I read Kidd’s later novel The Secret Life of Bees years ago, and loved it. Reading Dance shines so much light on the soul-searching and transformation that led to this provocative novel. Both books are rooted in her love for girls – her real-life daughter, the fictional Lily, and the unfettered girl inside herself who she longs to re-encounter.

Kidd invites readers into the depth and breadth of her own feminist spiritual awakening. Moving from a Baptist faithful daughter of patriarchy to Goddess-centered, grounded in a feminine soul is a powerful journey. Kidd offers detailed narratives that open up the universal aspects of her journey for all women grappling with empowerment. At least, I found myself countless times in her stories, as did the women I moved through the book with.

Kidd manages to write firmly and gently about patriarchy, particularly in the church. I am grateful for this balance, and wish that those who fear feminism would encounter the love she clearly has for her heritage and faith. But love is not always enough, and Kidd makes the frightening, exhilarating decision to stop translating and molding to keep herself and the church together. As I have been moving toward this break-up in my own spiritual journey, I was inspired by Kidd’s clarity and confusion.

Her stories and reflections are brimming with goddesses and archetypes. She weaves a tapestry of images that will feed women seeking the Feminine Divine. Her dream life and travel opportunities are richer than I can imagine for myself, and I enjoyed living vicariously through both.

I was disappointed that Kidd shied so consistently away from sexuality. I can’t think about gender or spirituality without engaging sexuality (even when the text begs for it, e.g. the opening scene of men commenting on Kidd’s daughter being on her knees). Perhaps Kidd was not ready to open the door to the complexities and pitfalls that inevitably come with sex? I have her later novel The Mermaid Chair which promises encounters with the erotic. I look forward to finding out.

They fanned the flames by throwing 40,000 copies of “Shanghai Baby” on fire. Thus, that lone act increased Wei’s popularity, catapulting her to the status of cult figure. In her country, one can buy her novel under the counter. In some cases, others use her name to sell more racy sex. In other parts of the world, especially the West, where Asian women are still classified under certain stereotypes—a Japanese geisha, an exotic prostitute Suzy Wong, or even a docile mail-order bride—“Shanghai Baby” landed swiftly on the bestsellers’ list. Western critics praised the author’s bravery to defy China’s powers-that-be and the book’s unadulterated sexual liberation, written by an Asian female living in Asia. This entranced the West and designated her, along with another newcomer, Mian Mian, as the new voices of China.

If Wei’s first work was sloppy and superficial, don’t expect too much on “Marrying Buddha.” It tackles the never-ending difference between East and West, interracial love/lust affair, the livid sexual awakening of a young Asian woman combined with the author’s hunger for designer labels and endless name-droppings of celebrities, most of them literary and pop culture icons.

Both her books are said to be roman à clef. Wei’s heroine Coco, after Coco Chanel (but, of course!) embodies much of Wei’s personality: a struggling writer, a Henry Miller enthusiast, loves to wear qípáo (a Chinese traditional figure-hugging dress in satin with lively prints of flowers, dragons and birds), a shoe fetish, a sucker for designer goods. One cannot seem to separate the two figures. As for her tales of former and current lovers and cheeky friends, one can only think of her sneaky attempts to be the Carrie Bradshaw of Shanghai because the parallelisms are too much.

“Marrying Buddha” is the continuation of “Shanghai Baby.” Coco, fresh from the success of her first book, finds herself in New York City, post 9-11, as a guest of Columbia University’s East Asian literature department. However, spirituality seems to have influenced Wei that the mood somehow changes in “Marrying Buddha.” Terms like Zen, meditation, yoga, Buddhism, Taoism creep up. It abruptly replaces Coco’s hedonistic lifestyle–mostly boozing, non-stop partying, pill-popping, chain-smoking—in her former life. Well, parts of it. Blame it on Coco’s sudden meeting with the character named Muju, a Japanese-Italian indie movie director slash producer. He teaches Coco the old eastern tenets of spiritual enlightenment. Not only that, the pair also has good sex, perhaps even tantric. She thinks she loves him so that she toys with the idea of grounding a family with him.

Muju is, in some ways, different from Tian Tian of “Shanghai Baby.” If the former is a tiger in bed, the latter is the opposite. This rumored stereotypical Chinese male attribute also sparked the controversy in 1999. Anyway, both men exhibit Wei’s version of the East: wise, laid-back, at times, traditional. Their antagonists—Mark the German and New Yorker Nick whose face resembles George Clooney—represent her West: impulsive, disorder, modernity, personal freedom.

There’s also the ambivalence – a certain emotion Coco feels whenever there is something wrong with her almost-perfect relationships. Tian Tian would be her hero if not for his impotence, suicidal tendencies, his fragility and dreamy poetic life. And Muju, if not for his fear to commit more deeply—the result of previous failed relationships.

Like Mark the German, Nick is the devil’s advocate, Coco’s own downward spiral, her hindrance to being a full-fledged monogamist. In fact, the tall Nick would be Coco’s Mr. Big of the popular TV series. Dandy Nick is always dressed in black Armani suit, chauffeured in a limousine, and is fond of saying “Hey, kid” every time they meet.

As Coco is once again faced with this dilemma—torn between her love problems with Muju and the excitement she feels every time she is with Nick—she leaves New York and goes straight to Putuo Island and finds shelter in a monastery where she was born. Here she meets a monk, who witnessed her birth. She finds comfort in his words and, for a while, revels in them, enlightening her clouded mind. Once she steps onto Shanghai she is back to square one. Both her lovers want to see her. In the end, both end up in her bed on separate days.

As the novel ends, Coco learns that she is pregnant. The self-analysis doesn’t end with “who am I?” There are signs that this could be a great task and would take a long time before Coco (and the readers, as well) could unravel her. From one of Wei’s interviews, she told reporters that lesbianism could be the central theme in her next novel as she likes to hang out in lesbian bars everywhere she goes. So, hey, shades of another of her favorite, Anaïs Nin?

“Marrying Buddha” is said to be ambitious, more mature. But the author’s attempt to grasp the meaning of life and the urgency of the Sept. 11 attacks falls short. Somehow, her desire to be taken seriously goes flat. The trouble is not the erotic content and the embrace of bohemian lifestyle she and her friends enjoy but its predictability, its lack of imagination. In fact, it exudes the author’s wanton tendency to borrow and quote ideas from her idols. The overkill becomes a travesty of its own.

Yes, it is fairly readable. And yes, the dialogs are not as clumsy as the first, which could be due to a better translation. There are moments one couldn’t help grinning at Wei’s acerbic, and sometimes honest, observations. These anecdotes turn out to be humorous. But still, the clichés are there. Coco becomes an irony as her character clashes against her own brand of materialism and self-indulgence. The repetitive mention of labels is just incomprehensible. A careful reader might wonder about its significance to the novel.

So, yes, don’t shell out your 500 bucks just yet. But if you feel that you must, to give in to that desire to peek at the modern and happening Shanghai, maybe you should begin your journey elsewhere.

Bellis’ comprehensive introduction gives helpful explanations of some of the richness in contemporary Biblical interpretation. Most interesting to me, she shares an overview of the variety of feminist understandings of biblical authority. My kneejerk reaction is to consider this a contradiction in terms, but to Bellis’ credit, she includes feminist scholarship that does not clearly empower women. I consider this “to her credit” because the work of feminism is not nearly as uniform as it may seem. It’s a healthy and humbling experience for me to know that I do not agree with all feminists, and that the ideals and struggles I believe are needed for empowerment are not what all feminists ascribe to. I hope to live long enough to look back and see what was helpful, and what wasn’t.

Bellis also introduces herself, particularly her social location, though she does fully claim her whiteness (instead saying that she grew up in a white family). I am happy to see that acknowledgement of social location has become common practice in academic writing in postmodernernity. This honors the fact that pure objectivity is impossible, and recognizing our potential biases is more useful than striving for superficial neutrality.

I also appreciate Bellis refusal to simply glorify any woman in the Bible. Bellis realizes that finding perfect female heroes in the Hebrew Bible will not give modern women the secret to empowerment. Treating biblical women as full humans, no woman is beyond judgment. Simultaneously, historical-cultural realities are explored as fully as possible, acknowledging the lack of options or choices that many biblical women faced.

So the women traditionally lauded in mainstream Christianity and Judaism, like Sarah, are given a thorough examination. At the same time, women traditionally vilified, such as Delilah, are given a fresh glance.

If the book had pushed a couple of sociological issues a bit further, it would have been much more meaningful:

• the cast of characters is a perfect pop culture diversity display: young, hip African-American designer; poor single white mom with biracial daughter; elderly, rich white woman; radical Asian-American feminist student, etc. Getting into some deeper grime and glory of crossing class, ethnic, age and other lines would have brought useful and engaging drama to the plot. (For example, the African-American father of the biracial daughter says that her white mother cannot teach her everything she needs to know about being a person of color in this culture. This is the most insightful racial/ethnic issue raised by the book, but the white mom resists this conversation, and there is no reconciliation on this matter.)
• striking forgiveness is an important element of the story, and has fascinating social and spiritual implications that were not addressed
• that radical Asian-American feminist grad student asks the question: can ancient and traditionally women’s crafts be part of women’s liberation? This is an excellent question, and while the question is implicitly answered, some focused discussion among characters that doesn’t instantly dissolve into catchy dialog would be a gift in our current craft craze.
• one character is sacrificed to bring all other characters into greater success and happiness in their own lives. Is this supposed to have spiritual or theological implications, or is it just a plot device to keep the book from ending too happily?

Once again, I really did enjoy the book. I appreciated that the main character really put herself (and her daughter) first, but was still beloved. I am grateful that the plot didn’t totally focus on romance.

I also happen to believe that reclaiming ancient and traditionally women’s crafts can be an incredibly empowering act. I may write more about that at Sharing in the Midst of Scarcity. In the meantime, I’m learning to knit.

While Etty did not ignore the horrors of the Holocaust, she considered the last year of her life to be the brightest. Her self-discovery during this time was incredibly radical; she

• had two ongoing lovers
• considered having sexual relationships with women
• saw past national and religious identity in the midst of German occupation and scapegoating of Jews
• prioritized her own career and self-exploration before any obligation to others
• was admired by men and women, old and young, and seen as a whole and unique individual.

Etty’s relationship with Julius Spier (an older, male psycho-chirologist) was a catalyst for the changes in her life, but she soon claimed this mental and spiritual space as her own. She found a love for Spier that was so deep, she intentionally and gently let go of him emotionally (he was engaged to another woman, living in London), spiritually (he died of illness in Amsterdam in 1942, and she was already prepared for his death by the Nazis), and mentally (she repeatedly wrote that she only needed Rilke, the Bible and her journals as she headed to a workcamp).

As a 21st century woman, I am amazed by Etty’s thoughts, generations before her time. She was liberated in a way that many of my peers will never be. Her unassuming yet self-centered inner world is enchanting, and claims academic, religious and social authority and space. This book also gives a fresh way to revisit the Holocaust, through the mind of a creative and brilliant young woman.

Fatema Mernissi follows the harem into Western literature, art and psyche, sharing fascinating insights on misogyny in Middle Eastern and Western culture along the way.

During her book tour for Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood, she was surprised by Western male journalists’ gleeful attitudes toward harems and decided to investigate. She found that these Western men, aided by Matisse, Kant and Ingres, understood women in harems to be silent, obedient and always sexually desirous. But Arab men have feared the women in their harems who might revolt at any time.

Mernissi understands the root of the difference to be that Islam teaches (and Arab men believe) that men and women are equal, including in intelligence, and that a woman’s knowledge, curiosity, and eloquence are incredibly sexy traits. Western men, however, believe that beauty and brains do not coexist in women and are, in fact, inversely proportionate.

Of course, Mernissi is not suggesting that men of these cultures consciously believe these things, but that these are deep and formational assumptions that show up in many ways in these societies (and she gives great examples).

But Mernissi does not let her beloved religious and cultural heritage off the hook. She calls the harem oppression of women through space, primarily denying access to public spaces, and considers the veil to further deny this access.

In the West, argues Mernissi, women are oppressed through time, through image. The harem of “size 6” which limits value and visibility of women to an image of a certain kind of 14-year-old girl. “Both Naomi Wolfe and Pierre Bourdieu come to the conclusion that insidious ‘body codes’ paralyze Western women’s abilities to compete for power, even though access to education and professional opportunities seem wide open, because the rules of the game are so different according to gender. Women enter the power game with some much of their energy deflected to their physical appearance that one hesitates to say the playing field is level” (page 218).

Does Wicked promote feminism? I would love to ask author Gregory Maguire that very question!

In this society, women have fewer vocational and public opportunities than men, and seem to be bound by family obligations more than men are. That sounds familiar…so what does the novel say about this inequality?

The main character Elphaba is a very strong and non-traditional women – I think it’s safe to call her a feminist, and she is hated and even filled for it. Many of the powerful in the story are women, but all are still constantly judged by their looks, charm, kindness, and other traditionally feminine traits.

The Wizard is a really nasty person, for example, but is not criticized for this – it is simply accepted, as is the entire population’s deep fear of him. But Elphaba’s harsh personality is of primary concern throughout the book.

Glinda and Nessarose are both given official positions of power, and are consistently lauded for their goodness and sweetness (though of course Elphaba sees their hypocrisy, and Maguire makes a separate, but related point about good and evil).

Dorothy holds great influence, primarily because of her traditionally young and feminine qualities of sweetness, prettiness, and wide-eyed wonder.

Is Maguire judging his females characters by these standards, or the patriarchal society he writes about? Is he unconsciously (or even consciously) putting female characters into positions of power, but holding in check their social power? Is he trying to point out the insidious role of patriarchal oppression in our own society?

The theme of forgiveness is essentially non-patriarchal, and should be central to more novels. Of course, even strong and independent Elphaba is truly a slave to forgiveness, while the male Wizard and sweet, traditionally feminine Dorothy are not.

Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love is disarming and insightful. Her vulnerability is engaging, and was affirming to me, as a reader. This dynamic is part of servant leadership, and also a traditionally “feminine” trait. How do we encourage all people to begin with vulnerability?

Anyone who is able to share honestly (not just 7th grade humor) about masturbation is dismantling patriarchy. Women, especially, have been taught that masturbation is unhealthy and dirty, and I’m really impressed that Gilbert included a few (very relevant) paragraphs on her own experience. Her down-to-earth approach is a wonderful way to normalize masturbation for women.

Gilbert says some interesting things about patriarchy herself, including that it’s over (which I am sad to disagree with). She makes a great point about community – that even though we don’t necessarily want our fathers to pick our husbands and “give us away” to our husbands, we do need elders and mentors to be part of our relationships and discernment.

Gilbert writes “If I am to truly become an autonomous woman, then I must take over that role of being my own guardian. Famously, Gloria Steinam once advised women that they should strive to become like the men they had always wanted to marry. What I’ve only recently realized is that I not only have to become my own husband, but I need to be my own father, too.”

This is a wonderful sentiment! (important information about the end of the book follows) I’m disappointed that the book ends with Gilbert in a relationship in which, as both partners identify, a man has become Gilbert’s guardian in many ways.

Two clarifications are necessary.

First, in relationships we always take care of each other – this is inevitable, and can be very good and healthy. I am sure that Gilbert finds ways to take care of her husband as well, and wanted to read more about that in this story of her own empowerment.

Second, I don’t mean to imply that Gilbert should not have gotten into a new romantic relationship (and marriage, as it turns out post-book). This is great! What I’m disappointed by is that the book ends with this relationship.

So many stories of women finding strength and comfort in their singleness (Bridget Jones’ Diary, Sex and the City are classic pop culture examples) end with these women in relationships with men. It’s just a delayed standard fairy tale – the purportedly “unpolished” or down-to-earth princess still ends up with some dashing, (usually rich) prince.

I realize Gilbert’s book chronicles her trip around the world, and her trip around the world ends as a romantic relationship begins. She actually seems to have a man in her life in all of her cities, Giovanni and Luca in Italy, Richard from Texas and Swamiji in India, Yudhi and Ketut in Indonesia. But the romance comes at the end of the trip, end of the book, and the reader is left with a delightful package of single/unhappy relationship to happy relationship.

Nevertheless, Gilbert imparts many great lessons for anyone on a spiritual journey. And despite the fairy tale ending, as Gilbert points out “I was not rescued by a prince; I was the administrator of my own rescue.”

This post is not about the content of Brown’s talk, though it was quite good. Instead, it’s about at least one reaction to the announcement of the event, and what it might tell us about how much work is yet to be done in finding equity and justice for women in our culture.

On the discussion forum of the local newspaper, the first post in response to the event announcement said:

“Oh goodie, another liberal brainwash opportunity…”

Despite the reputation of online discussion forums (and this one in particular) to facilitate antagonism, I was still surprised that someone would politicize a lecture about helping girls to grow up healthy. I couldn’t let it stand, and so I posted a reply asking the poster to clarify what evidence they had that Dr. Brown was misleading her audiences or that the presentation would be a brainwashing. The reply was, in part:

“Well, being and [sic] intelligent, college-educated modern gal, I was able amazingly to discern from reading the discription [sic] of Brown’s views (she wants girls not be limited by the stereotypes of society) and by the fact that she is speaking at Earlham, one of the most liberal campuses in the US, that it is highly likely that her views will be in line with typical liberal hogwash.

Being a conservative, I don’t feel that girls are limited in our society in any way whatsoever. They have the same opportunities as their brothers which may explain why most medical schools now have at least 50% female graduates! Yes, at one time girls were limited in their opportunities, but of course liberals do not want to acknowledge that tremendous progress has been made and that girls are now treated with equality. After all, if liberals acknowledge this, what will they have to gripe about and write their brainwashing books about?”

From there we exchanged observations on the impact that the event venue might or might not have on perceptions of the event, but the poster never presented any specific information about why the talk was to be avoided.

For me, it was a wake-up call and reminder that there are at least some people “out there” who believe feminism has achieved its goals, and that there is no significant work to be done in the area of raising awareness about inequality, misogyny, and other issues related to how women are treated in this culture. It was particularly striking to me that this particular claim came from a women, who described herself as college educated, intelligent, and “modern” (though I had no way to verify or measure those things); it’s not that I would expect women without college degrees to be more accepting of such a claim, but my experience has been that someone who’s had the privilege to go to college has perhaps also had the privilege of spending time and energy looking more deeply than others at the way the world works.

If even just some women believe, after having thought it through to their satisfaction, that girls and women do not have limits placed on them because of their gender, it speaks to the pervasive nature of the dangerous stories we tell ourselves about this culture and how successful we must be, and how much work is left to do to create something new and better.

Everyone talks about the trilogy’s religious implications, what about gender? It sure seems like a fantasy series with a female main character would be a clear triumph for feminism. But Will still dominates – in part because he is older, but he is also a better fighter, and more of a controlling, traditional leader. While Lyra is the center of the story, her role in the metaplot is completely dependent on Will. Mrs. Coulter is an incredibly powerful woman, but her power is completely dependent on her sex appeal. She is an unoriginal archetype, and her “transformation” to caring mother is as predictable as her character.

Gender dynamics in all of the human societies described are similar to my own culture. There are amazing opportunities for envisioning new paradigms in fantasy and science fiction, but The Golden Compass trilogy doesn’t even try. The concept of daemons offer interesting questions. For example, most people’s daemons are the opposite gender, though not all. This probably says more about sexuality than gender, but I’m curious about the implications.

The trilogy revisits the story of Eve and Adam, but eating of the tree of good and evil is the moment of salvation that all of creation is waiting for. This subversion of an ancient and foundational myth is incredibly profound with positive implications for sexuality. Therefore it is particularly disappointing that the meaning of gender and traditional gender roles are never explored.