Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2 is Secretly a Radical Feminist Manifesto

Warning: Major spoilers ahead!

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 is a significant improvement over its prequel in its treatment of women. It passes the Bechdel test; it features a powerful subplot about sisterhood; it features new female characters in prominent roles. Oh, and it advocates for a radical takedown of the patriarchy.

At first blush, Peter Quill doesn’t strike one as a likely feminist hero. A white cis man who womanizes his way through a life of consequence-free mayhem, Quill is all about blowing things up and counting on his good looks and cocky attitude to keep himself out of trouble. He’s also counting on a surprisingly diverse group of friends.

I’m going to pause here and make the claim that in the galaxy the Guardians inhabit, diversity doesn’t mean quite the same thing it means here on earth. Our definitions, for the purposes of this particular fictional world, will require a bit of expansion. There are humans, such as Quill himself, most of the Nova Corps, and at least half the Ravagers. But in space, the people of color come in shades unknown on earth, including not only non-white humans, but alien cultures with skin tones representing every color of the rainbow, and in a variety of textures to boot. This is before you consider a genetic hybrid experiment, such a Rocket Raccoon (who is highly sensitive to his status as an experimental species), or a sentient plant, like adorable Baby Groot. In this corner of the galaxy, diversity means diversity of species, as well as race, gender, orientation, and other markers we “Terrans” find familiar. And just as diversity takes different forms, the racism and speciesism of Guardians take different forms as well. Questions of racial purity and superiority are put forth by Ronan and the Kree extremists in Vol. 1 and the Sovereign in Vol. 2, and Rocket is on the receiving end of significant abuse as he lacks a recognized and accepted species of his own.

Now that we’re clear on the terms, we can go back and note that, in his pre-Guardians life, Quill, though raised by a Ravager crew that included multiple species, including his surrogate father Yondu, still harbored stereotypically chauvinist attitudes in spite of his diverse upbringing. As on Earth, racial diversity and sexual diversity appear to operate independently, particularly in Ravenger culture. As a result, Quill, as we first meet him, is an equal-opportunity chauvinist. From kicking off Guardians of the Galaxy by forgetting his one night stand was still asleep in his ship, to enumerating the scars he’s acquired from wronged ex-girlfriends, Quill’s attitude was one of someone clearly aware enough to take advantage of his male privilege while remaining oblivious as to its impact on those around him, to the point where the sheer variety of species of women he’s slept with becomes a point of pride.

By the time we meet him again at the start of Guardians Vol. 2, Quill’s attitudes have not yet started to change. In his seeming-subconscious desire to sleep with females of any species, he reflexively hits on Ayesha, the High Priestess of the Sovereign, although he later admits to Gamora that he finds the Sovereign distasteful. Quill’s psyche is also riddled with daddy issues, filled with the kind of hyper-masculine claptrap that leads him, as a child, to feel as though he will be considered “less than” without a father figure who embodies every white, suburban ideal. He confesses to Gamora that, as a child on Earth, he felt compelled to lie that his father was David Hasselhoff, absent only because he was off filming Knight Rider.

Fortunately, it seems, Quill does have a father: the aptly (if heavy-handedly) named Ego, a celestial being something akin to a god. Although Ego is an ancient immortal lifeform, capable of becoming a living planet and able to shapeshift at will, he has chosen to take the form of a white human male because he considers it “pleasing to the eye.” Ego’s mission, like so many white men before him, is the colonization and subjugation of every planet in the galaxy. By spreading his seed, impregnating the female natives of each planet he encounters, Ego hopes to secure his supremacy by using his genetic material to convert every planet into an extension of himself. Once-diverse planets will be utterly consumed by homogeny as all conform to Ego’s standards.

At first, Quill is seduced by this vision. With literal stars in his eyes as he imagines the future with his immortal father, he is quickly won over to this plan in which he and Ego conquer all. But before the “expansion” is complete, Quill learns that Ego killed his mother by implanting a tumor in her brain. Realizing that Ego’s expansion has required the death of his mother and will cause the death of his friends – women and diverse alien species – Quill rejects the seductive prospect of absolute power and chooses instead to fight back against Ego, joining his friends’ plan to destroy Ego from within.

“Rejecting Ego and destroying it from within” sounds like a metaphor, but this is the actual plot we’re discussing. The language of the metaphor differs, but just a little. Ego, in this case, is not only the ego, but, as Quill’s father, serves as both a symbol and a physical representation of patriarchy. Only when white cis men refuse to be seduced by power and recognize that it comes by disadvantaging women and non-white humans can the patriarchy be destroyed. It must be destroyed collaboratively, and from within. The film’s radical message is encapsulated in its final epic battle scene. When the only ones fighting the patriarchy are those whom it oppresses, there is little hope of success. Quill must completely reject the value of power at the cost of those upon whom such power depends. He must reject the allure of Ego and the desire to give into a god complex – literally and figuratively. And he must recognize that the patriarchy can only be destroyed with the enthusiastic participation of those who stand to benefit from it the most.

The cast of formidable female characters in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 are an impressive group, but their ability to make a subversive feminist agenda appeal to an unreceptive audience is limited. By rejecting his privilege and choosing feminism and diversity over the allure of patriarchal power, Peter Quill is the only character in the film who has the ability to cross gender barriers with this radical message. While Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 likely did not set out to promote the destruction of the patriarchy and question the power structures perpetuated by white men, it goes a lot further toward that agenda than any other film in the MCU. Peter Quill might not be the feminist hero we want, but he certainly has the potential to become the ambassador of feminism and diversity we need.

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Birthdays and Deathdays

It is a truth universally acknowledged that William Shakespeare died on April 23, 1616. This is fairly important because when it comes to Shakespeare, there are actually very few universally acknowledged truths. His birthday, for example, is unknown. He was baptized on April 26, 1564, and due to an unsubstantiated Victorian supposition that it was customary to baptize infants when they were three days old, it has been widely speculated that he was born on the 23rd. Unfortunately, that supposed custom is made-up claptrap, invented because later scholars and – let’s be candid – fans thought it’d be cool if Shakespeare died on his birthday.

Now, surely there must be some tangible facts about the birth of the greatest writer in the English language. Of course there are, but they’re rather a mess, and furthermore they don’t prove a damn thing. Allow me to explain.

Let us begin with the Book of Common Prayer, which, at the time of Shakespeare’s birth, recommended that children be baptized on first convenient Sunday or holy day after birth. It is then simple enough to start our search by consulting a calendar, remembering, of course, that Shakespeare was born before the shift to the Gregorian calendar in 1582, and far before its adoption in England in 1752. With all that in mind, April 26 fell on a Wednesday in 1564, according to the Julian calendar. The 26th also happens to be St. George’s Day, which is quite auspicious indeed as holy days go. Honoring the patron saint of England, St. George’s Day was often marked by festivals, pageants, and celebrations throughout the country, so it’s plain to see why Shakespeare’s parents might have wanted to baptize him then. The 25th is also a holy day, but it’s St. Mark’s Day: a date on the liturgical calendar known as “Black Crosses” and linked to all manner of morbid superstitions. According to folklore, Black Crosses marked the day when the spectral images of those who were to die during the coming year could be seen already haunting the churchyard in which they were soon to lie. This seems a strange superstition to associate with St. Mark the Evangelist, whose symbol was the mighty lion of Christ, but as a devotee of Game of Thrones, I am inclined to agree with Shakespeare’s parents that dragons are preferable to lions, and find their choice perfectly understandable.

Right, back to the (Julian) calendar. April 23rd fell on a Sunday in 1564. This would render a birthday before Friday the 21st unlikely, as he would have otherwise been baptized that following Sunday, the 23rd. It is worth pausing here to remark that an upper-middle-class woman like Mary Arden would not have seen fit to drag herself from childbed immediately after pushing a live human being from a very small bodily orifice. Therefore, unless the baby was in imminent danger, one can assume that there would be a period of at least a day or two between birth and baptism. That gives us a window of roughly April 21st through April 24th, which makes April 23rd a not unreasonable guess.

Ah, but wait! There are other documents to provide further illumination to this murky mystery and narrow down the date of nativity still further. According to the Parish Register of Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare died “Æetatis 53” or “in the 53rd year of his age.” Those who have shaper mathematical eyes than my own will have already noticed a potential discrepancy, as for Shakespeare to have been born in 1564 and died in 1616, Shakespeare could only have been 52 years old. However, in accordance with the reckoning of the time, one would be in one’s 53rd year as soon has one had celebrated one’s 52nd birthday. Specifically and crucially to our exercise, Shakespeare would have already turned 52 in order to be listed in the Parish Register as being in his 53rd year of life. That means we can rule out April 24th, as with that birthday he could not have started his 53rd year of life, having died on the 23rd.

Yes, but if Shakespeare was born on the 23rd, wouldn’t you think that maybe, just maybe someone might have remarked upon this when he died? There are no surviving contemporary documents regarding Shakespeare’s death, besides his will and burial record. In the years following, Shakespeare’s colleagues John Heminges and Henry Condell published the First Folio to commemorate the works of their fallen friend, gone too soon from this world. The compilation features not one but two introductory notes by Heminges and Condell, detailing the circumstances of the publication. It further includes a small collection of elegiac poems by Ben Jonson, Leonard Digges, Hugh Holland, and other contemporary writers. Jonson waxes particularly eloquent, calling his departed friend “Sweet Swan of Avon” and asserting that Shakespeare “was not of an age but for all time.” Given these copious lamentations, surely someone would have remarked upon the cruel irony of Shakespeare dying on his birthday, would they not? Lacking any reference to a birthday-deathday, can we safely rule out the 23rd as well?

Alas, we cannot. When it comes to cases, all this forensic analysis of dates and records is pure frivolous conjecture as it presupposes that Shakespeare or his parents even knew or remembered his actual date of birth. Shakespeare certainly wasn’t born the celebrated Bard of Avon, after all. He was the third child of a Snitterfield glover who was probably expected to grow up to be a glover himself. There was simply no reason to mark his date of birth, particularly at a time when one’s baptismal day was arguably more important. In the intervening years, who’s to say that his parents could remember anything beyond the fact that their son was born just before St. George’s Day.

And let’s be clear; when we discuss the Shakespeares, we are not discussing a family who has left us a record of precision. Indeed, it seems they couldn’t even agree on how to spell “Shakespeare” with any consistency. On legal documents, it’s listed variously as Shakespere, Shakspere, Shaksper, Shaxpere, and even Shagspere, which, frankly sounds like William’s adult film alias. (Coming soon: My Second Best Bed, starring Billy Shagspere and Anne Knickers-away.) With a disregard for the such minutia as consistently spelling their surname, it should come as no surprise that a little thing like William Shakespeare’s birthday might very well have been forgotten.

And so we arrive back where we started: mired in uncertainty. But let that be no deterrent. Shakespeare was born, graced us with some of the finest verse ever composed in the English language, and died. Whether or not he did so on his birthday is irrelevant to the enjoyment of that which he left behind.


William Shakespeare and the Gentle Art of Cursing

Warning: This post is rated R for strong language

As a long-time lover of four-letter words, I find school days difficult, in that my normal speech is so thoroughly peppered with expletives that I am forever censoring myself in front of my students. In my own defense, my ratio of swears to “SAT words” is probably 1::4, making my personal parlance a unique mélange of the foul and the fair. Or, as my father has frequently observed: “For someone with such an impressive vocabulary, you sure say ‘fuck’ a lot.”

Allow me, gentle readers, to digressively come to the defense of “fuck,” from a grammatical point of view. Few words in the English language are so versatile, so useful, so plastic as this word. To quote Sterling Johnson in his narrow tome English as a Second F*cking Language, “fuck” is a particularly impressive word, as it functions as almost all parts of speech. It can be a noun (as in “I don’t give a fuck.”), a verb (“We were fucking.”), an adjective (“Let me drive the fucking car!”), an adverb (“What are you fucking doing?”), and an interjection (“Fuck!”). It can be used to modify a sentence in both positive and negative contexts. It is, in short, a grammatical wonder. In any given 24-hour period, I probably used “fuck” in every possible part of speech. It’s just that useful.

Johnson employs a variety of doctored “quotations” from famous authors in an effort of encourage his readers to curse. His most curious usage, however, is in quoting William Shakespeare. By page seven, Johnson has already invoked a particularly relevant line from The Tempest :

You taught me language. And my profit on’t

Is, I know how to curse.

Why, then is Johnson’s invocation of Shakespeare curious? I find it so because Johnson’s book is designed to extol the virtues of English’s most taboo four-letter words, most of which Shakespeare merely alluded to, but did not himself employ. The estimable Bill Bryson points out in his William Shakespeare: the World as Stage that the Bard of Avon was one of the few playwrights of his era who did not use profanities to curse. Bryson refers to Shakespeare’s language as “prudish” when compared to Ben Jonson, who:

manured his plays, as it were, with frequent interjections of “turd i’ your teeth,” “shit o’your head,” and “I fart at thee.”

Yet, it is misleading to call Shakespeare a prude. While refraining from vulgarities, Shakespeare still manages to be quite crude through the cunning use of euphemism. If Shakespeare eschews the everyday swear, it is only, in my opinion, to venture into a more creative vein of obscenity. I gave my students a list of his oaths and insults, garnered from the body of his plays, shows a predilection for double entendres, sexual flaws, and short jokes.

(Aside: One of my students asked me, a woman who stands at 5′ 3″ in heels, how I felt about Shakespeare’s copious insults aimed at the vertically challenged. I told him I was well aware of the fact that I was short, and that I didn’t need Shakespeare to inform me of the fact. And then I called him a painted maypole.)

Upon examining this list, my students were immediately struck by the lack of anything explicit. I had told them that Shakespeare could be quite foul, when he chose, and there was a collective disappointment when the list failed to provide them with anything particularly R-rated. It wasn’t until I began to help them weed through the euphemisms and sift through the language that they began to get a picture of the breadth and scope of Shakespeare’s curses. The average tenth-grader will probably not be aware that to call someone “raw-boned”is to imply that the person in question has been having so much sex that they feel literally raw. They will not know that in Shakespeare’s day, the word “nothing” also meant “no thing,” “thing” meaning penis, making nothing sort of a euphemism for the female genitalia. Thus, when Hamlet tells Ophelia that nothing is a fair thought between a maid’s legs, he’s obliquely referencing her vulva. And what, then, do you suppose is the real meaning of the title Much Ado About Nothing?

Shakespeare spends much of his creative cursing referring to seemingly innocuous things, such as canker-blossoms and clotpoles. It takes a working knowledge of Elizabethan slang to know that he is referring to genital warts and men too stupid to know how to wield their own phalli, respectively. The term “fishmonger” for “pimp” requires a bit of intuition to interpret. In fact, so many of Shakespeare’s innocent-seeming curses pack such a sexually charged punch that I was surprised to find that “rabbit-sucker” was merely a term for a sneaky or weaselly person, and not something far more perverse.

Once my students began to realize the potential in their lists, the insults began to fly. It was truly marvelous to hear them come up with more and more eloquent ways to call one another promiscuous jerks. Below are some of my favorites:

Thou bawdy, motley-minded rudesby!

Thou brazen, raw-boned canker-blossom!

Thou art a sottish, clay-brained nut-hook!

Thou prating, paper-faced pantaloon!

Thou art a waggish, horn-mad dogfish!
Thou art a hideous, eye-offending, hedge-pig!

Thou vacant, lean-witted manikin!

 

I would love to hear anyone’s interpretations of these in the comments.


Introducing Holden

It was probably a good move, starting my tenth-graders off with The Catcher in the Rye. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been looking forward to it, I really hadn’t. All this madman stuff had happened to me since I last read the book, which had left kind of a bad taste in my mouth. The last time I’d been fond of Holden had been when I myself was sixteen, despite having dated various incarnations of him in the mean time. Probably because I’d let all of those incarnations treat me kind of crummy. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be going back to that goddamn mindset all over again, if you know what I mean. I’d been thinking of Holden as the biggest phony I knew for more than a decade, and I had gotten pretty comfortable thinking of him that way, I guess.

And I’m not going to lie to you or anything like that and tell you all of them, my students, I mean, loved Holden. To tell you the truth, his goddamn cursing and smoking all the time really gave them a pain in the ass. They did their fair share of bellyaching about how Holden’s always going on about this person or that person being a phony, when really he’s the phoniest one of all. But somehow that got me to thinking about how much I liked the guy. Not the incarnations of him I dated. But the guy Salinger was writing about. The one that he sort of based on himself. That sorry, lost, confused, guilt-ridden, gullible, foul-mouthed, depressed boy, getting drunk and moping around New York City. I suddenly found myself better able to relate to Holden as an adult than I did (or at least think I did) as a teenager his own age.

But here’s what happened. My students started seeing themselves in Holden. Obviously (hopefully) not the drinking and smoking and chatting up prostitutes part. In fact, they were still mostly complaining about how bad Holden was, and how he was still giving them a pain in the ass. But they didn’t think he was a phony anymore after we started talking about how goddamn sad the guy really was. When I told them about his red hunting hat – how it was the same color as his dead brother’s hair, and how he kept putting in on for emotion protection, they suddenly got how lonely and miserable he was. You know, walking around New York like that, without anyone to talk to. That really got them. And when I explained how in the beginning when someone has stolen his best camel-hair coat and now all he has is this hat, and how it’s all a metaphor for losing his sense of security when his brother died, that really knocked them out, it really did. Because you find me one goddamn teenager who doesn’t know what it’s like to be so damn miserable and alone, so empty feeling and confused, and I’ll show you a teenager who’s lying to himself.

But what really killed me was – after showing all that empathy and everything – they came around to Holden at the expense of any other character who could maybe be seen as giving Holden a hard time. Phoebe they really went for. I’m telling you, they were so hard on that kid for not living up to being the bastion of childlike purity Holden was making her out to be. And Mr. Antolini. Boy, that got awkward. Here I am, their English teacher and everything, and there they are, my students. And you’ve got Mr. Antolini, who’s drunk and all but really I don’t think actually trying to molest Holden or anything like that, but really being so goddamn stupid and irresponsible with a fragile kid. I felt for the guy, I really did. But the students hated the guy’s guts. It was pretty hard to defend him, it really was. But in the months since we read it, since I’ve gotten to know them all a lot better, I’m trying to defend Mr. Antolini through my own actions. It’s hard to be a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to lean on, that one good adult in a kid’s life. Probably harder these days than Salinger ever figured on, I can tell you that. But I hope I can still be that person for some of my students, if they need it. And I can hope that I do a better goddamn job than the example Salinger set out in his book.

Oh, and I’ve ruined “Auld Lang Syne” for them too.  I sang “Comin’ Through the Rye” at them three goddamn times, and I’ve pretty much ruined them for ever hearing that tune again without thinking of me, standing in front of the class, warbling at them, offkey as hell. So I’ve got that going for me.


There is no frigate like a book . . .

2011

Welcome to My Marginalia, a blog about reading, writing, and attempting to transmit a love of both to the high school set. In these pages, there will be discussions of what I’m currently up to as a reader of books, and writer of fiction, and a teacher of English. I haven’t actively kept a blog since livejournal was cutting-edge technology, so bear with me as I slowly get this off the ground.

 

UPDATE: 2017

Well. It seems like my little experiment in blogging could possibly have benefitted from a tad more . . . consistency. It turned out I was suited neither to teaching, nor blogging. I left teaching for the exciting world of higher education administration, and I found that I was never going to write that novel if I was thinking about blogging. Having achieved some semblance of balance in my life (oh drat, I’ve gone and cursed it now), I’m once again going to try my hand at this, perhaps post a little Shakespearean-flavored fiction here, who knows? At any rate, to new beginnings!