Abstract
Alison Phipps’ Me, Not You: The Trouble with Mainstream Feminism examines sexual violence, and especially the violence that white feminists can enact in the name of fighting such violence. The analysis is grounded in Black feminist theory, particularly the principle of intersectionality (Crenshaw, 1991), to critique the whiteness of mainstream feminist campaigns against sexual violence. The book will be useful to anyone interested in anti-violence, anti-racism and anti-carceral organising, but is addressed specifically to white feminists who may share Phipps’ unease about the whiteness and exclusionary politics of mainstream feminism. Phipps’ criticism of whiteness makes Me, Not You an invaluable and timely contribution to mainstream feminist conversations about sexual violence, which historically centre privileged white women at the expense of more marginalised people.
Chapter 1 outlines the setting from which the contemporary #MeToo campaign has emerged. It focuses on the ‘war on women’ in an increasingly right-moving world, making sure to emphasise the ‘intersectionality of struggles’ (Davis, 2016, p. 25) so as not to homogenise narratives about sexual violence. The chapter concludes by arguing that far-right groups simultaneously attack women’s rights and weaponise (white) ‘women’s safety’ to maintain heteropatriarchal, racist and capitalist values.
Chapter 2 addresses the whiteness of mainstream feminism. It opens with an introduction to #MeToo founder, Black feminist Tarana Burke, before discussing how the campaign has been co-opted by white feminists, notably Alyssa Milano, who have centred themselves in #MeToo conversations. Phipps does not undermine white women’s experiences of sexual violence. However, she does urge (white) readers to consider the historical tendency for white feminists to speak over more marginalised groups when speaking out against sexual violence and patriarchal oppression. This tendency for white feminists to speak over other Others is an issue that gives name to the book, which plays on ‘Me Too’. ‘Me Too’ in the context of mainstream feminism becomes ‘Me, Not You’.
Chapter 3 develops Daniel Martinez HoSang’s (2010) concept of political whiteness to describe a set of values that characterise mainstream feminism and other white-dominated politics: narcissism, alertness to threat and the will to power. Phipps details examples whereby white cisgender women—and men—have centred themselves in conversations about sexual violence and weaponised white woundability in ways that (re)produce white supremacy. Herein lies another key argument in Me, Not You: people can be both victims and perpetrators. Put differently, white women can be victims of sexual violence whilst perpetrating racial capitalism and white supremacy.
Chapter 4 examines the outrage economy underpinning #MeToo. It demonstrates the links between ‘communicative capitalism’ (Dean, 2005) and mainstream feminism’s ‘naming and shaming’ tactics. Phipps argues that ‘outrage is a form of capital that can be accumulated’ by posting content that generates clicks, likes and shares (p. 90). Yet, as Phipps reminds us, not everyone’s outrage is worth the same: privileged white feminists often ‘price’ more marginalised women out of the outrage economy, particularly when it comes to sex work and trans rights.
Phipps acknowledges that outrage can be turned to productive use: it can be cathartic, bring attention to issues and connect people by expressing solidarity. However, the issue with outrage comes when it is performative: tweeting a hashtag or signing a petition may make us feel as though we have done our ‘bit’ for a feminist cause, but rarely does it lead to ‘sustained protest or systemic analysis’ (p. 91). Instead, performative outrage generates revenue for media outlets and masks our complicity in systems of oppression, including white supremacy and racial capitalism.
Chapter 5 examines white feminism’s ‘war on women’ (Grant, 2013) by focusing on the harm enacted on some women in the name of defending other (read: bourgeois white) women’s rights. Phipps focuses on public expressions of feminist anger and considers what happens when this anger is channelled through whiteness. Phipps draws on various case studies to demonstrate that white women’s anger, when focused on retribution and punishment, has devastating consequences for marginalised people by legitimising oppressive state systems (e.g., prisons) that disproportionately affect racialised and working-class populations. Marginalised people, Phipps argues, become collateral damage in the white feminist ‘war machine’.
Chapter 6 explores how the white feminist ‘war on women’, in addition to sacrificing more marginalised individuals, treats them as enemies when they hinder or challenge their agenda. Phipps uses ‘debates’ about sex work and trans rights to demonstrate that reactionary feminists align themselves with the far right, often by mobilising faux concerns surrounding ‘women’s safety’ to push oppressive agendas and police the borders of womanhood.
The book ends with a toolkit for fellow white feminists, inspired by Sara Ahmed’s Living a Feminist Life (2017) and based on abolition feminist principles. Phipps provides this toolkit to aid white feminists in moving their feminism towards a new direction, one that is capable of tackling intersecting systems of oppression and reaching feminism’s revolutionary potential.