Fixing the end of Handmaid’s Tale season two

Up until the closing episodes of season two the Handmaid’s Tale had been on a run of over 20 top class episodes. It made the transition from shortish book to expanded television story relatively seamlessly. The ending however leaves me frustrated.

Thematically the women of Gilead coming together to help June is the right choice and could have been a good ending for this story arc. It turning out that Rita knows about June and Nick’s relationship resolves a glaring plot hole. However, the suspension of disbelief is stretched beyond breaking point. It would be literally insane if season three didn’t start immediately with June and Nick being caught and executed. How either of them could possibly get away with their actions is hard to see and in that light the stupidity of June’s decision to go back risk negating both of their sacrifices.

Always when a series reach a point like this it’s fun to imagine what could have been done to ‘fix’ it. Obviously, it’s easier as a critic to look at and imagine what you could have done better than to be the team actually creating something. Nonetheless here are my thoughts on fixing the Handmaid’s Tale season two.

Firstly, I love the Canada stuff. Of all the expansion from the book to the television world I found this the most interesting, more so than much of the rest of Gilead’s workings which really we could have guessed about from the book narrative. It is in Canada however that I think season two makes a big misstep.

Episode nine sees the Commander and Serena on their diplomatic mission to Canada. This episode was originally intended to end with the rape of Serena. This was cut because it was felt to be gratuitous. Using rape as a plot point can be extremely problematic and I’m not saying that Serena needed to be sexually assaulted.

But by cutting this event – which could have been replaced with something thematically similar – the story arcs of season two seem thrown out of whack. Serena needed to realise at this point that her position within this patriarchal and theocratic society does not truly protect her. Her role in furthering a society based on gendered violence does not protect her from that violence. This lesson is later served by the amputation of her finger, but this seems to come in the wrong place within her story arc leaving her motivations muddled.

It’s basically a rule of film/television that the story punishes rapists. Murderers may get away with murder but as audiences we are trained to expect rapists are killed by the storytelling gods. The systematic rape inherent in the handmaid system is an exception to this rule because it takes place within the accepted rules of the setting. The later rape (episode 10) attempting to induce June’s labour does not escape this rule because it violates not only the audience’s external standards but the internal standards of Gilead. As an audience we are now expecting the Commander’s imminent death and this not being delivered at the culmination of the series leaves us with a sense of injustice. Not a sense of dramatic injustice internal to the story, but of external or meta injustice at the TV show.

The scenes at the house in episodes 10 and 11 then seem muddled and unsatisfactory. Nick being shot but not killed feels like the writers messing around with us and it is hard to sympathise with Serena.

So what should have happened?

In Canada Serena should have suffered in some way that starts her redemption arc. Secondly the scenes at the remote house in episodes 10 and 11 should have been the season finale. Nick’s shooting should have played out as it was but ended with his death protecting June and completing his arc. While June hides in the house and goes into labour the Commander and Serena’s argument over her attempts to influence the politics of Gilead should take place and he should put her in her place. They then arrive at the house ready to pull out June as the Commander threatens to send her to the colonies both women face a bleak future and a struggle between the Commander and June ensues. When it looks bleakest Serena intervenes at the last moment killing the Commander.

June begs Serena to come with and make her escape, but Serena can’t do this she intends to throw herself on the mercy of Gilead’s justice system. June then takes the car – the Commander’s vehicle which will not be stopped at most checkpoints – and her new born baby leaving for Canada. Serena kisses goodbye the child she knew she could have had had she been willing to continue in her role as Commander’s loyal wife.

In the final scene Serena is in a drap prison cell, the system she helped build has failed to grant her any mercy and dejected she awaits exportation to the colonies or death. However, at the last minute an official comes in. They inform Serena that she is pregnant. Her impossible wish has come true in a cruelly ironic way.

This sets up a season three where both Serena and June are ready to start new arcs. Serena becomes the titular handmaid while June escapes the Canada to tell her Handmaid’s Tale. We could follow June as she attempts to sell her story and bring attention to the situation Gilead. We could see her being gaslighted and her story rubbished. The need for closer economic relationships with Gilead and resentment against so many US refugees could turn the Canadian population against the Americans. She could be in television interviews with apologist talking heads and be accused of being just a mouthpiece for anti-Gilead reactionaries. There could even be a rising brotherhood of Jacob style political party in Canada. While this movement rose in America, June was too occupied with their own concerns and insulative by privilege to notice it. Now she is – like her mother – on the forefront of challenging it, but dismissed by many as an hysterical woman.

Influencing privilege

I’ve been thinking recently about how uncomfortable it can feel to have your privilege challenged and why this could be a problem, about how we can stop privilege calling being seen (and sometimes used) as an attack. I was thinking back to three incidents where my privilege was challenged, how uncomfortable I felt at the time, and how grateful I now am for these learning opportunities.

Around the end of 2013/the start of 2014 I took part in a 5 day course with the Sheila McKechnie Foundation called Influencing Change. It really improved a lot of my campaigning skills and strategic thinking. It improved my confidence which was instrumental in getting my new job. It had some problems, there was a small element of sneering elitism, but four years later there are three incidents that really stood out.

An instinctive reaction against calling out privilege is the ‘concern for the innocent bystander’ who is unfairly accused. We should not be unsympathetic to this, but we should also weigh this possible unintended consequence against the unintended consequences of the status quo.

So back to their Influencing Change course, at the time I was a lot more socially awkward and a bit less socially conscious. I was late to arrive and went to sit in what appeared to be the only available seat. I had not noticed this was leading to two large tables, each of which would be entirely male/female. Just as I was sitting the course leader came over, and asked several of us to move places, explaining they didn’t want us making boys’ and girls’ tables, or only working with people like ourselves.

There being only one seat available made any conscious/unconscious ‘fault’ on my part impossible. Yet here I was feeling put on the spot, feeling criticised and having attention drawn to me just because of my gender and something beyond my control.

I now realise that I wasn’t being attacked, that even if I was, it wasn’t a big deal. Because diversity is good for groups’ learning and working together. Because unconscious bias can lead us to self-segregate and form cliques. Because avoiding that is worth a tiny bit of discomfort, and since then it has been something I am more conscious of.

The second example (I think it happened towards the end of the course) had the clearest impact on me. One of the sessions was on lobbying local government and we had a speaker talking about the London Mayor’s office. At this time there had been only two mayors, both male, and the speaker was using the male gender to describe the generic office. “The idea was that he…” “If you go to the Mayor and convince him…” “… having one man in charge of…” etc.

It’s partly a quirk of the English language that we use ‘he’ as the generic pronoun. But it constantly reinforces the idea of maleness as the default and female as ‘other’. Apparently the Oxford English Dictionary uses ‘he’ for all examples involving doctors.

So half way through another trainee puts her hand up and asked the speaker if he could refrain from this.

At the time I felt a sense of annoyance at the interruption, an empathic embarrassment for the speaker. I also felt annoyed that throughout the rest of his speech I noticed this too, as if having this pointed out was unfairly forcing me to keep thinking about something silly.

But as the talk went on I noticed every time, and after the speech I noticed this every time and every time I notice it, I fell that small discomfort. When I’ve gone to the doctor and my wife asks me “what did he say”. I’ve jokingly pulled her up on it, and being conscience of this small thing has raised my conscience over other ways my language can reinforce gendered ideas.

The third incident related to the toilet. Obviously. The sessions were quite long, and usually accompanied by a few cups of tea, meaning they were normally followed by a small exodus to queue for the toilets in the short break. We would typically use the unisex or disabled toilet depending on which came available first.

Midway through either the second or third day a fellow trainee, who was in a wheelchair, asked the course leader to make an announcement about this and the difficulty it was causing her.

Again this made me feel uncomfortable and my discomfort blended with annoyance. After all was I not equally desperate for the toilet, why should I be ‘attacked’ for doing something perfectly ‘normal’? I would always let a disabled person go first in the queue if they asked or if I saw them. I would always give up a priority seat on the bus or train someone less able to stand if they asked or if I saw them.

This incident made me uncomfortably aware that such an attitude puts the burden on the disabled person to have to ask. Of course I know I would never react violently if a disabled person asked me to move my bag from wheelchair area when they get on the bus. But sadly they don’t know that, they don’t know that they won’t be attacked on any occasion they ask for some basic consideration. So the burden should be on me to take that consideration in advance, even if it causes me the occasional annoyance or discomfort.

I have issues with confidence and social anxiety. Being uncomfortable with being uncomfortable has held me back from learning to be better at a lot of things, and learning to be more socially conscientious and considerate of privilege is no different. But if I want to get better, then a little discomfort is a price worth paying.

On criticisms of ‘identity politics’

I see a lot of people attacking ‘identity politics’. I see it from the anti-SJW crowd because let’s face it they just don’t like feminism or anti-racism, or maybe they think these ideas are ok, but they are a distraction from ‘real’ politics. I see it from members of persecuted minorities who feel that mainstreamed leftist identity politics has let them down or essentialised them.

I see good faith people going along with really bad faith attacks on ‘identity politics’ because they have some problem with some aspect of identity politics. And I see people reacting to good faith criticism of ‘identity politics’ as if it’s an attack on every liberation movement since the sixties.

I’m not drawing any false comparisons. I’m not saying that there aren’t people whose attack on ‘identity politics’ doesn’t boil down to heteronormative white privilege. Progressive identity politics is an essential tool in addressing historic injustices and discrimination, and criticising bad identity politics is an essential function of progressive identity politics.

Don’t get me wrong, there is a fuck ton of bad identity politics out there that needs to be criticised. When criticising bad feminism, I don’t want to jump on board with or give cover to anti-feminism. When criticising bad anti-racism, I don’t want to jump on board with or give cover to racists. When criticising problematic aspects of leftist and regressive leftists, identity politics, I don’t want to jump on board with or give cover to regressive. People you think agree with you aren’t always your friends, and people you think disagree with you aren’t always your enemies.

Racism and antiracism, sexism and feminism, Islamism and anti-Muslim bigotry, football hooliganism and solidarity marches all are forms of identity politics. “I support a pluralistic society where peoples of all creeds are treated equally” or “England for the English” are both statements of identity politics. “Tax the rich” and “tax the poor” are both statements of economic politics, but they aren’t equal.

There are good identity politics and bad identity politics. There are good economic politics and bad economic politics. Left and the right have their identity politics just as the left and the right have their economic politics. Identity and economic politics at their shades of progressivism and progressivism. In pursuing our economic or identity politics we can sometimes lose track of individuals and the people that don’t fit our models, however perfect or flawed. In following any economic or identity based politics we can set down the wrong path with good intentions. Even the most progressive economic or identity politics can get their priorities wrong.

Caricatures of Marxists or neoliberals can be as reductionist – by trying to explain all human politics in terms of economics – as the caricature of an SJW or their alt-right equivalent’s attempts to reduce politics to only the narrow lenses of identity. When any politics relies on a simplistic theory of (others’) mind it is problematic.

Now I’m not against labels or shorthand. As a practical consideration, they are essential to political discussion. Even if they cause all sorts of problems and misunderstandings. Language isn’t perfect. But the next time you see someone criticising ‘identity politics’, try and ask them what they mean. What specific identity politics claims or ideas do you have a problem with?

When you see someone advocating cutting public spending and raising VAT, you should criticise these ideas. It would make no sense to challenge these ideas by attacking ‘economic politics’. Similarly, if you see someone taking a bad identity political position, it’s this position that should be attacked.

A final note on the idea of identity politics being a distraction from ‘real’ politics. On the one hand you’re right. Take trans rights, the total number of people affected by this isn’t huge, far more people are affected by other political issues. But for the people affected by them, this is their lives or their friends’ lives on the line.

Here’s the thing. The people distracting from ‘real’ politics aren’t the people supporting trans rights, it’s the people opposing trans rights. If we just all agreed not to be shitty to trans-folk this ‘distraction’ would go away tomorrow.

If your point is that you personally want to focus on other political issues, that’s also fine. If someone is trying to make the world a better place I don’t mind where they focus their energies. I consider myself a trans ally but that doesn’t figure into or affect my party politics. If the Conservative Party were to wholesale adopt progressive trans-friendly politics I still wouldn’t vote for them, and I still wouldn’t expect left wing trans-folk and allies to.

An atheist does not always a secularist make

Despite atheism and secularism often being conflated there’s no reason a religious person can’t be a secularist. However there seems to be the assumption that being an atheist automatically makes one a secularist. But is this always true? Just as being non-male does not automatically make one a feminist, it seems that many atheists can be non-secular and even anti-secular

Atheism is defined as the lack of belief in gods.

Secularism in the sense that I use if is the rejection of religious privilege or the imposition of religious authority in the public sphere

Secularism like feminism (the rejection of gender privilege) is a subset of egalitarianism. Side note: this is why men’s rights activists sound particularly stupid when they say “I’m not a feminist, I’m an egalitarian.”

I could write a whole blog on why secularism and atheism are conflated but for now I want to briefly address three main reasons. Anti-atheist prejudice in the United States has led to many non-religious organisations calling themselves secular in an attempt to seem less threatening and associate themselves with a very American value. Anti-atheist prejudice can also explain why some religious people want to link secularism to a word they perceive as a pejorative, while in the Islamic world secularism is often conflated with atheism/apostasy.

Often members of a privileged group find it hard to imagine anyone else in the privileged group rejecting that privilege voluntarily. I find something similar whenever I comment on feminist issues online. Because my screenames have always been gender neutral, anti-feminist men tend to assume I’m female and respond with (in)appropriately gendered insults.

Finally many secular atheists tend to assume that other secularists are atheists as well. At a recent secular conference the assumption of a shared atheistic worldview from many of the speakers and audience members was particularly problematic given that a large theme of the conference was the stories of secularists of all backgrounds. Around the world religious individuals rejecting the imposition of religious authorities in their lives are some of the bravest secularists.

Atheist may not generally suffer the worst from the effects of religious privilege but they don’t generally benefit from its effects either. By comparison many members of religious minorities may suffer deeply from the effects of religious privilege but also experience some positives – at least for their own elites. As atheists would find their very existence at risk under almost any theocratic regime, most atheists have a practical reason to support at least some degree of secularism.

An earlier draft of this blog looked at some of the ways in which atheists may be anti-religious in a non-secular way. I decided to cut a lot of this as it is in any case an overly hyped problem and could distract by endorsing some of the ridiculous strawman secularists some religious leaders use to justify their own privilege.

Of course it is possible to be anti-religious and a secularist; just as it would be entirely consistent with feminism to wish either to a) end the social construct of gender as a means of ending gender privilege and promoting equality or wish to b) end gender privilege and inequality while preserving some form of gender as a social construct. It may be a secondary effect of secular policies (e.g. equality laws or good quality education) that certain religious views decline (e.g. homophobia or creationism). But if the intended purpose of a policy was to promote atheism then it would be hard to justify in a secular way.

I’ve cut out a longer exploration of this issue (although hope to explore it in a later blog on Humanism) to move on to a more interesting (and real) problem and one that is on the surface harder to explain. Why do many atheist seem to actively support at least some form of religious privilege. In trying to understand why this is we can draw on other examples which look at why members of an outgroup or marginalised group may support the privileges of an ingroup or privileged group.

First the most obvious is that atheists are not an automatically visible outgroup. We can confidently say there are atheists in the congregations, laity and priesthood of every single religion. Someone can be an atheist but still present themselves as a member of an ingroup in order to draw on the privileges of the ingroup. This is not always a deceitful tactic, as when a politician or priest feigns religious belief in order to have more influence and in so doing actively promotes religious privilege. In many places and times atheists have had to feign religious belief in order to enjoy the religious privilege of not being murdered or ostracised as an apostate and in so doing they passively support religious privilege. Of course there are many positions in between, just as a homosexual may conceal their sexuality in order to avoid discrimination an atheist could conceal their atheism to better fit in. Given that challenging religious privilege (secularism) is so conflated with atheism, many atheist passively or actively support religious privilege in order to avoid being labeled as part of the outgroup.

Secondly many atheist may simply not see religious privilege as that big of a problem for them. They could be very privileged in other ways (Bill Gates can probably insulate himself from the effects of religious privilege reasonably well) or they could be very marginalised in other ways that they are focused on dealing with more immediate forms of privilege, or someone may not realise how one form of privilege that is harming them is related to religious privilege.

Thirdly atheists may earn favour with (or appear less threatening to) religious people by supporting religious privilege. Turn on Fox News and you can find a person of color telling the audience how the black community is at least partly to blame for America’s race problems. Open the Daily Mail and you can find female writers railing against feminism. Openly atheist politicians in the UK go out of their way to praise the work of religious organisations and to support faith schools. E.g. the Deputy Prime Minister and theist Nick Clegg sends his children to a state funded highly socially selective faith school. Exercising this religious privilege is seen as acceptable whereas exercising his economic privilege by sending them to a private school would not be seen as acceptable.

This brings up a fourth reason. Different forms of privilege can act as a proxy for each other or be intertwined (intersectionality). Recently I spoke to a member of staff at a Church of England primary school. They wished to make their school less religiously selective. However parents at the school (at least some of whom had to have been atheist) were vehemently opposed. The reason? A less religiously discriminatory admissions criteria would make it easy for children from the newly constructed council estate to attend. The overwhelming evidence is that religiously selective schools in the UK are socially selective, they take (proportional to how many they would take in an equal admissions system) less poor children, less children who speak English as a second language, less children with complex needs.

Many middle class atheists support faith schools because by supporting this form of religious privilege they support their privilege of being able to get their children into a better more middle class school than their poorer neighbors.

There is another darker form of religious privilege acting as a proxy and that is in the identity politics of the British far-right. In these politics Christian is a proxy for White and many on the far right support Christian religious privilege as a way to support white privilege or anti-Muslim bigotry. For example Tommy Robinson the former leader of the EDL has said in interviews that he is not personally religious but he supports ‘Christian Nation’ identity politics. Atheists who support religious privilege by arguing against marriage equality would be another tiny example.