The assaults on me yesterday from women who claim to be feminists were disturbing and also revealing.

They give us a great deal to ponder about writing, privilege, and the widening divide between urban and rural America that is tearing the country apart. This blog is about many things. One of them is thinking, not just reacting. So here goes.

Farmgirlgate, as I call it now, offers a learning experience about elitism, cruelty, and arrogance.

There are consequences to the new reality: and we are forgetting how to do it in real life. All we learn is how to hate and argue.

If you want to understand why so many rural people have come to hate the very “educated” elitists who mostly live in urban areas, it is worth reading about the controversy that erupted over the weekend when a farm girl grown into adulthood used her farm experience to start her own business and called herself a “farm girl.”

I quoted her in a story about her remarkable success and was accused of assaulting women, sexism, privilege, and patronizing women.

It touched off quite a storm; even by the chaotic standards of social media, the debate went on for hours. I don’t regret it.

First, I should say that the term “girl” has often been used to demean and trivialize women, something I am well aware of. I never refer to adult women as “girls,” or adult males as “boys.”

One would have to be stupid as well as bigoted to do that. I do call my wife “My Girl” as a term of endearment and was also attacked for that, a gross violation both of privacy and decency.

Here in the country where I live, the term “farm girl” is not seen as demeaning or sexist. Some elements of the progressive movement are drifting towards fascism now, telling people what to say and how to feel. They appear to have learned this from the other side, a horrible trait to embrace.

The idea of the farm girls is neither sexist nor patronizing.

It is quite the opposite. Women who grew up on farms are proud of their hard work, the animals they learned to control, the lifelong friends they made, the communities they formed, and the contributions they made to their parents’ hard work.

Last night, I was flooded with “farm girls” messages from all over the country and of all ages; they were hurt by and resented the so-called feminist assaults on their identity and hard work. They resented being told how to refer to themselves by people who had obviously never come near a farm.

Those attacks, they said, not words, demeaned them and their lives and trivialized their work. It all started when I quoted our dog groomer, who told me that her life as a farm girl brought her to the love of animals and her new career as a groomer.

The anger and nasty letters came in a wave. They all described me as some sexist monster, uncaring and typical.

(Kiley, the young farm girl who grew up to start a dog grooming business)

This weekend illustrated the cruel nature of elitism and the ignorance and arrogance underlying many of the bitter arguments ravaging our country.

As someone who has always considered himself a progressive, I see with sadness that many elements of the progressive movement, battered by years of failure and frustration, are becoming what they say they hate – cruel, insulting, self-righteous, and ignorant.

That is not bringing enlightenment or compassion, just more hate.

I wanted to share this message with an articulate 82-year-old woman and blog reader named Harriet Rodgers. I got scores of letters like it, which speaks about the meaning of words like “farm girl” in the country. It eloquently explains a different point of view.

Harriet wrote: “I will be 82 next month, and I’m still a “farm girl.” I no longer live on a farm (I haven’t since 1961 when I took a teaching job in “downstate.”
NY and later moved to California.)  I had no problem with
your original posting.

To conflate your use of “farm girl” with the sexist use of “girl” is
quite a stretch. Your detractors don’t have a clue what “farm girl.”
meant in the context of your writing; they are showing their ignorance.
Go ahead — tell them to F—- off, with my blessing!!

In conversation, I may say, “Well, I’m a farm girl from upstate New
York.” Clearly, I’m a grown woman.  At my age, being a “farm girl.”
explains a specific upbringing in the 40s and 50s as the country
endured and recovered from the war.   We grew up performing physical
labor from the time we knew what a chicken was. If we had cows or goats,
we milked them, fed them, and said goodbye to them at some point. We
weeded the garden, and we juggled school, 4-H, and farm chores (not
softball practice and ballet!). “Farm girl” (or “farm boy” for that
matter) describes a relationship with the land and animals that many
people cannot understand.

For me, it is also something of a “state of mind” — influencing how I
relate to life today.

Your blog is often thought-provoking and always engaging — Thank You”,

-Harriett Rodgers.

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Thank you, Harriett. You have beautifully explained how elitism works.

Soon after, I got this message from Kathryn, who showed no signs of being familiar with my work or a blog reader. It was odd to get this message since I agree with every word she wrote; I’m sorry she felt I needed to hear it, even though everybody could benefit from hearing it:”

___

Kathryn: “Interesting, Jon. I’m not going to tell you what you and Maria should call each other; after all, my niece and her long-term boyfriend, for whatever reason, call each other beastie. My issue is with the general use of the word girl in our culture for women. Women are adults; girls are female children. So, it bothers me when we talk about girls in the office, for example. I would like to be acknowledged as an adult in the general sphere as I am 71 and haven’t been a girl for a very long time. I don’t see using the word my in my girl in the context written about as negative; it’s the same as saying my family, my friend, my co-worker, or my wife.”

___

This is all true Kathryn, and I know this and practice it. You are preaching to the choir here. I never call adult women, girls, or adult men “boys,” and if you read my blog, you would know that. I’ve never done that. I doubt very much that my readers do it either.

Your message is correct but irrelevant and off the point.

Harriett and Kiley, the groomer, have the right to use whatever words they wish to describe themselves, and they are proud of the term “farm girls” and very often “farm wives.” It seems that on these farms, they were vital and valued.

They gained enormous strength and confidence to control large animals, work alongside their father and brothers and join the strong youth communities like 4-H that cluster around farms. I see that this is still true. Rather than be trivialized, they are strengthened.

I’ve seen these girls (and boys) sleeping alongside their cows all night at county fairs to keep them company, and I’ve seen them work for months, compete and win ribbons for their farms and family.

It is important to know when you consider how urban and suburban children live these days, spending most of their leisure time on Facebook, Tik-Tok, or Instagram. They rarely leave their computers.

To denigrate the term “farm girls” is to criticize their lives and convince these women, adults, and children,  that we people who call ourselves liberals and progressives are just more elitists telling them how to live and suggesting they are weak and dominated or dumb.

And there was this latter from Maureen, which made me proud of what I do and determined to argue civility, honesty, and reality. This is the kind of letter that makes me proud.

____

“Oh, Jon. Dear, dear man. You are such an extraordinary human being. I admire you from so many perspectives (I’m a psychotherapist, a journalist, a small farm owner, and an environmental and political activist). It’s distressing when the haters trigger you into a defensive stance. Please refuse to engage. These disturbed people can never negate your journey, the grace and love and generosity you lavish on your world, and the profundity of your hard-earned wisdom. I’m glad you can fight back, but why waste your time?

Speaking as a reporter, I can’t believe how much well-thought-out copy you can crank out in one day, Jon, especially with everything else you have going on.

Continue to take good care of you and Maria, and I hope your health issues are quickly resolved. 

With respect and affection,
Maureen.”

__

Thanks, Maureen, and respect and affection back to you. My health issues are being resolved; my virus is fading away.

I am almost back to normal, and I think this struggle was energizing and healthy for me.

You are very kind, and I am blushing a bit as I do when I am praised.

I mainly don’t engage, Maureen, not anymore (you should see what I delete), but one of my new role models is Liz Cheney, someone I have very rarely agreed with but have come to respect.

There is so much hatred and ignorance and argument in our world; I think there are times when I need to stand up and say “enough” and challenge the idea that cruelty and lies are now just normal, as the slaughter of children in their classrooms.

I don’t want it to be normal, and I don’t want to be fighting all the time. It’s a difficult balancing act.

But once in a while – this is one of the times  – I needed to stand up and call out the angry messages of these disturbed and broken people. They do a lot of harm. They frighten people, bully them, silence them and force them to hide.

Calling them out is a selfish thing. I do it to make myself feel good.

I can’t do the finger in the dike thing; I can’t dam up this river of poison and toxic horseshit, as I like to call it.

Still, I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t take it on once in a while, and the many messages thanking me for this stance this weekend have lifted me and reminded me yet again that there are good people in the world, and they will fight for what is right.

That’s why I engage, but tomorrow will return to my ambition to make this blog a safe place to think, look at pretty photos, see some animals and view the world with hope.

I hope this explains it; I loved your message to me. I hope our paths cross one day.