and trusting their judgements of themselves, Emma learns that despite the unpredictable world around her, a change she can control is her own growth. Throughout Austen’s Emma, Emma’s navigation through her relationships with Mr. Woodhouse, Miss Bates, and Mr. Knightley reveals the importance of the awareness of one’s self, mistakes, and ability to improve for personal growth.

At the beginning of the novel, Emma Woodhouse is unaware of her flaws or capacity for growth; this unawareness is very much modelled after her father’s. Mr. Woodhouse’s reliance on Mr. Perry’s advice—rather than open-mindedly listening to and considering suggestions of “sea air and bathing” by others, like Isabella’s apothecary, Mr. Wingfield—hints at his lack of faith in his own judgement to discern and choose advice he judges to be astute (81). Instead, Mr. Woodhouse blindly and vehemently follows the advice of someone he is accustomed to following—Mr. Woodhouse fears any change, even that in his own judgement. Apart from not trusting others to make their own choices outside his scope of influence, Mr. Woodhouse does not trust himself to make a choice outside normalcy; his confidence in his knowledge lies not in his trusting his judgement, but in trusting constancy. He does not know enough about himself or the people around him to appreciate the merits of new advice he is given. Taking after her father, Emma’s criticisms of Robert Martin as a “coarse” match for Harriet rely on notions of class to determine his character (19), dismissing him on the grounds of him being a “gross, vulgar farmer—totally inattentive to appearances” (27). She is unable to let go of superficial conventions of class-based gentility to establish her own assessment of a good match, Robert Martin, or of his relationship with Harriet because she, too, does not know enough about her own feelings to discern the significance of the intensity and sincerity behind Harriet and Robert’s relationship.

Taking into account Mr. Knightley and her father’s comments on Emma’s “inherit[ance of] her mother’s talents” (30) and her striking likeness to her “dear mother [who] was so clever” (63) despite Emma’s inability to recall any personal first-hand knowledge of her mother beyond “indistinct remembrance of her caresses” (5), Emma’s lack of understanding of herself and pride in her own cleverness becomes understandable. The repeated comparisons drawn between herself and an idealized memory of a mother she can hardly remember has led to a lack of understanding of her flaws. Her father’s repeated praise of her further inhibits any growth. As his sole caretaker who “spared no exertions to maintain” her father’s happier dispositions (8), Emma is largely responsible for her father’s comfort and soothing his fear of change, which “made it necessary to be cheerful” (7). While his praises of her—such as “Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” are in part due to his sincere affection for his daughter, the absolute terms he regularly employs, such as “never” and “always,” also stem from his desire for her to never change, stifling any desire or decisive actions on her part towards growth (12). As perfection cannot be improved upon, for Emma, growth has never been a viable option. Her father’s and others’ praises of her are juxtaposed with her description of Harriet, who, according to Emma, was in need of “more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect” (19). The contrast between descriptions of her “being thought perfect by every body” and Harriet suggests a striking disparity between her and her peers created by the notions of perfection ascribed to her (10). While others are afforded possibilities for growth, she herself is denied this potential, preventing her from relating to her peers’ struggle towards improvement, and isolating her from her peers in addition to possible growth.

Both Emma and Miss Bates are caretakers of their parents, but where Emma’s life revolves around control, Miss Bates possesses little to no control over her life. While Emma is “handsome, clever, and rich,” (5) and can afford not to marry, the unmarried Miss Bates “stood in the very worst predicament,” and relied on the goodwill of others to survive socially (17). A symbol of goodwill—both of her own and of the people around her—Miss Bates earnestly shares “every thing relative to every body” around her while Emma guardedly conceals her schemes and notions, except occasionally to Mrs. Weston and Frank Churchill (68). Much like Harriet Smith who saves scraps from her encounters with Mr. Elton that she keeps and protects, labelling them “Most precious treasures,” Emma, too, cannot help “making a treasure of” insignificant gestures that supplement her secret fanciful notions of the romantic lives of the people around her (265). Where Emma’s concealment of her schemes alienates her from her neighbours who are not privy to her inner thoughts, Miss Bates’ ability to see things plainly and simply offers her a valuable down-to-earth and easy connection with others. Disdainful and unable to see Miss Bates’ and others’ merits, Emma’s sense of superiority blinds her to her own flaws and the potential of more sincere friendships.

However, Emma’s interactions with Miss Bates following the Box-Hill picnic are the first in a series of events that trigger her awareness of her flaws and mistakes. First, she recognizes her blindness towards Miss Bates’ pain and others’ perception of her and when she thinks of her interactions during picnic itself, Emma is “agitated, mortified, grieved, at [… how she could] have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!—How [she] exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!” (296). Perhaps recognizing for the first time that she has made a mistake, hurting someone dear to her, Emma becomes conscious of her imperfection; when her father praises her being “always so attentive to” the Bates,” Emma’s “colour was heightened [as she acknowledged] this unjust praise” (303). Only after recognizing her mistake and imperfection could Emma learn to appreciate the merits of others; in contrast to her disdain for Miss Bates due to her snobbish distaste for people who do not adhere to the general standards of decorum, her newfound appreciation for and “most sincere interest” (298) towards Miss Bates is not guided by her society’s expectations of good manners but based on “the good wishes she really felt” and her own experience and sincere admiration for Miss Bates’ earnest generosity (302). Emma’s apology and Miss Bates’ generous forgiving of Emma is an important stepping stone for her awareness and growth, and pave the way for Emma to express the same kind of forgiveness towards Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill’s own concealment of their affair when they “had suffered, and [were] very sorry” due to her being better able to relate to and empathize with others’ flaws, acknowledging her imperfections and areas of growth she shares with others (349). As such, Miss Bates’ earnest generosity in forgiving Emma’s blind cruelty not only reveals to her her flawed, hurtful behaviour, but encourages her to exercise compassion to her own peers.

Another important catalyst for Emma’s growth, Mr. Knightley’s persistent devotion to Emma’s growth and belief in her capacity for growth ultimately proves fruitful as Emma begins to trust in and act on her own, and others’ capacity for improvement. By focusing on refining Harriet to perfection enough for Mr. Elton and then Frank Churchill, Emma neglects to consider the potential growth marriage offers individuals; she expects people to be fully-formed, perfect individuals before entering a marriage, illustrated by her “throw[ing] in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance” to her painting of Harriet to please Mr. Elton—her prospective match for Harriet (38). Despite her clumsy attempts to match Harriet with Mr. Elton and Frank Churchill, Mr. Knightley ends up rendering “the fullest exultation” to Harriet (378) by providing an opportunity for Robert Martin— “to take charge of some papers […] to send to John” when Harriet was staying with Mr. John Knightley—but trusting in their growth and leaving Harriet and Robert Martin to their own judgement to decide on their own relationship (370). By trusting in Harriet’s own growth—her ability to make her own life decisions without Emma’s approval—Mr. Knightley became the true matchmaker between Harriet and Robert. In addition to her apology to Miss Bates, another important step Emma took towards growth was her interactions with Mr. Knightley leading up to their declarations of love as she takes responsibility for her mistakes. Emma’s decision to listen to Mr. Knightley, despite thinking it was to declare his love for Harriet, and to “assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it” is starkly contrasted to her previous covert manipulation of Harriet’s response towards Robert Martin’s own declaration of love (337). Thus, by sincerely trusting Mr. Knightley to “be the best judge of [his] own happiness” (42), and selflessly having Mr. Knightley “speak openly to [her] as a friend”, Emma allows him to declare his feelings for her (337).

As important to her newfound self-knowledge in her capacity for growth is Emma’s realization that growth does not have to occur alone; Emma eventually realizes the impact Mr. Knightley had on her throughout her life, shifting her in the right direction: “from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right” (326). Emma realizes the possibility of her growing throughout her marriage with Mr. Knightley, thus recognizing her boundless capacity for growth. By opening herself up to the possibility of constant growth, even within a marriage, she allows herself to accept Mr. Knightley’s proposal and love. In this manner, Emma becomes her own matchmaker and creator of her own happiness. Her previous assuredness in her superior knowledge of others cut her off from who others truly were, revealed by her misinterpretation that Elton’s “perception of the striking improvement of Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment” as Emma, herself, mistook Harriet for the refinements she made to her manner (34). However, by trusting in her own knowledge of her capacity for growth, Emma learns to trust in others’ capacity for growth as well. By exercising true self-knowledge, acknowledging her imperfections, and relating to others’ own potential for growth—her recognition of Frank Churchill’s capacity for “his character to improve, and acquire from [Jane’s] the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants”—Emma realizes that, unlike her perfection in isolation, she does not have to be alone in her growth; within and beyond her marriage, there would be others to guide and relate to her if she decides to let them (352).

The mundane setting and everyday occurrences of Emmashed light on the fact that dramatic life-altering events are not necessary to grow. Rather than limiting ourselves to have to be finished and perfect individuals, trusting in one’s capacity for growth anywhere and anytime allows one to bring earnest self-knowledge and a sincere willingness to grow to our relationships.

Works Cited

Austen, Jane. Emma. Edited by James Kinsley and Adela Pinch, Oxford University Press, 2008.

Photo via Pixabay

by Annette Idiagbor

In hopes of educating his teenage son on the everyday struggles black people experience, Ta-Nehisi Coates writes of his own personal life experiences in his memoir Between the World and Me. Presenting his revelatory experiences from childhood and adulthood, Coates struggles to understand how the destruction of black people is justified by the divide between the perceived races of black and white. He suggests that being raised in the United States of America, with its history of exploitation and savagery towards black bodies, has robbed him of control over his own body and censored the positive aspects of black history. Upon asking himself “how one should live within a black body,” Coates searches for the answer “in classrooms [and] out on the streets” (12). America’s controlling influences persist despite Coates living in a generation with significantly more freedoms for black people, and he promotes the idea that West Baltimore’s unforgiving streets and unimaginative school system act as figurative shackles on explorations into racial injustice. The ongoing destruction of black bodies in America inspires questions about the cause of this injustice, along with inquiries into the potential solution. Between the World and Me explores how the streets and schools both work to conceal the unfairness of black citizens’ reality, which dissuades the push for monumental changes and characterizes the ongoing oppression of black people as being commendable. This systematic subjugation ultimately acts as a trap that demands total assimilation to the rules and structures in place. The personal curiosity towards a better situation for black people demonstrated by how Coates defies this message of passive acceptance. Coates portrays how total conformity and abandonment of racial inquiries are presented as being the only means of survival for black citizens in America, and how his deviance from these groups’ restrictive regulations had the potential to place his life in jeopardy.

The main motivation behind Coates’s question of how to live free as a black citizen comes from his observations of black bodies being destroyed. He notes how “black people controlled nothing, least of all the fate of their bodies” (62) in America. Rather than decide their own destiny, black Americans are subjected to receiving unfair treatment and having their lives ended in a brutal manner. Coates lists examples of black bodies that his son has seen unjustly destroyed in order to emphasize the magnitude of this issue, such as: Eric Garner, a black man strangled for selling cigarettes; Renisha McBride, a black woman shot for knocking on a door; and Tamir Rice, a black child shot for having a toy gun in a park (9). He does not comfort his son when he cries at the acquittal of a police officer who shot an unarmed black teenager, instead hoping that his son will “know now, if [he] did not before, that the police departments of [America] have been endowed with the authority to destroy [black bodies]” (9).

Coates notes how growing up in Baltimore, he witnessed violent behavior and customs that “attested to all the vulnerability of the black teenage bodies” (15). A key reason for the presence of such violent behavior is gangs. The Baltimore City Criminal Justice Coordinating Council presented a plan to reduce gang violence in 2006, and reported that “the majority of identified gang members in Baltimore are African American” (5). This proposed plan defines a gang as “three or more persons . . . who individually or collectively . . . [engage] in criminal activity which creates an atmosphere of fear and intimidation” (4). Direct participation in gang activity is not necessary, since the atmosphere created on the streets as a result of such activity affects the entire city—whether someone is a gang member or not. Between the World and Me seems to address this notion of an uneasy atmosphere in Baltimore’s streets, as Coates describes them as containing an “array of lethal puzzles and strange perils” (21). Using the term “lethal” to describe the phenomenon of the streets emphasizes black Americans’ fear over the security of their bodies, while vocabulary like “puzzles” and “strange” convey the uncertainty that comes with establishing security in the streets. While observing his son’s disappointment at the verdict of not guilty, Coates notes that “for all [their] differing worlds,” his feelings about black injustice “[were] exactly the same” at his son’s age (21). He observes how parents raising children in Baltimore were scared to lose a child “to the streets” (16), and that they viewed the “safety net of schools” (17) as the best way to protect their children. Coates writes how his life experiences led him to question the apparent “safety” that schools provide from the dangerous streets, and identifies how these separate groups are ultimately working together to trap black Americans and force them into accepting a life of oppression.

The first step taken by schools to set this trap is to deter students from advocating for a new reality. They do so by idealizing a concept Coates calls the Dream, where the privilege and lack of harassment directed towards people who believe they are white accentuates the benefits “of acting white, of talking white, [and] of being white” (111). Baltimore’s high schools methodically present white people in a more positive and dominating light compared to black figures, which makes the suffering of black people appear to be nothing out of the ordinary. Coates notes how black excellence was never celebrated “in the textbooks [he had] seen as a child,” while “everyone of any import . . . was white” (43). Coates does not state that texts in general were absent of positive black representation, but only that they were not exposed to him “as a child” in high school. His future discovery of “virtually any book ever written by or about black people” (46) at Howard University stresses how the issue is not strictly the lack of black texts, but Baltimore’s failure to incorporate such works into their curriculum. Coates’s discovery of unconventional sources of knowledge at Howard University—such as hip-hop and rap music—shows how high school’s prohibition of non-academic sources provided “an education rendered as rote discipline” (25). Along with the issue of white history being presented as the “serious history” (43) in Baltimore’s curriculum, Coates criticizes classrooms for their tendency to stifle the curiosity of students. His claim that “the classroom was a jail” (48) shows how he found the school environment to be constricting, and this prison-like quality is something Coates attributes to all schools alike. Despite his arrival at Howard University initially feeling like an experience where “the black world was expanding before [him]” (42), Coates confesses that he ultimately felt his interrogation of black history remained “bound . . . by Howard” since “it was still a school, after all” (48). Along with a lack of black celebration and an emphasis on coveting the Dream, the classroom environment remains unable to facilitate a healthy drive to seek out answers regarding black Americans’ past and possible future.

These failures to foster curiosity and present aspirations besides the Dream are seen in Baltimore’s streets as well, with residents being just as susceptible to this methodical suppression of personal ambition. Looking back on his childhood from an adult perspective, Coates notices that “the Dream seemed to be the pinnacle . . . [and] the height of American ambition” (116) in Baltimore’s streets. Residents would therefore refrain from asking “what more could possibly exist . . . beyond the suburbs” (116), and abstain from any potential inquiries into roads leading beyond this pinnacle. Coates explains that the Dream appeared to be “somewhere beyond the firmament [and] past the asteroid belt” (20). The use of vocabulary like “beyond” and “past” when speaking in terms of location, along with the feeling of uncertainty associated with the term “somewhere,” emphasizes the sizable distance perceived between the streets and the Dream. By depicting the Dream as the ultimate goal and placing the finish line so far away, the streets make efforts to escape and reach the suburbs seem futile. Even when such attempts are made, Coates writes how in an attempt to pursue the Dream:

[black people] rose up out of the ghettos . . . [and] went out into the suburbs, only to find that they carried the mark with them and could not escape. Even when they succeeded, as so many of them did, they were singled out, made examples of, transfigured into parables of diversity. (142)

The Dream is ultimately unavailable to those who carry “the mark” of a black American. Any achievements will be belittled or distorted to reinforce negative stereotypes, since black citizens associated with success are “singled out” for deviating from the Dreamer’s idea of the general black population as consisting of poor and violent people.

Just as high school encourages students to conform to the rules and restricted curriculum in place, the streets persuade residents and gangs to respect their unique laws and accepted customs. Coates identifies fixed street “laws [that] were essential to the security of [his] body” (24), such as memorizing restricted blocks and reading underlying tones of speech and body language. He notes that “fully one-third of [his] brain was concerned” (24) with flipping through the unofficial rulebook of the Baltimore streets at all times, since conflict and death “could so easily rise up from nothing” (20). This behavior being mandatory for survival appears to hamper Coates’s investigation; he believes “that third of [his] brain should have been concerned with more beautiful things” (24), such as visions of success beyond the Dream and a healthy skepticism about escape from the streets being discouraged. The street’s disapproval of pursuing the unattainable Dream, along with schools teaching the importance of exalting the Dream, demonstrates the first step of hindering black liberation from America’s control.

After convincing residents and students to embrace the Dream’s allure, Coates claims the next step is dissuading revolution and glorifying black oppression. He writes that being “a curious boy” (26) sparked his interest in the racial divide, and he admonishes how “schools were not concerned with curiosity . . . but with compliance” (26). He felt this restriction of curiosity in high school but also in college, as his quest for knowledge at Howard University “could not match . . . the expectations of professors” (48). After spending time in the university library reading black texts, Coates concludes that “the Dream thrives” on “limiting the number of possible questions” (50). Advocating for systematic change requires questioning the current system, and schools fear the resulting answers will potentially rattle the Dream’s foundations. When young Coates’s question about the unwarranted “assault upon [black] bodies” (26) went unanswered by his teachers, he conducted research as an adult that revealed the Dream rests on “the right to break [black bodies]” (105). Coates suggests that his high school was “drugging [students] . . . so that [they] did not ask” (26) this dangerous question; revealing the answer would threaten the Dream’s integrity, or motivate black citizens to demand that it be abolished. One of the non-academic sources Coates cites to support his opinion that concealment is a toxic drug is rapper Nas, whose lyrics claim that school is a “poison” (26). Continuing to write based on his belief that schools obscure black oppression, Coates proposes they instead distort truths in hopes of romanticizing the plight of black Americans. His high school review of the Civil Rights Movement appears “dedicated to the glories of being beaten on camera” (32), and he ponders how schools send students “out into the streets of Baltimore, knowing all that they [are], and then speak of nonviolence” (32). Coates assumes they purposely turn a blind eye to the streets leaving black youth “naked before the elements of the world, before all the guns, fists, knives, crack, rape, and disease” (17). Rather than expose these circumstances as intolerable, the school “urged [Coates] toward the example” set by black activists of how “[loving] the worst things in life” is the epitome of black strength and courage (32). By sedating persistent questions and claiming that the victories of black history resulted from passivity, schools are able to convince students that the current plight of black people is admirable for its lack of active resistance.

This romanticization of black oppression also exists in Baltimore’s streets, as gang members view the constant danger of their environment as a testament of their power. This belief that survival equals control is a delusion, since black people “did not design . . . do not fund . . . and do not preserve [the streets]” (22); the streets are a killing field “created by the policy of Dreamers” (111), making them “an elegant act of racism” (110). In hopes of glamorizing the previously mentioned atmosphere of fear and intimidation that results from gang activity in Baltimore’s streets, Coates notes how neighbourhood boys dress in extravagant clothing and concludes that this clothing is meant to act as “armor against their world” (14). The “ghosts of the bad old days” where black people were lynched and held no possessions make these boys fear that the past could become their present, and thus expensive clothing allows them to feel “in firm possession of everything they [desire]” (14). Despite these observations and their subsequent conclusions, Between the World and Me lacks any record of Coates asking crews why they chose to dress and act this way, and thus the claim that it was distinctly rooted in fear is not the definitive motive—only a theory from the author. Coates admits that he himself “was afraid” (14) in Baltimore’s streets, and thus his declaration that everyone on Baltimore’s streets was “powerfully, adamantly, dangerously afraid” (14) may be him projecting his emotions onto others. Just as nakedness to the harsh elements of the violent streets showed the destruction of the black body, it also demonstrates the streets’ romanticization of bodily harm to black Americans. Gang members aim to “prove the inviolability . . . of their bodies through their power to crack knees, ribs, and arms” (23). This behaviour demonstrates the streets’ belief that being able to injure others is a symbol of personal power and security.

Just as black suffering is taught to be an admirable display of nonviolence in schools, and interpreted among gang members as a display of strength, residents who are not affiliated with street gangs also approach black suffering with a “fantastic gloss” (54). Coates utilizes the story of Queen Nzinga’s interaction with a Dutch ambassador to show how the streets can push a distorted narrative. He writes how “the Dutch ambassador tried to humiliate [Nzinga] by refusing her a seat,” and the Queen responded by ordering her advisor to “make a human chair [out] of her body” (45). While this story depicts a body being broken down in order to serve the needs of someone else—just as black Americans are broken down to support the Dream—the focus is placed on the advisor’s versatility in support of the Queen. Coates criticizes both the schools and streets for this glorification of black destruction, since there is “no nobility in falling, in being bound [or] in living oppressed” (55). After promoting the Dream as desirable and glamorizing black Americans’ current plight of systematic injustice, the streets and school work in tandem to enact the final step in consolidating the preservation of black disembodiment.

After accepting the Dream’s foundation of black persecution and dignifying this suffering as a symbol of black strength, Coates reveals how the aforementioned rules of accepting black suffering and ceasing to advocate for a new reality create a system that abolishes any opportunity to seek reformation. The road to alleviating black suffering is hidden “behind the smoke screen of streets and schools” (28), and together their rules act as “the curtains” (28) obscuring any possible future of regaining bodily control; the terms “smoke screen” and “curtains” convey this aspect of seclusion. The schools and streets enforce total assimilation to these rules and eradicate any alternate stances on how black people should live; they collaboratively create a situation where deviation from their strict directives threatens a black American’s life. Success in school equates to embracing the authenticity of the Dream and accepting the curriculum without question or protest, as this is the etiquette of “educated children” (25). Coates believes the “gift of study” is a necessary method to exposing the shackles acting on black Americans, since “a rapture” comes upon “[rejecting] the Dream” (116); such studies that utilize “courageous thinking and honest writing” (50) fail to comply with the school’s censored curriculum, and thus students would “be suspended and sent back to [the] streets” (33). School is the most efficient way to ensure that each new generation of black children adhere to thoughts and behaviors that support the Dream, as the classroom provides censored curriculum and intense supervision. Coates identifies how the trap uses both groups in tandem, since schools that are unable to make students conform proceed to funnel those defiant students into Baltimore’s streets.

These streets in question emphasize the intergalactic distance between the Dream and black reality, and encourage residents to abandon any hopes of escape and embrace “amoral and practical” (25) laws as necessary. In addition to independent study, Coates stresses how rapture exists in life beyond the aforementioned white suburbs. Coates’s wife is an example of how to seek change and benefit from travel. She refuses to restrict herself to living in proximity with Dreamers, since she “never felt quite at home” (117) in a society determined to belittle her. By travelling to Paris, she was able to see and experience how certain practices and ideologies “could be so common in one part of the world and totally absent in another” (119); desiring a change of scenery opened up “a gate to some other blue world” (121). When Coates follows her example and travels to France—a place he previously saw as belonging “in another galaxy” (26)—he learns how he has exaggerated the apparent chasm between himself and the country; lessening this perceived distance by physically changing his location allows him to momentarily experience life “outside of someone else’s dream” (124). While sitting in a French garden, he realizes that in America he “was part of an equation” (124) and that his change of scenery has allowed him to temporarily be freed from this constraint.

This possibility of venturing out and refusing to conform to another person’s dream is not entertained in Baltimore’s streets, as the pursuit of alternative futures would expose the environment’s true unpleasantness. Explaining the desire to leave the streets will reveal how Baltimore citizens’ eyes are “blindfolded by fear” (126), and how choosing to remain is submitting to the “generational chains [confining black people] to certain zones” (124). It has already been mentioned that the streets are a “zone” intentionally created by Dreamers, and that the violent and deadly characteristics of these zones should not be glorified. Exposing these fears—which have been artfully disguised in clothing and dark humor—would displease community members who are content with “a lifestyle of near-death experiences” (22). The dissonance created by exposing these harsh truths would likely lead to Coates being shot or silenced by force, since the ideas he proposes in order to escape these generational chains have been labelled as blasphemy by both the schools and the streets. The danger of the streets lies not only in those content to live in shrouded fear, but also in the actions of patrolling police officers. The hazard that police pose to black Americans is addressed in Between the World and Me, with Coates writing that the negative stereotypes against black Americans mean his son “must be responsible for the worst actions of other black bodies, which, somehow, will always be assigned to him” (71). The hands of prejudiced police or fear-driven gang members is what awaits students who refuse to abide by the school’s strict rules. The trap has been set: stay tough and content in the streets or risk being killed, and stay complacent and subdued in the schools or risk being sent back into the streets to be killed. These groups work together to regulate America’s  systematic destruction of black bodies, since the only immunity from abuse and death lies within the mentality of these fabricated systems dedicated to preserving the Dream.

Despite success in school and descent into gang warfare appearing to be two distinct pathways within American society, Ta-Nehisi Coates reveals how he “came to see the streets and the schools as arms of the same beast” (33). Between the World and Me exposes both groups as manifestations of how America methodically oppresses black people, specifically by accentuating the power and prestige of those who believe they are white. Although his memoir details his personal life experiences, Coates recognizes that America contains “other Baltimores” (23) with the same problems addressed in this text. The early exposure and reinforcement of nationalistic pride towards the Dream encourages citizens to implicity accept that black people must suffer to preserve this fantasy. Disagreeing with this maltreatment is a direct threat to one’s body, and thus compliance and assimilation are fostered within the system at work. Coates is able to “unshackle [his] body” (21) and pursue his burning questions around black history, but such opportunities to escape America’s trap are rare. He encourages his son to follow his example and conduct personal research on how to survive as a black man in America, and makes it clear that attaining the freedom to do so will place him “among the survivors” (129).

Works Cited

Baltimore City Criminal Justice Coordinating Council. Baltimore City Gang Violence Reduction Plan. Governor’s Office of Crime Control and Prevention, 15 November 2006, www.jhsph.edu/research/centers-and-institutes/center-for-prevention-of-youth-viol ence/_pdfs/FINALGANGSTRATEGY.pdf. Accessed 20 March 2021.

Coates, Ta-Nehisi. Between the World and Me. One World, 2015.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexel

by Katherine Comfort

Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s A Discourse on Inequality is an influential work of the early romantic period which has impacted many philosophers throughout the centuries. His views as a privileged and wealthy white man allow him to speak of returning to “the good old days” where men lived for themselves, with the freedom to go and do as they pleased, unshackled by the rules and expectations of modern society. However, his endorsement and justification of the primitive and presocial world soon exposes the denigration of Woman that Rousseau promotes. By placing Man and all his “good” and masculine qualities on a pedestal, he seems to reduce Woman to nothing more than an animal barely more intelligent than the beasts Man hunts. Rousseau demeans Woman and advocates her primary purpose be the Mother, later suggesting that she should be included as a man’s property, thus eliminating any power, individuality, or agency she, along with all humans, rightly deserves. In this essay, I will elucidate why Rousseau places so much emphasis on the presocial, how his biased discussion thwarts any subjectivity that Woman ought to possess, and why he views modern Woman as a dangerous force within society. I will examine these topics by following Rousseau’s flow of argument as he travels through the three stages of mankind—that of the Natural, Infant, and Modern Man. Additionally, I will focus on three controversial scholars who critique Rousseau’s depiction of women: first, Susan Moller Okin who analyzes his entire oeuvre as proof of his sexism in his endorsement of women as subordinate and as property; second, Mira Morgenstern, a feminist who perceives Rousseau as a social critic in favour of women; and finally, Emanuele Saccarelli who believes Rousseau utilizes Machiavellian techniques, pretending to praise tyrannical women and thereby deceiving them into compliance.
Throughout the first section of his treatise, Rousseau praises the earliest stage in human development. Deemed to be the stage of “presocial man,” his perception of how presocial humans survived is clearly glorified and twisted to fit a particular narrative claiming this period as the only time when all humans truly lived equal lives. His first several paragraphs depict early man as formidable, bear-like, and strong—a fierce and solitary predator whose “savage” power quickly teaches larger animals not “to attack [a] man” (Rousseau, A Discourse on Inequality, 83). Further, he applauds the savage man for his, supposedly, unique ability to “assimilate instincts” as part of the process of cross-species observational learning, as this cements the survival of isolated Man (Rousseau, 82). Thus, since Man has no need to learn from members of his own species, he is fully independent and free to live through pure instinct, untethered by “passions” of the body and mind.

Rousseau claims that these passions are artificially developed through the rules and expectations set in place by a modern social environment, which degrades and leads humanity away from the good and natural state of the presocial. In his isolation, presocial Man does not experience the fear and competition from other members of the human race, just the natural fear of strong and ferocious predators as all creatures contend for survival. Rousseau believes that presocial Man survives through his own skills, living moment to moment; he, therefore, has neither the need nor the capability to predict and plan his future. But what of the other half of the human population that Rousseau barely addresses in his discussion? Where are the strong and savage women who hunt for their food, choose their mates, and raise the children they are left to protect and for whom they fend? Rousseau seems to grant subjectivity and agency to only the males of the human species, valorizing the presocial state through traditionally masculine traits, such as strength, agility, and power. Man, thus being a free agent, is able to choose paths according to his needs and desires. Rousseau seems to find in this presocial life an ultimate freedom for Man: untethered and uncommitted to others, he can follow his will and natural passions without a second thought. Rousseau implies that dependence weakens the freedom of Man, yet as Susan Okin suggests in her chapter on “The Natural Woman and her Role,” while the entirety of Rousseau’s argument praises the strong natural man, he “justif[ies] the perpetuation of a distinct and subordinate sex role for the female [claiming] that such a role is natural” (Okin, Women in Western Political Thought, 107).

Continuing with this theme, Okin reveals the inconsistencies in Rousseau’s argument, not only with regard to the Discourse but also to additional written works such as Émile and Letter to d’Alembert, for example. While some feminist critics of Rousseau claim that, when taken as a whole, his oeuvre promotes equality for mankind, Okin finds no such evidence. She detects that Rousseau’s commitment to the saying, “nature never lies,” is not as firm as he claims, for he is constantly altering the definition of what is “natural” with respect to women and how they are supposed to behave (Okin, 6). Summarizing Rousseau, Okin asserts that men and women are naturally independent from one another, having lived “isolated and nomadic lives, totally devoid of cooperation except for the momentary and chance encounters that satisfied their sexual impulses” (Okin, 109). But as soon as Woman becomes capable of making decisions with reason, she is stripped of this ability. Rousseau claims “woman is made to please and be subjected by man” and “it is according to nature for the woman to obey the man” (Okin quoting Rousseau’s Émile, 118). Declaring and then defending the idea that women ought to obey their male superiors, allows Rousseau to justify an inequality based on natural order: “[…]patriarchy is not remarked on by Rousseau as constituting an inequality between two adult human beings. Clearly the human inequality with whose origins the discourse is concerned is solely the inequality between one male and another” (Okin, 113). Rousseau’s entirely unequal and rather sexist views perpetuate men as having rights, freedoms, reason, creativity, and equality while women must be polite, quiet, subordinate, and motherly. Okin notes that “While [Rousseau] felt it was necessary to postulate a contractual origin, albeit a fraudulent one, for the first civil society, in order to refute the idea that ‘proud and unconquerable men’ would never have rushed into slavery, Rousseau did not feel at all compelled to explain why proud and unconquerable women should have done that same unreasonable thing” (Okin, 120). Although his stance on women shifts from nurturing guardians to evil concubines, the double standard he presents for women allows married men to roam about, freely planting their seed with no repercussion while the mother of his children is unable to fend for herself, let alone her child.

The discussion of the mother’s role in Rousseau’s Discourse is very problematic. He believes that there existed no interdependence between human beings in the presocial world. I would argue, in contrast, that humans are fundamentally social beings and, at the very least, have always been in a society of two—the mother and child. The strong, familial bond between mother and child, which offers protection and comfort to both parties, is disregarded by Rousseau and seen as a ploy by the mother “to satisfy her own needs” (Rousseau, 92). To Rousseau, the natural connection between mother and child is so distorted that, were it not for the “habit [that makes the child] dear to her,” “many mothers would naturally give up their child” (Rousseau, 92, 86). Rousseau’s continued criticisms of maternal nature insinuates that children are better off without their mother’s care since children “[do] not hesitate to leave their mother” at the first opportunity once they can fend for themselves (Rousseau, 92). Rousseau applauds these young children as they roam the wilds, reaching manhood with nothing but their instincts, strength, and adaptability about them (inherited solely by their fathers, he implies). But again, what of the female children who wander away from their mothers and depend on themselves? Is their strength and will not as strong as their fathers’ and brothers’ or are they meant to passively exist in the shadows until a man stumbles across a woman and chooses to procreate with her? Rousseau clearly deems the latter to be the natural state of Woman by saying that once “man’s appetite [is] satisfied, the man has no longer any need for [a] particular woman” (Rousseau, 165). The woman ought not to spurn a man’s advances lest she risk diminishing the human population, proving, once again, that Rousseau believes a woman is nothing more than a mother, whose sole purpose is to procreate when Man chooses; reproduction is “her proper purpose” (Okin quoting Rousseau’s Émile, 115) but seeking sex the way a man does makes her “positively treasonous” (Okin, 118). As mentioned above, his statement claiming that the child and mother will not recognize one another as soon as the child gains independence—both humans being fully self-sufficient from any other being after this separation—proves that Woman is equally as strong, intelligent, and independent as Man; however, Rousseau quickly renounces this position. Rousseau’s hypocrisy, once again, dismantles his own argument and credibility by portraying a mother’s natural state as either dependent and incapable of protecting her children, or as strong and free depending on the narrative and expectations he compels modern women to follow.

The entirety of the Discourse is plagued with hypocrisy and while men and women are supposedly equal, as previously shown, Rousseau does not address the female subject in its entirety, but as reduced to a very specific kind of maternal and sexual object. Rousseau implies that motherhood is a purely natural state, and he tries to show this, furthermore, by stating that Woman embodies the idea of “pity” or “compassion.” This is exhibited by her natural inclination to shelter and protect her young ones from danger (Rousseau, 99), the sentiment contributing to “the mutual preservation of the whole species” (Rousseau, 101). Pity, for Rousseau, is the most important “natural” virtue from which all others flow—generosity, clemency, and humanity. Because it exists in a perfect state within the presocial, it also exists in a perfect state within the maternal (Rousseau, 100). However, Rousseau has, thus, manipulated his readers into thinking that this trope of caring and loving mothers is their natural role when he originally argued for a cold and uncaring parent.
Throughout Rousseau’s portrayal of this first presocial stage, he clearly deplores society’s rules and limits because they, supposedly, obstruct the desires and freedoms of men. Isolation allows for independence of mind and spirit—living freely as one pursues nothing more than survival of the species. Competition between individuals for money, status, and property are eliminated when savage man lives and dies “without others noticing that they have ceased to exist and almost without noticing it themselves” (Rousseau, 84). But reverting to primitive and wild ways, after developing as a society for hundreds of years, cannot be done easily. We cannot simply rid ourselves of all responsibilities and desires as we don our loincloths and take to the wilds, and thus, Rousseau has provided an intermediary stage of human development between the presocial and modern man known as the golden age of “infant man.”

Rousseau’s stage of Infant Man consists of hunter-gatherers, where the adoption of natural concern for the preservation of the individual then modulates to become a concern for the preservation and safety of the “clan.” Rousseau, however, criticizes this state for the pride that Man naturally develops for his community, ergo turning into pride of one’s self. Man becomes more concerned, ultimately, with his own private advantage, either by force (if he is strong) or by cunning (if he is physically weak). The “love of happiness” that characterizes the nomadic existence thus transforms into one of self-interest and “the sole motive of human action” (Rousseau, 111). According to Rousseau, this leads to all manner of problems. Man begins to refer to assets as his own personal “possessions” and “properties”: once a value has been placed on certain objects, he must fight and defend his “right” to these properties, leading to quarrels and battles even within his own community. Rousseau argues that it is during this intermediary stage that the first idea of a “family” arises: this is now my family, my wife, my children. However, Okin demonstrates that Rousseau lacks consistency in his teachings, a common theme already mentioned. By previously claiming that savage men and women are naturally equal, there would be no reason for either sex to become subordinate without extreme force and thus enslavement and inequality. She finds that:

Suddenly, in a single paragraph, and virtually without explanation, [Rousseau] postulates “a first revolution,” in which, together with rudimentary tools and the first huts, which together constituted “a sort of property,” appears the very first cohabitation, in the form of the monogamous nuclear family. Suddenly, also without justification, he introduces a complete division of labor between the sexes. Whereas previously the way of life of the two sexes had been identical, now “women became more sedentary and grew accustomed to tend the hut and the children, while the man went to seek their common subsistence.” This division of labor, of course, meant that the entire female half of the species was no longer self-sufficient, and since it had been this very self-sufficiency which had been the guarantee of the freedom and equality that characterized the original state of nature, one might expect, though one will not find, some commentary on the inequality which has thus been established (Okin, 112-113).

If Rousseau were in fact the feminist theorist that some critics claim he is, his definition of “Natural Woman” should not shift depending on the characteristics he believes women ought to possess without grievance. The authenticity and equality of women should not depend on the subjective perspective that Rousseau demands upon the women of his society through the regulation of their education (as seen in Émile) or their forced subordination to both their husbands and the entirety of society’s men.

The role of Woman in this slightly more modern scenario is treated with ambiguity. She is necessary for the security and continuation of the family unit, but she is also—because now a possession—always in jeopardy of being lost or stolen away. It is only during this stage of “mutual” attachment “that conjugal and parental love come into existence,” and furthermore, that the distinction between the sexes comes into stark contrast (Rousseau, 112). According to Rousseau, the woman becomes more sedentary; the man more active but he quickly begins to “soften in body and mind” as he desires conjugal love and other possessions. This ultimately degenerates into real “wants” and, consequently, men are “unhappy in losing their possessions without being happy in possessing them” (Rousseau, 113). Intimate relationships within families cause Man, according to Rousseau, to “shake off [his] original wildness” but in so doing, he becomes a slave to passions and desires that are fatal to happiness and innocence (Rousseau, 113). Man begins to aspire towards achieving merit and esteem, or beauty and value, and these goals ultimately result in the downfall of natural Man—jealousy, vanity, and contempt replace true contentment and self-sufficiency.

In this intermediary stage of Infant Man, Woman continually remains without subjectivity, agency, or equality. Does she have the right to go out and own property? Does she have rights as a mother to raise her own children? I would argue not. During this second section of the Discourse, Rousseau makes the case that men have become “slaves” to their ambition, and this eventually leads to the degeneration of society, to unrest, division, and torment (Rousseau, 119). He also states that this is a result of “the loss of natural pity and compassion.” We should recall from our earlier discussion that pity was the provenance of the maternal realm, so it could be argued that this role of the Mother as the embodiment of pity is now diminishing as well, just as other aspects originally ascribed to the natural are also degenerating. Or is Rousseau, yet again, focusing exclusively on the male subject, and leaving the true role of Woman or Mother unaddressed in this problematic intermediary stage?

The concept of family as a “little society,” and an “unnatural” one at that, becomes the basis of Rousseau’s argument in which he sees this hunter-gatherer stage as a precursor to the full demise of civilization (Rousseau, Discourse, fn. L, 163). On one hand he seems to extoll the “sweet sentiments” that are brought about by family life, but on the other hand, he also claims this as the stage in which ownership, property and self-preservation come to the forefront. Once again, it is striking to note that the male subject has agency in this family scenario—the man travels to acquire land, has children, and competes with his neighbors and fellow men for resources and riches. Does the mother have any true agency here? Even with respect to language, Rousseau claims that language progressed merely because as families began living in close proximity to each other, and as the children strayed farther from home, they needed to learn to communicate. Once again, the Mother seems to be left out of the realm of language and communication, relegated to the periphery of the discussion of family and merely a possession of the male subject.

Rousseau spends a tremendous amount of time in the second section of his Discourse discussing the last and final stage of human development which he calls “civilized” or “modern” society. Within this stage, Modern Man experiences self-interest, competition, weakness, and in sum, inequality to a degree that leaves humanity with little choice but to suffer from the consequences of greed and rivalry. Rousseau’s discussion utilizes a notably gendered (sexist) language in that the Woman, who up to this point was lacking in true subjectivity, now becomes a focus for so much of his ire against the modern world. We see, for example, how Woman, who was once regarded as embodying the virtue of pity, in the degradation of the modern world, has now become a threatening force.

For example, in contrast to his notion of pity, there exists a natural sentiment that “moderates self-love,” contributes to the preservation of the species, and, according to Rousseau, is a fundamentally “ardent and impetuous” passion which “renders the sexes necessary to each other” (Rousseau, 102). Rousseau argues that this sentiment is a “terrible passion which braves all dangers, defies all obstacles and which in its fury seems liable to destroy the very human race it is meant to preserve” (Rousseau, 102). This sentiment is love. Love for Rousseau becomes an “unrestrained and brutal rage” and one which inspires “crimes” and “disorders” (Rousseau, 102). It is during this discussion of the brutal and destructive qualities of love that Woman makes an appearance in Rousseau’s argument and it is precisely here that she at last is given a sense of agency. Whereas in prior discussions she existed as either a maternal object or as a possession of nascent Man, here she comes to the fore, but not to be admired by Rousseau. Rather, she now seems to embody the very attributes that Rousseau despises in modern society. She has become a manipulator of man, a creator of an “unnatural” moral kind of love that engenders hostility, violence, deceit, and conflict:

Let us begin by distinguishing the moral from the physical in the sentiment of love. The physical is that general desire which propels one sex to unite with the other; the moral is that which shapes this desire and fixes it exclusively on one particular object, or at least gives the desire for the chosen object greater degree of energy. Now it is easy to see that the moral part of love is an artificial sentiment, born of usage in society, and cultivated by women with such skill and care in order to establish their empire over men, and so make dominant the sex that ought to obey (Rousseau, 102-03, emphasis added).

In disagreement to the representation of women in this passage, Voltaire succinctly responds by arguing that “Women are capable of doing everything we do: the only difference between them and us is that they are nicer (plus aimables)” (Rousseau quoting Voltaire, 179). Unfortunately, this more positive perception of women is not shared by Rousseau. He continues his barrage by declaring moral love an artificial invention created by women with the intent and purpose of enslaving men, allowing her to have dominance over him. The idea of love can only come into existence when notions of beauty and merit have infiltrated society to such an extent that Man, ever debased to care more and more for external values, becomes enthralled and weakened by the ensnaring sentiment of love. The role of Woman, which in the natural state was one of the passive, impersonal Mother has become the opposite: Woman is now threatening, coercive, manipulative, and ultimately destructive, for she holds the power and sway of love over men:

It is therefore an incontestable fact that it is only in society that even love, together with all of the passions, has acquired that impetuous ardour which so often renders it fatal to men… (Rousseau, 103, emphasis added).

We see in this final argument of the Discourse that Rousseau has departed from the ambivalent middle ground of nascent society and now sees modern society as evil and debased. He has flipped the binary opposition obvious in the first section of this work, so Woman is now characterized as strong, aggressive, dominant, demanding, while Man is weak, passive, dominated, and servile. I would argue that Rousseau changes narratives because he is trying to prove that modern society has now become unequal precisely because Man is now subservient and dependent rather than being independent and strong, like Natural Man. He also wants to show that modern society is degenerating from the effects of “civilized” culture, and especially through the idea of moral love, which is curated in the realm of manipulative and evil Woman. One can see plainly that as the power and influence of women reached new heights during the modern era, society began to disintegrate and succumb to the threatening and debasing influence, leading ultimately, in Rousseau’s view, to its demise, for “in becoming sociable and a slave, [man] grows feeble, timid, servile; and his soft and effeminate way of life completes the enervation both of his strength and his courage” (Rousseau, 86).

In recent years, Rousseau’s works have come under closer scrutiny, especially with regards to the role of Woman and her place within the familial and social realms advocated by Rousseau. The critical approaches taken are varied and far-reaching, encompassing feminist and anti-feminist stances, as well as a more moderate middle ground. In contrast to feminists such as Okin who see the negative undercurrents within Rousseau’s texts aimed towards women as well as the immutable, yet ignored inequality of the sexes, Mira Morgenstern interprets Rousseau with a different and more positive view. She attempts to read Rousseau’s political and fictional texts “on their own terms” (Morgenstern, “The Politics of Ambiguity: Self, Culture and Society in the Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, vii) and in the course of pursuing a feminist interpretation “that unpacks the implications of Rousseau’s conclusions in a way that can ultimately prove liberating to women and to all of humanity” (Morgenstern, 215). Thus, she tries to find coherence in Rousseau’s apparent ambiguity within his argument, and she argues that there is a “strong revolutionary and hopeful strain” within Rousseau’s writings that “calls for engagement on the part of each individual precisely in order to engender authentic change in both the political and personal realms” (Morgenstern, 3). Far from being a defect of his thought, ambiguity in Rousseau’s work is seen as providing “the key to the meaning of life” (Morgenstern, 3). This is a rather confusing assertion considering typical ambiguity in one’s life causes confusion and uncertainty, and within Rousseau, women lack a certainty in their own nature for he describes them in many contradictory statements. However, Morgenstern does note that difficulties arise between the individual’s struggle for a sense of Self within the broader social community that calls for uniformity and communalism. And she recognizes that this balancing act is precarious, especially for women in a patriarchal society: “Consequently,” Morgenstern concludes, “the greatest threat to the achievement of authenticity—particularly where women are concerned—is the ability of inauthenticity to masquerade as its opposite (i.e., authenticity) and therefore potentially to doom all of humanity to perpetrate its own moral and spiritual destruction” (Morgenstern, 6-7).

As Morgenstern reads the Discourse—in particular, the “civilized” yet degenerate stage of modern man—she believes Rousseau is demonstrating what can happen when one chooses “inauthentic” paths in life. But she also argues that Rousseau shows to the reader, especially through his fictional works, another way to reach authenticity, and this is through the family which can “nurture whatever embers of authenticity might exist within an inauthentic world” (Morgenstern, 179). Because women as mothers are the locus around which the family revolves, Morgenstern argues that Rousseau places women as mediators between the private and public spheres, thus giving them a sense of authenticity and agency, but as Morgenstern notes, there are obviously many obstacles that still stand in the way of true subjectivity for women. Despite the fact that Rousseau assigns to women the task of teaching personal authenticity to their children, and for transmitting to their children an ethic that would also make them good citizens of the polis as adults (Morgenstern, 212), she also notes that there are several obstacles that stand in the way of their fulfillment of these tasks: firstly, women’s own training leave them without a clear sense of Self; and, secondly, women’s education is not geared to affairs of public importance so they cannot teach this to their children. In actuality, as we see in Rousseau’s novels, women’s options boil down to a choice between self-imposed subservience or being torn apart by the contradictions and impossibility of what they are asked to do. Rather than seeing this conundrum as the ultimate doom of the family or social life, Morgenstern sees it as offering “a handbook for the options that can be actualized in inauthentic times” (Morgenstern, 215). She goes so far as to state:

Rousseau’s analysis of the possibilities of authentic transformation in an inauthentic world underlines an important source of hope for the future realization of his theory. That is Rousseau’s sense that the root of transformation and revolution lies not with philosophical theories or political power, but rather in the concrete minutiae of everyday life. This is particularly clear within the context of women’s experiences. […Rousseau’s] empowerment of women—emphasizing the personal and domestic roots of the coming political upheaval—reflects the importance of the seemingly trivial to Rousseau’s understanding of the forces that move history (Morgenstern, 215).

In summary, we can see how different feminist critics come to very different conclusions on how to interpret Rousseau. There are many other critics who take a different approach altogether and in fact who see the feminist perspective as falling into a delusional way of thinking. Emanuele Saccarelli, for example, in his article entitled, “The Machiavellian Rousseau: Gender and Family Relations,” argues that Rousseau is in fact writing with great irony rather than ambiguity when describing women as modest, sweet, and graceful, in his dedication to the Discourse (Saccarelli, 45-46). Furthermore, he argues that Rousseau’s intent was “to expose [women’s] unjust and catastrophic domestic rule” (Saccarelli, 483). Thus, in contrast to Morgenstern, who sees Rousseau give women an affirmative role in domestic and social life, Saccarelli states that Rousseau actually believed that women had a duplicitous nature and tricked men into civilization and family life (Saccarelli, 499). Rousseau had “a bitter hostility toward […] sinister matriarchy” (Saccarelli, 501) that according to Saccarelli cannot be ignored, and which must not be ignored according to Okin.

Rousseau’s ambiguity towards Woman’s role remains strong in my opinion because his fear, desire, and personal lack of power causes him to criticize women and their potential agency. While Morgenstern sees the promise in ambiguity, Rousseau’s perpetual indecision as to whether Woman is kind or evil, strong or weak, mother or temptress, independent or dependent leaves no room for any woman to exist as she is. Okin’s essay confirms my belief by discussing a multitude of Rousseau’s texts and displaying his entirely hypocritical doctrine used to force women and girls into roles of submission and inequality. He manipulates, disregards, and penalizes women for their actions, regardless of what role they “choose” for themselves, with no option of redemption or freedom. To claim that Rousseau hopes to further female equality is, in my opinion, a losing battle. His misogynistic writing ought to disillusion any feminist of the possibility that Rousseau values female life as individual—to him, she is not unique, intelligent, or valuable. She is barely more than a possession.

In this paper, I have analyzed Rousseau’s perception of Woman throughout his three stages of humankind: Woman is cast as a maternal object during the presocial; during the stage of “infant man” she becomes property for a man to own and control; yet in modern society she is condemned for becoming a domineering manipulator after possessing her own subjectivity. It is clear that Rousseau’s subtle refusal to grant Woman equal subjectivity disproves that humanity ever lived fairly and equally at all. He criticizes modern society so fervently, in my opinion, because his privileges as an educated man feel threatened when women begin taking equal roles in society. Although Rousseau claims that the presocial is the natural and equal state of humans, this essay’s purpose has been to refute this idea by proving Rousseau’s inherently sexist biases subsequently invalidate his own claims of equality for all.

Works Cited

Morgenstern, Mira. The Politics of Ambiguity: Self, Culture and Society in the Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Ann Arbor: Princeton University, 1990. ProQuest, https://ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/login?url=https://www-proquest-com.ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/dissertations-theses/politics-ambiguity-self-culture-society-works/docview/303878123/se-2?accountid=14656. Accessed 22 Apr. 2021.

Okin, Susan M. The Natural Woman and her Role. In Women in Western Political Thought (pp. 106-139). Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. doi:10.2307/j.ctt24hq74.11. Accessed 20 Apr. 2021.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. A Discourse on Inequality. Translated by Maurice Cranston. London: Penguin Classics, 1984.

Saccarelli, Emanuele. “The Machiavellian Rousseau: Gender and Family Relations in The Discourse on the Origin of Inequality.” Political Theory, vol. 37, no. 4, 2009, pp. 482–510. JSTOR, www.jstor.org.ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/stable/25655496. Accessed 20 Apr. 2021.