{"id":142802,"date":"2020-02-13T09:00:53","date_gmt":"2020-02-13T14:00:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=142802"},"modified":"2020-02-13T11:09:29","modified_gmt":"2020-02-13T16:09:29","slug":"what-men-have-told-me","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/02\/13\/what-men-have-told-me\/","title":{"rendered":"What Men Have Told Me"},"content":{"rendered":"

Adrienne Miller was the literary and fiction editor of <\/em>Esquire from 1997 to 2006. <\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Berthold Woltze, Der l\u00e4stige Kavalier<\/em> (The Irritating Gentleman<\/em>), 1874, oil on canvas, 29 1\/2 x 22 1\/2″. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

A man said to me, \u201cI\u2019ve always wondered why it is that your sisters aren\u2019t better writers.\u201d<\/p>\n

A man asked me, when discussing the work of a female author, \u201cIs she a \u2018big\u2019 girl?\u201d<\/p>\n

A man asked, \u201cWhy is there always a scene in every women\u2019s novel with a female character making snow angels?\u201d<\/p>\n

A man asked me why it was that women writers seemed to be capable of only two things: sensation <\/em>on one hand or attitudinizing <\/em>on the other.<\/p>\n

A man told me that he didn\u2019t believe I\u2019d read enough books to be able to do my job effectively. <\/p>\n

A man told me that only someone with an M.F.A. should have my job. (The real answer: someone with an M.F.A. definitely should not <\/em>have had my job.)<\/p>\n

A man, someone probably actually lower on the status totem pole at Esquire <\/em>than I, took a story I had acquired and had already edited\u2014and did his own (very poor) edits to it, returning it to me as if he were some sort of conquering hero.<\/p>\n

A man said that no one would take me seriously until I won a National Magazine Award for Fiction.<\/p>\n

A man told me that he couldn\u2019t believe the literary editor of Esquire <\/em>had never read anything by Anna Akhmatova.<\/p>\n

A man seemed to believe that he needed to routinely explain my \u201cmission\u201d with regard to the literary section of the magazine: \u201cThe stories can\u2019t be perfunctory,\u201d he\u2019d say. This was his trademark word: \u201cperfunctory.\u201d Naturally, my private code name for this guy became Perfunctory Man. And was he ever. As Simone de Beauvoir put it: \u201cThe most mediocre of males feels himself a demigod as compared with women.\u201d (And, indeed, I was one happy individual when Perfunctory Man was finally fired.)<\/p>\n

A man\u2014okay, men <\/em>were Hobbesianly snaking around, trying to get in their own short story submissions. There were always men after my job, and I would come to feel as if I were constantly whipping a lit torch around to protect my territory. But had these men ever actually read any of the fiction published in the magazine? Unclear.<\/p>\n

A man referred to a woman who worked at the company as a cunt.<\/p>\n

A man said to me, \u201cI wish my groupies were of a higher caliber.\u201d Me: \u201cYou have groupies<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

A man told me that I should \u201cfucking spit\u201d on a notoriously demanding female media professional.<\/p>\n

A man brought a coffee-table book of high-end pornographic art to me at a work lunch.<\/p>\n

A man said, at another work lunch, \u201cYou\u2019re not so young anymore, you know.\u201d The man was my father\u2019s age. My age: twenty-eight.<\/p>\n

A man asked, at the end of a professional drinks appointment, if he could kiss me.<\/p>\n

A man asked me, after he\u2019d moved my hand close to his crotch at another professional drinks appointment, if something he\u2019d done had made me seem so close to crying.<\/p>\n

A man\u2014one of the most celebrated writers in the country\u2014sexually assaulted me. After a professional drinks appointment, when we were standing together on a sidewalk waiting for a light to change, he put his hands down my pants.<\/p>\n

(After that, I pretty much stopped doing professional drinks appointments with men.)<\/p>\n

A man rated, in terms of purported attractiveness, the women\u2014the brilliant and judicious women\u2014who read our unsolicited short story manuscripts.<\/p>\n

A man said that \u201ceveryone wondered\u201d whom I had slept with to get my job.<\/p>\n

It would go like this: I\u2019d find myself at an event, standing or sitting next to some man, illustrious in this or that sphere; another man, unknown to me, and assuming an air of importance, would come up to the first man. I would note how often the second man would look through me, around me, over me, to something much more important. People are ghosts until you actually have to start taking them seriously.<\/p>\n

My view: these men were, as Kate Millett wrote of Norman Mailer in her masterwork Sexual Politics<\/em>, \u201cprisoner[s] of the virility cult,\u201d and their chest-thumping machismo was, more or less, a pose\u2014even if they didn\u2019t know it. It\u2019s always hard to gauge how self-aware other people are, but the overall sense usually seems to be: not very. We are unknown to ourselves. (Recall, in an extreme but useful example, that Mussolini wanted his epitaph to read: \u201cHere lies one of the most intelligent animals who ever appeared on the face of the earth.\u201d) So I attempted to take a nuanced view, even when the actions of the men were abhorrent. I tried to approach the behavior with a spirit of irony, leniency, and good humor \u2026 when good humor was musterable.<\/p>\n

The truth: my career had been built around protecting male egos. This was the world I lived in. This was the world I knew, and I never believed this world could, or would, change. It seemed incomprehensible that the system could ever collapse. So I started trying out a new approach. I would change myself. I <\/em>would become unattackable. I\u2019d train myself not to let other people\u2019s\u2014men\u2019s\u2014opinions of me penetrate. I\u2019d become a fortress to be approached, a Soviet tank of the spirit.<\/p>\n

This was a strategy. This was a deeply antisocial strategy, in fact, and philosophically in direct conflict with the central precept of my job. When you\u2019re trying to cultivate appreciation, you have to maintain an open heart.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Adrienne Miller<\/a> <\/em>is the author of the novel <\/em>The Coast of Akron. She lives in New York City with her husband, son, and Italian greyhound.<\/em><\/p>\n

From the book <\/em>In the Land of Men<\/a>, by Adrienne Miller. Copyright \u00a9 2020 by Adrienne Miller. Reprinted by permission of Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The truth: my career had been built around protecting male egos. This was the world I lived in. This was the world I knew.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1911,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-142802","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat Men Have Told Me by Adrienne Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The truth: my career had been built around protecting male egos. This was the world I lived in. 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