Toxic masculinity isn’t just fought on basketball courts or in the haze of dive bar pool hustles anymore. There’s been the emergence of a character that can be found in the aisles of bookstores and over the sip of a matcha latte crafted by your well-dressed barista. There’s a new-age gladiator arena, and it’s called performative male feminism.
The idea of them started subtly, but now, see it once and you’ll never miss it again. It’s the self-proclaimed “feminist boyfriend” who carries a tote bag stamped with Virginia Woolf’s face on it, doubling as a grocery carrier and an identity statement.
The Contest
At the center of the irony and half-sincere sincerity is the new viral male performative competitions. One took place in Chicago on August 9, in Wicker Park, and it looked less like a battle and more like a stop-motion runway show of curated personalities. There were rows of men in cuffed jeans quoting Clairo lyrics as if the words themselves proved a depth of empathy. They wore tote bags embroidered with “The Future is Female,” and one guy read Bell Hooks aloud as if the mention of her name was feminist praxis.
The grand prize was no stamp of honor or golden trophy to hang on the shelf. It was just the small recognition of being the biggest ally to women in the room. (Because winning wasn’t the point right?)
The emergence of the “performative male feminist” is not here to dismantle the system, but his character is here to dismantle skepticism. He can’t tell you who Gloria Steinem is, but he will pretend to listen to you while sipping an oat milk latte. The “performative male feminist” is attempting to parody centuries of being told men can’t be soft or thoughtful.
He’s poking fun at toxic masculinity by auditioning for the role of “Most dateable man at the bar.” But the joke collapses on itself because it doesn’t just mock patriarchy, it mocks feminism too. It’s turned it into a style, a “flex” even, that has unfortunately gotten a lot of guys lucky.
The Performative Male’s Enemy
Following all the performances and antics came the birth of a new branch of characters. These are the men sitting in the audience watching the performers. They laugh as the performative male feminist gets dragged. In doing so, they step into the spotlight too, mocking with rehearsed wit, flexing their irony like a badge. With the flash of their badge they prove that even the critics are performers in their own carefully staged act. Because the reality is that the men making fun of the performative man are also acting. They’re just in a different show. They don’t scoff because they’re resisting the performance, they scoff because they want to win a separate game.
Mocking a performative male brings on another character, and that’s the cynical, too-cool-to-pretend guy that knows the right thing to say when the right people are listening. The performance is masked as authentic, but it’s really just another act. It’s someone performing their distance from the performance. And that’s what these contests and ideas of the kind of men that women want to date have become, a satire of a satire.
Performative Men Don’t Equal Feminism
The “performative male” has made his way into The New York Times, The Washington Post, and has blasted his way onto everyone’s “for you” page. He’s not just a man, he’s the better man. But he’s not better, and he isn’t the fifth wave of feminism. It’s all a competition on who can look the least threatening. The idea of liberation is fading, while the idea of leverage is flourishing.
All anyone wants is for someone to care, and women do want men to care. There’s nothing wrong with drinking matcha, carrying a tote bag, or reading The Handmaid’s Tale. As long as there’s a clear understanding that accessorizing yourself with empowerment is not activism.
Purchasing bell hooks doesn’t cause enlightenment, and memorizing an Audre Lorde quote with no further comprehension doesn’t make you intelligent. That’s called flirting in a cardigan. The people performing aren’t here to lay down a new social structure. They’re just here to get laid.
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