Is the gender gap in earnings the product of "rational" inequality? Picture: Hulton Archive
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Much of women's work is unpaid - but without it, the economy would crumble

Katrine Marçal's Who Cooked Adam Smith's Dinner? reminds us how Homo economicus has always been supported by free, underacknowldged, female labour.

Who Cooked Adam Smith's Dinner?
Katrine Marçal, trans. Saskia Vogel 
Portobello Books, 240pp, £12.99

We don’t normally think of unpaid work as relevant to the economy. Housework – the cycle of cooking, cleaning, wiping, soothing, ironing that forms the daily life of so many women around the world (and yes, the emergence of the New Man notwithstanding, it is still women who do the vast bulk of unpaid work) – is usually excluded from economic analysis. It is made invisible, seen as a limitless natural resource, and therefore as having no value.

But what if one day women all over the world put down their feather dusters? What if we had to start paying for all the free cleaning and childcare? Canada’s national statistical agency has already thought about this: it came to the conclusion that unpaid work contributed between 30.6 and 41.4 per cent of GDP. That is a not insubstantial figure. So, why is such a huge contributor to national wealth being routinely ignored?

That is the question Katrine Marçal sets out to answer in Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner?. She tells us the story of the emergence of Homo economicus, or Economic Man, the mythical figure around whom our world runs. Economic Man is rational. He is an autonomous individual who makes independent choices calculated to maximise his utility (economics-speak for well-being). Above all, he is a man. “[E]very aspect of Economic Man’s personality overlaps with every trait throughout history that we’ve come to call masculine,” Marçal writes. Besides, these traits are “those which we have understood to be superior to and worthy of dominating that which we call feminine”.

And what traits do we call feminine? Well, the opposite of everything embodied by Economic Man, of course. He is rational; she is emotional. He is independent; she is dependent. He is selfish; she’s self-sacrificing. She is everything he needs her to be so that he can be a GDP-generating island.

The thing is, not even man lives up to the myth of Economic Man. Behavioural economics has shown repeatedly that no one takes decisions in a “rational” manner. Our decisions are affected by how we feel at the time we take them, whether we are alone or in company, whether we are hungry. Even the way the choices are presented, or who presents them to us, can have an effect. All these variables can lead us to make decisions that would seem to run counter to our best interest. And yet these “irrational” decisions are the ones we are making every day. Why, Marçal asks, are we so bent on ignoring them?

As for the innately caring, dinner-cooking woman, she is exposed as little more than a rationalisation of inequality. For “the market is always right” fundamentalists, situations in which “women’s work” is unpaid – or where women are paid less for doing the same job, or where feminised industries garner lower wages – must have a rational explanation. Chicago economists, who in the 1950s were among the first to try to include unpaid work in economic models, hypothesised that because women were tired from all the polishing and scrubbing, they were unable to put as much effort as men into paid work. Therefore it was rational that they be paid less. On the other hand, they also reasoned that women did more housework because they were paid less. But then, economists aren’t always the most progressive creatures. The same Chicago economists also posited racial segregation as a rational solution to dealing with a racist workforce and clientele. And when Lawrence Summers was chief economist at the World Bank he defended the “impeccable” economic “logic” of dumping toxic waste from developed countries in the “LDCs” (least developed countries). Rich nations get rid of toxic waste: LDCs get enough cash to compensate for the rise in disease. “Let them eat pollution,” Marçal drily notes.

In this spirited and witty manifesto, she argues that we have allowed Economic Man to invade every aspect of our lives, to our detriment. The myth has even entered our sex lives: books such as Spousonomics advocate that wives control their husbands by “rewarding” them with sex if they behave well. There is no room in this analysis for a wife who wants to have sex because she enjoys it. There is no room in this analysis for anyone doing anything for any reason other than the most calculated self-interest. Love, passion and pleasure are relegated to the realm of the feminine – dangerously irrational.

“We cannot challenge Economic Man without feminism,” Marçal writes, “and we can hardly change anything of importance today without challenging Economic Man.” So, in commanding rhetoric punctuated with spiky wit, she does exactly that. It was Adam Smith’s mother who cooked his dinner: he never married, and lived with her for most of his life. Yet despite his dependence on her care she does not figure in his account of how meals are produced: “It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker, that we can expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.” Unlike the Chicago economists, Marçal does not seek to yoke every last aspect of our lives to the tyranny of Homo economicus. Rather, she asks why we have fetishised the myth, and suggests that man denuded of his humanity is not such a figure to aspire to after all.

Caroline Criado-Perez appears at the Cambridge Literary Festival, in association with the New Statesman, on 14 April. cambridgeliteraryfestival.com

Caroline Criado-Perez is a freelance journalist and feminist campaigner. She is also the co-founder of The Women's Room and tweets as @CCriadoPerez.

This article first appeared in the 06 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, How Islamic is Islamic State?

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In the name of the father: Patricia Lockwood on sex, centaurs and Catholicism

The author of the viral poem “Rape Joke” talks about growing up with her gun-toting Catholic “priestdaddy”.

“Oh my fricking God. It’s a centaur.” The American poet Patricia Lockwood and I are in the lobby of a Whitehall hotel and she is finding the quantity of equine art distracting. I have already been skipped along a corridor to examine the bizarrely detailed rendering of a horse’s anus in a Napoleonic painting (“They made a point of doing him straight up the butt”) that turns out to be a copy of Théodore Géricault’s Charging Chasseur. Now a statue on the mantelpiece has caught her eye, prompting a reverie on what she saw at the British Museum a couple of days ago: “A wonderful statue of a man kneeing a centaur in the balls. It’s the most important thing to me there. It’s so beautiful.”

The confluence of violence, sex, orifices, animals and mythology runs throughout Lockwood’s work in wild and witty poems such as “The Whole World Gets Together and Gangbangs a Deer” (inspired by the realisation that “Bambi is a puberty movie”) and “Revealing Nature Photographs” (pastoral verse meets porn spam) – and it also colours her new book, Priestdaddy, a deeply idiosyncratic family memoir in which copulation is a go-to metaphor. Her dad’s frenzied, tuneless playing raises the prospect that he might be “having sex with the guitar”; during Lockwood’s teenage depression, she writes, the only thing she was having sex with “was the intolerable sadness of the human condition, which sucked so much in bed”.

Lockwood (pictured at her First Holy Communion) has dark, cropped hair and elfin features, pearly white nails and sleeping cats on her knees (an effect achieved with decorated tights – “Let this be for the stocking boys,” she says). Her voice is deadpan, frequently dipping into laughter without losing her poise. She is one day off her 35th birthday and has been married since she was 21. Her father, Greg, is a priest and, along with her four siblings in a succession of rectories across the Midwest, she was raised a Catholic – thus ensuring, she says, the permanent sexual warping of her mind.

“We Catholics become perverts because of the way sex is discussed in strictly negative terms. I saw pictures of aborted foetuses before I knew what basic anatomy was.”

As a devout teenager, she attended a youth group called God’s Gang and was given a virginity pledge in the form of a business card. The group leaders had a “very hip and young” approach: “We’re going to tell you every single thing you can do, in explicit terms, and just be like, ‘But don’t do it.’”

The ribald humour of her writing – Lockwood is renowned on Twitter for her surreal “sexts” – often contains a darkness. The poem that made her name, “Rape Joke”, takes her experience of being raped at 19 by a boyfriend and metes it out in discrete, increasingly devastating soundbites and images. It was posted online in 2013 and went viral, leading to a publishing deal for her collection Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals.

After the rape, Lockwood was “absolutely insane” for about five years, but it’s not as if she was entirely happy before: at 16, she had attempted suicide by taking a hundred Tylenol tablets. Her memoir recounts, too, being embedded in a church mired in scandal, a claustrophobic situation that hit home when a priest close to her was arrested for having sex with a 14-year-old boy. Such events led to Lockwood abandoning her faith and escaping with Jason, her future husband, whom she met on an online poetry messageboard.

When Patricia was 30, she and Jason ran out of money and moved back to the rectory, allowing her to observe her parents afresh. The resulting portraits in Priestdaddy are larger than life: her mother, Karen, is a hyperactive generator of mad puns and proverbs; her ex-navy father is a self-mythologising, right-wing whirlwind of talk radio, guns and Tom Clancy novels. Married Catholic priests are rare but Greg, previously a Lutheran minister, got the pope’s permission to convert. Usually to be found in his underwear, he wants for no new expensive gadget or guitar, though the family is expected to make sacrifices. In 2001, two weeks before Patricia – who learned to read at three and was writing poetry at seven – was supposed to leave for college, he told her that they couldn’t afford it. He later “changed the story in his mind so that I had said I don’t need to go”.

“Growing up in my household,” she says, “all of these far-right, retrograde ideas of gender roles and the man as patriarch existed from the very beginning. But I didn’t think of my house as a bellwether of what was going to happen.” It came as no surprise to her that Greg and many like him voted for Trump. When she reported on a Trump rally in February 2016, she “moved like a ghost through the crowd. They saw me as one of their own.”

Anger at her father’s selfishness “would be useless”, and Lockwood respects his sense of vocation, which she feels she has inherited. She has believed in her own genius ever since she was writing “mermaids-having-sex-with-Jesus poems” at the age of 19. Jason is her support staff, licking her envelopes and buying her clothes. His offering the previous day was a T-shirt emblazoned with Justin Bieber’s face: it revealed how much she resembles the singer – “a full 90 per cent overlap” – and is definitely not ironic.

“Do you think we only got irony after Christ was crucified?” she wonders, and then spots two black-clad priests in dog collars who have sat down across the room from us. “Ooh,” she exclaims, awed and delighted, and then, in a whisper, ever confident in her powers of creation: “I manifested them.”

“Priestdaddy: A Memoir” is published by Allen Lane. “Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals” is published by Penguin

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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