The old cover (left) is certainly dated. The picture could be much larger, since images are generally more eye-catching than words. But why switch to the drawn image on the new cover (right)?

The woman on the new cover is not Audre Lorde. Her neck is long and skinny. Her cheekbones are ridiculously sharp, and her eyes are unnaturally large. Her nose is long and thin. These changes make the woman more traditionally “beautiful” than the real Audre Lorde. They also make the woman look like an ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic of a person, rather than Lorde, a contemporary Black american. The full lips and twisted hair of the drawn woman still note her “Blackness.” She is looking up and askance, almost batting her eyelashes at the tall man standing in front of her. Did Crossing Press even read Sister Outsider?

Crossing Press published 200 Ways to Love the Body You Have in 1999. What about the body (and face) of Audre Lorde? There are plenty of other pictures of Lorde available, if Crossing Press wanted a fresh cover for the second edition.

Incidentally, Crossing Press was bought by Ten Speed Press in 2002, so I suppose I can’t really write a letter of complaint to anyone.

Lorde does identify many, many aspects of patriarchy that keep women from their full potential. A women-only space would allow women to be interested in their own fullness and destiny, allowing them to explore what they are capable of. Men’s presence is a necessary limitation on women, given patriarchy’s hold on society, expecting women’s energy to be used in the service of men before themselves.

“As women, we have come to distrust that [erotic] power which rises from our deepest and nonrational knowledge. We have been warned against it all our lives by the male world, which values this depth of feeling enough to keep women around in order to exercise it in the service of men, but which fears this same depth too much to examine the possibilities of it within themselves. So women are maintained at a distant/inferior position to be psychically milked, much the same way ants maintain colonies of aphids to provide a life-giving substance for their masters.” (53-54 – Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power)

Women-only spaces allow women to explore the possibilities of their own voices, as well. Women are increasingly speaking for themselves, but in a women-only space women must speak for themselves. Some of the obstacles they encounter will arise from patriarchy, but a women-only space will allow women to work together, on behalf of themselves and each other, without the obvious option of the traditional male-centered model. “Black feminists speak as women because we are women and do not need others to speak for us.” (60 – Sexism: An American Disease in Blackface)

Lorde directly addresses women-only spaces, saying,

“The question of separatism is by no means simple. I am thankful that one of my children is male, since that helps to keep me honest. Every line I write shrieks there are no easy solutions.

I grew up in largely female environments, and I know how crucial that has been to my own development. I feel the want and need often for the society of women, exclusively. I recognize that our own spaces are essential for developing and recharging.

As a Black woman, I find it necessary to withdraw into all-Black groups at times for exactly the same reasons – differences in stages of development and differences in levels of interaction. Frequently, when speaking with men and white women, I am reminded of how difficult and time-consuming it is to have to reinvent the pencil every time you want to send a message.” (78 – Man Child: A Black Lesbian Feminist’s Response)

Lorde acknowledges the freedom, energy and life that women-only spaces afford her. As a lesbian she could routinely move in women-only spaces, relishing the understanding she might find there. Yet she has a son, making her life permanently intertwined with a man’s. (It’s unclear in Sister Outsider if she has any ongoing relationship with her former husband, the father of her children.) Saying that this keeps her “honest” implies that without the existence of her son, she might naturally move in women-only (or at least women-dominated) spaces, that these spaces are most appealing to her. Of course she also names all-Black spaces as essential as well, for she experiences oppression from multiple identities. Denying any aspects of herself is dangerous, and would perhaps counteract the benefits of a permanent retreat to a women-only or Black-only space.

“I find I am constantly being encouraged to pluck out some one aspect of myself and present this as the meaningful whole, eclipsing or denying the other parts of self. But this is a destructive and fragmenting way to live. My fullest concentration of energy is available to me only when I integrate all the parts of who I am, openly, allowing power from particular sources of my living to flow back and forth freely through all my different selves, without the restrictions of externally imposed definition.” (121 – Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference)

Yet Lorde’s call to constructive awareness of difference must grow within equality. Women will not be subjects, equal to men rather than subordinate objects, without developing spaces (even if they are not physical) that are women-centered and women-only. “Interdependency between women is the way to a freedom which allows the I to be, not in order to be used, but in order to be creative. This is a difference between the passive be and the active being.” (111 – The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House) Developing an individual identity as a woman, and solidarity with other women, enable women to approach difference constructively. They also offer women a space outside the master’s house, that they may learn the truth – that they are not dependent on patriarchy for security, happiness or meaning.

“It is learning how to stand alone, unpopular and sometimes reviled, and how to make common cause with those others identified as outside the structures in order to define and seek a world in which we can all flourish. It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.” (112 – The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House)

Women-only spaces should not be romanticized. When women get together, oppressions of racism, classism, homophobia, ageism, etc., still exist. “Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you, we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shot down in the street, and you will turn your backs upon the reasons they are dying.” (119 – Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference) While Lorde is clear that white women must do “their own work” (42 – Transformation of Silence into Language and Action) of confronting their racism, she does not turn her back on their struggle, but urges it forward with astute criticisms (e.g., calling attention to racism and white privilege within the Second Sex Conference, New York, September 29, 1979 in her speech “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House”).

Lorde’s focus on difference is in service to wholeness. While women, Black people, lesbians, and all marginalized groups must find their own spaces to develop and recharge, this growth should benefit a future that glorifies all.

“You do not have to be me in order for us to fight alongside each other. I do not have to be you to recognize that our wars are the same. What we must do is commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work toward that future with the particular strengths of our individual identities. And in order to do this, we must allow each other our differences at the same time as we recognize our sameness.” (142 – Learning from the 60s)

Continuing an investigation of women-only spaces

Formation

In the book Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel, the ranch is a women-dominated space, though not a women-only space, as there are male workers on the ranch. While the De La Garza family is comprised only of women at the beginning of the story, Pedro is a family factor from the start – and soon marries into the family, as well. Still the family’s house – and importantly, its kitchen – is primarily occupied by women.

The home and family would not have been women-only without the death of Juan De La Garza. No one chose his death any more than he and Mama Elena chose not to have sons, so this women-only space came to exist through chance – or more likely for this story – fate. Though there is no official rule against men occupying the house or the kitchen (and in fact, Pedro does throughout the story), cultural gender roles, along with Mama Elena’s rules, keep the kitchen primarily women-only. These norms aren’t questioned by any of the women, though Gertrudes would certainly appreciate more interaction with men, and Tita would appreciate more interaction with Pedro.

Role in their lives

The women spend the vast majority of their lives in their home, and Tita is specifically in the kitchen or accompanying areas in her waking hours. Unlike the other women-only spaces I’ve considered so far, this one is a home.  This means that the women in the De La Garza family, especially Tita and Gertrudes, do not have regular contact with men at all (until Gertrudes leaves, of course). This means that their relationships with men are only functional – with ranch workers (and occasionally the doctor) and superficially social – at parties (that seem to be full of gossiping and shallow conversation). The first “meaningful” relationship either woman has with a man is with a romantic/sexual partner. Gertrudes comes to have many platonic relationships with men through her work in the revolution, as well. Tita forms a deep friendship with John (with romantic elements) but her primary relationship with a man continues to be with Pedro, even though they rarely speak with one another. She also has an important relationship with her nephew, but since he is an infant for the duration of their time together, I would not consider his gender to be a significant aspect of their relationship – not even functionally, since his implications for inheritance and lineage do not affect Tita.

Effect

While Mama Elena tells the priest “I’ve never needed a man for anything; all by myself, I’ve done right… Men aren’t that important in this life…” (80), she does not seem to find women important in this life, either. She is concerned with her own wellbeing and reputation, and therefore wants Tita to remain unmarried, and Rosaura to marry – these decisions have nothing to do with her daughters’ wellbeing or desires. Perhaps Mama Elena really means to belittle love, not men, since she has actually given up on any loving relationships. The text does not describe her own home, but we do know that her one romantic love ended tragically, and this seems like to be her reason for giving up on all love and relationships.

As Mama Elena sets the tone of this women-only space and home, it is not a space that affirms or empowers anyone. The only love seems to be between Tita and Gertrudes, and through her powerful cooking, Tita is enable to empower Gertrudes’ passion and help her seek happiness and fulfillment. Tita is affirmed especially by Nacha (even after Nacha’s death) and also by Chencha. The relationships between Tita, Rosaura and Mama Elena seem to make them all fairly miserable.

The tenor of this women-only space, with its disregard for love, does not contribute to women’s relationships with themselves, one another, or with men. Relating to the outside world is desirable in part simply to escape Mama Elena, but this is a side effect that does not benefit Rosaura, who dies, still miserable, at the ranch.

But perhaps I’m giving Mama Elena too much credit. This is Nacha’s space, too. This is Tita’s space. This is Chencha and Gertrudes’ home, at various points in the story. The love and legacy of Nacha keep Tita whole and full. Though she sacrifices her time and energy to serve the people around her, she does it because the kitchen is her refuge – cooking is her language. She certainly longs for Pedro, but she never questions her only existence and self-sufficiency when he is emotionally or physically distant. While the ranch may be filled with tension and turmoil and toxicity, especially for the women who live there, it is also a place that demonstrates the power of women to survive independently. But to thrive, Like Water for Chocolate makes clear, they must have love and men.

Morning Light’s Lab

When Tita inhabits Morning Light’s lab, it is certainly not a women-only space. In fact, it is now John’s lab. But Tita’s experience of this room is that she and Morning Light are the only people there. While being at John’s (and being away from the ranch) is libratory for Tita, this room that she shares with Morning Light is the place that brings her back to her sensuous self. Morning Light is a Nacha-like figure for Tita, offering her love and good food. Being at John’s house is Tita’s first experience of independence and not needing to work all day to care for others, and this allows her to shed much of her anger, sadness and shame. But working and learning with John are essential steps in her healing, as well.

Elizabeth Berg’s The Handmaid and the Carpenter was a shocking disappointment. I have been reading Berg’s novels for 15 years, beginning with the sorrowful, inspiring Talk Before Sleep. I was excited to read this “Christmas book” exploring the human drama of Mary and Joseph. I credit Berg with much of my emotional education, and was sure she would bring nuance and depth to Mary and Joseph’s characters.

In fact the characters weren’t particularly original, but my real concern is the entrenched patriarchy that Berg describes, but does not unpack – let alone criticize. Consistently throughout the story Joseph lusts after Mary’s body, but frustrated by her ferocity and divine vision for her life. Mary is strong and capable, but continually shrinks to let Joseph be the pair’s decision-maker.

I really thought that the big deal Berg makes out of Joseph’s controlling nature (she mentions it frequently) was a build up to some moment of transformation. While he does come to appreciate his daughters’ curiosity and confidence, and therefore stops resenting Mary’s, he never understands her to be his equal.

I find it interesting that it is not until Joseph’s death bed that he admits to Mary that he has always believed she had sex with another man before their marriage. Why would such a controlling man be willing to marry Mary, and enjoy their relationship so much? Joseph’s love for Mary must have been mighty. Too bad the prevailing reason for his love is Mary’s physical beauty. That level of objectification of someone does not fit a man who decides to ignore his wife’s supposed infidelity. A controlling, objectifying man would need his wife to be all “his.”

I wondered if Berg had some keen plan of subverting the patriarchy she so consciously described, so I went to her website. This was all I could find about The Handmaid and the Carpenter:

What’s it About?

I always tell people that this is like “When Harry Met Sally,” but it’s when Joseph met Mary. It’s a little Christmas book that humanizes the event that inspired the holiday. Everyday details about food and clothing and daily life help make it seem as though you are there. Though you might not WANT to be when it comes to giving birth in a stable…..

What was the inspiration?

I wondered what it must have been like to be Mary, to be so young and suddenly thrust in the middle of this momentous event. And I really wondered about Joseph! How did he feel when he was told his virgin wife was pregnant? The book is largely a testimonial to faith.

No satisfaction here. Has anyone else read this book? Is there some redeeming element that I’ve missed?

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).