The Red Woman

I love the end of the world.  That sounds a little strange, but I feed off the facial expressions people get when I say things that are outside of the normal comfort zone.  The truth is, I really do love the concept of the end of the world, especially in writing.  When thinking about my own writing, I have thought that I want to create worlds and characters that are uplifting, edifying, and all-around "churchy."  The dilemma that I have with this is that I find those kinds of books and characters boring and shallow.  I really want to read about a bodiless finger that comes up out of the drain and attacks a person (a la Stephen King) or about a future in which sex has become such a cultural affair, you go to a movie theater and don't have to touch a person to get it (Brave New World, Huxley).

The fact is, distopia just turns me on.  I guess its my fascination with the unknown and the conjecture that some people make as to how we get there that drives my need to read these kinds of literary works.  Even today I can still remember a short book I read in 4th grade about an underground society far in the future, where the surface of earth is a nuclear fallout-washed killing zone.  Imprinting is real, folks.

Part of the reason I bring this up is that I recently read a novel about the distopic society of Gilead in Margaret Atwood's, "The Handmaid's Tale."  Gorgeous prose and poetic wordplay are an integral part of the narrative, and heighten the surreality of the novel's concept and main character.

This story revolves around a woman whose real name we are never told.  In the new society of Gilead, a theocratic-based world in which women are reduced to objects of service or appendages to men, the main character Offred (of Fred) debates whether to continue her life or end it.  Throughout the non-linear structure of the book, it becomes clear that she is a college educated woman, who previously had a boyfriend, daughter, and job.  All of this is taken from her in the population crisis in order for the government to use her as a "handmaid," or a birthing container for rich families that can't get pregnant.

It is a strange concoction of overzealous feminist writing and unrealistic scenario, mixed with characters that feel like next-door neighbors.  The love interest for Offred is Nick, a tuned-in lower element of society that instills in her passion.  Alternately, she is propositioned by her Commander to break the rules of the Gileadan society and read, write, and think with him.  In this strange future world of women as only objects, it becomes clear that the only stimulation becomes the ability to think with another person.  As the Commander is not allowed to talk with Offred, even before or after the act of procreating, the surreptitious rendevous with her becomes as titillating as a 15-year-old seeing boobies for the first time.

Finally, the Commander's wife, Serena Joy is a realistic interpretation of a woman jaded by getting exactly what she wants.  Initially a member of the women's organization that spearheaded the conservative movement away from "objectification" of women and took away their rights to independence, she is trapped by her own web.  Her only outlet becomes knitting and watching herself public speaking during her campaign to "re-feminize" women and put them back into the home.  Eventually she asks that Offred try to get pregnant with Nick, as she recognizes the need for some kind of love and connection.

I think that was the most obvious theme in the book.  Each character is trying to connect to someone else, despite living in a society where all connection is characterized as Godless.  In a world where women and men no longer co-mingle, even female to female connections are suppressed.  

This was an incredibly interesting look into the future, especially from a feminine perspective.  While I wouldn't consider myself as feminine as Betty Friedan, I am a strong, empowered woman who is comfortable making my own choices.  In "The Handmaid's Tale," the loss of sexuality corresponds with a loss of self, an idea that Friedan also discusses in "The Feminine Mystique."  I agree that sexuality and femininity are connected, and was very interested in Atwood's concept that women can be objectified in many ways, not just through pornography and media.  

A small character helps to define this as a major theme.  One of the sisters at the center where the handmaids are trained is described as showing them pornography and explaining that it objectified women and put them in dangerous positions.  Throughout the novel, Offred and the other women are continually objectified by their new "respectful" positions.  Marthas, women who cook and clean, are only known for those skills.  Offred shows herself to be very gifted with words and intelligent in matters of language, but she is only regarded based on whether she becomes pregnant or not.  She is not an object of sex, she is an object of creation.  Atwood makes it clear that the objectification is still present, and even more so than before the Gileadans took control.

I was impressed and touched by this book, and I hope that the major point is driven home to readers of it.  True freedom isn't gained by repressing our instincts nor by sexually debasing ourselves to serve others.  Freedom is about finding personal connections and making decisions based on love, sacrifice, and hope.  

In the end, we never find out what happens to Offred.  We don't know if she makes it out of Gilead or if she is caught and sent to the hazardous remains of America, the Colonies.  All we know is that she tried to tell the truth about her life, her loss, and her love before she met whatever fate was prepared for her.  I choose to believe that she succeeded.  Perhaps this is too hopeful in an obviously desolate human story.  Still, every distopia must have a shining moment of clarity.  I choose to believe that Atwood would have told that story.