The Rise of the Karen

I’m not a patient woman, and it hasn’t served me well. In the female kingdom that’s the greatest crime of all.

The times I’ve gotten into scraps with people, my femininity is called into question. It meant that when I graduate from baby Pentecostal church, I was the last woman left waiting at the altar.

It caused immense consternation amongst my parents. They wondered if I was ever going to find my place in the world. And I’ll be the first to admit – it’s taken me a lot longer than my peers to find my feet in a chaotic setting where retrieving meaning borders on madness.

Madness and sadness are often found on the same side of the coin. After all, they claim depression is just internalized anger that has nowhere to go so it settles inside. Often, a companion of anger is silence. We’ve seen over these past few weeks and months how noisy a crowd of people that have been kept disenfranchised and voiceless can be.

 I remember when I arrived here in September, I was living in a basement underground and the sun set each day at 3 p.m. I’d left New york, completely unwillingly, and was beset by a faceless, aimless anger that manifested in utter desolation, and which in turn led to depression lasting six months. It felt like everything I’d been trying to escape had finally caught up with me. The pleas and encouragement from those around me, who all meant well, could not penetrate the self-imposed wall of exile I’d constructed all around me.

I’ve been thinking lately about the toll of voicelessness on the women around me – and the importance of speaking up. I’ve changed inalterably these past two years. One thing I often think about in modern artistic representations of femininity is the show ‘Mad Men’ by Matt Weiner. Anyone who knows me knows how I adore the show, and the multi-faceted approach Weiner takes in his depictions of women. No one gets out unscathed, or in the case of leading lady Betty, alive.

The character of Betty is the epitome of the dutiful 50s wife, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Such was her isolation and sense of frustration at having no one to talk to, she called on the services of a 10-year-old boy with a crush on her just to have someone to talk to, in one poignant episode.

Betty got cancer and died. We are led to believe it was her internalized sadness that ultimately killed her.

Despite protestations to the contrary, more women are being told to be quieter and speak up less. Misogyny doesn’t need to be internalized. It’s accepted, boldly, out in the open. I’m ashamed of all the times I haven’t challenged myself or a man on his perspective, just for the sake of avoiding an argument.

The clearest case of the widespread acceptance of misogyny comes in the rise of the Karen. Any woman who speaks out against anything can be decried as a Karen, a warning to all women for casting any opinion into the public domain for fear of similar retribution. There’s yet to be a male equivalent. We can think of similar etymological signs of violence towards women emerging in our lexicon over decades and centuries – one need think no further than the phenomenon of naming destructive weather patterns after women.

In my journalism job, every time I identify and write about a Karen, I can be sure to turn in thousands of views, thousands more than if I wrote about real news and issues.

Karens can be identified anywhere women are found speaking out of turn.  Who cares if they have a point? They’re women. They’re using their voice, and speaking in public. Therefore, they’re inherently evil, and dangerous.

Another example is women altering their vocal appearance. The ubiquitous vocal fry can be found wherever there is a gaggle of women. Women force their vocal folds into a particular posture, ladies-in-waiting, their vocal folds and their minds attentive and in a ready state to subvert or acquiesce at all times to male opinion. I first heard this on the internet, but now it appears to have reached even the upper echelons with educated women doing the same thing. Perhaps that’s a reason Hillary Clinton lost the race in the long term.

 Why are we so willing to compromise our standards for an easier life? A pastor I listened to once said he would rather go to bed each night tired but knowing he made a difference in the world than stupefying yourself into slumber by watching Netflix until your brain shuts down.

Challenging ourselves hurts. It’s the road less taken. It falls into the category of the tiny, hard decisions we have to make each day that add up.