I have a theory about book reviews that’s not based on any empirical evidence, just something derived from my own relationship to other people’s book reviews. The theory is this: Nobody actually reads book reviews. Like in theory you would think that some people must be reading these reviews — because otherwise it wouldn’t make sense why there are so many of them — but I don’t think this actually happens.
On the one hand, this is incredibly freeing. Since there’s nobody out there reading this review, it follows that there’s nobody out there to cast nasty judgments my way, and so I can write whatever I want, sharing, for example, how I enjoy smelling my own farts. Which, by the way, is not actually true, because ew — but the point is that I could write such things and write them with euphoric abandon, because there’d be no one to read it. But at the same time, this truth — which might not be true but which in my mind is rock-fucking-solid reality — is sad, because what I need, what we all need, as Jessica Benjamin poignantly writes in this book, is recognition.
Benjamin argues that we don’t feel fully, authentically alive unless there’s someone there to recognize us. When another person recognizes me as a subject, as an autonomous person with a rich inner life, I feel more real, more alive. Conversely, when someone treats me like an object, when someone talks at me but makes no point to listen, I feel diminished, invisible, less real.
She builds on the idea of Winnicott’s “good-enough mother,” reframing it in terms of recognition. The good-enough mother provides recognition. She sees her baby not as an extension of herself but as his own unique person. And because she recognizes her baby, she’s able to provide what he needs, soothing him when he cries, feeding him when he’s hungry, quieting the environment when he’s overstimulated.
Of course, “maternal holding,” more than being just physical care, is a kind of emotional containment. Through her steady presence and attuned responses, the mother helps the baby manage feelings that would otherwise be overwhelming. When he cries in distress, she receives his feelings, endures them with him, and transforms them into something bearable, showing him that distressing feelings can be survived.
Over time, he learns that others are responsive and trustworthy and begins to develop a sense of agency (“I can elicit responses from you”) and, building on that, a sense of mutuality (“You and I can share feelings and influence each other”). If his mother strikes the right balance as he ages, neither dominating him (that is, failing to affirm his subjectivity), nor capitulating to his every demand (that is, failing to assert her own subjectivity), a relationship of mutual recognition can flourish.
Now you might have noticed that I’m not using gender-neutral language, and that’s deliberate, meant to highlight the traditional gender roles that still dominate much of society. In such ossified roles, the mother tends to the children while the father provides for the family, entering the picture more fully once the toddler begins to separate and assert himself. The little boy, eager to differentiate from mother, begins to identify with father. By now, mother has come to represent merger and domesticity, things that were fine for babies but not for fledgling young boys, while father stands for independence and the wider world outside the home.
You might have also noticed that I’ve said nothing about girls, and that’s also deliberate, because none of this really applies to girls, not when traditional gender roles prevail. Boys identify with their fathers in order to secure their independence, but girls don’t generally have the same option. Even though most fathers might adore their daughters, they see themselves in their sons, thus facilitating a process of mutual recognition that girls are rarely afforded.
Crucially, the boy does not just identify with father, but he also disidentifies with mother. Being masculine is seen as being like him and not like her. Consequently, all those things that mother does — “[e]motional attunement, sharing states of mind, empathically assuming the other’s position, and imaginatively perceiving the other’s needs and feelings” — become coded as “feminine” and therefore get cast off. In their place, the boy, mimicking father, seeks mastery and control in the external world as a way of reestablishing the sense of wholeness and confidence that was once sustained through connection.
And from there, things just continue to devolve. The boy stops seeing his mother, and in fact all women, as subjects, and risks spending the rest of his life unable to engage in the type of mutual recognition that characterized his early life. We in turn end up with a society kind of resembling Mad Men, emotionally stunted men viewing women as objects and women internalizing the culture’s misogyny. And much to Don Draper’s surprise, he doesn’t even get satisfying sex out of this, just repeated humping and bumping, going through the motions to discharge his pent-up frustration, not the back-and-forth of play and spontaneity that comes through mutual recognition.
At this point you might be wondering, why have I turned this review into a simple summary of Benjamin’s arguments? My first response is that, as you and I both know, there is no “you” there to be asking this question. Remember, nobody actually reads book reviews. Which, as we’ve also seen, is a major problem, since I really do need you. Second, and more to the point, I’m summarizing her arguments because I find them riveting and important. Maybe you majored in women’s studies and have long thought along these lines, but in case you don’t know, I’m a damn dude, one who has accepted many of our culture’s gender stereotypes, and so I’m just trying to sort all this out, and Benjamin has proven to be tremendously helpful.