off our backs, January 2001 V.31; N.1 p. 11, Word Count: 1642
Alyn Pearson
Pardon me for being so blunt.
Or don't.
Frankly I am sick of apologizing for my unfettered hatred of men. I am even sicker of other people apologizing too, whether it is in my name or in the name of the sacred patriarchy. I enjoy hating men much the same way they enjoy hating women, only instead of raping or beating them, I write nasty little pieces. Or I preach to my friends. I don't hate harmfully. Though hating harmfully happens. Unfortunately, nobody speaks of hating as a joy, but rather solely as an unfortunate societal glitch. Hating men is no glitch. It is a reaction that can either be enacted with secrecy or shame or with thrill and enjoyment. I choose the latter. You see, I guarantee you that many, many if not most women hate men, but they do so in secret. Even in secret from themselves. I am sure that these women spend sleepless nights wondering about their anger or sadness after a daily bout with the patriarchy. I just ask that these same women recognize their oppressors and learn, instead of fearing the hims, to hate the hims.
I am trying not to be political in this treatise; I am trying to be frank, honest, perhaps a bit funny. I won't speak of rape or war (though men created both). I won't speak of guns or drugs (though men employ both). I will instead speak of this "hatred" that brings me so much happiness. I would like to take this opportunity to explain the word and concept of "hate" that I evoke in this essay. Because I can see some of you now, brows furrowed, thinking what is this woman talking about? Hatred, used by an empathist, a counselor, a nurturing and loving feminist/woman inspires nothing but negativity. I am not speaking of the hatred bred by fear, anger, and ignorance employed by Hitler and the next generations of white supremacists (men), nor the hatred of African-Americans acted out in lynching, nor the hatred of women carried out through beating and raping. This is a more strategic hatred, one that exists purely in the intellectual realm as I do not now nor ever intend on eliminating men from the earth through violence or entrapment (I think they are doing just fine in that arena all by their little selves). This "hatred," a red flag word that promptly gets surrounded by negative connotations, is a productive one that involves positioning thoughts so that we can take some power. Feminists sometimes get so trapped in defending: but I like men, I swear, I have a boyfriend or a best friend...blah blah blah, that they forget that men, while occasionally nice and kind and truthful, are also a body socialized into enemies. These feminists forget that we are not here to fucking please men, make them think that we still love them though we love ourselves now too. The hatred that I speak of firmly remembers that women are women, usually wonderful, great, and grand. And men are men, often conspiring, violent, and manipulative.
Might I also choose now to tell you that my theory on hate is like a coin, circular. Hate comes out of love and vice versa. Hate is not indifference; it is smeared with implication and attachment. Hate stems from a very deep love, the other side of the coin. Whether it be love of self and hatred of what threatens that self, or perhaps love of another who disappoints and betrays what you though he/she should be, hatred does not appear without the very complex emotion of love firmly attached. Women love men as a necessity, through relationships ranging from family to mentor.
I was not so much younger than now when I first dared to hate one. He (of course) is my father. And I realized, by golly, that he was wrong. And yet his certain mistake did not allow me a word in edgewise to criticize as his booming voice overtook my frailer protests. And so I smiled, cleared the table, and went up to my room to hate his stinking guts until breakfast. I read a book. I folded my clothes and talked on the phone. And I realized that he needed to be hated, not disrespectfully as my father, but with respect to his maleness. And so, under the shining sun of morning, I reappeared. I smiled, the dutiful daughter. I listened to him speak of golf and big breasts with the tongue-biting solidarity that I know I share with most women.
Only most women don't call it hatred. And if they do recognize hatred of men they do so incorrectly. They call it feminism. Feminism, my dears, is an empowerment ideal that places the institution of men in question. Feminism itself is not even close to hating men. What feminists do is question power structures and institutions that oppress women. And these power structures and institutions just happen to be created and run by men. But it is not the men that feminists seek to "destroy," it is the legacy of patriarchal power. I am not suggesting political feminism to all women (of course I am). I am suggesting that you hate that Man who stares at you while you walk past, carrying your laundry basket, while you dare to bare an inch of flesh. I am suggesting that while you smile at the bartender who tickles your palm, you hate him too. And might I too suggest that when all the boys at your activist meeting to stop globalization interrupt you or when you and they are planning a punk rock show and they talk over your ideas, that you hate them in return. Not "them" in their individuality, their person, their named self. But in their gendered male body.
So many of my straight friends come to me (the ever-radical feminist) with complaints about their current bedfellows. Why, they ask, is he such an asshole to me? Why does he lie, cheat, manipulate? Because, my dears, he is male. It is the nature of the beast. And this is where the secret lies. As I write this now, my friend widens her eyes and asks Do You Really Hate Men? Yup. I say. I really do. But I have been in love with them, I am fathered and brothered by two of them, and I certainly take joy in interacting with many of them on a daily basis. But most men that I find myself involved with have achieved the unachievable. They have overcome maleness, in the bodily, societal sense. They accept criticism and recognize inequality. Occasionally, one will even admit privilege.
Men walk around this planet with the unwavering knowledge that they rule. They rule over schools and businesses. Towns and countries. They rule over children and minorities. Men understand without ever having been told that they are right. And this is what makes them such assholes. When you have an inbred arrogance, you are undoubtedly going to appear overbearing and rude. You are undoubtedly going to alienate others and infringe upon autonomy. Which is fine (not really). But if we are going to allow for this unquestioned dominance of males, then females should certainly be allotted a bunch of hatred. Right?
There is a power dynamic between them and us. Even women who are anti-feminists (because you think we are all man-hating dykes) have to recognize the vulnerability of women as opposed to men. And as we all know by now, revolution and change are not happened upon through acceptance of status quo. Any and all major overthrows began with a hatred of sorts. The French peasants hated the monarchy and the aristocracy. The Americans the British Colonists. I am positive that dinner conversations of these eras consisted of heated commentary laced with hate-speak. And too I am sure that interactions between the peasant and the aristocrat, the American and the Tory consisted of teeth-clenched pleasantries couched in inner despisation. Such is the nature of interaction. Alternatives are created underground, but in the presence of the enemy one must be supplied with an armory of bon mot.
So what has any of this got to do with hating men? I guarantee you that there lies no complacency in the core of women. I guarantee you there is not a female gendered body in this world that would not drool over the idea of having a modicum of power and control. And hating men is only one step. I do not suggest for those more timid than I a political platform of such bitter animosity, for that will get you nowhere but personally satisfied to see men squirm at the (clearly irrational) thought of a big dyke running the world. But I do offer up the suggestion for you women out there, pushing at the glass ceiling, folding laundry, raising children all alone, shopping for your hubbie's tighti whities, teaching an insolent class, sitting in a plushly coveted government seat, to those and many more; I suggest hating the men that stroll about. I merely ask that you sample a bit of this medicine upon confronting the penis-packing menace to society. I swear to you it will give name to those fears and sparks of anger. At the most it will make you rebel at the very least make good coffee conversation. You may start to love women. And hopefully yourself.
I offer this idea as therapy to my friends who, though not self-identified feminists (for fear of offending their boyfriends/husbands/teachers/preachers), seem to benefit greatly from it. I don't suggest hating Bob, Dan, or Adam. I suggest hating the internal force that creates strife, hating it enough to recognize its adverse effects and hence creating your own modalities to subvert it. Just as women are more than rapeable, ogleable cunts, men are more than ruling, dominating phalluses. But since they so accurately posit us in our roles, why not do the same for them? At least mentally.
On hating men. I would not advise killing them, poisoning their beef, or putting super hot peppers in their underwear. Just grit your teeth, recognize, and survive.

Source:http://www.offourbacks.org/MorFeat.htm#OnHating