"Keeping the Boys Satisfied"?

Despite its relative recency, cyberpunk as a subgenre tends to produce the type of works that we might quickly classify as “men’s” or “boys’” books. This seems a little perplexing at first blush: Women and men (girls and boys) are equally human after all—there’s no logical reason why one gender should prefer playing with the boundaries of that humanity more than the other. Furthermore, as Donna Haraway discusses in her article (and Jasmine discusses in the post below), one could even argue that the melding of biology and technology ought to cross gender lines by its very nature. Still, the trend persists.

The Psychology student in me is tempted to chalk this phenomenon up to social influence norms—we perceive gender norms that tell us, from the moment we’re old enough to comprehend them, what should interest us and what shouldn’t, which toys and books and colors and classmates we’re supposed to like and which are inherently unsuitable. In most cases, these norms are quickly assimilated—a young girl chooses to play with a doll rather than a toy truck because she wants to, not because she’s trying to conform to social pressures. Young children are honest that way.

I imagine that literary tastes evolve in the same way. A boy entering the age at which he begins to pursue novel-reading independently (perhaps middle school) might find himself ridiculed if he chooses a book with too heavy a romantic subplot, or with a female lead. Similarly, a girl might find herself struggling to make friends if she shies away from whatever “chick-lit” media is currently popular in favor of, say… a sci-fi, cyberpunk “boy book”. Older children can be cruel that way.

Although arguably attributable to these norms, I believe that other factors contribute to the perception of cyberpunk as a “male” subgenre (and to the perception of scifi as a principally “male” genre) as well. As Nixon points out, many science fiction works (particularly the older ones, the “classics”) are clearly aimed towards a male audience, with “macho” ideals and female characters relegated to sexual icons, sidekicks, or shadowy background figures. To give a specific example, Nixon describes the cyber matrix we see in Neuromancer as a “feminized” world, making the cowboys’ hacking into a sort of sexual metaphor. (While I personally did not notice this comparison, I can see it in retrospect and I suppose one could make an argument for a subliminal interpretation— a particularly appropriate explanation considering the Freudian themes that Nixon applies to cyberpunk as a whole). Similarly, our hero is very much the “lone Cowboy” figure, promoting the “masculine” ideals of individuality and ambition against the “feminine” collective. While Molly is arguably a strong character who doesn’t necessarily conform to cyberpunk’s darker female stereotypes, she lacks depth. I’ve not finished the book, yet, so I apologize if this changes, but it seems that we never really get into her head, or come to appreciate or honor her motivations. She reminds me somewhat of the character of Trinity from the Matrix—a fighter, yes, but after introducing the hero to his new environment, she steps into the background and remains there, as a key but shadowed support figure except for instances in which her body is objectified sexually.

Plugging in: Futuristic Labor Opportunities in "Nova" and “Sleep Dealer”

Both Nova and “Sleep Dealer” introduce a novel new system of labor: humans as part of the machines they work with. In both the book and the movie, workers are implanted with “nodes” or “sockets” that interact directly with their nervous systems, allowing them to control larger machines by literally plugging themselves in and engaging in what I understood to be a sort of virtual reality interface. What I found striking, however, was the difference in the way each work describes the societal impact of the two nearly identical technologies.

In Nova, Katin explains the introduction of neural plugs as a psychologically beneficial method of labor, developed by psychologist cum pseudo-deity Ashton Clark in an attempt to reverse the mental damage wrought by the labor practices we, the 21^st century readers, consider modern. He explains,

There was no direct connection between where he worked and how he ate and lived the rest of the time…Ashton Clark pointed out how psychologically damaging this was to humanity. The entire sense of self-control and self-responsibility… was seriously threatened… He [Man] must exert energy in his work and see these changes occur with his own eyes. Otherwise he would feel his life was futile (195).

On the other hand, in “Sleep Dealer”, the “plug-in” system seems to act as the ultimate distancing agent. Not only are workers hired without knowing what job they’ll be doing, they don’t even need to reside in the same country as the machine that they’re controlling. The surreal nature of this sort of work takes a dangerous turn when it becomes military. Working from his distant controls to a soundtrack of canned applause and supportive commentary, Rudy is so removed from the death and destruction he is causing that it is not until coming into direct contact with Memo’s story that the video game-like illusion is broken and his actions begin to feel real.

While these two presentations oppose each other, I personally do not believe that the effects of the plugs are that black and white in Nova vs. “Sleep Dealer”. Despite Katin’s words, the neural plugs in Nova are not without negative consequence. Although the work seems more direct than in “Sleep Dealer” (the workers remain in the same location as the machine, and seem to choose their own work rather than being assigned a position), the ease with which workers can slip into and out of jobs seems to limit ambition, at least in the working class. Without the need to dedicate themselves to learning a chosen trade, the crew members that Lorq recruits have grown up to be somewhat listless, even apathetic. While they have their chosen individual pursuits (Katin’s novel, Mouse’s instrument, etc.), these pursuits never graduate from hobby to vocation. This state of mind leaves the crewmember ripe for the picking when Lorq recruits them, ready to be swept off, unquestioning, into the grayish power games of the wealthy and powerful. Ashton Clark may have intended to restore a “sense of self-control and self-responsibility” with his new method of labor, but the crewmembers’ willingness to drop everything to blindly follow Lorq suggests quite the opposite.

Self, gender, and society: LeGuin through the lens of cultural psychology

Though I very much respect and admire Ursula LeGuin's discussions of gender and the other in The Left Hand of Darkness, I couldn't help but view her notions of interdependency on a cultural spectrum. In fact, my thesis research is heavily rooted in the psychological theory that two major pathways of cultural development exist: individualism and collectivism. The former is exemplified by independence and the assertion of self, while the latter emphasizes interdependence and connectivity. This is reflected by LeGuin's comparison of society on Winter with society in China, as it is generally accepted that Oriental cultures tend to exhibit a preference for collectivism.

Our understanding of a work of human intellect (e.g. literature) is integrally tied to our understanding of the human psyche. Sigmund Freud opened up many discussions of the subconscious, driving the appearance of the id/ego/superego terminology in literary critique. Already in this course, we've experienced two works (written about 70 years apart) that explicitly mention psychologists: Well's Time Machine and LhoD (a psychologist is present during the storytelling in the former, while Genly mentions how mindspeak has refined psychology as a practice in the latter). This emphasizes the importance of the discipline to the genre of science fiction, which cannot be understated; as LeGuin might put it, the goal of such “thought-experiments” is more “descriptive” of the current human condition than “predictive” of how it will be in the future. How, then, can we understand LeGuin's notions of gender and society in light of recent developments in cultural psychology?

LeGuin draws some clear divisions in LhoD, a necessity in any discussion of dualism. The line between male and female is explicitly acted out and also explicitly mused upon. The human narrators in the story are quite preoccupied with characterizing a particular Gethenian's action by gender; one moment Estraven displays masculine resolve, while the next, his mannerisms appear motherly. In addition, certain qualities are associated with traditional notions of gender. Marcellino invokes Russ' idea that the countries in LhoD represent gendered forms of government: Karhide as the communal and female, while Orgoreyn represents the oppressive and masculine. Both, however, operate on somewhat Marxist principles, reflecting the collectivism inherent in interdependency. Are we, then, to interpret the female as collectivistic, or the ambisexual (with all its Taoist, yin-yang undertones) as collectivistic?

At the time that LhoD was written, LeGuin was likely unversed in the collectivistic versus individualistic dichotomy. Her gender associations are certainly supported by empirical research: studies have shown that male children tend to be competition or game-oriented during socialization, while female children are more relationally competitive. This seems to reflect the different styles (genders) of government proposed by Russ, but LeGuin complicates it with notions of ambisexuality. For example, the lack of persistent sexual energy in everyday life is thought to push society towards personal vendetta and intrigue instead of war and domination. One might view this as a result of feminine government, but LeGuin seems to suggest that Winter is simply more feminine (without being exclusively so) than our traditional notions of dominion. In addition, collectivism does not necessarily remove the desire for war, nor does it associate with a particular gender (in fact, one might conceptualize both individualism and collectivism as the products of largely patriarchal societies).

The underlying, anthropological foundations of the individualistic versus collectivistic dichotomy looks at the relationship between the self and society. In the Left Hand of Darkenss, Ursula LeGuin attempts to break down this relationship by exploring many dichotomies, including the pervasive and complicated dualism of gender. Though I cannot deny its identity or importance as a work of feminist science fiction, I am impressed and intrigued by how LeGuin's discussions of gender forces one to look at the self and soceity as well.