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floored me," she said. "But I'm not completely surprised. Feminism has always been one
of those movements that eats its young. That's one reason I never identified with it. I
think there are a lot of people my age who started out living feminist lives, who now
wouldn't be caught dead calling themselves feminist. Women who had careers, who
raised sensitive, loving sons and strong daughters... who find the baggage of the 'feminist'
label distasteful."

I've thought a lot about my mother's comment that feminism "eats its young." One 2009
New Yorker article about feminism by Ariel Levy offered an interesting analysis of
feminist divisions, but included one offhand claim that isn't explained or justified:
"Revolutions are supposed to devour their young." Is that so? Nobody told me. (Perhaps
ironically, Levy presents this claim while stating that feminism has actually turned
against its elders.)

Some commentators have told me that if I can't take the heat, then I just shouldn't write
about feminism. It hurts to think it, but maybe they're right. Somehow, the idea of being
"a good feminist" has become utterly tangled up in my identity. It's a weak spot and a
sore spot, in a way that I didn't anticipate and don't fully understand. I find social justice
criticism to be nourishing when it's generous and constructive, sometimes even when it's
aggressive -- but sometimes it feels so incredibly destructive. But as I said, I'm not at all
the only feminist writer who feels that the community can be internally destructive. How
much of the problem is the vitriol within some critiques, and how much is that feminism
has become "who we are" rather than "something we do"?

I think we can all agree that it's good to call out other people when they're screwing up --
but there has to be a way for us to build a movement without eating our young. Yet from
what my mother tells me, we've never been good at that.

On the bright side, I don't have to engage politically with feminism in order to be a
feminist, or volunteer for feminist causes, or do feminist work. And it helps to understand
that I don't have to be "a good feminist" for my mother to be proud of me. (My dad's
another matter.)

* * *

During one of our recent conversations, I confirmed again with my mother that I had
permission to write about her experience. Then I asked her if she's out of the closet as a
rape survivor.

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I guess so. I don't really think about it. I'm happy
with my life now." She paused and drank her tea for a moment. "I don't think of myself as
a rape survivor anymore," she added. "By 1980, ten years after the attack, I really thought
I was emerging from the cave. And I was, but I was still metaphorically covered in dirt
and cobwebs, with grit in my mouth. In the first few years I was with your dad -- the
early 1980s -- I had residual fears. I had become frightened by subways, elevators, and
surprise noises, and he helped me work my way through those very effectively. By 25
years, it was simply no longer a part of my current self. I'd say I am wiser and stronger
for it, but I think an experience so shocking is a lousy way to build character. And a
waste of time! I lost too many years. I hope that things like victim advocacy saves

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