Joanna Russ - Female Man

Joanna Russ - The Female Man

The Female Man

Joanna Russ

CONTENTS

● Part 1

● Part 2

● Part 3

● Part 4

● Part 5

● Part 6

● Part 7

● Part 8

● Part 9

This book is dedicated to Anne, to Mary and to

the other one and three-quarters billions of us.

THE FEMALE MAN

Proofread and formatted for #bookz September 2002

A Bantam Book / February 1973

Laing

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Joanna Russ - The Female Man

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission.

For information address; Bantam Books, Inc.

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam

Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other

countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

If Jack succeeds in forgetting something, this is of little use if Jill continues to remind him of it. He must

induce her not to do so. The safest way would be not just to make her keep quiet about it, but to induce

her to forget it also.

Jack may act upon Jill in many ways. He may make her feel guilty for keeping on "bringing it up." He

may invalidate her experience. This can be done more or less radically. He can indicate merely that it is

unimportant or trivial, whereas it is important and significant to her. Going further, he can shift the

modality of her experience from memory to imagination: "It's all in your imagination." Further still, he

can invalidate the content: "It never happened that way." Finally, he can invalidate not only the

significance, modality, and content, but her very capacity to remember at all, and make her feel guilty

for doing so into the bargain.

This is not unusual. People are doing such things to each other all the time. In order for such

transpersonal invalidation to work, however, it is advisable to overlay it with a thick patina of

mystification. For instance, by denying that this is what one is doing, and further invalidating any

perception that it is being done by ascriptions such as "How can you think such a thing?" "You must be

paranoid." And so on.

R. D. Laing, The Politics of Experience, Penguin Books, Ltd., London, 1967, pp. 31-32.

PART ONE

Contents - Next

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Joanna Russ - The Female Man

I

I was born on a farm on Whileaway. When I was five I was sent to a school on South Continent (like

everybody else) and when I turned twelve I rejoined my family. My mother's name was Eva, my other

mother's name Alicia; I am Janet Evason. When I was thirteen I stalked and killed a wolf, alone, on

North Continent above the forty-eighth parallel, using only a rifle. I made a travois for the head and

paws, then abandoned the head, and finally got home with one paw, proof enough (I thought). I've

worked in the mines, on the radio network, on a milk farm, a vegetable farm, and for six weeks as a

librarian after I broke my leg. At thirty I bore Yuriko Janetson; when she was taken away to a school

five years later (and I never saw a child protest so much) I decided to take time off and see if I could find

my family's old home—for they had moved away after I had married and relocated near Mine City in

South Continent. The place was unrecognizable, however; our rural areas are always changing. I could

find nothing but the tripods of the computer beacons everywhere, some strange crops in the fields that I

had never seen before, and a band of wandering children. They were heading North to visit the polar

station and offered to lend me a sleeping bag for the night, but I declined and stayed with the resident

family; in the morning I started home. Since then I have been Safety Officer for the county, that is S & P

(Safety and Peace), a position I have held now for six years. My Stanford-Binet corrected score (in your

terms) is 187, my wife's 205 and my daughter's 193. Yuki goes through the ceiling on the verbal test.

I've supervised the digging of fire trails, delivered babies, fixed machinery, and milked more moo-cows

than I wish I knew existed. But Yuki is crazy about ice-cream. I love my daughter. I love my family

(there are nineteen of us). I love my wife (Vittoria). I've fought four duels. I've killed four times.

II

Jeannine Dadier (DADE-yer) worked as a librarian in New York City three days a week for the W.P.A.

She worked at the Tompkins Square Branch in the Young Adult section. She wondered sometimes if it

was so lucky that Herr Shicklgruber had died in 1936 (the library had books about this). On the third

Monday in March of 1969 she saw the first headlines about Janet Evason but paid no attention to them;

she spent the day stamping Out books for the Young Adults and checking the lines around her eyes in

her pocket mirror (I'm only twenty-nine!). Twice she had had to tuck her skirt above her knees and climb

the ladder to the higher-up books; once she had to move the ladder over Mrs. Allison and the new

gentleman assistant, who were standing below soberly discussing the possibility of war with Japan.

There was an article in The Saturday Evening Post .

"I don't believe it," said Jeannine Nancy Dadier softly. Mrs. Allison was a Negro. It was an unusually

warm, hazy day with a little green showing in the park: imaginary green, perhaps, as if the world had

taken an odd turning and were bowling down Spring in a dim bye-street somewhere, clouds of

imagination around the trees.

"I don't believe it," repeated Jeannine Dadier, not knowing what they were talking about. "You'd better

believe it!" said Mrs. Allison sharply. Jeannine balanced on one foot. (Nice girls don't do that.) She

climbed down the ladder with her books and put them on the reserve table. Mrs. Allison didn't like W.P.

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A. girls. Jeannine saw the headlines again, on Mrs. Allison's newspaper.

WOMAN APPEARS FROM NOWHERE ON BROADWAY, POLICEMAN VANISHES

"I don't—" (I have my cat, I have my room, I have my hot plate and my window and the ailanthus tree).

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cal outside in the street; he was walking bouncily and his hat was

tipped forward; he was going to have some silly thing or other to say about being a reporter, little blond

hatchet face and serious blue eyes; "I'll make it some day, baby." Jeannine slipped into the stacks, hiding

behind Mrs. Allison's P.M.-Post : Woman Appears from Nowhere on Broadway, Policeman Vanishes.

She daydreamed about buying fruit at the free market, though her hands always sweat so when she

bought things outside the government store and she couldn't bargain. She would get cat food and feed

Mr. Frosty the first thing she got to her room; he ate out of an old china saucer. Jeannine imagined Mr.

Frosty rubbing against her legs, his tail waving. Mr. Frosty was marked black-and-white all over. With

her eyes closed, Jeannine saw him jump up on the mantelpiece and walk among her things: her sea shells

and miniatures. "No, no, no!" she said. The cat jumped off, knocking over one of her Japanese dolls.

After dinner Jeannine took him out; then she washed the dishes and tried to mend some of her old

clothing. She'd go over the ration books. When it got dark she'd turn on the radio for the evening

program or she'd read, maybe call up from the drugstore and find out about the boarding house in New

Jersey. She might call her brother. She would certainly plant the orange seeds and water them. She

thought of Mr. Frosty stalking a bath-robe tail among the miniature orange trees; he'd look like a tiger. If

she could get empty cans at the government store.

"Hey, baby?" It was a horrid shock. It was Cal.

"No," said Jeannine hastily. "I haven't got time."

"Baby?" He was pulling her arm. Come for a cup of coffee. But she couldn't. She had to learn Greek (the

book was in the reserve desk). There was too much to do. He was frowning and pleading. She could feel

the pillow under her back already, and Mr. Frosty stalking around them, looking at her with his strange

blue eyes, walking widdershins around the lovers. He was part Siamese; Cal called him The Blotchy

Skinny Cat. Cal always wanted to do experiments with him, dropping him from the back of a chair,

putting things in his way, hiding from him. Mr. Frosty just spat at him now.

"Later," said Jeannine desperately. Cal leaned over her and whispered into her ear; it made her want to

cry. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Then he said, "I'll wait." He sat on Jeannine's stack chair,

picking up the newspaper, and added:

"The vanishing woman. That's you." She closed her eyes and daydreamed about Mr. Frosty curled up on

the mantel, peacefully asleep, all felinity in one circle. Such a spoiled cat.

"Baby?" said Cal.

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Joanna Russ - The Female Man

"Oh, all right," said Jeannine hopelessly, "all right."

I'll watch the ailanthus tree.

III

Janet Evason appeared on Broadway at two o'clock in the afternoon in her underwear. She didn't lose her

head. Though the nerves try to keep going in the previous track, she went into evasive position the

second after she arrived (good for her) with her fair, dirty hair flying and her khaki shorts and shirt

stained with sweat. When a policeman tried to take her arm, she threatened him with le savate, but he

vanished. She seemed to regard the crowds around her with a special horror. The policeman reappeared

in the same spot an hour later with no memory of the interval, but Janet Evason had returned to her

sleeping bag in the New Forest only a few moments after her arrival. A few words of Pan-Russian and

she was gone. The last of them waked her bedmate in the New Forest.

"Go to sleep," said the anonymous friend-for-the-night, a nose, a brow, and a coil of dark hair in the

dappled moonlight.

"But who has been mucking about with my head!" said Janet Evason.

IV

When Janet Evason returned to the New Forest and the experimenters at the Pole Station were laughing

their heads off (for it was not a dream) I sat in a cocktail party in mid-Manhattan. I had just changed into

a man, me, Joanna. I mean a female man, of course; my body and soul were exactly the same.

So there's me also.

V

The first man to set foot on Whileaway appeared in a field of turnips on North Continent. He was

wearing a blue suit like a hiker's and a blue cap. The farm people had been notified. One, seeing the blip

on the tractor's infrared scan, came to get him; the man in blue saw a flying machine with no wings but a

skirt of dust and air. The county's repair shed for farm machinery was nearby that week, so the tractor-

driver led him there; he was not saying anything intelligible. He saw a translucent dome, the surface

undulating slightly. There was an exhaust fan set in one side. Within the dome was a wilderness of

machines: dead, on their sides, some turned inside out, their guts spilling on to the grass. From an

extended framework under the roof swung hands as big as three men. One of these picked up a car and

dropped it. The sides of the car fell off. Littler hands sprang up from the grass.

"Hey, hey!" said the tractor-driver, knocking on a solid piece set into the wall. "It fell, it passed out!"

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"Send it back," said an operator, climbing out from under the induction helmet at the far end of the shed.

Four others came and stood around the man in the blue suit.

"Is he of steady mind?" said one.

"We don't know."

"Is he ill?"

"Hypnotize him and send him back."

The man in blue—if he had seen them—would have found them very odd: smooth-faced, smooth-

skinned, too small and too plump, their coveralls heavy in the seat. They wore coveralls because you

couldn't always fix things with the mechanical hands; sometimes you had to use your own. One was old

and had white hair; one was very young; one wore the long hair sometimes affected by the youth of

Whileaway, "to while away the time." Six pairs of steady curious eyes studied the man in the blue suit.

"That, mes enfants," said the tractor-driver at last, "is a man.

"That is a real Earth man."

VI

Sometimes you bend down to tie your shoe, and then you either tie your shoe or you don't; you either

straighten up instantly or maybe you don't. Every choice begets at least two worlds of possibility, that is,

one in which you do and one in which you don't; or very likely many more, one in which you do

quickly, one in which you do slowly, one in which you don't, but hesitate, one in which you hesitate and

frown, one in which you hesitate and sneeze, and so on. To carry this line of argument further, there

must be an infinite number of possible universes (such is the fecundity of God) for there is no reason to

imagine Nature as prejudiced in favor of human action. Every displacement of every molecule, every

change in orbit of every electron, every quantum of light that strikes here and not there—each of these

must somewhere have its alternative. It's possible, too, that there is no such thing as one clear line or

strand of probability, and that we live on a sort of twisted braid, blurring from one to the other without

even knowing it, as long as we keep within the limits of a set of variations that really make no difference

to us. Thus the paradox of time travel ceases to exist, for the Past one visits is never one's own Past but

always somebody else's; or rather, one's visit to the Past instantly creates another Present (one in which

the visit has already happened) and what you visit is the Past belonging to that Present—an entirely

different matter from your own Past. And with each decision you make (back there in the Past) that new

probable universe itself branches, creating simultaneously a new Past and a new Present, or to put it

plainly, a new universe. And when you come back to your own Present, you alone know what the other

Past was like and what you did there.

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Thus it is probable what Whileaway—a name for the Earth ten centuries from now, but not our Earth, if

you follow me—will find itself not at all affected by this sortie into somebody else's past. And vice

versa, of course. The two might as well be independent worlds.

Whileaway, you may gather, is in the future.

But not our future.

VII

I saw Jeannine shortly afterward, in a cocktail lounge where I had gone to watch Janet Evason on

television (I don't have a set). Jeannine looked very much out of place; I sat next to her and she confided

in me: "I don't belong here." I can't imagine how she got there, except by accident. She looked as if she

were dressed up for a costume film, sitting in the shadow with her snood and her wedgies, a long-

limbed, coltish girl in clothes a little too small for her. Fashion (it seems) is recovering very leisurely

from the Great Depression. Not here and now, of course. "I don't belong here!" whispered Jeannine

Dadier again, rather anxiously. She was fidgeting. She said, "I don't like places like this." She poked the

red, turfed leather on the seat

"What?" I said.

"I went hiking last vacation," she said big-eyed. "That's what I like. It's healthy."

I know it's supposed to be virtuous to run healthily through fields of flowers, but I like bars, hotels, air-

conditioning, good restaurants, and jet transport, and I told her so.

"Jet?" she said.

Janet Evason came on the television. It was only a still picture. Then we had the news from Cambodia,

Laos, Michigan State, Lake Canandaigua (pollution), and the spinning globe of the world in full color

with its seventeen man-made satellites going around it. The color was awful. I've been inside a television

studio before: the gallery running around the sides of the barn, every inch of the roof covered with

lights, so that the little woman-child with the wee voice can pout over an oven or a sink. Then Janet

Evason came on with that blobby look people have on the tube. She moved carefully and looked at

everything with interest. She was well dressed (in a suit). The host or M.C. or whatever-you-call-him

shook hands with her and then everybody shook hands with everybody else, like a French wedding or an

early silent movie. He was dressed in a suit. Someone guided her to a seat and she smiled and nodded in

the exaggerated way you do when you're not sure of doing the right thing. She looked around and shaded

her eyes against the lights. Then she spoke.

(The first thing said by the second man ever to visit Whileaway was, "Where are all the men?" Janet

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Evason, appearing in the Pentagon, hands in her pockets, feet planted far apart, said, "Where the dickens

are all the women?")

The sound in the television set conked out for a moment and then Jeannine Dadier was gone; she didn't

disappear, she just wasn't there any more. Janet Evason got up, shook hands again, looked around her,

questioned with her eyes, pantomimed comprehension, nodded, and walked out of camera range. They

never did show you the government guards.

I heard it another time and this is how it went:

MC: How do you like it here, Miss Evason?

JE (looks around the studio, confused): It's too hot.

MC: I mean how do you like it on—well, on Earth?

JE: But I live on the earth. (Her attention is a little strained here.)

MC: Perhaps you had better explain what you mean by that—I mean the existence of different

probabilities and so on—you were talking about that before.

JE: It's in the newspapers.

MC: But Miss Evason, if you could, please explain it for the people who are watching the program.

JE: Let them read. Can't they read?

(There was a moment's silence. Then the M.C. spoke.)

MC: Our social scientists as well as our physicists tell us they've had to revise a great deal of theory in

light of the information brought by our fair visitor from another world. There have been no men on

Whileaway for at least eight centuries—I don't mean no human beings, of course, but no men—and this

society, run entirely by women, has naturally attracted a great deal of attention since the appearance last

week of its representative and its first ambassador, the lady on my left here. Janet Evason, can you tell

us how you think your society on Whileaway will react to the reappearance of men from Earth—I mean

our present-day Earth, of course—after an isolation of eight hundred years?

JE (She jumped at this one; probably because it was the first question she could understand): Nine

hundred years. What men?

MC: What men? Surely you expect men from our society to visit Whileaway.

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JE: Why?

MC: For information, trade, ah—cultural contact, surely. (laughter) I'm afraid you're making it rather

difficult for me, Miss Evason. When the—ah—the plague you spoke of killed the men on Whileaway,

weren't they missed? Weren't families broken up? Didn't the whole pattern of life change?

JE (slowly): I suppose people always miss what they are used to. Yes, they were missed. Even a whole

set of words, like "he," "man" and so on—these are banned. Then the second generation, they use them

to be daring, among themselves, and the third generation doesn't, to be polite, and by the fourth, who

cares? Who remembers?

MC: But surely—that is—

JE: Excuse me, perhaps I'm mistaking what you intend to say as this language we're speaking is only a

hobby of mine, I am not as fluent as I would wish. What we speak is a pan-Russian even the Russians

would not understand; it would be like Middle English to you, only vice-versa.

MC: I see. But to get back to the question—

JE: Yes.

MC (A hard position to be in, between the authorities and this strange personage who is wrapped in

ignorance like a savage chief: expressionless, attentive, possibly civilized, completely unknowing. He

finally said): Don't you want men to return to Whileaway, Miss Evason?

JE: Why?

MC: One sex is half a species, Miss Evason. I am quoting (and he cited a famous anthropologist). Do

you want to banish sex from Whileaway?

JE (with massive dignity and complete naturalness): Huh?

MC: I said: Do you want to banish sex from Whileaway? Sex, family, love, erotic attraction—call it

what you like—we all know that your people are competent and intelligent individuals, but do you think

that's enough? Surely you have the intellectual knowledge of biology in other species to know what I'm

talking about.

JE: I'm married. I have two children. What the devil do you mean?

MC: I—Miss Evason—we—well, we know you form what you call marriages, Miss Evason, that you

reckon the descent of your children through both partners and that you even have "tribes"—I'm calling

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them what Sir ———— calls them; I know the translation isn’t perfect—and we know that these

marriages or tribes form very good institutions for the economic support of the children and for some

sort of genetic mixing, though I confess you're way beyond us in the biological sciences. But, Miss

Evason, I am not talking about economic institutions or even affectionate ones. Of course the mothers of

Whileaway love their children; nobody doubts that. And of course they have affection for each other;

nobody doubts that, either. But there is more, much, much more—I am talking about sexual love.

JE (enlightened): Oh! You mean copulation.

MC: Yes.

JE: And you say we don't have that?

MC: Yes.

JE: How foolish of you. Of course we do.

MC: Ah? (He wants to say, "Don't tell me.")

JE: With each other. Allow me to explain.

She was cut off instantly by a commercial poetically describing the joys of unsliced bread. They

shrugged (out of camera range). It wouldn't even have gotten that far if Janet had not insisted on

attaching a touch-me-not to the replay system. It was a live broadcast, four seconds' lag. I begin to like

her more and more. She said, "If you expect me to observe your taboos, I think you will have to be more

precise as to exactly what they are." In Jeannine Dadier's world, she was (would be) asked by a lady

commentator:

How do the women of Whileaway do their hair?

JE: They hack it off with clam shells.

VIII

"Humanity is unnatural!" exclaimed the philosopher Dunyasha Bernadetteson (A.C. 344—426) who

suffered all her life from the slip of a genetic surgeon's hand which had given her one mother's jaw and

the other mother's teeth—orthodontia is hardly ever necessary on Whileaway. Her daughter's teeth,

however, were perfect. Plague came to Whileaway in P.C. 17 (Preceding Catastrophe) and ended in A.C.

03, with half the population dead; it had started so slowly that no one knew about it until it was too late.

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