A few years ago – 2007, I think – I organized and moderated a panel discussion on habeas corpus and the brazen disregard with which the Bush Administration’s then-recent actions treated the issue. The panel, moderator aside, was quite brilliant: Corey Robin, David Cole, and Aziz Huq each took turns briefly and incisively providing historical context for the habeas discussion, delineating the legal foolishness of the Bush Justice Department’s legal stance, and invoking a series of historical comparisons that put flesh and muscle onto what could’ve been a quite abstract conversation.
When I used to curate public programs, especially those of a political nature, I always took pains to create a dynamic tension between the speakers. Despite my political beliefs, I never wanted to convene a group so like-minded as to make the discussion sterile. I’d failed this time. Every conservative I approached either ignored me or refused to participate. I’m speculating, but I assume they expected an ambush. That wasn’t the case, though. I wanted an honest, substantive discussion of complex, difficult issues. Striking out repeatedly, I donned the cloak of devil’s advocate myself (quite literally, my political sympathies cried) and posed a series of questions grounded in the Bush Administration’s legal arguments, all in the hopes that the discussion wouldn’t devolve into some sort of Z Magazine dramatization. I’m happy to say that we had a good event, though that’s more due to the honesty and integrity of the speakers than any deftness or nuance on my part. At the conclusion of the talk, though, one audience member approached me and said something like, “Thank you for putting this together. But I have some questions. Why weren’t there any women on the panel? Do you realize that you never called on a woman during the question and answer period ? Why not? Did you do that on purpose?”
She was right on all counts. We were a bunch of guys talking, and though fully one third of the evening was devoted to questions and many women had raised their hands to be called on, I only entertained questions from men.
The first question – why no women speakers – didn’t bother me too much. I’d assembled the panel rather quickly in response to something called the Military Commissions Act. In my planning I’d contacted NYU’s powerhouse Karen Greenberg, but she was, unfortunately, unable to participate. She’d suggested Aziz, and I went with her suggestion. David Cole was at the time preparing to argue some of these issues before the Supreme Court, and Corey Robin was doing work very much related to the topic, and he was a close colleague and the first money in. Not bulletproof explanations, but at least I’d tried, not only with Karen but also with several other potential panelists. Besides, I knew this was a flaw; when putting together other events I always recruited female speakers.
The audience member’s other question – why had I not called on women during Q & A – was much more of a fist to the face. The fact that I’d overlooked the female audience members had not occurred to me. I w as stunned silent for a moment, and then I engaged in a bit of forensic reminiscing. Since this was my first time out as moderator, I’d been quite anxious. The room was full past capacity and I had to run the discussion and make sure there were no problems with event logistics. I hadn’t thought about Q & A protocol, and when it came time for questions I’d called on the first hand I saw each time I opened the floor. This seemed fair to me – a way of making sure I didn’t play favorites with friends and colleagues during the questions. But I hadn’t given even the barest consideration to gender parity in the Q & A, assuming that wasn’t an issue as long as I called on the first person out of the gate, if you will.
The audience member responded along the lines of, “I believe you – I can tell by the look on your face that you never thought about this, so I know it wasn’t deliberate. It’s something to think about, though.” I told her my theory about calling on the first hand I saw, and she said that perhaps I should be more deliberate when calling on people. She may have said more, but I’m not sure. In any event, she was right.
I mention all of this because VIDA: Women in Literary Arts recently released a damning study that reveals a deplorable absence of female voices from the pages of our most prominent publications – The Atlantic, The New York Review of Books, The New Republic and on and on. Time and again both authors of books under review and the reviewers themselves are men. As VIDA writes on their site:
The truth is, these numbers don’t lie. But that is just the beginning of this story. What, then, are they really telling us ? We know women write. We know women read. It’s time to begin asking why the 2010 numbers don’t reflect those facts with any equity. Many have already begun speculating; more articles and groups are pointing out what our findings suggest: the numbers of articles and reviews simply don’t reflect how many women are actually writing.
Take a look at the study. The pie charts they’ve assembled are shocking.
The VIDA study is in many ways a blunt instrument. There are several factors that need to be considered before this study could call itself definitive (the percentage of women vs. men that pitch themselves as reviewers against the percentage published for instance). VIDA knows this, and they’re refining their study. Regardless of its few shortcomings, the staggering differences between male and female representation in our most prestigious publications prove undeniable and depressing.
I write about books quite frequently, and I know that I write fairly and with integrity. The process whereby I am assigned a book to review possesses integrity, too. When I’m asked to review a book, I gladly accept as long as there are no conflicts and the subject falls within my capacity to render a worthwhile opinion. And when I pitch titles to my editors I apply these standards plus I select titles that seem particularly interesting to me, and that I have every hope will turn out to be engaging, beautifully written, essential contributions to the culture. If not, why bother wasting a bullet? There are so few pages devoted to books these days, that I would rather not waste the time and space on something that doesn’t need to be in print. This doesn’t always work out since I usually pitch review ideas before I read the book, but it seems essentially fair. But now VIDA has me thinking.
Over the past four years I’ve published around 30 reviews. Of the books I’ve reviewed, only four were written by women (I reviewed a fifth, but the editor killed the piece after the book ended up bearing no resemblance to what the catalog copy promised). I’m afraid to calculate the percentage on that, but it’s bad. Now, I tend to write about charlatans, scoundrels, raconteurs, and criminals, at least when I get to choose. Part of me thinks that many more men write about these subjects than women. And even if that instinct is wrong, I can confidently say that when I am looking for books to review the above considerations – interest in the subject and hope that the book is good – guide my decision-making. But as with my faulty selection of audience questioners, those criteria now seem suddenly wrong. At least incomplete.
To be fair to myself, when I look at the titles I’ve pitched but that were not picked up, my numbers rise considerably. I pitched more books by women than I’ve been asked to write about, but the number remains far from equal. Interestingly, with one exception I’ve never been assigned a first-time review with a new publication when I’ve highlighted a female-authored book as a potential first review. Also to be fair, most of those places have never given me an assignment at all. Perhaps I should always introduce myself to new markets by pitching biographies of Charlatan Heston penned by former Navy SEALs.
There’s no willing conspiracy here as far as I’m concerned. The people I’ve written for are, without fail, inspired, smart, engaged advocates of literary culture. Besides, I tend to select the majority of books that I review, and these days I tend to get assigned what I pitch. “It’s not you,” I now say to my editors and to the world, “it’s me.” But when it comes down to it, I’m obviously, however minor, part of a problem, and I’m not exactly sure what to do with this humiliating revelation.
Keep it in mind? Certainly.
Do better, sure, but what does that mean when I’m writing about what interests me, and to select books by women due to their authorship seems, well, a diminished way of approaching my work? That said, I’m sure some people will say I’ve always done that.
Realize that even when you’re lucky enough to participate in an enlightened realm of public discourse that that discourse remains enmeshed in a cycle of thoughtlessness, the result of which is unequal opportunity? Without a doubt.
Does anyone have any questions?