Bourne-again feminism: how misplaced activism can haunt YA fiction
- Max Lanius
- Feb 5, 2020
- 9 min read
Updated: Mar 7, 2020
Young adult fiction is a broad umbrella, but one specific sub genre of it is UKYA (United Kingdom Young Adult), which usually focuses on girls of sixth form age who are navigating their lives as young British teenagers. These efficient, inoffensive stock characters carry out mundane activities with a lively first-person tongue, built to lock the reader in for the long haul. Our intimate relationship with the main character far outweighs the plot in terms of interest levels, keeping us doggedly traipsing by their side until their dramas are resolved.
Books that are categorized as UKYA are very easy to read for British teenagers, none more so than Holly Bourne’s collection of female-led stories of youth and feminism. Enticing readers with a careful formula of angst, hot-button social issues and an overuse of the word fuck, she crafts relatable teenage protagonists who are followed in first-person voice and offer just the right dosage of vulnerability to earn our sympathy. We follow the teenage girl as she tussles with her parents, her friends, her newfound responsibilities and an obligatory love interest chucked in for good measure. The drama is quickly resolved, no wound is left open for too long, and the climax of each novel is a satisfactory, neat finish that smooths out the protagonist’s heavily dramatized problems.
Having now read two full books by Bourne (along with various excerpts from others), what I have found is that whilst this method for writing teen fiction is innocuous enough - albeit perhaps slightly repetitive - it is often laced with faux-activism, attempts at feminism that fail to meet the mark. Not only are these political statements employed at the author's convenience, they also promote damaging messages that are incredibly potent and dangerous to a young audience.
It is here that I’d like to preface the rest of the article with a warning; below are discussions of self-harm, rape and sexual violence. Please view at your own discretion.
In obligatory compensation, I feel the need to explain what exactly makes Bourne such a successful writer. As a young and evidently witty novelist, she has dominated the UKYA genre with her plethora of contemporary novels. She touches on issues that strike a chord with many teenagers today - particularly female readers, who relate strongly to the author’s scattered acknowledgements of day-to-day instances of misogyny. Delving into mental health is also a big factor in Bourne’s popularity; with a rise in anxiety and depression rates among young adults in recent years, more and more YA books focus on the topic of dealing with mental illness. Bourne has beaten them to the field. With her (arguably) best received book, Am I normal yet?, she explores the impact that anxiety has on people, as well as how it can be managed. A delicate hand is used to paint the image of Evie, the protagonist, who struggles with perceivably simple tasks and sometimes succumbs to her illness.
But this careful and sensitive approach was not always present. I browsed the first eight or so chapters of The Manifesto On How To Be Interesting, her sophomore novel, after reading some appalled reviews on Goodreads (not quite a credible source, but one of interest nonetheless). In the first chapter it is announced that Bree, the main character, self harms, through no more than a swift mention regarding the itch as her “fresh” scars brush against her tights. We do not know why she self harms. We do not know the extent to which she self harms. It is simply something that Bree does, an activity that is exchangeable with just about any hobby you can think of.
It is not addressed again for a good while. I’m assured by other reviews that it is revisited, but the way we are told about it is so jarringly out of place, so stark against the rest of Bree’s tedious morning routine that it makes the reader flinch – not with pity, but with disbelief that such a great well of character depth has been opened, only to be put out of service seconds later. It is not, as the author may have intended, a narrative hook of sorts, built to keep the reader invested in the character through the early scenes. It is clumsy and insultingly casual.
It can be said that Bourne’s judgement of sensitive topics has improved over time, and given the great difference between her style in Manifesto and It Only Happens In The Movies (a brilliantly positive change), it is clear that she has grown as an author and learned from past mistakes. However, that still leaves the worst of the problem unaddressed – the botched attempts at feminism that soured my tongue as I read.
My first experience with Bourne was her fifth novel, What’s A Girl Gotta Do, which earnestly promised to be a feminist trailblazer. At the time of reading it, I was deeply entrenched in online feminist circles, and was unwittingly lured in like a baited rat. The colloquial, friendly tone and style of writing made it very easy to read, and as such I initially devoured large sections at once. It was only when I made my way deeper into the story – which follows first-person protagonist Lottie on a crusading project to document misogyny at her sixth form – that the cracks in both Bourne’s characterization and presentation of feminism began to show.
Swiftly we are introduced to Will, who the reader is immediately geared to assume will become Lottie’s eventual love interest. Intentionally or unintentionally, Will is the obvious archetype to end all obvious archetypes. A self-proclaimed “egalitarian”, he contests Lottie’s views with “facts and logic”, swanning around with an expensive camera and fulfilling the very definition of sanctimonious. This is the cardboard archenemy of our protagonist, and she dutifully indulges in arguments with him at every possible opportunity. At best, this is tiresome, at worst, insufferable. Lottie quickly devolves from an interesting character to a landmine that is constantly on the verge of explosion, over-emoting at every turn like a silent film actor. We are subjected to constant repeats of the same scene, in which Will remains calm and smug whilst Lottie attempts to berate him for a micro-micro-aggression. Will’s abysmally treated “development” (which essentially boils down to “Lottie, you might be onto something with this whole ‘respecting women’ thing!”) was tolerable, despite making every scene involving him quite tedious. But what began as tolerable amateurism started to decline into severely insulting – and downright damaging – territory.
From chapter three onwards, we are introduced to a subplot involving one of the girls who is a part of Lottie’s feminist society. Megan has a bad reaction to a suggestive misogynistic advert, and through fractured dialogue, Lottie interprets that Megan has been raped by an ex-partner. There is nothing wrong with the presentation of heavy topics in literature – a brilliant example of sexual abuse in storytelling is This Charming Man by Marian Keyes – but they must be handled with care. After setting up this interesting premise, Bourne proceeds to shatter it by having Lottie attempt to force a highly intoxicated Megan to open up about her perceived trauma. Lottie is rude, oversteps boundaries and refuses to accept Megan’s insistence that she doesn’t want to talk about “it” - at no point confirming or denying Lottie’s suspicions.
I hoped that Lottie would be confronted about her actions, but feared they would be glossed over. Somehow the actual result of the scene was worse than my prediction. Lottie was confronted about her disturbing pressuring of Megan, but she refuses to admit that she was wrong. And since Lottie is our point-of-view character, it is assumed that the reader should be undoubtedly on her side, angry at her friends for not being "real feminists”. Even worse, Lottie is further vindicated by the revelation that Megan was indeed raped, seemingly making her press-ganging attack on Megan an acceptable act. This hideously insensitive portrayal of how to deal with a friend who has suffered sexual violence sends a dangerous message to readers of the book. Poor characterization I can accept, poor activism I cannot.
It was six months later that I decided to attempt trawling through It Only Happens In The Movies, Bourne’s seventh novel. By this point, the classic formula is well adjusted. We have the angst-filled main character Audrey, laden with a dysfunctional family and confusing friendships, who is about to be flung into a will-they-won’t-they romance. This time, our love interest is Harry, a perpetually smoking filmmaker who fulfils the Bad Boy™️ stereotype as if it is his god-given duty. Though this book is undoubtedly better written than the first Bourne book I read – her quality of plotting and pacing exponentially increases with each new release – the attempts at feminism are even more confusing and half-baked this time around. Harry repeatedly ignores Audrey’s insistence that she is not interested and even claims to know what she wants before she wants it, a notion which carries some rather dark implications. This banter continues up until Harry fatefully says…
“You’re not like other girls”
…which causes Audrey to suddenly see the light and berate Harry for his misogynistic attitude. Being our first person speaker and companion, Audrey assures us regularly that she despises harmful sexist stereotypes in movies, and her friends make some comments regarding her being an outspoken feminist. This Audrey is only present in Harry-free scenes up until it is convenient, and Bourne has decided that she must make a point since the activist angle has been slacking. After Audrey’s fierce rant, we then get another long period in which she does not critique Harry’s behaviour, including him railroading her into coming on a date to Brighton with him (“Your answer is yes, Audrey.” Ghastly.), although this does result in another anti-Harry rant later on. The consistency is lacking and feels incredibly convenient.
But all of this pales in comparison to the crescendo of faux-feminism that occurs at the novel’s climax. We know that Harry is familiar with drugs, as are his friends and ex-girlfriend Rosie. One night, he becomes so drunk and high on absinthe that he loses consciousness, or otherwise lacks sufficient ability to make decisions for himself. Waking up in bed with Rosie, he asks her what happened the night before, to which he is told that she gave him oral sex. This both disgusts and horrifies Harry, and despite the many misgivings we already have about him, the reader could - and indeed should - interpret Harry as a victim of sexual assault, and Rosie his manipulative attacker.
This is not how Audrey feels. Harry is a cheater, a fuckboy, an example of how no men can be trusted. Even after Harry’s extensive attempts to apologize - for being assaulted! - she refuses to accept his words and the book ends with them parting on supposedly good terms. I shouldn’t need to explain how damaging and disturbing this portrayal of sexual assault is, but due to the abysmal lack of support for male victims of sexual violence, I feel it necessary to go into how seriously misrepresented this issue is by media of all kinds.
Far too many men’s rights activists (or egalitarians, such as the lovely Will from earlier) use male victims of assault as pawns, intended to derail conversations about female-targeted attacks. They only ever feature in conversations that are not about them, and rarely ever do they tell their own story, instead having it twisted through the mouthpiece of those who wish to further an agenda. On the other side of the fence, many feminists claim to care about male victims, and thankfully, most do the bare minimum. However, stories like that of Harry and Audrey, penned by feminist authors who preach to a choir of impressionable teenagers, downplay the severity of the crime and thoroughly remove all victimhood from the man.
If I was in the business of making excuses, I could say that Bourne merely chose a bad scenario for Harry’s cheating on Audrey; the alcohol and drugs and forgetfulness the next morning were a misplaced attempt at building a scene. But after finishing this book with rage simmering in my chest, I am not here to pay compliments. I am angry and I am bitter that popular feminist cult icons are allowed to present material that promotes the idea that men cannot be raped. I am bitter that this is still a conversation that has to be fought over, and I am bitter that I have watched men in my life struggle with times women have made them feel uncomfortable, only to shrug it off when truly they needed help and support.
While I have little hope that Holly Bourne would ever concede to an error in her ways in describing sexual assault, I do hope that this article poses a question to its readers. How many times have you read stories similar to that of Harry and Audrey, not stopping to question the protagonist? Why do we have one rule for unconscious drunk women and another for unconscious drunk men? It pains me to end on such a sombre note, but this is a serious issue, both in activist circles in the wider world. Active change is what is needed, not empty, tired rhetoric and double standards.
In spite of all this, I do, surprisingly, have hope for Bourne’s new release, Are We All Lemmings And Snowflakes. From what I have seen so far, it seems that when the topic of discussion is not feminism, Bourne’s readable style and brash, bold characters work well. That is why I hope in future, Bourne will tread more carefully around the nuances of sex and consent – for best results, perhaps avoiding them altogether.
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