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Giving birth to a daughter in Trump’s America has shattered my belief in social progress

My daughter was one of four million babies born last year in the US, the most dangerous country in the developed world to give birth.

It fills me with bitter sadness that my daughter, my first child, was born under a president who is an open misogynist, who brags about sexual assault, who responds to criticism with sexist slurs and whose policies will harm large numbers of women. I had not believed that Donald Trump could be elected, in part because I had long harboured an optimism that with each new generation the world was becoming a more progressive and tolerant place. How naive and complacent I was.

My daughter was born last March and I marvelled at the determination with which she rooted for milk and gripped my finger, and then learned to hold her head up, to propel herself forward, to stand tall. And I found myself worrying: when would someone first make her feel smaller because she is a girl? When will someone first make her feel vulnerable, first make her scared? How can I prepare her for the demeaning remarks and furtive gropes that women have learned to laugh off and shake off, and the incidents we just can’t? How can I teach her when to be fearless, and when to trust her fear?

My daughter was one of four million babies born last year in Trump’s America, the most dangerous country in the developed world to give birth. The US maternal mortality rate is the highest in the OECD – and rising. Childbirth kills between 700 and 800 women a year here. The US spends more on healthcare per capita than any other country, but funds are unevenly distributed. In a medical system that regularly overlooks maternal health, women of all classes and ethnic backgrounds die from preventable complications, but the inequalities are stark: black mothers are three times more likely to die in childbirth than white mothers.

Almost half of births in the US are paid for by Medicaid, the state-funded healthcare system for people with low incomes and no private health insurance. During Trump’s first year in office the Republicans have fought unsuccessfully to shrink Medicaid and roll back Obama-era reforms that protect women and newborns, such as regulation to stop insurers refusing to cover pregnant women, or selling healthcare plans that do not cover prenatal care and childbirth. Without health insurance, mothers can expect medical bills of $30,000 to $50,000 to have a baby.

Just under half of pregnancies in the US are “unintended”: where the woman became pregnant earlier than planned or had not wanted to have a child. The Trump administration has launched multiple attacks on women’s reproductive choices. Only swift legal challenges from the American Civil Liberties Union thwarted attempts by officials to block four teenagers in immigration detention from obtaining abortions. One of them had been raped. And last year, Republicans threatened to cut federal funding to Planned Parenthood, an organisation that provides millions of women with access to contraception, cancer screening, STI tests and abortions. This is more than an assault on individual freedom. When women have children before they are ready, they are more likely to suffer from medical problems. Their babies are more likely to be born underweight and less likely to receive adequate prenatal care. Unintended pregnancies can be deadly.

Tens of thousands of babies were born suffering from opioid withdrawal this past year, because of their mothers’ addictions to prescription painkillers, heroin or fentanyl. Thanks to the opioid epidemic, life expectancy in the US has fallen for two consecutive years. It is America’s greatest public health crisis in decades and one that disproportionately affects Trump’s white working-class base – and yet the president has not allocated any new funds to the issue. He has failed to deliver on his promised “really tough, really big, really great” drugs awareness campaign and major public health posts remain unfilled. According to the most recent government figures, which are six years old and probably too low, one baby is born suffering opioid withdrawal every 25 minutes in the US. They are delivered in agonising pain, their bodies stiff and feverish, their cries unnaturally high-pitched. 

What future is there for the children whose parents do not fit into Trump’s vision for a restored America? Those whose parents are undocumented, and who now face a heightened risk of deportation? Those born to Salvadorans, Haitians and Nicaraguans who have been stripped of their protected status and may now be sent home? Or for Americans born to those known as Dreamers, who were brought to the US illegally as children but who may soon lose their work rights and protection from deportation.

There were also other babies born this past year who deserve America’s protection but have not received it. A few weeks ago, I got in touch with a Yazidi man with whom I had worked in Iraq. His older brothers had resettled in America under a visa programme for Iraqis who worked as translators for the US military. My friend could have applied under the same scheme, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave his homeland. Then, in 2014, Islamic State rampaged through his village, killing hundreds of men and enslaving thousands of women and girls. When we met in 2016, he was living near a refugee camp and waiting for his visa to be processed.

 We had lost contact for many months, and I wanted to know if he had managed to make it to the US before Trump came to power, with his travel bans and slashing of refugee resettlement quotas. He hadn’t. He emailed me photographs of his first child, a daughter the same age as mine. I think of them often, the sad, kind family whose lives are in limbo, and the girl born into a community almost destroyed by murderous religious zealots, and I can’t believe I was stupid and lazy enough to believe in the steady march of social progress. 

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in New York. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 18 January 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Churchill and the hinge of history

The University Challenge final. Photo: BBC iPlayer
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Why University Challenge is deliberately asking more questions about women

Question setters and contestants on how the show finally began to gender-balance its questions – and whether it’s now harder as a result.

University Challenge has long had a gender problem. When the show first started airing in 1962, some Oxbridge colleges were still refusing to admit women as undergraduates; in the decades since, women have been consistently outnumbered by men, with all-male teams still a regular occurrence. Those women that did appear were all too regularly criticised and objectified in equal measure by audiences: notable contestants like Hannah Rose Woods, Emma Johnson, Samantha Buzzard and Sophie Rudd have experienced intense media scrutiny and criticised the sexism of the show and audiences. In recent years, sexism rows have dogged the show.

How satisfying, then, to see two women carrying their teams in last night’s final: Rosie McKeown for winners St John’s, Cambridge, and Leonie Woodland for runners-up Merton, Oxford. Both secured the majority of points for their teams – McKeown with visible delight, Woodland looking unsure even as she delivered correct answer after correct answer.

But there is another site of sexism on University Challenge, one that earns less column inches: the questions. Drawing on all areas of history, science, language, economics and culture, the questions often concern notable thinkers, artists, scientists, and sportspeople. Of course, our society’s patriarchal hierarchies of achievement have meant that the subjects of these questions are mostly men. General knowledge is, after all, a boys’ club.

Over the course of this 2017-8 series, though, I noticed a shift. More women than ever seemed to be making their way into the questions, at times with deliberate reference to the inherent sexism of their lack of cultural prominence. On 5 February, there was a picture round devoted to female composers, with contestents asked to identify Clara Schumann, Ethel Smyth, Rachel Portman and Bjork from photographs, who, Paxman explained, are all “women that are now listed in the EdExcel A Level music syllabus after the student Jessy McCabe petitioned the exam board in 2015.” Episodes have included bonus rounds on “prominent women” (the writer Lydia Davis, the pilot Lydia Litvyak, and the golfer Lydia Ko), “women born in the 1870s and 80s” (Rosa Luxemburg, Elizabeth Arden and Vanessa Bell), and the female philosophers Mary Midgely, Philippa Foot and Iris Murdoch.

Elsewhere, questions raise a knowing eyebrow at the patriarchal assumptions behind so much of intellectual endeavour. A music round on famous rock bands quoted the music critic Kelefa Sanneh’s definition “rockism”: “the belief that white macho guitar music is superior to all other forms of popular music”. Another, on opera, quoted Catherine Clement’s Opera, Or The Undoing of Women, which explores how traditional opera plots frequently feature “the infinitely repetitive spectacle of a woman who dies”. “Your music bonuses are three such operas,” Paxman said dryly, to audience laughter.

University Challenge’s questions editor Thomas Benson confirms that there has been a deliberate attempt to redress a gender imbalance in the quiz. “About three years ago, a viewer wrote in to point out that a recent edition of the programme had contained very few questions on women,” he explains. “We agreed and decided to do something about it.”

Last night’s final included a picture round on artists with works concerning motherhood (Mary Casatt, Lousie Bourgeois, Leanora Carrington and Frida Kahlo) and a music round on Marin Alsop, the first woman to ever conduct the Last Night of the Proms, as well as sets of bonuses on the American writer Willa Kather and Byzantine historian and princess Anna Komnene.

Former winner Hannah Rose Woods is delighted by the increase in such questions. “I think it’s fantastic!” she tells me. “These things are really important in changing people’s perceptions about women in the past, and the way women’s contributions to science and the arts have often been written out of history. We need to keep challenging the idea of the White Male Canon.”

Last night’s winner Rosie McKeown says that while she didn’t necessarily notice a deliberate attempt to gender balance the questions, she was “very pleased with the quality of those questions that did come up”.

“Although it wasn’t in one of our matches,” she tells me, “I thought the picture round on female composers was especially good for highlighting women’s achievements.”

For all the enthusiasm for these questions, in the studio they’re often met with blank stares. While University Challenge questions are broad and imaginatively posed, there are some reliable revision topics and techniques: from Nobel laureates and the years of their wins to identifying famous paintings and classical music excerpts. McKeown says she has been a religious viewer of the show since she was 11 years old, and admits to watching reruns of the show to prepare. Shift the kinds of answers you might be looking for, and teams may struggle.

“Do we know any female British composers?” Leonie Woodland said weakly, looking at a picture of Ethel Smyth. Trying to come up with a female Muslim Nobel laureate, one contestant desperately suggested Aung San Suu Kyi. Asked to provide a first name linking an American concert pianist with the sister of Lazarus one male contestant still buzzed in with “Daniel”.

“Even if we didn’t always get them right,” McKeown tells me, citing that round on female philosophers, which saw them pass on every question, as an example, “it was great to see so many important female figures represented.”

“I don't think the questions about women necessarily affected our performance, but it’s certainly a very good thing that they were there and I hope that they’ll arouse people’s interest in the women featured and in their achievements.”

Benson believes that it hasn’t had a significant effect on performance. “The great majority of the questions that feature women are no different to any others, in that they sit firmly within the realm of standard academic general knowledge.”

He notes that they often refer to historical and background details, citing sets of bonuses on Canadian novelist Ruth Ozeki and British physicist Hertha Ayrton, which both teams answered correctly in full. “Though Ozeki and Ayrton may not be household names, the questions are definitely answerable and deal with central themes in their work and achievements.”

It’s easy to brush off the significance of a fairly geeky Monday night BBC quiz show, but University Challenge still regularly pulls in three million viewers. In any case, a show like University Challenge has a cultural significance that outweighs its viewing figures. It helps to shape our understanding of which subjects are intellectual or important, which are history’s most notable achievements, and who is worth learning about. To ignore questions of identity is to risk intellectual laziness, relying on tired ideas of canonical figures – or worse, supremacist propaganda, privileging the achievements of white men over all others.

Quite aside from making for less predictable and more enjoyable television, by including questions on the likes of Stevie Smith, Nella Larsen, Gertrude Stein, Myra Hess, Margaret Mead, and Beryl Bainbridge, University Challenge can diversify the mental encyclopaedias of its viewers, be it a tweed-wearing 60-year-old in Leamington Spa or an 11-year-old like Rosie McKeown with her own dreams of one day competing. It has a responsibility to do so.

Anna Leszkiewicz is the New Statesman's deputy culture editor.