Because, she knew, everything wasn’t hopeless. It was true that the women’s movement of Faith Frank’s day hadn’t taken away contempt for women or injustice once and for all, like a mother’s hand passing a cool cloth over the hot head of the world. But despite the churn of rape and sexism; despite the wrist-slap Darren Tinzler had been given; despite unequal pay, even now, and the pathetically low number of women running anything powerful, whether corporation or country; and despite how densely packed the Internet was with blocks of male solidarity and fury—“Bros before hoes!” came the musketeers’ cry, as well as trolls’ starkly articulated descriptions of cutting off the body parts of female journalists and celebrities—in many ways the world was so much more hospitable for women now.
Opus, that gorgeous singer with the knockout voice—and one of Faith’s dream dinner-party guests—had had a recent hit with an anthem called “The Strong Ones,” which could frequently be heard across campus, through speakers propped in open windows.
And that funny, sad, affectionate, sometimes slightly disturbing play Ragtimes, essentially a series of skits about getting your period, or not getting it, which took the characters from age twelve through adolescence and then adulthood, through pregnancies both wanted and unwanted, and wound up in a hot-flash-and-hormone stew of later life, had had a robust off-Broadway run and was now being performed inexpensively all over the country in local playhouses and community theaters. All that was needed were four folding chairs and four female actors. Celebrities liked taking part in the New York and LA productions; it had become a status symbol to be in this show, which had made a great deal of money for its playwrights, who had been best friends since sixth grade. “Sharon got her period first,” according to a profile of them in the New York Times. “Maddy got hers a week later.”
Then there were the feminist blogs that had sprung up, though Fem Fatale was the best and most well-known of them by far; out of Seattle, it was personal-essay heavy, often sarcastic, talking openly about sex acts and bodily functions, and described itself as “sex-positive, snark-friendly, and in-your-face, but also just a damn good read.” The blog was seemingly fearless and able to address any subject, regardless of blowback.
Greer had been reading Fem Fatale all fall, even as the women writing for it—a bodybuilder, a porn star, and various funny and searing young cultural critics—could intimidate her with their bold confidence. They weren’t much older than she was, and already they had a voice. She wondered how they’d gotten it.
Greer took a shuddery breath and said to Faith, “Maybe you can see my T-shirt? And my friend’s too,” she added with magnanimity. “We’re wearing them because there was this assault and harassment case on campus this fall.” She pronounced it like harris-ment. God, why? It was bad enough to be an uptalker, but now she was a pretentious uptalker. This was nothing like the natural, confident way that Faith Frank spoke. “They just held a bogus hearing,” Greer added. “The decision they reached was a travesty.”
She could hear the first stirrings of response in the pews—someone hesitantly clapping, and someone else saying, “That’s your opinion,” followed by mild hissing from another part of the chapel. “The person in question was told to get a little therapy,” Greer said, “and now he’s allowed to stay here, despite assaulting various women, including me.” She needed to pause. “So that’s the face on our T-shirts. Not that the T-shirts worked either. No one wanted them. So I guess I’m asking you what we can do next. How we can proceed.”
Greer quickly sat back down, and Zee gave her a little hug. There was a tense, collecting moment, during which the whole chapel seemed to try to figure out whether it was worth it to get worked up all over again about this issue, which had already been decided and was officially over. Most people immediately seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it; it was a school night, a shitty, wet, windy night, and it was already getting late. Three-to-five-page response papers to Machiavelli’s The Prince still had to be written for one of the freshman colloquia. Moms and dads still had to be called. “I need more money in my account,” sons and daughters would flatly announce in place of hello.
Faith Frank seemed to grow briefly taller behind the podium, and then she leaned forward onto it, resting her folded arms there, and quietly said, “Thank you for your question, which I know was heartfelt.”
Greer didn’t move or breathe; beside her, Zee was equally still.
“What amazes me again and again is how alarmingly improvised the legal process is on campuses,” said Faith. “So what should you do? I don’t know the circumstances here, but I know that you and your friends should definitely keep the conversation going.”
She tipped her head up, about to say something more, but then the provost stood and said, “I’m afraid we’re out of time. Let’s thank our guest for this magical evening.”
There was more applause, and Faith Frank receded, and that was the end of it. Greer watched as people surrounded Faith, planting themselves in her line of vision in order to have individual encounters with her. Even the ones who had been unimpressed before seemed to have been changed now. Students and professors and administrators and locals ringed her like the townspeople in an opera, though Greer hung back, with Zee right beside her. Greer had already had her public exchange with Faith Frank, and it had been nearly overwhelming and then in the end unfinished and disappointing. But there was nothing to do about it now; the crowd had thickened fast around Faith.
“God, I would love to meet her, even for a second,” said Zee. “I mean, she’s right here. But there are too many people, and it would just be another fangirl moment. I don’t want that.”
“I don’t either.”
“Are you heading back to Woolley?”
“Yeah. I have to work,” said Greer.
“You always have to work.”
“That’s true.”
“At least we heard her speak, and you got to talk to her,” said Zee. “You did good. Want to get a pizza? Graziano’s delivers late.”
“Oh, sure,” Greer said. Pizza would be their consolation prize: two girls alone late at night with the soft solace of warm dough.
They pushed their arms into coat holes, and Zee put her watch cap on her head and inched into a pair of big oatmeal-colored mittens. She could wear boys’ clothes, girls’ clothes, and it all seemed like a casually shrewd fashion choice. Together they began to walk toward the exit. People who had been surrounding Faith were now splintering off into separate, smaller groups, or wandering away individually. Greer felt oddly hollow and even a little tragic. It was as if she’d been carried for a moment, squealing, on Faith Frank’s shoulders, and had then taken a tumble onto the hard, cold floor.
Now, out in the vestibule, she saw a flash of maroon, a blood-colored thing. A scarf, she realized, Faith’s scarf, floating slightly as it was ferried by its wearer into the ladies’ room; as it was ferried there by Faith Frank herself. The irony of this, she thought: Faith Frank having to use a ladies’ room, submitting to the word ladies even now, into the twenty-first century.
“Look,” Greer said quietly.
“Let’s do it,” said Zee. “You can finish up what you started. And we can each try to have a moment with her.”