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cover of Reading Women with a black and white photo of a woman on the ground reading a book, with pink text and a blue bottom with the author's name in white.

Reading Women by Stephanie Staal: I picked up this book by Staal largely because of Ana's review of the title that I found when going through her archives. However, I caused lots of problems for myself by reading it; great job, self! The beginning was rocky, as I found the opening pages of the novel almost too grandiose in its language and sweeping phrases. It felt very much like Staal was trying to paint a dramatic picture of an ordinary life to draw readers into a situation that otherwise was similar to many other situations except in the solutions Staal found to deal with it. To be blunt, she was overwriting and doing it pretty badly. It turned me off initially — it took me four weeks to get over those qualms and my initial reaction to actually read the book. However, once the beginning passes passed and we reach the true premise, I'm glad to say it levels out. I'm not the only one who felt this way; Ana did, too, which comforted me. I am glad we shared that in common, because unfortunately, we shared little else in common in our reactions.

I enjoy a well-told memoir. There's something about the insights of others that fascinates me, seeing their inner lives and thoughts, that makes them-as-humans more real and relevant. They exist in a way that other people don't most of the time when we're caught up in our minds. Unfortunately, this book had a downside, in that I've read one item on the list that Staal discusses: A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. Even then, it's been almost eight years since I read that essay. Staal touches on Pizan, who I read some of, but was derailed from by trusting class notes and lectures in order to save time to pass another class. I walked into this book unfamiliar with the majority of the writers and the texts Staal engaged with, with no clue about their ultimate meaning or how they fit into the larger structure of feminism and feminist writing.

I often feel disengaged from feminism as a movement. It doesn't seem very welcoming to me and quite often, it feels like you have to sit down and study it to make it relevant to your life, which if you're busy in the trenches of living day to day, can be a real downer. This was a frustrating problem to have, because the whole book was about reading the texts so Staal could reconnect with a part of her identity she felt was being subsumed by marriage and motherhood. It was a positive, life-affirming movement, yet I often came away from various parts of the book angry and bitter and humiliated. I hadn't read this book or that book as a teenager. I would have had no clue how to even parse some of these things at 16, 18, or even 21 — how was she doing it? I didn't have that insight about that piece when I read it! With books like this, I feel like feminism as a movement is an elite, academic club that you have to be a certain type of well-read to fit into, in order for your voice to be heard and respected, you have to read all these things, and all those critics, and understand the feminist critics of the critics, and understand why those critics are maybe not the best because they were part of whatever wave is now no good and bad because we've finally learned not to erase X group of people. What wave am I a part of? Do you have to identify? Are we supposed to be forming teams? Can I get a degree for this?

This type of academic feminism is alien and unfriendly and hard work that I don't even know that I can do or that I want to do. My relationship with academia in general is frigid at best and at worst, actively hostile. To see these classes described, with these smart people who have all these tools and resources and multiple classes and multiple libraries to pull books from is both a joy and ultimately a disappointment, because I don't have access to those things and never did (never will). The one Women's Writers course offered went from the 12th Century to the early 18th and no farther — it was enlightening, but no replacement for the history and weight of the 19th Century, of all these waves people talk about in the 20th Century, for the muted outrage and silence I see in the 21st Century, where anger just isn't cool anymore.

That's the one section I did ping to when reading was when Staal's class studied radical feminism. Staal quotes a classmate:

"I guess anger can be useful," conceded Sarah, a moment earlier one of the more vehement critics of radical feminist tactics. "But only sometimes," she added quickly.

Staal and the teacher both share a silent commiseration at this point, because something vital has been lost to cast anger as an ineffective tool. For once, I sat with Staal and understood, because although we were considering different times and different angers, this runs true to my experience. You can't be angry anymore, not if you want to be heard. Sometimes you can be, but that time isn't up to you at all — it's up to the person who you're having a discussion with, and they might decide they don't enjoy that, so why don't you just sit down.

Out of one moment in this book, that's the only part I marked and that's disappointing. This book didn't make me want to read the texts Staal pulls from. If anything, it made me realize that if I do read them, without a collaborative environment I will never get out of them what others do. I am trapped in a position of constantly needing things explained to me, put into a context that seems insurmountable on my own. I had no context for Staal's journey and her insights. It makes me feel stupid and I really, really hate when books do that. I came away from Staal's book bitterly disappointed that while most of the explanations of why a particular title renewed her belief in herself, her life, her choices or gave her guidance through a tough time they just kept reminding me I'm not knowledgeable. They reminded me that I'm not that wise, that I'm not so well-read, that I'm a woman from the South with a terrible public education who took until adulthood to realize these things had a name and I could reach out for them, only to find mountains to climb. Mountains with falling boulders representing big words I still don't know. Who wants to read a book at their computer with open? Feel free to muster a show of hands.

People who are grounded in feminist theory and the myriad of texts covered in Staal's book will get the most out of this memoir. Even though it was readable for me on a personal level with regards to Staal's life, I was a passenger that was never going to reach the destination Staal did, or be able to compare her findings to my recollections, because I had no recollections to draw from. On top of that, I'm not a mother, with no particular desire to become one right now, and so that also passed me by.

This is not a bad book, but I was not the right reader. I'm never going to be the right reader for a book about books that are common canon, because what's common for everyone else wasn't part of my young adulthood, my early education, or my life through thoughtful mentors. The books that were never urged me to go seek more. I'm angry about this book, because all it did was remind me of everything I missed out on, and how hard it would be to catch up now, on how much harder I'll have to work than everyone else to be able to speak with any kind of authority due to circumstances outside of my control based on my class. It makes me feel lazy on top of it all, for not being overjoyed by going out to pick up bunch of titles I ultimately won't understand because I don't have a teacher.

I'm not sure what Staal was going for, but it was probably not to make me angry about the lack of feminist education. That's ultimately where I ended up, though: angry, disillusioned, embarrassed and discouraged. It's been a few weeks since I finished this book and I'm still no closer to a resolution for all my thoughts. But maybe that's a point in the book's favor, regardless of my engagement with it.

Other reviews: things mean a lot, Regular Ruminations, Amy Reads, Iris on Books, yours?
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