Tag Archives: women

Patriarchy, Matriarchy, and the Question of Social Design

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In the long sweep of human history, few structures have shaped daily life as thoroughly as systems of gendered power. Patriarchy and matriarchy are often presented as opposites, but this framing obscures more than it reveals. One is a historically dominant system of centralized authority. The other is a set of social arrangements that redistribute power, responsibility, and meaning in fundamentally different ways. Understanding the distinction is less about reversing hierarchy and more about examining which values a society chooses to place at its core.

Patriarchy is best understood not simply as male leadership, but as a worldview. Authority is concentrated, legitimacy flows downward, and social order is maintained through hierarchy. Political power, economic control, inheritance, and cultural narratives tend to align around masculine-coded traits such as dominance, competition, and control. Caregiving and relational labor are treated as secondary, often invisible, despite being essential to social survival. Even when patriarchal systems soften over time, their underlying logic remains intact. Power is something to be held, defended, and exercised over others.

Matriarchy, by contrast, is frequently misunderstood as a mirror image of patriarchy. Anthropological evidence suggests otherwise. Societies described as matriarchal or matrilineal rarely exclude men or invert domination. Instead, they organize authority around kinship, continuity, and shared responsibility. Descent and inheritance often pass through the maternal line, anchoring identity in stable social bonds. Decision-making tends to be collective, with influence distributed across elders, family networks, and community councils rather than vested in singular rulers.

The most compelling argument for matriarchal systems lies not in claims of moral superiority, but in outcomes. Where patriarchy centralizes power, matriarchy diffuses it. This structural difference reduces the risk of authoritarian drift and limits the social damage caused by individual ambition. Authority becomes situational rather than absolute, exercised in service of group continuity rather than personal dominance.

Care occupies a radically different position in these systems. In patriarchal cultures, care is often framed as a private obligation or charitable act. In matriarchal societies, care functions as infrastructure. Child-rearing, elder support, emotional labor, and social repair are recognized as essential to collective resilience. Policies and customs evolve to protect long-term wellbeing rather than prioritize short-term extraction, whether economic or political.

Violence, too, is treated differently. Patriarchal systems have historically rewarded aggression, conquest, and coercion with status and legitimacy. Militarization becomes a cultural ideal rather than a last resort. Matriarchal societies, while not free of conflict, tend to favor mediation, kinship accountability, and reconciliation. Social cohesion is preserved by repairing relationships rather than punishing transgression alone.

Identity formation reveals another contrast. Patriarchy emphasizes individual achievement and competitive success. Worth is measured by rank, wealth, or dominance. Matriarchal systems emphasize relational identity. Individuals are defined by their roles within a web of mutual dependence. This orientation fosters cooperation and shared accountability, particularly during periods of crisis or scarcity.

Gender roles themselves often prove more flexible in matriarchal contexts. Patriarchy enforces rigid norms while presenting them as natural or universal. Matriarchal systems decouple masculinity from rule and femininity from subservience. Men retain agency and dignity without being positioned as default authorities. Leadership becomes contextual rather than gender-mandated.

It is important to note that few contemporary thinkers advocate for a pure matriarchy imposed upon modern states. The more serious project is post-patriarchal rather than anti-male. It asks whether societies organized around care, continuity, and distributed authority are better equipped to face complex global challenges than those organized around dominance and extraction.

From a cultural perspective, the question is not which gender should rule. It is which values should shape the structures that govern collective life. History suggests that systems prioritizing care, shared power, and relational responsibility produce more stable and humane outcomes. In an era defined by ecological strain, demographic shifts, and social fragmentation, these lessons are less ideological than practical.

It has long been argued that culture is not destiny, but design. Patriarchy is one design among many, not an inevitability. Matriarchal principles offer an alternative blueprint, not for reversing oppression, but for dismantling it altogether.

On Grown Men and Their Troubling Aversion to Female Heroes

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Welcome to the 21st century, where on one hand we have space travel, near-instant communication across the globe, and AI that can write essays about gladiators (I think, based on context). On the other hand, there exists an astonishing subset of adult human males who loudly complain whenever a TV show or movie gives a sword, a spotlight, or even a gladiator’s loincloth to a woman. Yes women leading stories – how utterly terrifying.

Let’s be clear: The House of Ashur is thriving with critics praising its storytelling and performances. Yet its fan numbers are being dragged down by vote-bombing campaigns from folks who apparently believe that Achilla (a fierce female gladiator protagonist) is too much to handle. That reaction isn’t just silly, it’s fish-slapping-ridiculous. These are people who, given a choice between a well-written lead and…..well, literally nothing else, somehow pick nothing elsejust because they don’t want it to be a woman. Really.

You might remember a certain Captain Marvel movie that suffered a similar fate before it was even in theaters. Hundreds of thousands of online ratings were dumped on the film before anyone had seen it, not because the plot was bad, but because the lead was female and some men (yes, mostly male) just couldn’t abide the idea that a woman could be “the big one” for a change. Review bombing became so bad that Rotten Tomatoes had to change their rating rules to stop it.  

Now, it’s easy to laugh – and we should – because the idea of voting against something simply because a woman is at the center is like refusing to eat soup because the spoon is pink. It’s arbitrary. If the story’s good, the gender of the lead doesn’t matter for most people. Ask yourself: would you care if Indiana Jones were a woman if the script were fire? What about James Bond? Samus Aran? Sarah Connor? The answer for most fans is no – those characters are beloved precisely because they’re compelling, not because they fit some old “male lead only” checklist.

When critics sneer at female leads in genre stories, they often don’t realize how absurd it looks from the outside. Complaining that female heroes “ruin” a franchise is like saying new toppings on pizza ruin Italian cuisine. Spoiler alert: there’s pizza with pineapple and it still exists. And it sells! Some people love it, some hate it, and the world keeps spinning.

Part of the “backlash” is rooted in fandom tradition resisting change – a legacy of decades when the default hero was male, yet media evolves. Women commanding the screen is not a threat to masculinity any more than men playing with dolls was a threat to toy sales. And when the backlash is so loud it drowns out the actual audience? That’s not fandom, it’s performance art disguised as insecurity.

Here’s the real kicker: many stories with female protagonists already succeedwithout complaint. Wonder Woman kicked ass at the box office, Xena ruled the ’90s, and modern audiences adore characters like Buffy, Rey, and Furiosa. They weren’t treated like novelty, they were embraced for what they were: interesting heroes with stories worth telling.  

So to the gentlemen (and keyboard gladiators) who can’t stomach a woman front and center: relax. Pop some popcorn, enjoy the spectacle, and if it’s not your cup of tea, fine. But don’t pretend that a female lead is a threat, it’s just a story, not an invasion force. Unless she actually is an invasion force, in which case….. alright, fair. That would be awesome.

In the end, if a story is good, its hero – male, female, gladiator, intergalactic space slug – deserves to be celebrated. Voting against something because of its protagonist’s gender isn’t just outdated, it’s downright comedic. And frankly, Achilla deserves better.

The Grammar of Entitlement

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There is a kind of violence that rarely makes headlines. It doesn’t leave bruises or require an alibi, yet it shapes how millions of women move through the world. It lives in tone, expectation, and entitlement: the quiet insistence that a man’s desire constitutes a claim. This is the grammar of entitlement, and it underwrites much of what we call everyday life. When men are taught that kindness, attention, or money are currencies that purchase intimacy, the refusal of that transaction feels like theft. And from that imagined theft, violence grows, not only in action, but in attitude. It becomes the background noise of a culture that still believes women’s bodies are communal property, merely distributed through different forms of politeness.

Entitlement begins in subtle places. It begins in the stories boys are told about conquest, romance, and “getting the girl.” It begins in the way girls are socialized to soften their refusals, to keep themselves safe through diplomacy. This is not simply social conditioning; it is an architecture of expectation built into language itself. In most heterosexual narratives, the man’s desire drives the story. Her consent is not the point of origin but the obstacle, the dramatic tension to be overcome. Even the romantic comedy, that seemingly benign genre, is often structured around a man wearing down resistance until “no” becomes “yes.” The myth of persistence has always been the moral camouflage of entitlement.

When that persistence is frustrated, resentment follows. We are now witnessing an era where this resentment has become communal, a kind of organized grievance. It tells men that the modern world has conspired to deny them what they were promised: sex, affection, attention, reverence. The rhetoric of the “lonely man” often cloaks this in pathos, but loneliness itself is not the problem. It is the conviction that someone else must be blamed for it that turns grief into hostility. Within that hostility lies the logic of control: if women are free to choose, then men must find ways to reclaim authority over choice itself.

Violence begins there, long before it reaches the body. It begins in words, in the erosion of empathy, in the idea that intimacy is a right to be exercised rather than a gift to be offered. It manifests in the digital sphere where harassment, threats, and objectification form an ambient hum of hostility that too many women learn to normalize. The technology changes, but the dynamic is ancient: a man’s sense of rejection transforms into moral outrage, and his outrage becomes justification. This is why sexual violence cannot be separated from cultural entitlement; they are different verses of the same song.

We have grown used to defining violence by its visibility. We recognize bruises, but not the psychic contortions that come from being reduced to a function. When women describe the exhaustion of navigating entitlement: the emotional labour of softening refusals, the hypervigilance required to stay safe, they are often accused of exaggeration. Yet what they describe is the constant negotiation of ownership: whose comfort matters, whose boundaries are negotiable, whose will defines the encounter. Violence, in this sense, is not the breakdown of civility but its shadow. What civility hides so that power can feel like courtesy.

To name entitlement as violence is to understand that harm is cumulative. A woman who spends years accommodating the moods of men who believe they are owed her body or attention carries a kind of invisible scar tissue. It may never be recorded in police reports, but it shapes her choices, her confidence, her trust. The body remembers what the culture denies. Each unsolicited touch, each angry message, each demand for emotional compliance becomes another layer in a collective memory of threat.

And yet, we are told that men are the ones suffering. The so-called “male loneliness epidemic” has become a rallying cry; less for compassion than for backlash. The argument goes that women’s independence has left men adrift, unwanted, and angry, but this, too, is a distortion. Loneliness deserves empathy; entitlement does not. The problem is not that women refuse to date men, but that so many men interpret refusal as harm. To frame women’s autonomy as cruelty is to invert the moral order entirely, to make self-protection an act of aggression.

What we are witnessing is not a crisis of connection, but a crisis of entitlement. The more women assert boundaries, the more those boundaries are read as insults. The cultural reflex is to soothe male discomfort rather than question its legitimacy, yet a society that prioritizes men’s hurt feelings over women’s safety is not a society in decline, rather it is one in denial. 

If there is hope, it lies in unlearning this grammar. In rewriting the story so that desire is not a claim, but a conversation. In teaching boys that intimacy cannot be earned through performance or purchase, only invited through respect. In teaching girls that their boundaries are not provocations, but personal truths. This is the slow, quiet revolution that changes the world not by policy alone, but by perception: the recognition that violence often begins in the stories we tell about what is owed.

The antidote to entitlement is not shame, but empathy. Real empathy, the kind that accepts another’s autonomy as equal to one’s own. To desire without entitlement is to love without domination. It is to see the other as subject, not supply. Until we learn that difference, every act of so-called romance will carry within it the ghost of coercion. Every story that begins with “he wanted” will risk ending with “she feared.”

To unlearn that pattern is the work of generations, but it begins with a simple act of linguistic courage: to name entitlement for what it is, quiet, persistent form of violence.

References:
1. Abbey, A., Jacques-Tapia, A., Wegner, R., Woerner, J., Pegram, S., Pierce, J. (2004). “Risk Factors for Sexual Aggression in Young Men.” Journal of Interpersonal Violence. – The article notes that among perpetrators salient cues include “a sense of entitlement” to sexual access and anger.
2. Jewkes, R., Flood, M., Lang, J. (2015). “New learnings on drivers of men’s physical and/or sexual violence against women.” Global Health Action. – This paper connects patriarchal privilege, gender hierarchy, and entitlement to men’s violence against women.
3. Safer (Australia). “What do we mean by male entitlement and male privilege?” – A practical resource that outlines how male entitlement operates in relationships: e.g., entitlement to sex, entitlement to compliance, entitlement to emotional accommodation.
4. Kelly, I. & Staunton, C. (2021). “Rape Myth Acceptance, Gender Inequality and Male Sexual Entitlement: A Commentary on the Implications for Victims of Sexual Violence in Irish Society.” International Journal of Nursing & Health Care Research. – This article explicitly links ideologies of male sexual entitlement with sexual violence and victim-blaming.
5. Equimundo / Making the Connections. “Harmful Masculine Norms and Non-Partner Sexual Violence.” – Provides global evidence that attitudes of male privilege and entitlement are consistently associated with rape perpetration.
6. Santana, M. C., Raj, A., Decker, M. R., La Marche, A., Silverman, J. G. (2008). “Masculine Gender Roles Associated with Increased Sexual Risk and Intimate Partner Violence Perpetration among Young Adult Men.” Culture, Health & Sexuality. – Links traditional masculine ideologies (including control and entitlement) with sexual violence/partner violence.
7. World Health Organization / United Nations documentation (summarised in various reviews) linking gender inequality, harmful norms, and violence against women: For instance – “The Association Between Gender Inequality and Sexual Violence in U.S. States.” BMC Public Health. – Demonstrates how structural gender inequality correlates with sexual violence prevalence.  

When a Sex Worker Calls a Lawyer a Whore: Feminism, Hypocrisy, and the Weight of Words

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I recently witnessed a moment that was, in equal measure, jarring, ironic, and deeply revealing: a sex worker called a lawyer a whore. The word hit the air like a slap, not just because of who said it, but because of what it exposed. This wasn’t just a spat. It was a cultural moment that pulled back the curtain on how we still weaponize language soaked in misogyny, even among those who should, by all rights, know better.

Now, let’s pause here. The term whore has long been used to shame, control, and degrade women, especially those who dare to transgress sexual norms. Yet, in recent years, many sex workers have reclaimed it, asserting their agency and challenging the stigma. To hear someone from within that world hurl it as an insult is, on the surface, ironic. But beneath that irony lies something far more complex: a commentary on respectability, power, and the hypocrisy that still riddles both feminist and professional spaces.

When a sex worker calls a lawyer a whore, they’re not talking about sex. They’re talking about compromise, about selling out, about being willing to do anything for money or power while cloaking it in the illusion of respectability. It’s a sharp dig at the moral contradictions we tolerate in professional life. After all, lawyers and especially those in corporate or political circles, are often paid handsomely to defend the indefensible. They play the game in tailored suits and courtrooms, while sex workers do it in ways society still deems unacceptable. Yet only one of them gets a LinkedIn profile and a pension.

This, to me, is the hypocrisy at the heart of modern feminism. Too often, it uplifts professional women while distancing itself from those who work outside “respectable” labour categories. Mainstream feminism has made great strides, but it still struggles to make room for those whose empowerment doesn’t come with a university degree or a boardroom badge. Sex workers, domestic labourers, and other marginalized women are too often left out of the conversation, unless they serve as cautionary tales or symbols to be rescued.

And this is why the insult stung so sharply. The word “whore” still holds power, not because of what it means, but because of the shame we still attach to it. When used against a lawyer, it highlights the deep discomfort we have with the idea that all labour, whether it involves a courtroom or a bedroom, is transactional. That both women may be “selling themselves” in some fashion, but only one gets to pretend it’s noble.

Feminism, if it means anything today, must confront this hypocrisy head-on. It must stop drawing lines between the respectable and the reviled, the educated and the erotic. It must challenge the systems that make one woman a whore and another a hero, when both may be navigating the same capitalist dance – just with different music.

In that sense, maybe the insult wasn’t ironic at all. Maybe it was deadly accurate.

Reinforcing Mononormativity at Women’s Expense

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Jennyfer Jay’s writing and social media presence offer an intimate, often vulnerable look into her personal experiences navigating contemporary womanhood. Her reflections on casual dating, relationships, and emotional growth resonate with many women grappling with a world that seems increasingly disconnected and transactional. However, despite the sincerity of her storytelling, her work implicitly reinforces mononormative narratives, those that assume monogamy as the only valid or fulfilling form of romantic relationship. This framing not only limits the imagination of what relationships can look like, but paradoxically sets women up for failure in the very dynamics she critiques.

Jay’s essays frequently center on the emotional toll of casual sex and emotionally unavailable men. While these are valid themes, her framing often implies that the natural arc of a woman’s life, and healing, is toward securing emotional commitment from one man. This reinforces the mononormative ideal that stability, validation, and maturity are achieved through exclusive partnership. In her work, men who avoid commitment are treated as broken or selfish, while women who desire commitment are portrayed as evolved or emotionally ready. This binary undercuts the possibility that diverse relationship structures, such as ethical non-monogamy, relationship anarchy, or solo polyamory, might also offer meaningful paths toward emotional growth, security, and connection.

What Jay’s narratives tend to overlook is the systemic nature of the mononormative trap. By valorizing monogamous commitment as the end goal, she leaves little room for women to explore other models of love and companionship without shame. Her reflections, while emotionally resonant, often risk pathologizing women’s unhappiness as stemming from men’s refusal to play their part in the monogamous script, rather than from the script itself. In this way, Jay participates in a cultural feedback loop where women are socialized to desire a particular kind of relationship, and then blamed, or encouraged to blame men, when it fails.

This dynamic is particularly evident in her TikTok content, where Jay sometimes uses the confessional format to speak to younger women about “knowing their worth” or “not settling for less.” While empowering on the surface, the subtext implies that true worth is ultimately validated by a partner who chooses exclusivity. This undermines women who find satisfaction in non-exclusive relationships, or who define emotional success on different terms. Furthermore, it shifts the burden of relational success onto women’s ability to “choose better,” rather than questioning the limiting structures themselves.

To be clear, Jennyfer Jay’s work has value: it opens important conversations, validates emotional experiences, and challenges harmful behaviour, but it is also crucial to interrogate the assumptions it upholds. A deeper, more liberatory feminist approach would challenge the centrality of monogamy altogether, recognizing that love, commitment, and emotional fulfillment need not conform to normative ideals. Without this lens, Jay’s content risks entrenching the very narratives it seeks to critique, leaving women emotionally entangled in systems that do not serve them.

Sources:
• Jennyfer Jay on Medium: https://medium.com/@JennyferJay
• Jennyfer Jay on TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@jennyferjay
• Pieper, M. (2020). Mononormativity and Its Discontents. Journal of Contemporary Social Theory.
• Barker, M. (2013). Rewriting the Rules: An Integrative Guide to Love, Sex and Relationships. Routledge.

From Advocacy to Accountability: Lessons from the Downfall of Male Feminists

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My late wife, a post-colonial neo-feminist (her labels, not mine), with both the credentials and attitude to prove it, used to say it was old, grey-haired white men who were the problem. Her solution? “Shoot them. Shoot them all!” As one of two women I’ve partnered with who had fired an AK-47, I took her words seriously.

As an old, grey-haired white man, I often reflect on my role in the feminist conversation. Over decades, I’ve witnessed the shift from overt sexism to today’s more nuanced battles against systemic inequities and performative allyship. Feminism, to me, isn’t a movement for sideline spectators—it demands active, accountable participation from all genders. To create truly equitable spaces, we must engage in open, honest conversations, no matter how uncomfortable, with accountability as the cornerstone.

In recent years, the notion of the male feminist has undergone a reckoning, with the downfall of prominent figures revealing troubling gaps between advocacy and personal conduct. High-profile allegations against men like Jian Ghomeshi, Joss Whedon, Neil Gaiman, and Justin Baldoni have reshaped how we perceive allyship, accountability, and power dynamics. The fallout has had profound effects on relationships—romantic, professional, and platonic—forcing a reevaluation of trust and authenticity in feminist spaces.

Joss Whedon’s case is particularly emblematic. Once lauded as a feminist icon for creating strong female protagonists in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly, his reputation crumbled as allegations of abusive behavior emerged. Former cast members, including Charisma Carpenter, accused him of cruelty, particularly during her pregnancy, which she claims he mocked and punished her for. These revelations exposed a stark contrast between Whedon’s public image as a champion of women and the private reality of his behavior. His downfall serves as a cautionary tale about conflating progressive rhetoric with genuine integrity. This dissonance erodes trust in relationships, leaving many to question the sincerity of those who claim feminist values.

The case of Jian Ghomeshi, former CBC radio host, highlights another troubling example. Ghomeshi built a career as a liberal, feminist public figure, advocating for progressive causes and portraying himself as an ally to women. However, in 2014, multiple women came forward with allegations of sexual assault and violence, challenging his carefully crafted persona. Though Ghomeshi was acquitted in 2016, the trial revealed troubling patterns of manipulation and abuse of power. The gap between his feminist rhetoric and his behavior served as a stark reminder of how public figures can exploit progressive movements to conceal harmful actions. Ghomeshi’s fall from grace continues to influence discussions about the complexities of consent, power, and the sincerity of those who claim to champion women’s rights.

Neil Gaiman, author of The Sandman and Good Omens, has been accused by multiple women of sexual assault, including non-consensual BDSM activities. Gaiman denies the allegations, claiming all encounters were consensual, but his publicized divorce from Amanda Palmer has sparked debates on power imbalances and performative feminism. Critics have also pointed to recurring patriarchal tropes in his writing. Gaiman’s case shows how those who don’t explicitly identify as feminists can still contribute to harmful dynamics if their work or actions contradict the ideals they seem to represent.

These revelations are part of a broader trend, including figures like Justin Baldoni, who faced allegations of sexual misconduct despite cultivating a feminist persona. Such cases have fostered growing skepticism toward men in feminist spaces, especially those whose advocacy appears more self-serving than sincere. This skepticism has rippled through relationship dynamics, with women increasingly wary of men who leverage feminism for personal gain rather than genuine allyship.

The downfall of the male feminist underscores the danger of prioritizing rhetoric over accountability. For too long, society has lionized men for minimal feminist advocacy, ignoring the gaps between their public personas and private actions. This reckoning reminds us that relationships—romantic, professional, or communal—must be built on mutual respect, honesty, and genuine engagement. By dismantling the myth of the flawless male feminist, we can pave the way for more authentic, equitable partnerships rooted in shared values rather than superficial performances.