The Internet is for Misogyny (At Least for Some Men) | Institute for Family Studies
Misogyny is the hatred of, contempt for, or prejudice against women or girls. Misogyny is The counterpart of misogyny is misandry, the hatred or dislike of men; the . However, she argues that this a distortion of the "healthy relationship of. According to this, if a man had a negligent or even violent mother, sister, teacher, or girlfriend, his feelings for and relationship with them affect the way they see. Commonly used to describe men who hate women, the last place you'd expect to find a modern-day misogynist is in a solid relationship.
It also undermines male-female relations, marriage, gender equality, and politics. And it hurts young, unmarried men, who are less likely to work, more likely to engage in risky behavior, be in poorer health, and be drawn to alt-right politics.
Men who embrace more traditional attitudes about masculinity—believing that men are superior to women, should control women, and have as many sexual partners as possible—were found to be six times more likely to harass women online or in person, according to a study by Promundoa gender-equity organization.
However, many men complain, with much justification, that they are whipsawed between conflicting ideas about what it means to be a man.
The Internet is for Misogyny (At Least for Some Men)
Others say that feminism has done a lot for women but little for most men. The relationship between traditional masculinity and misogyny is complicated. Although many such men may resort to putting down and harassing women online, many others see traditional ideas as reasons to be gallant, support and defend women, and be responsible to their wives and families.
Technology, if not a cause, is certainly an enabler of men spewing vitriol about women. Beyond the generic attacks on women or the trash talk about well-known women is a burgeoning world of what might be called personalized misogyny. Many say that Tinder is a hotbed of vulgarity and misogyny.
There are the jokes about women, about wives, about mothers, about raising daughters, about female bosses. They are told in my presence by men who are meant to care about me, just to get a rise out of me, as though I am meant to find funny a reminder of my second-class status. I am meant to ignore that this is a bullying tactic, that the men telling these jokes derive their amusement specifically from knowing they upset me, piss me off, hurt me.
They tell them and I can laugh, and they can thus feel superior, or I can not laugh, and they can thus feel superior. Heads they win, tails I lose. I am used as a prop in an ongoing game of patriarchal posturing, and then I am meant to believe it is true when some of the men who enjoy this sport, in which I am their pawn, tell me: I love you, my niece. I love you, my friend. I am meant to trust these words.
There are the occasions that men — intellectual men, clever men, engaged men — insist on playing devil's advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading Women's Issues.
These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, wrestle over details, argue just for fun.
And they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps rising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? There is the perplexity at my fury that my life experience is not considered more relevant than the opinionated pronouncements of men who make a pastime of informal observation, as if womanhood were an exotic locale which provides magnificent fodder for the amateur ethnographer.
And there is the haughty dismissal of my assertion that being on the outside looking in doesn't make one more objective. It merely provides a different perspective.
There are the persistent, tiresome pronouncements of similitude between men's and women's experiences, the belligerent insistence that handsome men are objectified by women, too, that women pinch men's butts sometimes, too, that men are expected to look a certain way at work, too, that women rape, too, and other equivalencies that conveniently and stupidly ignore institutional inequities that mean X rarely equals Y. And there are the long-suffering groans that meet any attempt to contextualise sexism and refute the idea that such indignities, grim though they all may be, are not necessarily equally oppressive.
There are the stereotypes — oh, the abundant stereotypes — about women, not me, of course, but other women, those women with their bad driving and their relentless shopping habits and their PMS and their disgusting vanity and their inability to stop talking and their disinterest in Important Things and their trying to trap men and their getting pregnant on purpose and their false rape accusations and their being bitches, sluts, whores, cunts.
And I am expected to nod in agreement, and I am nudged and admonished to agree. I am expected to say these things are not true of me, but are true of women am I seceding from the union?
Misogyny - Wikipedia
I am expected to put my stamp of token approval on the stereotypes. Between you and me, it's all true. That's what is wanted from me. Abdication of my principles and pride, in service to a patriarchal system that will only use my collusion to further subjugate me.
This is a thing that is asked of me by men who purport to care for me. There is the unwillingness to listen, a ferociously stubborn not getting it on so many things, so many important things.
12 Warning Signs That Reveal A Man Is A Misogynist
And the obdurate refusal to believe, to internalise, that my outrage is not manufactured and my injury not make-believe — an inflexible rejection of the possibility that my pain is authentic, in favour of the consolatory belief that I am angry because I'm a feminist rather than the truth: And there is the denial about engaging in misogyny, even when it's evident, even when it's pointed out gently, softly, indulgently, carefully, with goodwill and the presumption that it was not intentional.
There is the firm, fixed, unyielding denial — because it is better and easier to imply that I'm stupid or crazy or hysterical, that I have imagined being insulted by someone about whom I care just for the fun of it!
Not every man does all of these things, or even most of them, and certainly not all the time. But it only takes one, randomly and occasionally, exploding in a shower of cartoon stars like an unexpected punch in the nose, to send me staggering sideways, wondering what just happened. I certainly didn't see that coming.
Misogyny, up close and personal
These things are not the habits of deliberately cruel men. They are, in fact, the habits of the men in this world I love quite a lot. All of whom have given me reason to mistrust them, to use my distrust as a self-protection mechanism, as an essential tool to get through every day, because I never know when I might next get knocked off-kilter with something that puts me in the position, once again, of choosing between my dignity and the serenity of our relationship.
It can come out of nowhere, and usually does. Which leaves me mistrustful by both necessity and design. Not fearful, just resigned — and on my guard.
More vulnerability than that allows for the possibility of wounds that do not heal. Wounds to our relationship, the sort of irreparable damage that leaves one unable to look in the eye someone that you loved once upon a time. This, then, is the terrible bargain we have regretfully struck: Men are allowed the easy comfort of their unexamined privilege, but my regard will always be shot through with a steely, anxious bolt of caution.
A shitty bargain all around, really. But there it is.
There are men who will read this post and think, huffily, dismissively, that a person of colour could write a post very much like this one about white people, about me. So could a lesbian, a gay man, a bisexual, an asexual. So could a trans or intersex person which hardly makes a comprehensive list. I'm OK with that. I don't feel hated. I feel mistrusted — and I understand it.