Hi everyone–apologies for being MIA since Monday, things have been a lot crazier than I expected in the last few days. I am planning on posting something else later tonight or first thing tomorrow morning, but I’m going to first leave with you this. It’s a post I just did for Bitch’s blog about a book that certifiably defined your feminist identity. I thought it’d be a nice addendum to my intro post (where I briefly mentioned Rita Mae, my mom, and my teenage self). Enjoy, and I’ll see you in a few hours.
I was in the midst of a family vacation when I flopped on my parents’ bed and gave my mom puppy-dog eyes. “I’m bored,” I whined. “I finished all my magazines. My Discman is out of batteries. And there’s no TV here!”
My mother, feminist writer Ellen Willis, smiled knowingly and dug through her book collection. “Here,” she said, handing me a tattered copy of Rita Mae Brown’s semi-autobiographical Rubyfruit Jungle. “I promise you’ll love this.”
I devoured the thing in two days. I was 14, newly sexual, newly independent, and growing a nose for gender awareness. In its 245 pages, there is not one mention of the word “feminism” in Rubyfruit Jungle. Yet, it is hands-down my favorite feminist book, the one that’s been most influential on my feminist personality.
In those two days, I became acquainted with Molly Bolt, an irreverent tomboy growing up in 1950s Florida who was determined to steamroll her way out of poverty and become a famous filmmaker. She was one of those charismatic, “take the world by storm” characters—took no shit, told no lies, and never met a pretty girl she couldn’t seduce. She chronicled her affair with her high school’s head cheerleader, her nonchalant first fuck with her cousin Leroy, and her first wintry day in New York City with no friends or money. She held her own with bigot after bigot, telling them to go fuck themselves if they had a problem with her M.O. She seethed in a film class taught by a world class misogynist who claimed that no woman could be a good film director. “Makes me want to cram a can of Triumph of the Will right down his throat,” she told us.
Molly’s story is pre-gay rights movement, pre-second wave feminism, and pre-sex revolution, but on that family vacation, her determination to be her own person made feminism seem to me like a timeless no-brainer. Molly was a bad-ass who wouldn’t dream of compromising her morals or goals. She was ambitious, sexy, and straight-up cool. She had integrity and a frigging amazing work ethic. She was also hilarious; she employed those Southern metaphors like it was her job. Sleeping with men versus women was “the difference between a pair of roller skates and a Ferrari,” she said, and all with a matter-of-fact shrug. I found myself both being insanely jealous of her and wanting her as a best friend.
She was also remarkably influential on my ideas about sex and love, which is ironic since I’m not even gay. Straight and queer women alike could learn a thing or two about sex from Molly, which is why it’s such a shame that Rubyfruit Jungle gets pigeonholed in the niche of “lesbian fiction.” Whether having sex with women or men, Molly was in control, being safe, and having fun. She refused to be treated like an object, but didn’t get sanctimonious about sex, either.
Molly also loved hard, but she kept her focus, giving the whole marriage thing the finger. “That’s all I think I ever wanted,” she proclaimed, “to go my own way and maybe find some love here and there. Love, but not the now and forever kind with chains around your vagina and a short circuit in your brain. I’d rather be alone.” Still, she didn’t judge others for taking different roads, as long as they were happy.
Molly never cared much for labels, so I’m not even sure she’d claim the word “feminism.” She even revealed her wariness of the nascent “women’s groups,” saying they’d “trash her just the same.” But damn, if Molly Bolt isn’t one of the greatest feminist role models out there, I have no clue who is.
Cross-posted at Bitch’s Page Turner.
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I read this book in high school – I was a bit older than you (probably 16?), and I loved every minute of it.
I remember Molly having a very negative opinion of butch women.
This is one of those books I’ve always meant to read, but have never gotten around to for whatever reason. I have to take my latest load of books back to the library next week, so maybe it’s time to remedy that situation.
The book that had a very similar impact on me at that age was Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang by Joyce Carol Oates. Forget the horrible movie adaptation, this book is a scathing critique of class, gender, and race told through the lens of a ’50s girl gang lead by an enigmatic and charismatic teen girl. I’ve reread it, like, 100 times and I never get bored of it. There have been times that I finish it and immediately flip back to the beginning and start again because I’m just not ready for it to be over.
When I was a teen and just beginning to wade into feminist writing, this book radicalized my thinking far more easily than the feminist non-fiction I was reading. It resonated emotionally so strongly that I finally understood and accepted concepts that I’d been struggling with in the non-fiction stuff.
Also, apropos of very little: I love that you guys have recommended Gogol Bordello in your little sidebar over there —> After seeing the movie Wristcutters: A Love Story, I’ve fallen in love with the band! I highly recommend both the movie and the music!
I met Rita Mae Brown face to face once, now going on 20 years ago, and she said she was trying to put together backing for a film version of Rubyfruit Jungle. Does anyone out there know if the film ever got made?
[...] Feministe: Rubyfruit Jungle, oh how I heart you [...]