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Feminist Theory

Call it misogyny 1–19

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DOI: 10.1177/14647001221119995
Rachel Loewen Walker journals.sagepub.com/home/fty
University of Saskatchewan, Canada

Abstract
Misogyny is a weighty term. Its affective power invokes spectres of rape, sexual assault,
hate-fuelled insults and gas-lighting. Its presence in nearly every culture on the planet
haunts our pasts and frames our presents. Aiming to build an understanding of misogyny
for our future social justice efforts, I look to Kate Manne’s Down Girl: The Logic of
Misogyny, where she dusts off an old definition of misogyny as the hatred of women
to describe it as the enforcement branch of a patriarchal society, a renewed engagement
for feminists and activists alike. In particular, this framing provides opportunities to
examine misogyny from an intersectional lens, including its intersections with race, gen-
der and sexuality. For example, through stories such as that of Pamela George, an
Indigenous woman from Regina, Saskatchewan who was murdered in 1995, I argue
that it is crucial that we recognise the collusion between settler colonialism and mis-
ogyny. Or in the case of transphobic comedian Dave Chapelle, we must understand
the interplay of heteronormativity and cisnormativity in propping up transmisogyny.
Consequently, I argue that an intersectional logic of misogyny provides not only a
shift but a tipping point for feminist and queer movements to come.

Keywords
Affect, gender-based violence, intersectionality, Kate Manne, misogyny, queer misogyny,
racism, settler colonialism, sexism, transmisogyny

[M]isogyny is not about hating women. It is about controlling them. (Kate Manne, 2016)

To many, misogyny may feel like an outdated concept, a term that has been replaced
by words such as oppression, gender-based violence, sexism, even patriarchy. When I
was an undergraduate student in philosophy and women’s and gender studies, circa
2003, there was a sense in which the term had lost favour, representing the height of

Corresponding author:
Rachel Loewen Walker, Ariel F. Sallows Chair in Human Rights, College of Law, University of Saskatchewan, 15
Campus Dr, Saskatoon, SK S7N 5A6, Canada.
Email: rl.walker@usask.ca
2 Feminist Theory 0(0)

‘angry feminism’, and otherwise closing down possibilities for ‘reasonable’ feminist
inquiry and engagement. Arguably, more widespread use of the term misogyny reap-
peared in relation to the 2016 United States Presidential election, where Hillary
Rodham Clinton faced some of the most misogynist, gut-wrenching criticism ever docu-
mented in American media. Clinton was the target of sexist spurns and misogynist vitriol
at every step, including merchandise at the Republican National Convention that included
buttons, t-shirts and bags that read ‘Hillary sucks, but not like Monica’, ‘Trump That
Bitch’ and ‘KFC Hillary Special. 2 Fat Thighs, 2 Small Breasts . . . Left Wing’
(Beinart, 2016). Trump supporters revelled in the attack, demoralising Clinton at every
turn, but more striking was that the opposition was slow to respond and even slower
to address the misogyny at play (Alptraum, 2017; Bordo, 2017). In an interview about
the anti-Hillary movement that engulfed the 2016 election, bell hooks laments the fact
that Clinton’s loss represented a grand return on investment for patriarchy. Further,
she reminds us that ‘patriarchy has no gender’, noting the widespread hostility that sur-
faces in relation to empowered women (Alptraum, 2017: 3) and which was reflected in
the negative treatment Clinton received from feminists throughout her campaign
(Featherstone, 2016).
Fast forward to six years post election, and both media and scholarly discussions of
misogyny have increased (Manne, 2018; Banet-Weiser, 2018; Blair, 2021; Wrisley,
2021; Zempi and Smith, 2021). At the same time, we have witnessed an increased polar-
isation of right and left, powerful upswells of social rebellion and a drastic increase in
public and media attention surrounding not only misogyny but also white supremacy,
racism, colonisation and heteronormativity through the Black Lives Matter, #MeToo,
It Gets Better and Land Back movements. These movements have contributed to a shift-
ing landscape around not only misogyny but the way that violence and injustice are
mediated in the social and political sphere.
Misogyny has rhizomatic roots that run deep within the philosophical, scientific and
cultural texts of Western civilisation (Holland, 2012; Gilmore, 2018). In most of these
timelines, misogyny is understood to be the hatred of, or contempt for, women and
girls: ‘a feeling of enmity toward the female sex, a “disgust or abhorrence” toward
women as an undifferentiated social category’ (Gilmore, 2018: 9).1 When I first started
surveying feminist and philosophical literature for discussions of misogyny, I found
very little that strayed from this lens until I came across Kate Manne’s (2018) Down
Girl: The Logic of Misogyny.2 Rather than relying on the historical definition of mis-
ogyny as the hatred of women, Manne defines misogyny as the ‘“law enforcement”
branch of a patriarchal order’ (2018: 78). This enforcement doesn’t necessarily require
justification via the beliefs and values of its perpetrators – as in, a documented hatred
or hostility – rather it operates through ‘policing and enforcing its governing norms
and expectations’ (Manne, 2018: 78).
To further illustrate the logic of misogyny, Manne argues that the historical definition
is both too narrow and not focused enough to account for its many and diverse applica-
tions. Its narrowness lies in its reliance on the individual misogynist’s activities and
beliefs, rather than the patriarchal ideologies that provide fertile ground for misogyny,
a claim that echoes Kate Millett’s argument from decades earlier (Millett, [1970]
Loewen Walker 3

2016). And regarding the lack of focus, Manne notes that if we define misogyny as that
which is enacted upon women, simply because they are women, we miss the instances
where misogyny operates to police particular people who engage in particular activities,
that is the Indigenous sex worker, the trans woman, even the gay man, as we will discuss
later. By shifting the lens from the individual misogynist who hates women, to the patri-
archal society in which women are controlled, punished and policed, Manne’s logic of
misogyny reminds us that patriarchal societies operate by surveilling their subjects, espe-
cially the degree to which their subjects submit to required gendered behaviours.
The logic of misogyny, therefore, includes the words, behaviours and expectations that
enforce patriarchal social relations, and Manne’s reframing has already had quite a large
impact within the contemporary feminist landscape, providing fertile ground for scholars,
journalists and lawmakers alike (Doherty, 2019; Wrisley, 2021; Wyeth, 2022). In what
follows, I extend Manne’s argument to an intersectional understanding of misogyny:
one which recognises misogyny’s role in enforcing intersecting systems of white suprem-
acy, heteronormativity and cisnormativity.3 For in fact, one of the most important moves
that we can make in discussions of misogyny is to expand its historical definition beyond
that which is committed by cisgender, heterosexual men, against cisgender, heterosexual
women, thereby addressing a patriarchal system of control that uses transphobia, racism
and heteronormativity to circumscribe its object. In service of this aim, I discuss mis-
ogyny as it sustains settler colonialism, misogyny within and through the queer commu-
nity and transmisogyny, each of which contribute to a better understanding of misogyny
as a system of control, and societal enforcement of a patriarchal system built on interlock-
ing forms of oppression.
I also briefly address the language of misogyny, arguing that often and increasingly,
the terms ‘sexism’, ‘gender-based violence’ and especially the latter’s acronym ‘GBV’
are sanitising in the face of the violence that misogyny references. Consequently, I
discuss the impacts of not only a renewed understanding of misogyny but also a call
to talk, organise, write and shout about misogyny and its insidious counterparts, transpho-
bia, homophobia and white supremacy, demonstrating that we are at a tipping point
where we must call it misogyny. That is, we must expand and sharpen our work of
naming instances of violence and injustice. Through increased awareness, we are also
better able to see that the misogynistic acts we (increasingly and more and more fright-
eningly) see in media, social movements and legal cases are only the bravest and most
violent examples of an insidious culture of violence and control that is taking place all
around us. Ultimately, I am hopeful that through amplifying and complicating our under-
standings of misogyny we are able to engender our own tipping point for intersectional
feminist and queer movements to come.

Misogyny: Retelling old stories

Born of the ancient Greek etymology of miso (‘hatred’) plus gyne ‘woman’, misogyny is
an old term, seemingly simple to define. Antipater of Tarsus used the word misogunia
(μισογυνία), in a text called On Marriage (c. 150), to extoll the virtues of marriage
while criticising his contemporary Euripides’ derogatory comments towards women
4 Feminist Theory 0(0)

(Antipater of Tarsus, 1995). Ultimately, Antipater viewed misogyny in contravention to

the sanctity of marriage and the love that men must display towards their wives; however,
I would caution against praising Antipater’s seemingly positive intervention, as this early
argument endorses the familiar criticism of those women who are not appropriately
bound to men and links a hatred of women to their failure to participate in the requisite
patriarchal order.
Case in point: Antipater’s centuries-old origin story is amplified by the present-day
online men’s movement known as ‘The Red Pill’ (found at r/theredpill). The Red Pill
is a subreddit community that uses ancient Greek and Roman texts to bolster its present-
day arguments for antifeminism, rape culture and hegemonic masculinity (Zuckerberg,
2018; Ging, 2019). Followers of the Red Pill call themselves ‘incels’, a term that
means ‘involuntary celibate’ and refers to their perceived entitlement to sex and affection.
‘Incels’ thus expect women to adhere to traditionalist expectations of femininity and lash
out at those who do not conform. Donna Zuckerberg’s (2018) Not All Dead White Men
explores the enterprise of the alt-right men’s movement via The Red Pill, demonstrating
the widespread impact of its (false) appeal to both history and authority via Classic texts.
Through such an appeal, Red Pill-ers and incels lend credibility to their claims, position-
ing themselves as guardians of a white, patriarchal, Western civilisation (Zuckerberg,
2018). Although Zuckerberg largely takes aim at the role of technology in mobilising
a new era of misogyny and violence, she sounds an alarm bell around the fact that
online communities like the Red Pill operationalise the white (male) supremacy of
more visible alt-right political and social crusades.
Not surprisingly, then, today’s misogyny is networked. Sarah Banet-Weiser writes that
the misogyny of the twenty-first century is ‘expressed and practiced on multiple media
platforms, it attracts other like-minded groups and individuals, and it manifests in a
terrain of struggle, with competing demands for power’ (2018: 2). Scholars, historians,
even journalists and public interest authors increasingly recognise and name its operation,
acknowledging that misogyny is a weighty term, heavy-hitting in a way that terms like
sexism or even patriarchy are not. To this effect, Gail Ukockis writes that:

For decades, the word ‘sexism’ seemed sufficient to describe the demeaning treatment of
females . . . Sexism can be subtle, such as a man talking over a woman during a business
meeting. In contrast, the word ‘misogyny’ is a much stronger word than ‘sexism’ because
it is simply defined as hatred of women. . . . misogyny implies an overt and violent aspect.
(2019: 1)

Ukockis references the affective force of misogyny as the term invokes spectres of
rape, sexual assault, hate-fuelled insults and practices of gas-lighting. It is palpable, trig-
gering; it lives in the bodies of its targets.
Manne also differentiates between misogyny and sexism, noting that ‘sexism can be
complacent [while] misogyny may be anxious’ and that ‘sexism has a theory; misogyny
wields a cudgel’ (2018: 88). However, Manne would disagree with Ukockis’s assessment
that misogyny’s strength is due to its supposedly ‘simple’ definition. Manne’s argument
that misogyny functions as a policing and enforcing branch of patriarchy, while sexism
Loewen Walker 5

functions as the rationalisation and justificatory branch (2018: 80), demonstrates that
sexism often operates to naturalise sex differences or to make them seem inevitable,
thus upholding sexist hiring practices or social arrangements. On the contrary, misogyny
enforces women’s subordination through its ability and potential to target women quite
selectively, rather than across the board (Manne, 2018: 79), a nuance that the ‘hatred
of women qua women’ does not allow.
In fact, misogyny has never been ‘only’ about the hatred of women (as if a singular
application is any less brutal) but instead has so many other dangerous lives and applica-
tions. Take a devastating case of misogyny in Quebec, Canada: the Montreal Massacre of
1989, when Marc Lépine murdered fourteen women and wounded many more at École
Polytechnique de Montreal. Lépine marched into a mechanical engineering classroom
with a semi-automatic rifle, divided the class by sex and forced the more than fifty
men in the class to leave the room. He then lined the remaining nine women up
against the wall and opened fire. ‘I am fighting feminism’, Lépine shouted to his
victims (Gagne and Lepine, 2008; Jaynes, 2019), and his suicide letter further avowed
his hatred for feminists, assuaging any doubts about it being a misogynist act.
Manne’s argument enables a wider reading of both the actions of individuals such as
Mark Lépine and the social systems which enable such atrocities to happen. The Montreal
Massacre was not an isolated and rare case of Lépine’s unhinged hatred of women qua
women. Instead, it was a deadly expression of his deeply held beliefs about the acceptable
behaviours of women and men that already exist within our institutions and social
systems. Lépine did not hate ‘women’, he hated feminists, and he hated feminists pre-
cisely because they were ‘seizing for themselves [the advantages held by] men’.4
Lépine enforced his sexist beliefs through mass execution, and in this way, misogyny
represents both the hatred he felt for the women at École Polytechnique de Montreal
and the very real ideological, educational and political systems that prop up such beliefs.
Misogyny, both the word and its effects, can still quiet a room in a way that sexism
cannot. Sexism invokes charts, graphs and workplace analyses, whereas misogyny
lands with blunt force, heaving and daring. As such, misogyny lingers in the body; it
haunts us long after impact. Speaking to these sensory experiences of misogyny,
Samantha Pinson Wrisley has recently outlined that misogyny is a ‘profoundly affective
social dynamic’ (2021: 2) and that any efforts to engage with misogyny must incorporate
this emotional and affective impact. Through this claim, she references well-known argu-
ments surrounding the false dichotomy between emotions and knowledge, pointing
towards feminist and queer theorists who have already demonstrated the political efficacy
of emotion, among other productive elements (Hooks, 1995; Ahmed, 2004). Turning to
Manne’s logic of misogyny, however, Wrisley argues that Manne’s definition is ‘funda-
mentally incompatible’ (2021: 3) with the complex emotional and psychological land-
scape of misogyny. In particular, Wrisley argues that by turning away from a
definition of misogyny as the hatred of women, Manne divorces misogyny from its
‘affective root’, and therefore, ‘abstracts misogyny from its originary meaning in order
to make it more epistemically sound and politically palatable’ (2021: 11). Wrisley’s
detailed reading of Manne’s de-emotionalisation of misogyny, then, argues that a struc-
tural take on misogyny ultimately conceals its true, affective nature.
6 Feminist Theory 0(0)

On this front, I disagree with Wrisley. I don’t disagree that Manne seeks to
de-psychologise the misogynist’s ‘feelings’ of enmity towards women, nor that she
strives to remove the burden of assessing the internal psychological comportment of
the misogynist, by way of practising ‘psychology from the outside’ (2018: 20). Rather,
I disagree that Manne’s definition results in an operation that is void of affect, and that
she dissuades us from accounting for the emotional impact. For, in fact, the logical
shift that Manne calls for is much more specific than Wrisley notes. Rather than
arguing that misogyny itself must be understood without emotion and psychology,
Manne argues that our investigations (and therefore required evidence) must move
beyond the internal feelings and motivations of the misogynist and towards the emotional,
psychological and societal effects of misogyny on the bodies/psyches of its targets. That
is, the women, girls, Two Spirit, trans and non-binary people that bear the impact of
hateful epithets, assault and constriction. For both the word and effects of misogyny
are inextricably bound to the psychological and physical effects of fear, anxiety, pain
and unease, as much as they are bound to their description and invocation. Thus,
Manne’s renewed logic of misogyny provides a clear and distinct method of identifying
and understanding misogyny’s affective impact. At the same time, she does not suspend
those instances where misogyny is the visceral outpost of internal hatred and disgust, nor
our ability to bring such affective landscapes to bear on our movements to come.
I also disagree with the argument that Manne’s renewed definition of misogyny
renders it too common, or that we need some expression of a ‘negative affective or emo-
tional orientation towards women as a group’ (Wrisley, 2021: 5) in order to define it as
misogyny. It is precisely because Manne shifts the focus from the perpetrator to the
victim that misogyny becomes something we can start naming. This is what misogyny
requires: a voice, an army, a sensation-turned-rage. In fact, I liken Manne’s cudgel of mis-
ogyny to Sara Ahmed’s experience of being a (feminist) killjoy, the one who speaks up
and names the inequities that are in the world – naming racism in a University’s hiring
process, addressing sexism at the dinner table. In the face of such vocalisations,
Ahmed describes the resultant feeling of ‘a burning sensation on skin. . . . That flooding:
it happens. It still happens. Feeling wrong, being wrong; being wronged’ (2017: 39). As
feminists, we often register wrongs in relation to ‘the sharpness of an impression’
(Ahmed 2017: 22), and Ahmed describes this as a sensational experience. Her use of sen-
sation refers both to the feelings evoked by actions and touch, as well as the sensational
outputs of the killjoy as she speaks up or is the object of a misogynist gaze.
So often, misogyny is discussed as an affect associated with the misogynist himself –
his hatred of women, his violence and anger – but in fact, in an effort to locate the target of
misogyny as an agent within the narrative, we gloss over the ways that misogyny is a sen-
sation that is carried in the body of its targets. For many, there is no speaking the word
‘misogyny’ without feeling the marks it has left. As its use in popular media grows, so too
does its sensation, its application to the many experiences of women, girls, trans and non-
binary people that may have had the sense/sensation but not the logic to name it.
Consequently, it is precisely through loosening misogyny from a singular definition
that we are better able to recognise both its widespread impact and its entanglement
with interlocking systems of oppression. To understand misogyny as the enforcement
Loewen Walker 7

arm of patriarchy, and not only the hatred of women, therefore, enables us to re-read cases
and examples from the past Stories that otherwise would not have been weighed down by
misogyny’s heavy hand and can now be retold with much more precision, and with
increased clarity regarding misogyny’s supporting cast (i.e. racism, homophobia, trans-
phobia, White Supremacy). We are also better able to see that misogyny’s force
always and already relies on centuries of recognised and invisible violence enacted
against those who do not conform to racialised, sexualised and gendered rules.

Finding misogyny in settler colonialism

On Easter weekend in 1995, two college-aged, Caucasian men – Steven Kummerfield
and Alex Ternowetsky – kidnapped and murdered Pamela George, an Indigenous
woman from Regina, Saskatchewan. The high-profile and controversial case focused
heavily on the lifestyle choices, race and character of George, while praising the upper-
class characters of the young men who committed the crime.5 During the trial, the original
charge of first-degree murder was overturned, and the two young men were convicted of
manslaughter and sentenced to only six and a half years in jail. The soft sentencing
dredges up numerous questions about the integrity of the case, particularly the blatant
racism and sexism that motivated the murder itself and which underlay the legal
outcome.6
In her comprehensive analysis of the case, feminist scholar Sherene Razack focuses on
the ways that the murder of Pamela George (2000: 95) clearly demonstrates settler colo-
nialism’s reliance on the spatialisation and dehumanisation of Indigenous women – their
bodies are actually limited to certain places, certain movements, certain definitions.
Tellingly, Razack (2020) revisits this argument in her paper ‘Settler Colonialism,
Policing and Racial Terror: The Police Shooting of Loreal Tsingine’, where she recounts
another murder case, also of an Indigenous woman and also as a result of ‘policing’ the
movement and location of an Indigenous woman’s body. Two decades pass in the blink
of an eye when we read Razack’s opening lines alongside one another: ‘On Easter
weekend, April 17, 1995, Pamela George, a woman of the Saulteaux (Ojibway) nation
and a mother of two young children, was brutally murdered in Regina, a small
Canadian prairie city’ (2000: 91); ‘On 27 March 2014, Loreal Tsingine, a 27-year-old
Navajo woman was shot and killed by Austin Shipley, a white male police officer,
also 27 years old, who said he was trying to apprehend her for a suspected shoplifting’
(2020: 1).
Although the stories differ – Loreal Tsingine was shot by a police officer during an
attempted arrest and Pamela George was assaulted and beaten to death on a dirt road –
both women are defined by the enforcement of neo-colonialism. Both cases also reveal
longstanding collusions between racism and misogyny.
During Kummerfield and Ternowetsky’s murder trials, news coverage and court pro-
ceedings identified Pamela George as a ‘prostitute’, rather than through other identifying
terms. In fact, she was regarded by the defence lawyer, the Crown attorney and the jury to
be partially responsible for her death because she chose to participate in prostitution.7
Such references to prostitution or sex work specifically cast George as the racialised
8 Feminist Theory 0(0)

other and separated her from acceptable society (read: the (white) women that are deserv-
ing of respect and legal rights). To this effect, Razack writes:

While it is certainly patriarchy that produces men whose sense of identity is achieved
through the brutalizing of a woman, the men’s and the court’s capacity to dehumanize
Pamela George derived from their understanding of her as the (gendered) racial Other
whose degradation confirmed their own identities as white—that is, as men entitled to the
land and the full benefits of citizenship. (2000: 93)

Razack details that colonial countries have been well aware that the key to assimilation
is to conquer – metaphorically and literally – the colonised country’s women in assurance
of the successful development of a new nation (see also: Enloe, 1996; Kaufman and
Williams, 2007; Puar, 2007). If misogyny is about controlling and policing women,
then colonisation doubles down on the racialised woman, rendering her both the physical
object of attack and the abject warning to women who may transgress the expected
boundaries of (white) femininity.
Providing greater insight into the intersections of racism and misogyny, Moya Baily
(2014) describes the misogyny faced by black women in the United States as misogynoir.
Misogynoir is a form of anti-black sexism that erases, stereotypes and fetishises black
women in media and society. Although I won’t apply a term that is specific to black
women in the US to an Ojibway woman in Saskatchewan, the concept of misogynoir
echoes the cumulative lashings that Pamela George endured. Neither her gender nor
her race alone bore the violence of that night. She was murdered precisely because she
was an Indigenous woman, a sex worker, an object of disdain and abuse. In fact, a
friend of the assailants shared that he spoke to each of the men on the phone after the
murder occurred, during which time Kummerfield told him that ‘We drove around, got
drunk and killed this chick’, while Ternowetsky bragged that ‘She deserved it. She
was Indian’ (Eisler, 1996: 28). As misogynoir invokes an intersectional reading from
the outset, so too must George’s murder in its demonstration that misogyny is rarely
just about gender.
The sting of Kummerfield and Ternowetsky’s comments underscores the insidious
racism and the complacent misogyny that both led to George’s death and protected
Kummerfield and Ternowetsky from harsher sentencing. It also speaks to Manne’s argu-
ment that we must move beyond definitions of misogyny as men’s hatred of women
‘simply because they are women’ (2017: 32). In Pamela George’s case, we can see
that the court’s painting of Kummerfield and Ternowetsky as white middle-class
college boys who just wanted to have some fun kept them from being classed as miso-
gynists (Roberts, 1997). Kummerfield was noted to have gone to dinner with his girl-
friend the night of the murder, and to confiding in his mother and asking her for help
after the events took place, thus tempering his character (Razack, 2000: 111–112).
Arguably, such factors prevented Kummerfield and Ternowetsky from being accused
of harbouring the deep-seated hatred of all women required to define them as misogy-
nists. At the same time, such descriptions locate Pamela George apart from the other
women in the men’s lives; she is limited to ‘the stroll’, understood only as an object of
Loewen Walker 9

sexual gratification. Even the judge warned the jury that it would be ‘dangerous’ to
convict Kummerfield and Ternowetsky of first-degree murder because George was
‘indeed a prostitute’ (Roberts, 1997: A6).
A key mechanism by which misogyny operates is through its enforcement of a gen-
dered ‘law and order’, as Manne (2020: 7) expounds in Entitled, her follow-up to
Down Girl. In this case, the law and order includes Kummerfield and Ternowetsky’s
assumed entitlements to George’s ‘feminine-coded goods and services’, which include
attention, affection, admiration, sympathy, sex and children, among other things
(Manne, 2018: 130). George’s assailants felt entitled to her services of sex and affection,
while at the same time, her presumed inability to perform her feminine-coded duties –
such as the requisite social, domestic and reproductive labour – on account of her partici-
pation in sex work provided them with the grounds for violent enforcement of the patri-
archal order.
Pamela George’s murder thus illustrates the ways that misogyny operates to police
particular people who engage in particular activities. George was murdered because
she was an Indigenous woman who was also a sex worker; a particular type of woman
engaging in a particular type of activity. Further, she carried these signifiers in her
bones. She walked and worked in those spaces which demarcated her to sex work, her
skin marked her as the racialised other. Her assailant’s comments (‘She was Indian’)
and behaviour (they stalked other Indigenous women on the stroll and drove George
to an out-of-town location) indicate that her race and her gender played affective roles
in the outcomes of the fateful night. And Kummerfield and Ternowetsky received
lesser sentences because a structural, colonial racism operated alongside an enforced
and systemic misogyny to render Pamela George as an object of disdain, while her mur-
derers were deemed worthy of special consideration. Notably, on top of a light sentence,
both men served under three and a half years of their six and a half year sentences
(Canadian Press, 2000).
Returning briefly to the murder of Loreal Tsingine by police officer Austin Shipley,
although the case isn’t explicitly related to gender, it still relies on the unspoken mis-
ogyny central to settler colonialism. Tsingine was shot and killed upon suspicion of sho-
plifting and the threat of a weapon: a pair of inch-long medical scissors visible in the
accompanying surveillance video of the shooting. Despite her small, 100-pound frame,
the man who killed her relied on a prototypical police narrative which cast her as an
unstoppable threat, ‘a force that only bullets can stop’ (Razack, 2020: 2).
Remembering that settler colonialism relies on space itself as the feminine landscape
on which the masculine constructs of culture, civilisation,and reason are built,8 the
murder of Loreal Tsingine reveals the ways that ‘the violence that is written on the
Indigenous woman’s body [is] a multiscalar imprinting of colonial power’ (2020: 9).
Shipley, thus, mounts his own white masculinity through his engagement with the
other as ‘settler colonialism’s . . . processes require and produce subjects who understand
their own racial superiority in gendered ways’ (Razack, 2020: 2). He adhered to an insti-
tutionally coded narrative to plead self-defence – he was not a misogynist because he was
terrified of her; he was not a racist because he followed all protocol (Razack, 2020: 1–2,
10 Feminist Theory 0(0)

13–14). Shipley was neither charged, nor subject to an external investigation; Loreal
Tsingine is remembered as an Indigenous woman on a beer run.9
It is no mistake that Pamela George was targeted at the intersecting axis of patriarchy,
racism and colonialism, nor that Loreal Tsingine was subject to the enforcement of white
masculinity via settler colonialism. Through this discussion, we are able to see that mis-
ogyny involves not only an individual’s hostility but also the societal policing of those
who fail to uphold the expectations of femininity to which they are subject, expectations
which are coded by whiteness, colonialism and heteronormativity. Such a frame moves
beyond understanding misogyny to target all women because they are women, to a
concept of it as often manifesting by targeting specific women, and so provides us
with an avenue to recognise the neo-colonial misogyny of attacks on Indigenous
women, girls and Two Spirit people, which in a racist society would otherwise go
unrecognised.10
The names of Pamela George and Loreal Tsingine, thus, stand in for thousands more
Indigenous women and girls, whose stories we do not know because their cases never
made it to trial, an invisibility that is also felt within the transgender community, as thou-
sands of people are assaulted and murdered each year and denied full legal representation
and intervention. Although Manne expounds upon instances of transmisogyny in greater
detail in Entitled, an intersectional understanding of misogyny still warrants much greater
attention. In what follows, I offer a small contribution to this necessary conversation.

Queering misogyny
As the Red Pill movement and the murder of Pamela George demonstrate, misogyny is
deeply intertwined with entitlements to sex, including expectations around not only
gender but sexuality. When we restrict analyses of misogyny to a gender binary – the
belief that misogyny is enacted on cisgender women by cisgender men – we fail to see
how dependent it is on the heterosexual matrix; the invisible norm that casts everyone
as heterosexual and by association, cisgender (see: Rich, 1980; Butler, 1990).
Consequently, although misogyny is primarily directed at women and girls, within
queer communities, misogyny can be directed at anyone (female, male, trans or non-
binary) circumscribed by feminine codes of expression (both their presence and their
absence).
One of the first (and still most-cited) public calls to action regarding so-termed
‘gay-male misogyny’ was actor Rose McGowan’s 2014 tweet that stated ‘[g]ay men
are as misogynistic as straight men, if not more so’ (Selby, 2014). McGowan received
severe backlash for her statement, and eventually issued a public apology, but her
comment continues to serve as an access point for expanding hetero- and cis-normative
definitions of misogyny. In particular, it reminds us that belonging to a marginalised
group does not void one from committing oppressive acts. Jack Halberstam has also
written on the matter of gay-male misogyny, sharing an experience of attending the
University of Michigan’s ‘Gay Shame’ conference in the early 2000s. Following a less
than enjoyable experience as one of the very few presenters that did not identify as a
‘cis, white, gay man’, Halberstam identified what they describe as ‘white gay male
Loewen Walker 11

hegemony.’ For Halberstam, much of this hegemony is bound to the history of gay
shame, shame which in part emerges from the ‘experience of being denied access to priv-
ilege’ (Halberstam, 2015: 223). White gay male misogyny, then, enacts a form of hori-
zontal warfare, mobilising the shame of past homophobia and discrimination, while
enforcing a hegemonic present which accesses power by taking aim at femininity and
femme-coding.
Thus, even within queer communities, misogyny enforces socio-cultural expectations
of femininity and feminine expression, expectations that are directed at lesbian, queer and
trans women as well as at gay men and people who are gender non-conforming. In fact,
the apparatus of heterosexuality and patriarchy within gay male communities ensures the
survival of misogynistic ideals by making ‘opposition to femininity an essential compo-
nent of belonging’ and reinforcing very specific gender and racial hierarchies (Hale and
Ojeda, 2018: 312).
The term transmisogyny is used to refer to misogyny experienced by trans female/fem-
inine people as misogyny intersects with transphobia (Serano, 2007). Recent public
outrage surrounding transphobic comments made by notable figures such as J.K.
Rowling (Ring, 2021), Margaret Atwood (Clark, 2021) and especially comedian Dave
Chappelle (Romano, 2021) demonstrates that the general public is increasingly starting
to wake up to transphobia. Although, like the tenuous discussions of gay male misogyny,
transmisogyny warrants much more analysis and visibility.
Dave Chappelle’s (2021) Netflix comedy special The Closer has divided the internet
due to its blatant discrimination against trans people, but it is his unsuccessful ‘but I have
a gay (trans) friend’ moment that demonstrates that it is transmisogyny that takes the final
punch. During the special, Chappelle tells the story of his friend Daphne Dorman, a trans
woman who had dreams of being a comedian and who allegedly idolised Chappelle.
When Chappelle was touring his comedy special Sticks and Stones in 2019, he asked
Dorman to open for his San Francisco show. According to Chappelle, Dorman
bombed her set but rose victorious, thanks to a rousing round of unscripted banter
with Chappelle once he took the stage. It is clear that in recounting this story,
Chappelle tries to paint himself as an ally, to build sympathy through proximity to
someone he describes as ‘one of the coolest people [he had] ever met’ (Chappelle,
2021). And yet, throughout The Closer, Chappelle intentionally misgenders Dorman,
repeatedly characterises himself as transphobic (particularly in relation to Dorman’s
appearance and a hug between the two of them) and ensures that any praise Dorman
receives is either in his service or at his expense.
Tragically, Dorman died by suicide on 11 October 2019, six days after the comedy
night in San Francisco, a fact that Chappelle shares, with genuine sorrow, in the final
lines of The Closer. Although links between the events of that evening and Dorman’s
death have been drawn, her family has noted that it is more likely that her suicide was
the result of a lifetime of discrimination and PTSD on account of being trans in a
world that continues to persecute all who transgress cisnormative gender categories
(Thompson, 2021). However, Chappelle’s comedy sketch still executes a very
common trope of transphobia and homophobia: the use of 2SLGBTQ people as the
punchline. Specifically, Chappelle enlists the ability of (trans)misogyny to target its
12 Feminist Theory 0(0)

victims quite selectively and to express itself through awkward uneasiness, misdirected
anger at their occupation of roles and expressions not otherwise allowed within the patri-
archal order. Therefore, it is no mistake that Chappelle plays up his adoration of Daphne
Dorman, immediately following his own endorsement of J. K. Rowling, and his self-
declared inclusion in ‘team TERF’ (Chappelle, 2021). He also includes a crass response
to feminists who spoke out against his dismissive comments regarding the #MeToo
movement, stating ‘Man, fuck y’all too, you canceled. I ain’t jerking off to none of
your pictures again’, followed shortly by ‘What I think the feminist movement needs
to be very successful … is a male leader’ (Chappelle, 2021).
Expanding misogyny beyond a heteronormative framework reveals that Chappelle
uses precise and targeted language to ensure that Dorman sits askance of both woman-
hood and patriarchal desire. Dorman’s suicide amplifies both the disproportionately
high death rates within the trans community and the devastating impacts of misogyny
like Chappelle’s: misogyny that is relentlessly defensive; misogyny that is uttered cas-
ually for laughs. It also punctuates the fact that transmisogyny targets trans women or
femme trans and non-binary people because they ‘dare’ to access what is already deter-
mined to be out of reach (femininity).
Through examining the misogyny perpetrated within trans and queer communities,
we can also see that it is not only about ‘women’. Misogyny is about expressions of
femininity that either abstain from or exceed the bounds of acceptability.
Consequently, femininity, as the target of trans/misogy/noir and its many configura-
tions, is not only bound to biology (whether expressed by people who are cisgender,
transgender and/or gender non-conforming). For some gay men, femininity represents
every slur that was used against them in the schoolyard and so masculinity and mascu-
line credentials are coveted and expressions of femininity illustrate the failures of a
patriarchal empire to mould its men (Hale and Ojeda, 2018: 315). For trans women,
it is both a perceived relinquishment of masculinity and an occupation of assumedly
undeserved femininity that disrupts the patriarchal order, drawing the ire of those
bound and empowered by gendered norms. In all cases, it is necessary that we under-
stand misogyny as an entrenched, networked system of control, rather than as some-
thing that can be solely attributed to the internal rantings of the individual
misogynist. Through such a shift, we are better able to see misogyny’s widespread col-
lusion with colonialism, racism, transphobia and homophobia. We are also provided
with an opportunity to imagine a future that is different from the past, and to amplify
our role in making it so.

What will we make of misogyny’s future?

Despite there being an upsurge of texts about misogyny, very few offer ameliorative steps
forward. Manne’s logic of misogyny provides us with the tools necessary to unearth
many instances of misogyny that have otherwise been shrouded, but she closes her
text with a bleak story about the lack of response to the misogyny that is around us.
Identifying Trump’s election to the presidency as a culmination of the misogyny
present in American society, she writes that:
Loewen Walker 13

You might think [people across America] who likewise lament the result would now be
waking up to the power of misogyny to distort our moral and rational judgements. You
might think they would be willing to say mea culpa, inasmuch as many attacked Hillary
Clinton relentlessly, viciously, disproportionately, misleadingly, moralistically, and some-
times, in my view, self-indulgently. But you would be wrong: this has largely not happened.
(Manne, 2018: 283)

Likewise, despite taking bold swings at the need for a shift in feminist theory’s
understanding of misogyny, Wrisley closes her discussion with the anti-climactic
call to start with misogyny’s complexity: ‘Misogyny, with all its psychic complexity
and wildly divergent manifestations, does not always or often follow a singular logic.
It is by its nature logically manifold. What if we start there?’ (2021: 18).
And so, it is at this juncture (the characteristic lack of concrete action in the face of a
problem) that I think it is valuable to point towards the movements that are already in
play: the complex, widespread and powerful engagements with misogyny that are
always already happening around us. These include the 2017 Women’s Marches,
#MeToo and Black Lives Matter, among others, each of which have set significant move-
ments in motion, deepening our awareness of misogyny and its intersections with race,
gender and sexuality.
Born of more than a year and a half of watching the American election campaign and
listening to Donald Trump espouse racist, misogynist and homophobic ideologies on a
daily basis, the 2017 Women’s March on Washington, and the hundreds of concurrent
marches, saw an estimated seven million participants worldwide. The March is believed
to be the largest day of protests in US history and continues to signify the power and reach
of peaceful protest (Broomfield, 2017). Similarly, the #MeToo movement was a ‘true cul-
tural watershed and social sea change’ (O’Neill, 2021: 3) as it washed across social media
in North America. Founded by Tarana Burke in 2006 when she used the MeToo hashtag
to raise awareness about sexual assault, the movement exploded when Alyssa Milano
called for its amplification in relation to widespread sexual abuse allegations against
Harvey Weinstein. In Canada, #MeToo has resulted in concrete legal and political out-
comes: the underfunded Status of Women Canada Office has since re-branded as the
Department for Women and Gender Equality with an extensive new funding portfolio
aimed directly at reducing and responding to gender-based violence (Government of
Canada, 2019).
We also saw the tipping point of a renewed Black Lives Matter movement in
the summer of 2020 after George Floyd was murdered by Derek Chauvin on
camera. Originally galvanised in 2013 after Trayvon Martin’s murderer, George
Zimmerman, was acquitted, Black Lives Matter has experienced multiple waves.
Today, it is a decentralised activist movement that has chapters in communities
worldwide, where local activists engage in protests, anti-white supremacy workshops
and advocacy work. Despite substantial backlash, #MeToo, Black Lives Matter
and the Women’s March on Washington have cultivated stories, speeches, actions
and offshoots. People around the world have put their bodies in motion and
have shared deep and painful truths in public forums in an effort to pull the
14 Feminist Theory 0(0)

iceberg of misogyny/misogynoir/transmisogyny up from the water to take a look at

what lies below.
I use the metaphor of the tipping point because it captures that moment when rising
momentum swells over the edge. It is the moment when we are more apt to see both
the impact and potentialities of a shifting feminist/anti-racist landscape. For example, a
more complex understanding of misogyny, as described above, shifts our line of
inquiry from investigations that have relied on questions of intent, or pre-meditation
(i.e. ‘How long have you hated women?’ ‘Did you plan your attack?’ ‘Is it all women
or just this woman?’) and which demonstrate a reliance on causal stories about individual
motives and intentions. On the contrary, a definition of misogyny as the societal policing
of femininity helps us to recognise that we do not have a monopoly on the impacts of our
actions and so misogyny has uptake well beyond one individual. We might want to ask
different questions, such as what is it about our culture that enables the policing and
control of femininity? Or, what is it about racism that fuels misogyny against trans
women of colour? These are questions that shine a light on the many words and deeds
that are part of society’s enforcement activities, whether these are the product of indivi-
duals or of government policies, international development or online communities.
To see that we are in the midst of an encounter with the tipping point of misogyny is to
see both that the concept is coming into much greater focus, and that its enforcement
draws on thousands of years of memories, stories and terror. This encounter is also
with the iceberg below the surface, as through readings such as Manne’s we are better
able to parse misogyny’s jagged edges. For example, we can see its reach throughout
all arms of a patriarchal society and its enforcement by way of foreign policy, the object-
ification of not just women but entire nations and the intense racism that operates through
violence against Indigenous women, girls and Two Spirit people. Misogyny is institutio-
nalised within Western political, social and cultural systems; it is critical that we begin to
see the forest through the trees.
We must also understand that the public iterations of misogyny to which we are privy
are only the bravest (and most violent) expressions of what lies beneath the surface. Hence,
in requesting that we ‘call it misogyny’, I counter both Manne and Wrisley’s unfounded
fears that increasing our use of the term will somehow water it down or void its character-
istic ‘“punch” and power’ (Manne, 2020: 10). Wrisley outlines the dangers of conflating
misogyny and violence against women or gender-based violence such that doing so
results in ‘political aimlessness’ (2021: 17) whereby we are caught between addressing
misogyny as a psychological othering of women and addressing the expressions and man-
ifestations which misogyny enacts (i.e. rape, murder, assault). Regarding these claims, I
disagree. We are nowhere near a point of ‘political aimlessness’ or lost impact, not even
close. Misogyny creates an understanding of violence against others that far exceeds the
outputs that sexism affords. We might liken this to the difference between homophobia
(fear of homosexuals) and homonegativity (negativity towards homosexuality), where
the latter, though offering a valuable nuance to more concealed and institutionalised exclu-
sions of lesbian, gay, pan, bi and queer people, doesn’t result in the same effect as the
concept of homophobia. Just as queer people are not ‘negatively’ impacted by homopho-
bia, women are not ‘negatively’ impacted by misogyny; they are scared for their lives.
Loewen Walker 15

Palatable language such as gender-based violence and, as indicated above, the increas-
ingly used acronym ‘GBV’, softens the response. And although it may represent a stra-
tegic move in relation to entering conversations and spaces otherwise unavailable, as a
term, GBV will never capture the emotional, affective impact that misogyny invokes.
Misogyny is a less palatable, and therefore less ignorable, frame for violence against
women and feminine expression. Calling things ‘misogyny’ invokes a combined fear
and defiance; it is the concurrent sense of having gone too far and having finally
named the truth. I am still the feminist killjoy, invoking a burning sensation on the
skin, a blush, nervous eye movements, shame.
It is for these reasons and many more that misogyny must be named, and in so doing,
connected to a much braver, much more intersectional framework. One that has the
potential to tip the scales when it comes to changing both the language and the landscape
around the enforcement of patriarchal systems. The Women’s March, a worldwide Black
Lives Matter movement and the #MeToo movement are just the beginning of a sea
change, as a quick search of news headlines reveals that a number of jurisdictions are
reviewing whether misogyny should be understood as a hate crime (Blair, 2021; Scott,
2021). Whether or not this is a valuable uptake is the topic for another paper entirely;
however, for our purposes, the amplification of conversations around misogyny is a
clear method towards greater recognition and thus clearer critique and condemnation.

In closing
Misogyny lives in our bodies, and consequently our theorisation and engagement with it
unfolds not from standardised definitions but from our lived experiences, from its affect-
ive sting. We need to talk about misogyny’s global reach into countries and nations, about
its enforcement of sexism, its collusion with racism, its reliance on homophobia and its
insidious transphobia. We need to use this weighty term in place of the more palatable
gender-based violence. We need to differentiate between misogyny and sexism. We
need to see that violence against Indigenous women, girls and Two Spirit people is
fuelled by a misogyny that functions precisely because it is the contributing arm of neo-
colonialism. And we need to explore why femininity remains the other within gay male
communities. In all instances, the weightiness of misogyny’s emotional affect, both as a
descriptive concept and as a violent action, is never too far away. We are in the middle of
compelling and significant social movements that are changing the landscape of our
social movements; let us call it misogyny and see how much more we can reveal.

ORCID iD
Rachel Loewen Walker https://orcid.org/0000-0001-6952-1179

Notes
1. This definition is echoed in many historical and anthropological treatments of misogyny: see
Clack (2016); Holland (2012); and Bloch and Ferguson (1989). Recent monographs have been
published in disciplines spanning philosophy, communication studies, women’s and gender
16 Feminist Theory 0(0)

studies and cultural studies: Banet-Weiser (2018); Gilmore (2018); Hale and Ojeda (2018);
Manne (2018); Vickery and Everbach (2018); Zuckerberg (2018); and Ukockis (2019).
2. Manne notes that when she began working on Down Girl in 2014, she struggled to find any
philosophical books or full-treatment articles on misogyny. She likens this absence to a
sense that investigations of this nature are considered a bit ‘unfashionable’ and that in some
circles it is even considered ‘positively passé’ to talk about misogyny (Manne, 2018: xx).
Sadie Hale and Tomas Ojeda (2018: 310) echo this sentiment, writing that within both aca-
demia and queer community settings, the concept of misogyny is often overlooked.
3. Originally coined by legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw (1990), the concept of intersectionality
demonstrates that when we divide subjectivity into distinct categories (race, gender, sexuality,
ability) we are unable to comprehend the overlapping and interconnected forms of oppression
that result from occupying multiple standpoints. Today, the concept of intersectionality
increasingly frames community-led feminist, queer and anti-racist movements and actions.
4. From Lépine’s suicide note (Eglin and Hester, 1999: 255–256).
5. In fact, a coalition of Regina-based women’s groups filed a complaint against Justice Ted
Malone, the judge who presided over the case, with the Canadian Judicial Council due to
his comments throughout the trial (Adam, 1997).
6. For coverage of the case, see: Canadian Press (1996); Roberts (1996); Adam (1997); R v
Kummerfield (1998); Razack (2000); Pacholik (2018).
7. See R v Kummerfield (1998: CanLII 11511 [SK QB]).
8. See: Gatens (2003); Price and Shildrick (2017). The latter provides an extensive outline of the
way the female body is circumscribed by spatial and naturalist metaphors. See especially their
introduction ‘Openings on the Body: A Critical Introduction’, pp. 1–14, and Shildrick’s
‘Mapping the Colonial Body: Sexual Economies and the State in Colonial India’, 388–398.
9. The phrase ‘an Indian on a beer run’ was broadcast over the police radio and characterised the
ensuing search. As well, versions of the phrase were noted repeatedly within the accompany-
ing case files and documentation (Jacobs, 2014: 118).
10. Interestingly, a 2019 amendment to the Criminal Code in Canada made sentencing more
severe for cases in which the victim is both ‘Aboriginal and Female’ (section 718.04), dem-
onstrating recognition of the intersection of sex and race in the landscape of violence
against Indigenous women (Criminal Code, RSC, 1985).

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