In Dawkins’ Honour?

Dawkins - photo by Marty Stone Over much of the past two years in political circles, a slew of polemics have been argued, over the online harassment directed at women. Even the list of more recent incidents spawning these debates is expansive; the harassment of feminist gaming critic Anita Sarkeesian; the viral video of Prime Minister Julia Gillard criticising Tony Abbott’s relationship with misogyny; the multiple waves online of chauvinist vitriol directed at amongst others, New Statesman columnist, Laurie Penny, and so it goes.

A heavy reliance on the Internet for communication leaves atheist and free-thought communities, especially in the US, potentially wide open to abusive interaction, whatever the disposition of their constituencies. One could go into great detail discussing the event that saw the crystallisation of the phenomena in secular circles online; “ElevatorGate” in 2011. However, I’ll try to be brief.

In 2011, atheist, sceptic and feminist blogger, Rebecca Watson, in the middle of a YouTube video post, pointed out that it wasn’t a good move for guys to introduce themselves at 4am, in an elevator, asking a woman to “…come to my hotel room for coffee?” Initially, this mild comment prompted a series of alleged and mostly unrelated grievances to be aired by Watson’s detractors.

Then Prof. Richard Dawkins entered the fray with his now infamous “Dear Muslima” commentary, sarcastically deriding Rebecca Watson’s supposed lack of perspective; Muslim women were being treated like dirt the world over, while Watson complained about guys in elevators. Imagine it as Dawkins’ take on “First World Problems”; very dry, at least a little truculent, and with a hint of unstated grievances.

What followed was an escalation in online abuse; “she’s too ugly to rape”; “I hope she gets raped so she knows what real abuse is”; “if I’m ever in an elevator with her, I’ll cop a feel”; “…Rebeccunt Twatson…”. And of course, there have been the ever-present images depicting feats Laurie Penny would likely describe as “sphincter stretchingly implausible”. This torrent of vitriol rapidly engulfed other targets, all while maintaining the same intensity of malice and irrationality.

Possibly the most sinister act amongst all of this, was an incident endured by Amy Roth in 2012.

The Slymepit”, an Internet cesspool of vex and loathing, dedicated to attacking Rebecca Watson and fellow travellers, was to temporarily play host to the publication of Amy Roth’s home address. Despite an allegedly public source for such personal information, you have to ask; what was the implied, suggested use for Roth’s home address, being posted at such a forum?

The individual posting Amy Roth’s home address, one Justin Vacula, coupled this act to a claim of “censorship” at Roth’s instigation, on account of her filing of a Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) claim on a particular photo of hers, and only the photo, to be withdrawn from a post of his authoring. As of writing, Vacula’s description of the exchange, published at the Southern Poverty Law Centre listed hate site, A Voice For Men, fails to accurately describe all the relevant details (i.e. that the article was not in fact, “censored”).

But aside from the obvious, what has any of this got to do with Richard Dawkins?

To simply state that abuse has followed Dawkins’ “Dear Muslima” comments, ergo Dawkins’ responsibility, would be an instance of the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy so loved by reactionaries. As far as I can ascertain, Dawkins has offered neither tacit, nor explicit endorsement of the mentioned abuse. Rather, from “ElevatorGate” onwards, it seems often to be a case of overzealous Dawkins fans appointing trolling duties to themselves.

Still, at a time when men are increasingly being called upon to decry misogyny, sexism and online abuse, Dawkins’ continuing silence on a phenomena situated so close to him seems difficult to defend. This silence, coupled with the abuse, and coupled with the behaviour of a number of enablers, at least to my addled mind, seems only to serve the wrecking of communities, intentionally or not.

In response to the outbreak of online abuse, and a series of incidents at events, a number of free-thought organisations in the US have made steps to implement harassment policies. It’s been no secret that Dawkins’ sentiments oppose these moves for mostly unarticulated reasons. Maybe it’s a case of bonobo ethology romantically adapted to Homo sapiens, or perhaps more likely, it’s that Dawkins objects on the grounds of identity politics.

However, such policies aren’t a reflection on the behaviour of the broader godless constituency – they prescribe courses of action for when things go wrong, as happens from time to time in all human communities. The existence of a harassment policy no more defames a community, than laws against murder condemn a society as being particularly murderous.

Last year I covered the Global Atheist Convention for Ophelia Benson’s Butterflies and Wheels, although at the time I left something out of my coverage; an incident where my eyes were flecked with the spittle (and possibly the mild ale) of an atheist academic, who ranted amongst other things, that he’d always oppose bullies.

Said academic, a self-confessed Dawkins fan, despite his supposed anti-bullying advocacy, has thus far failed to call the harassment of Rebecca Watson, Amy Roth and others for what it is. Yet what he has managed to decry are concerns over a campaign to fund Justin Vacula’s presence at this month’s “Women in Secularism 2”, held by The Centre For Inquiry in Washington D.C..

My spittle-spraying former acquaintance isn’t alone amongst intelligent, academic, Dawkins fans in adopting this double standard. Weirdly, there’s an attitude even amongst a small set of atheist academics, that somehow they’re doing Dawkins a favour. It’s as if they harbour fantasies that fame and book sales will rain down upon them, if only they enable Watson’s harassers.

It’s not like Dawkins hasn’t been pressed for more substantive contributions to this debate, or even with questions about his mere awareness of the existence of the torrents of abuse. I’ve sources who’ve done as much, with little success in the way of obtaining answers, and Dawkins has publicly squelched such lines of inquiry, such as during a Q&A session at the University of Miami in September of 2011.

I was able to discuss these concerns with Dr. R. Elisabeth Cornwell, Executive Director of the US branch of the Richard Dawkins Foundation for Reason and Science. She was aware of the mentioned instances of harassment, expressing displeasure and dismay.

I raised the issue of serious chatter arising out of a polarised climate amongst organisers, that suggested that Dawkins was using his influence to have Rebecca Watson barred from events. Dr. Cornwell assured me this wasn’t the case.

Whichever way one decides to interpret these contrary claims, one thing is indisputable – there‘s a lack of trust within secular circles, born of online harassment during the past few years. This conflict is ostensibly being driven by an unknown number of self-appointed zealots, and their enablers, acting in Dawkins’ honour.

Whatever Dawkins’ intellectual or personal differences with Rebecca Watson et al., it wouldn’t undermine him to explicitly state that he doesn’t welcome the online abuse of his opponents. Dawkins may retort that this is in fact obvious, however this wouldn’t seem to hold for those who need to hear the message the most – a number of his more enthusiastic fans.

~ Bruce

(Photo Source: Marty Stone).

Nightmare on K Street

Not that I could forget, save perhaps by blow to the head, I’m almost forced to remember on account of it being raised in conversation, or by being near-touched upon tangentially; one early morning after hitting the booze during a trip to Melbourne.

Oh, it was going to be great. The night started out with my being called (perhaps erroneously) a “writer”, and I seemed to be able to endure the standard rate at which alcohol was being imbibed. In fact, I didn’t even feel drunk by the time another (it would later be revealed) was having a spew.

I felt the first itch of an urge to write just as the friend I was staying with was set upon by a young lady. A young lady who’d informed us that she’d “just finished school”. Which is to say she was old enough to drink, and what-not, only it made me feel a bit old.

My friend and I had been discussing Maurice Merleau-Ponty (as being the only redeemable phenomenologist), folk-theories of aesthetics, and shit, all day. I was primed to write, and the late-night action seemed to light a fuse.

Soon after, my friend and his newly graduated accomplice, ducked out for a bit of what-not, back at the place where I’d been sleeping. I went on drinking in order to give them a little more time alone, plus extra drinking for extra time, in case it was needed. It’s always good to increase your margin of error in these matters.

Anyway, perhaps I was at least a little drunk.

Eventually, thanks to a friend, I got back to the house, sneaking in and locking the door behind me, in the dark then tip-toeing over creaking floorboards, towards my mattress on the lounge-room floor, dropping my pants, and crawling in. My mate, still awake, in turn tiptoed to the lounge room to make sure I was who I was, which I was, so all was good.

Then everyone more or less committed to nodding off.

Some time later, it occurred to me that I couldn’t sleep. I’d had a good night on the piss, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about writing – people had got me all excited about it; “writer”, “Maurice Merleau-Ponty”, “shit”. Four thirty in the morning is usually a good time for this kind of inspiration.

I got it into my silly head (which is why I entertain the suggestion of my own drunkenness), that it would be like “that Hitchens anecdote” – the one where he drinks his pals under the table, only for them to wake up to find him finishing another essay. It was going to be like that.

Then there was movement…

A foot stepped down on the corner of my mattress and I opened my eyes to make out part of a black silhouette hovering above in the darkness. Footsteps tracked the side of my improvised bedding, stumbling into the kitchen, the silhouette gaining only enough outline to identify the owner; the young lady who’d come home with my friend earlier in the night.

I told myself that as soon as she’d finished I-didn’t-want-to-know-what in the bathroom, and made it back to bed, I’d get up and start writing. Sure… It was going to be like that.

After a wrong turn into the pantry, the silhouette stumbled back across the edge of my mattress, thankfully managing not to step on my balls or face in the process. I was about to emerge from my failed slumber and head for my laptop when it happened.

I still had my eyes closed, hands pinned beneath my head, when somehow a pair of arms interlocked with mine, and a face nuzzled between my shoulder and jaw. Teeth grinded – her teeth – which to my mind, instantly conjured imagery of The Walking Dead – her mouth only millimetres from my neck, gnashing.

I could have screamed I guess, but that doesn’t come naturally to me. Maybe it should.

No, what I tried to do, with some success, was to slowly untangle myself from her arms, crawling further down along my bed, as she lay “above” me at a one-eighty degree angle. After about an hour of this manoeuvring, I was finally free to get up and get away. But…

I needed a little breather before I got up. I closed my eyes, only to re-open them to the first rays of morning’s light. I looked “up” to see legs cycling as if she was dreaming the Tour de France, before noticing that in fact, she was naked. What if during my escape, she woke up to find me standing over her like that?

Shitballs…

Slowly, I searched from my mattress-fortress for my mobile phone amidst my travel baggage. I’d SMS my friend in his bedroom, and maybe give him a ring to wake him up. I needed to be rescued out of this situation.

The search for my phone lead me at last to the insides of a Woolworths plastic bag, which crunched and crackled with each tentative movement. This took some time to do stealthily, yet eventually, I was to discover the bag did not in fact contain anything other than unwashed underwear…

I closed my eyes in disappointment only to open them right as the bag was lifted away by Miss Naked, who stood briefly above my head. Swiftly, she placed the bag to one side, and then slid down under the sheets next to me – it was all I could do to roll aside, making sure my arms weren’t pinned again.

I should mention, that in recounting these details later in the day, it was at this point in the story that I was informed she was likely covered in copious amounts of cum. So there she was – pressing against my back, the pair of us forming some kind of salty shortbread cream biscuit. Yuck!

It’s on precisely this kind of occasion (perhaps I’m wrong – I haven’t had many more), that you adopt a certain kind of scepticism towards the eagerness of women, despite what they may say or initiate of their own accord, to do kinky things with your sperm; pearl necklaces, jizzing across the small of the back, swallowing, etc. I feel as if my experience involved some degree of unconscious retribution.

Please feel free to shudder – your sympathy will make me feel less lonely.

There I was, wondering what it would look like to be found in this position, at this stage my desire for essay writing having shriveled to resemble the level of interest displayed by the average, sub-zero, ninety-year-old penis. I had to escape.

About another hour was spent, wiggling, re-positioning, and lifting myself away from my unwanted bed-partner. This may seem an inordinate amount of time to spend on such a task, but one has to consider the constraints upon one’s stealth presented by empty spirit bottles, atop Ikea bookshelves, atop flexible floorboards.

The last few inches was the easiest, my visitor turning over to roll me out in a single, fluid motion, my hands and feet landing on the small gap between bed and bookshelf. Slowly I crawled towards the lounge room door, grabbing my pants and wallet on the way – I was free!

After quickly pulling on my strides and popping on shoes, I made my way to my mate’s bedroom and quietly knocked on the door.

“Whaaa..t?”

Squeezing my head and shoulders into the room, I told him he was missing something. His eyebrows furrowed, in a substitute shrug, so I pointed at the other side of his bed, where, lifting his bed-sheets, he would discover a certain absence before rolling his eyes and crashing his head back down in frustration.

At last, a course of action would be decided upon; my friend would go back to sleep, while I went out to get some early breakfast before sneaking back in to crash on the lounge. He’d take care of any awkwardness should it arise.

All in all, the rest of the morning didn’t pan out too awkwardly, although I’m not entirely sure Miss Naked remembered who she’d fucked that night. I didn’t get a word of my essay down.

Still, it all could have gone a lot worse, escalating beyond all buggery with recriminations all round. I’ll settle for my losses and call it a cautionary tale.

~ Bruce

“Stupid feminists…”

At much the same time, but aside from the whole fallout following the ‘ElevatorGate’ non-controversy, has been a curious little phenomena I’ve seen over the past few years on the Australian blogosphere/Twitterverse. It’s not something I’m going to generalise to the wider population – it’s more a case of who’s been saying it that makes it interesting.

It’s too far out to name names – to dredge up something say three years old, for what at best would be a shit-storm, but I’ll provide a few biographical details when and where it’s relevant.

***

The phenomena; “…stupid feminists…”.

Taken at face value, logically, the phrase refers to feminists-who-are-stupid. You could, if this was as far as you wanted to go, write this off as another reference to stupid people among the whole range of walks of life; stupid lefties; stupid right-wingers; stupid arts students; stupid accountants; stupid brick layers and so on.

You could be forgiven for simply concluding that as a concession, the phrase implies the existence of feminists who aren’t stupid – I mean, why point out that a given feminist is, or a group are, stupid, if they’re all stupid?

I’d be lying if I said I thought every feminist I’d ever encountered was a genius, or honest, or sane. In fact, I find some of what I’ve come across that’s been passed off as serious, worthy of harsh parody. Luce Irigaray’s drivel about E=mc2 being gendered (‘Sujet de la science, sujet sexué?’, 1987), and fluid dynamics being underprivileged on account of being feminine (‘The “mechanics” of fluids’, 1985), come to mind as being particularly bankrupt.

(I was once told, by someone trying to advance a particularly weird epistemological argument, that intellectual clarity was masculine because clear delineations resemble the sheer outline of an erect penis. This was served up to me, in all seriousness, as academically sound feminism.)

It’s not just amongst academic feminism – Laurie Penny, in line with a series of other criticisms by feminist authors, lambasts the recent writing of popular feminist Naomi Wolf for being particularly silly. I’m inclined to sympathise.

My subjective impression though, is that most of the feminists I’ve encountered are on average, smarter than average, truthful in as far as human nature allows, and perfectly sane. Ditto for the feminist literature I’ve read (I tend to find authors like Laurie Penny quite reasonable).

This is, I repeat, a subjective impression; I don’t have a statistically sound survey of feminist thought, and neither do the people using the mentioned phrase, “…stupid feminists”.

***

Now back to the curious phrase…

Again, we could take the logic at face value, and it would at least be a charitable way of taking it out of context. But context matters.

During the last three years, in addition to the repetition of the phrase, I’ve witnessed a relatively high-profile Australian “Skeptic” swear off the night’s QandA on the ABC, on account of having had to have put up with too many “stupid feminists” at university. Incidentally, it was one of Leslie Cannold’s appearances on QandA that night, that got the fellow all riled up.

I’d liked to have asked two questions at the time, questions I think it’s worth revisiting now, albeit with less heat.

What proportion of “stupid feminists” at university warrants being considered intolerable, such that a reasonable person would avoid future contact where possible?

And…

What exactly was the fellow’s objection to Leslie Cannold, and his familiarity with “stupid feminists”, such that he could dismiss her in advance? (Put another way – “how is his data predictive?”)

Answering the former, if you were being charitable, you could suggest was due to a generally low tolerance to stupidity – he’s just sensitive.

But the “Skeptic” in question engages with creationists on a semi-regular basis, all without affording them relief from a single drop of his vitriol. Even if you assume he’s right about “stupid feminists”, why can’t he engage with his feminist opponents equally?

A low tolerance to stupidity clearly isn’t the answer.

As for the second question… an honest “Skeptic” should be able to point out the error in attributing such significance to subjective impressions. Surely as a “Skeptic”, he’d seek an opportunity to be proven wrong?

Bloviation and a beard does not a rationalist make.

***

Leslie Cannold seems to have a knack for bringing this out in some of the guys. This is especially the case Twitter, and it’s a kind of response that’s always another disincentive to using the technology.

I can recall in 2010, one chap who will also go unnamed, placing scare-quotes around “ethicist” and going on to call Cannold a “cunt” (as a supposedly more apt job description). This apparently in response to this article at Crikey.

At no point did he actually address the substance of the article. Rather he simply treated the conclusion as if it was self-evidently wrong, and proceeded to engage in sanctimony.

“So what?” you may ask. It’s Twitter after all!

I’ll tell you what.

The guy in question was (and I think still is) a respected tech-writer, who’s been published at the ABC, and has in fact had more articles published at Crikey than Cannold. He’s also often re-tweeted by a clique of journos from the ABC – a crowd he is in with in the material world.

He’s not exactly a nobody. (He’s also not an ethicist.)

And back on topic, he does seem to float in the same wonkish circles I’m reading this “stupid feminists” meme in. Albeit, with a little more standing than most.

While I haven’t seen him deploy the phrase himself, instances of it do seem to be captured in his orbit like space junk around a suitably massive object.

There’s something to be said about a sub-culture where a semi-prominent journalist can slag off like this at another media figure, without much in the way of a response. This is the culture I’m seeing the phrase deployed in.

***

“…Stupid feminists…” has been doing the rounds of wonk circles for a while now; “Stupid feminist…” doesn’t understand X. “Stupid feminist…” called me a misogynist just for criticising her ideas. “Stupid feminist…” etc.

No, the phrase itself, in isolation, doesn’t logically connote a sexist generalism, but there’s always something iffy about the context. It’s never just a criticism of a feminist’s argument, if you’re also calling them stupid.

And it seems a rarity that anyone wants to discuss the points of contention at length, in essay form, or even as a blog post –  even if they’re willing to call someone else stupid on account of their disagreement.

You know who else doesn’t understand the points of contention? People who can’t articulate the points of contention, that’s who.

Sure, there’s the complexity-stifling aspect of Twitter. It’s never a good forum for a detailed discussion. But these wonks having trouble with “stupid feminists” often either contribute to popular blogs, or have the option of articulating themselves via the established media.

They express their vex so strongly. Surely if it’s all that important, they could go to the lengths to spell it out in detail?

“X accuses people of misogyny with as much discretion as people throwing rice at weddings.”

We’ve all heard the story about the boy who cried wolf. Nobody’s going to balk at someone crying “Naomi Wolf”  if it’s a fair cop, save perhaps the occasional, random troll.

I find some people’s actions in all of this, to be at odds with their expressed or apparent motives.

~ Bruce