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Title: Restoring Solidarity
Author: Sarah M. Hanks
Date: 2019
Language: en
Topics: solidarity, accountability, restorative justice, activism, transformative justice
Source: Retrieved on 11th August 2021 from https://academicworks.cuny.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=4358&context=gc_etds
Notes: A dissertation submitted to the Graduate Faculty in Sociology in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, The City University of New York.

Sarah M. Hanks

Restoring Solidarity

ABSTRACT

In radical left activist subcultures, ‘accountability processes’ are a

form of DIY transformative justice dealing with abuse and sexual

assault, focusing on the needs of the ‘survivor’ and transformation of

the ‘perpetrator.’ Within activism identifying abuse is particularly

difficult because it means acknowledging abuse by a person considered

politically virtuous. The specifics of a process are situational and

provisional. The overwhelming pattern is male identified people abusing

female identified, gender non-binary, and transgender people. My

research examines why activists are developing processes to address

problems and whether or not they are successful.

Within the subculture, the topic is important enough to hold workshops

and trainings, create curriculum, spend hours of time, form groups and

end communities. But the significance is not reflected in academia. I

interviewed 12 activists who participated as a survivor, abuser /

perpetrator, facilitator / mediator, or general support. In addition, I

collected supplementary information from 121 zines to analyze

experiences around sexism, consent, men’s groups, and transformative

justice.

The problems I found include activists’ use of community-based

strategies in a youth subculture, the complexity of creating flexible

social institution alternatives, and the development of cultural norms

consistent with prefigurative politics around gender equity, especially

in inevitable sexual relationships between activists. And all of these

issues converge in a subculture with an unstable and mobile population,

whereby activists are continuously engaging with dominant institutions

and cultural practices.

Activists’ argot includes reflexivity and privilege, but admitting fault

and committing to change is not in our cultural repertoire. Dominant

culture, as seen in the political sphere and the “#Me Too” movement, has

proven individuals benefit from denial of fault. In ‘accountability

processes,’ even if transformation occurs, it is rarely recognized. If

activists’ aim is solidarity, activists can not condone injustice and

the marginalized can not continue to be marginalized.

INTRODUCTION

Though it is made up of a malleable configuration of various groups,

shared social, ideological, and cultural practices substantiate the

existence of a distinguishable radical social movement subculture.

Various groups, organizations, individuals and locations make up the

dense and expansive network, with old groups disbanding, new ones

arising, and the boundaries between them blurred. Individuals often have

multiple group memberships, connecting with one another through

organizing, friendships, and sexual relationships. Activists

self-identify as members of a ‘community’ to convey a sense of

interdependence and emphasize solidarity. Though these groups do not use

the label ‘subculture,’ they display unique cultural characteristics

within the context of larger, predominant or ‘parent’ culture.

Radical activists share an overarching intent to confront the prevailing

power structures, viewed as the source of various social problems. There

is continuity, if not necessarily consistency, of ideology in the

amalgamation of anarchist, anti capitalist, anti racist, feminist,

queer, and other politically left radical groups. Social problems are

seen as innate to and a product of modern political and/or capitalist

systems, maintaining the privilege and power of few. Radical leftists

argue that reform, especially by way of mainstream, institutionalized,

and non profit organizations, maintains and reproduces inequalities,

offering temporary solutions that preemptively dissipate upheaval.

Phrases like “Solidarity, not Charity” criticize the condescension of

those with established power and wealth. They question both the

institutionalized goals and the means of achieving them.

The application of politics to daily life is imprecise and the emphasis

on solidarity within the movement can obfuscate complications faced by

women, gender non binary, and transgender people. Interpersonal dynamics

and integration into radical left social movements are seldom a topic of

inquiry. My thesis is epistemologically rooted in the fields of social

movements and cultural studies. Drawing on these disciplines and the

theoretical work of Pierre Bourdieu, I studied organizers who have been

addressing problems of sexism and abuse as they arise and activists’

experimentation with transformative justice. Exploring how activists

confront problems, attend to rifts, and feminist responses contributes

knowledge for the study of social movements, alternative justice models,

and gendered interpersonal dynamics.

MY INTRODUCTION TO ‘ACCOUNTABILITY’

I first became involved in the Brooklyn activist community in 2007 as a

primary organizer of a Food Not Bombs chapter. Food Not Bombs (FNB) is a

vegan, DIY, anarchist-affiliated group that collects food that would

otherwise go to waste and redistributes it without getting permits or

permission from the city. In looking for a kitchen space for our group

to use, I found an anarchist community space where numerous other

activist groups met. FNB participants became active in other groups that

used the space, such as a free bike building workshop and prisoner

letter writing. A few of us became active in the day-to-day running and

maintenance of the space.

The community space was an entry point into the larger network of

anarchist and radical left activists. Connections result from akin

political issues, shared resources, and social relationships between

participants. Social ties of friendships, romantic and/or sexual

relationships shape groups and their locations in the larger activist

network. Along with daily work and direct action, activists frequently

hold music benefits to raise money for causes and go to non activist

parties together. The community is ‘sex posi,’ supporting pleasure

seeking attitudes and anti shaming discourse.

After being involved in the self identified community for roughly one

year, a friend from the space began to have a well publicized

disagreement with her ex partner. She told me that she was organizing an

accountability process with a group called Support New York. A mutual

acquaintance had volunteered to mediate the process and she asked me

about my opinion of their character. I wasn’t sure what a process

entailed, but I told her my assessment of the person and offered my

support and assistance.

I learned an ‘accountability process’ is the way organizers are applying

transformative and restorative justice models. Unlike state justice,

accountability processes focus on the needs of the ‘survivor,’ a term I

will later unpack, and transformation of the person who caused harm.

Within activism identifying abuse is particularly difficult because it

manifests differently and means acknowledging abuse by a person thought

to be politically virtuous. In an accountability process, the person who

caused harm is held accountable by both the survivor and the community

as a whole. The specifics of a process are situational and provisional.

Though both women, men, and gender non binary people can be the survivor

or person who caused harm, the overwhelming pattern is of male

identified people abusing female identified, gender non binary, and

transgender people.

When I decided to begin an accountability process, I was introduced an

area of activism previously unknown to me. I became involved with

Support New York, a group that used transformative and restorative

justice models to deal with sexual assault and abuse within the activist

subculture. I found that a few of my friends were survivors and

mediators in ongoing processes. We read, wrote, and copied zines about

abuse and accountability processes, gave talks on strategies to deal

with abuse in activism, and implemented and enforced safer space

policies in activist venues and at events.

These issues around abuse and gender are ubiquitous and have become

points of contention in activist circles. Groups dealing with such

problems have formed interstate and international partnerships around

DIY justice, communicating about known perpetrators who refuse to be

held accountable. One of the most popular zines about abuse, The

Revolution Starts at Home: Confronting Intimate Violence Within Activist

Communities, was published as a book by AK Press in 2011. Members of

Support New York pushed for the development of safer space policies at

the annual Anarchist Book Fair in 2010 and Occupy Wall Street in 2011.

Yet, the preeminence of solidarity can mask discourse of privilege and

inequality. “The threat of fragmentation is too often used as a means of

achieving an uneasy, unhappy unity” (McRobbie 1997: 174). Amongst some

activists, issues rooted in gender and sexuality are seen as low

priority or dependent on identity politics and therefore divisive to the

movement as a whole (Horn 2013). The development of tactics and work

around such crises of ideology frequently fall along gender lines.

My study specifically addresses these relationships within activism. I

have researched how contemporary leftist social movements address women,

gender non binary, and transgender people’s needs within cultural

experimentations of social justice. Specifically, my research addresses

the question of why activists are developing ‘accountability processes’

to deal with problems in radical social movements and whether or not

they are successful. Using key concepts from the work of Pierre

Bourdieu, I illuminate the creation of DIY institutions to deal with

interpersonal violence. I do not believe there is an increase in

problems leading to these developments, but changes in the ways

activists organize around ideas of ‘community,’ adapt prefigurative

politics, and define and understand abuse have lead to these

developments. I hope that my research will benefit the fields of social

movements, subcultural studies, and alternative justice models, as well

as the activist community that continues to grapple with these problems.

METHODOLOGY

While discourse surrounding gender and interpersonal dynamics has become

copious within radical left subculture, their prevalence has not been

reflected in sociological inquiry. Of concern are the ways women, gender

non binary, and transgender people experience these social movements and

the various practices in which they address problems. More specifically,

I will explore how activist ideals can allow for sexism, why they are

developing justice designs to undertake the problem, and if there are

consequences to longterm retainment of participants.

To pursue such questions I interviewed 12 activists who have

participated in accountability processes in the role of survivor, abuser

/ perpetrator, facilitator of a process, a member of a mediating team,

or general support. I asked about experiences in the subculture leading

up to their activism, the process itself, and their opinion as to its

effectiveness. I interviewed four people I knew personally and the

remaining interviewees were suggested by those already interviewed or

had ties to groups and literature dealing with accountability. The

population is not necessarily representative of the unknown number of

people who have participated in processes, but will allow for an

intricate examination of their involvement. I recorded interviews to

ensure I was able to retain the language use and emotions of the

interviewee without my translation in documentation.

In addition, I collected supplementary information from zines circulated

in leftist social movements. Zines are artifacts of the subculture and

are a DIY form of publication akin to a brochure or booklet, written by

an individual, collective, or a collaboration. Derived from the word

magazine, zines have traditionally been photocopied and circulated by

individuals or ‘distros,’ zine distribution collectives, at activist

related events or using mail order. Zines address an array of subjects

and the tone of writing is usually informal, personal, and intimate,

similar to a journal. Theoretical approaches to sexism within activism,

personal stories of abusive interactions and relationships, and guides

to transformative justice practices have all become popular zine topics.

ORGANIZATION

In the chapters that follow, I explore how activists are addressing

sexism, creating forms of justice, and experience solidarity in leftist

activism. Participants are empowered to establish affinity groups,

organize events, and create objects and art. Activities and tactics are

subject to time, place, context, available resources, and the desires of

the activists. The combination of an antiauthoritarian vision with these

available resources and cultural context mean that actions stress DIY

methods, pleasure, and are frequently unorthodox in form.

Activists in the social movement field struggle over cultural practices

and meaning. Solidarity across heterogeneous populations within

continually changing conditions is requisite for the generation of

social change. Mutual sentiments toward social justice root collective

claims and framework (Polletta and Jasper 2011: 285). This unity is an

emotion understood and shared by participants. Activists recognize

patterns of inequality and enact these beliefs in their practices. If

their aim is solidarity, radical left activists can not condone

injustice and the marginalized can not continue to be marginalized.

In Chapter 1 I review previous studies on subcultures and social

movements to contextualize my research. First I consider my of object of

study as a “radical left subculture.” It is important to parse the

definitions of subculture and politics to understand their interplay. I

also access literature on the cultures within subcultures and internal

relationships between participants. I then consider my object of study

as a “radical left social movement.” The culture of social movements is

rooted in prefigurative politics, which define activists perception of

solidarity and relationships with one another. I review key concepts

developed by Bourdieu and echoed in Resource Mobilization Theory help to

bridge conventional disciplinarian divisions and clarify cultural

dimensions within social movement groups. I conclude my review by

examining some academics’ and activists’ proposals of new models for a

more equitable and just social movement.

In Chapter 2 I discuss the methodologies I’ve employed in my study. I

have used historical accounts, conducted interviews of 12 activists, and

analyzed more than 100 zines. In addition, I have used my own anecdotal

experience as a form of auto ethnography to elucidate my study. I

believe my multifaceted approach will allow for both more expansive and

richer understanding of accountability processes and the use of

transformative justice in radical left subcultures.

In Chapter 3, I will situate the current problems faced by activists in

a historical trajectory. Many similar problems around sexism and abuse

were present in the New Left social movement field of the late 1960s and

early 1970s. Specifically, I explore a compressed history of the social

movement organizations the Student Non Violence Coordinating Committee

(SNCC), the Black Panther Party, and Students for a Democratic

Society/Weather Underground Organization (SDS/WUO). I am interested in

whether or not activists acknowledged the problems, how they were

negotiated, and how these experiences might provide useful knowledge

that would contribute to the trial and error nature of DIY activism. I

will also access the long term consequences of such approaches to the

movements.

Using identified thematics, I have divided my analysis into two

chapters. In Chapter 4 I analyze how relationships spanning casual

friendships, alternative family, and sexual and romantic partners, are

built around leftist values and practices. The social and cultural

environment of the field results in a particular activist lifestyle.

Despite reflexivity, activists struggle over and frequently replicate

power dynamics. Sexism persists and manifests in ways particular to the

culture. I will look at differences around organizing, including

leadership, meetings, and division of labor. I will then look at sexual

relationships, the subculture’s increasing focus on consent, and the use

of cultural and social capital to acquire sexual partners. Finally I

will discuss how security culture developing out of movements of the

1960s and 70s can be rooted in the aforementioned forms of capital,

contribute to sexism, and shape discussions and prioritizing of problems

faced within the movement.

In Chapter 5 I continue my analysis and address the application of

transformative justice models within the movement. Organizers are

implementing new forms of community-based safety and justice within far

left subcultures to combat sexism, racism, homophobia and other

prejudices. The use of ‘safer space’ policies and survivor centered

transformative and restorative justice are drawing attention to numerous

problems. I discuss the creation of organizational pathways and

completion of necessary work, how activists share information, a

changing understanding of abuse and relationship dynamics, and the

development of social ties around emotional support.

Finally, in Chapter 6 I discuss the results of transformative justice.

Conflicts in the field center around the practice’s compatibility with

ideology and persevering consequence of cultural and social capital. Not

all activists accused of harm are willing to go through a process and

there are various strategies of responding. Whether activists involved

in a process view it as successful is tied to how they feel about their

role in activism. Activists involved may stay in activism, move to

different areas of activism, or discontinue participating altogether.

The outcome of these processes are significant for both as a

consideration of prefigurative politics, as well as the continuation and

longevity of social movements.

CHAPTER 1 SETTING THE SCENE: A RADICAL LEFTIST SUBCULTURE

I’ve defined my object of study as a radical leftist subculture, though

that is not how most activists identify. Participants deliberately self

identify as a ‘community’ as opposed to other social group terminology

such as ‘subculture’ or ‘counterculture.’ Community indicates a physical

and ideological stability extending past pursuits of pleasure or style

particularities. The term is laden with connotations, perpetually stated

and insinuated as a mantra of the activist lexicon. It is a generalized

catch all, a way we reference our community to convey a sense of

camaraderie and intimacy amongst those with whom we are allying.

Occasionally a descriptive term, such as ‘queer’ or ‘anarchist,’

precedes community. However, in most cases, participants neither specify

nor define the word. Those included in the designation are left to infer

the meaning entailed for membership, allowing for a fluid inclusivity.

It reflects both contextual changes of the environment and biographical

changes of individuals. To avoid ambiguity, I am defining my object of

study as a subculture. Though in my writing I use the term in reference

to a cultural community, I am using it interchangeably with the more

precise designation of subculture.

The second descriptive qualifier I’m choosing to use is ‘radical.’ Some

sociologists have used the word ‘anarchist’ or ‘neo-anarchist’ to

describe similar communities, despite groups and individuals operating

“without an explicit anarchist label” (Gordon 2007: 32; Robinson 2008,

2009; Shepard and Hayduk 2002). These academics reason that the

intentions of these activists are anarchist, only the connotations of

violent action and related government sanction prompt reticence in

identifying (Gordon 2007; Robinson 2008). However, in using the

anarchist label inclusively, researchers diminish the history and

continual process of affinity groups forming, uniting, quarreling, and

dissolving along with the diversity of radical action. “Anarchist” comes

to act as a subcategory, whereby individuals might become simultaneously

involved in anarchist identified groups and groups eschewing the label.

For example, if we were to define the entire community as anarchist,

when an activist stated “After witnessing the turmoil in the anarchist

scene, my attention returned to the feminist scene,” the importance of

her distinction is lost and the analysis of the researcher skewed

(Exposito 2011).

In using the term ‘radical,’ activists are distinguishing themselves

from previous social movements in having “a more fundamentally

revolutionary stance” (Eisenstein 1984: 127). They are undertaking

problems that connect to the cultural experiences of the members and

recognize intersections between anti globalization, anti war, anti

neoliberalization, ecological, anti capitalist, anti racism and

feminism. Activists share an overarching explicitly radical agenda and

construction of collective identity based on perceptions and actions

intended to confront the source of these problems, the prevailing power

structures. As an amalgamation of anarchist, anti capitalist, anti

racist, feminist, queer, and other politically radical groups, there is

continuity, if not necessarily consistency in ideology. ‘Radical’ lacks

the negative connotations of ‘anarchist’ and is routinely used

interchangeably with ‘anarchist’ when self identifying.

In my study, I will focus on the internal culture of the community.

Within our milieu, the study of activism as only occurring within the

confines of direct action dissociates the multifarious efforts of

activists and the diversity of meaning around civic action. Members’

participation confirms their belonging through shared difference and

cultural practices. “Picket signs alone are not enough” and instead

there is a need to look at experiences, ideas, and behaviors of

participants (Zimmerman 1993: 52). A distinct activist subculture has

developed around prefigurative politics, or applying alternative

approaches to daily activities and interactions.

AS RADICAL LEFT SUBCULTURE

Subcultures as Subversive

The culture I am studying is best categorized as an ‘activist

subculture.’ The historical development of ‘subculture’ has lead to its

conflation with political affiliation. The Centre for Contemporary

Cultural Studies (CCCS) examined emerging post World War II youth

cultures as ‘subcultures,’ a term indicative of class divisions and

resulting subversions. Working class subculturalists cultivated style

and leisure practices symbolically expressing “an antagonistic relation

to the prevailing culture and ideological practices” (Willis 1977:

xiii). CCCS theorists used semiotics to ‘read’ these performances,

carried out through a bricolage of commodities in which ‘texts’ become

fragmented, old meanings subverted or replaced with new meanings in

their re assemblage. Subcultural theory explored these commodities as

“invested, by the dominant culture, with meanings, associations, social

connotations” that appear natural, but are altered as a form of

resistance (Clarke et al. 1976, p. 55). The punk subculture’s shouted

lyrics, the teddy boys’ ‘dandy’ fashion, and the mods’ motor scooters

all communicated a critique of their environs. Because most of these

studies were of men in masculine subcultures, in 1976 Angela McRobbie

and Jenny Garber wrote “[t]he absence of girls from the whole of

[cultural studies]...is quite striking, and demands explanation”(209).

More recent theorists have revisited the research of the CCCS and its

semiotic legacy. They have criticized limiting the label of ‘subculture’

to working class and for assuming class cultures are both homological

and distinct along class lines (Muggleton 2000, Thornton 1996). More

contemporary studies, such as David Muggleton’s Inside Subculture, have

found subculturalists are reluctant to identify with a particular

political ideology or group, often seen as another form of “imposing

authority, conformity and uniformity” (2000: 150). Theorists like Michel

Maffesoli reconceptualized subcultures as ‘neotribes’ that are primarily

lifestyle based, “favour appearance and form,” and do not create

definite lines as to inclusion and exclusion, instead emphasizing

overlapping affiliations (1996: 98). While a milieu of resistance might

exist, these theorists argue it is often a vague or ambiguous opposition

to a parent or conformist culture as opposed to larger authoritarian

systems or power.

For this reason I am using the signifier ‘activist’ to distinguish the

subculture I’m studying. The radical leftist subculture does meet the

requirements as described by CCCS. Though not all activists are from the

working class, many are and the subculture is rooted in working class

values. The construction and modification of symbols and meanings

expresses this opposition in the cultural sphere, resulting in

“counter-hegemonic forms of individual and collective resistance”

(Brotherton 2008: 55). It explicitly challenges the prevailing order in

ideology, discourse, and action. More specifically, it meets Hall’s

criteria of revolutionary subcultures, in that it “offer[s] forms of

action…which embody alternative structures” (2007: 6), as well as

Hollander and Einwohner’s criteria of resistance, in that it contains

action, opposition, recognition, and intent (2004). Cultural practices

rooted in social justice bolster the development of horizontal

organizing and self reliance.

Activist Subcultures

Activist subcultures are unique because, while they share leisure

activities and aesthetic style, they have an explicitly political

agenda. That is not to say leisure and style are not issues within

activist subcultures, but collective identity is based in the

perceptions and actions intended to confront larger power structures.

The subculture’s aesthetic is imbibed with politically charged

artifacts, such as black hoodies, bicycles, day planners, and reusable

water bottles. Unlike most CCCS studies of subcultures, participants in

the field tend to be older, in their early to mid twenties, and in the

process of defining themselves and constructing their lives around

political ideologies.

Like Maffesoli’s neotribes, the subculture I’m studying encapsulates

multiple and overlapping cultural affiliations (Muggleton and Weinzierl

2003). Some academics have challenged the distinction between those

subcultures centered around politics and those centered around pleasure

as a false construct. The development of “carnivals of protest” and

“anarchist bazaars” “committed to pleasure and politics” epitomize the

merging of supposed incongruous elements (St. John 1997:65). Stuart Hall

distinguished these groups, but hypothesized the two ‘poles’ of

subcultures as intertwined. The individualistic expressive pole places

“stress on the personal…the cultural…the aesthetic,”

“develop[ing]…revolutionary style” and “provid[ing]… language” versus

the activist pole that “stresses the political, the social, the

collective… commitment to organizing,” “provid[ing] the social, shaping,

organizing, driving thrust” (Hall 2007: 165).

The unique culture of the radical community reflects the interplay

between political principles and larger cultural practices. Popular

‘hipster’ youth culture coincides with these radical left subcultures.

The epicenter of the hipster aesthetic and lifestyle are urban areas,

and more specifically Williamsburg and Bushwick neighborhoods in

Brooklyn. The criteria of a hipster is subjective and it is not an

identity those who meet such criteria would label themselves, i.e.

everyone else is a hipster and no one identifies as a hipster. Community

social events draw in some of this population who do not otherwise

engage in activist activities, such as the once annual Anti-Valentines

Day Riot Grrrl Cover Band Show. Activists also frequented non activist

events, such as warehouse parties and basement shows at the McKibbin

Lofts. This overlap is perhaps best exemplified in an article from New

York Press entitled “Meet the Helpsters,” in which Emily Gallagher, a

member of the non profit Neighbor’s Allied for Good Growth stated “We

have a really hard time at NAG to find people who genuinely want to

volunteer if there’s not beer involved” (Richards 2010). Some of these

events are a part of or have ties to the radical community. These

undemanding and playful forms of activism are a way to socialize outside

of the usual bars and clubs.

The Culture Within Subcultures

Though clothing and hairstyle are important in subcultures, the radical

community does not have as precise fashion. As previously mentioned, one

of the staples of the subculture for all genders is black hoodies, due

in large part to their use in black bloc demonstrations. Black bloc is a

form of direct action whereby activists wear all black, cover their

faces and heads, and march en mass. Wearing all black and hiding

distinguishing features enables activists to remain anonymous to law

enforcement and distinguish their number. Another common artifact is the

Slingshot or Just Seeds planner organizer, which are both made by

activist collectives and enable activists to synchronize schedules and

keep track of actions and events. General use of bicycles and water

bottles indicate the importance of environmentalism and avoidance of

waste and consumption. Otherwise, clothing is typically reflective of

current punk and hipster fashion, along with general jeans and t-shirts.

Nearly all radical activists have at least one tattoo, though the

location, size, and content are diverse. A few activists are

professional tattoo artists and are frequently sought out. There are

also a few activist-friendly parlors that openly cater to vegans or

collaborate in benefits for various causes. Still, tattoos are a “wholly

acceptable, if alternative and hip, form of fashion,” certainly not

limited to activist subcultures in Brooklyn (Pitts 12: 2003).

Though the subculture is formed around a politic, actions can be

complicated. “Deep structure” is the “collection of taken-for-granted

values, and ways of thinking and working that underlie decision making

and action” (Rao and Kellehon 2005). These are the informal rules and

relationships that develop between activists. Because the “horizon of

thought” is invisible, radical left activists are replicating some of

the power dynamics and assumptions they are simultaneously combatting.

As stated by Nia King in her zine The First Seven Inch Was Better, “We

were ‘queer’ in the straightest of ways and ‘anti-racist’ in the

whitest. We all claimed to be feminist, so why did sexual assault keep

happening within our scene again and again? We organized for immigrant

rights without actually knowing any immigrants, we facilitated workshops

on consent without knowing how to hold perpetrators we saw every day

accountable.” As in studies of other political subcultures, activists

“liked to say that males and females shared a common status in the

organization and that questions of gender were subordinate to group

solidarity…[h]owever, on a range of issues there were deep schisms”

(Brotherton and Barrios 2004: 192).

Internal Hierarchies

While many studies have looked at the relationship between dominant and

subcultures, fewer have examined the social and cultural forces internal

to subcultures. Amongst the various definitions of subculture, a

principle commonality is distinction from common culture. Members feel

as though they share this distinction, that they belong. Historically

critiqued for organizing around essentialist identities, current

activist subcultures are aware of anti essentialism and identity

politics. Organizers recognize patterns of inequality along race, class,

gender, and sexuality and engage in a continuous dialogue of

reflexivity, privilege, and calls for ‘solidarity.’

From the early developments in the field of cultural studies feminist

theorists have criticized the unspoken exclusion of female

subculturalists. In her early studies of subcultural organizations,

Angela McRobbie found gender to be the “central organizing principal”

within subcultures (2000: 14). The culture of girls, their membership in

subcultures, the roles they play, and how they define themselves

required further study (2000: 14). McRobbie concedes this lack is in

part based on the perceived gender identity of the researcher. Access to

females and their willingness to communicate can be difficult due to the

“closed, suspicious world of girls” (2000: 4). The dynamic between the

ethnographer and the female participants alters depending upon the

gender of the researcher and entry into more private sites of study.

A number of feminist scholars have found social hierarchies privileging

males within youth subcultures (Reddington 1997, Leblanc 1999). Doreen

Piano observed young male punks defending female punks from outsiders,

yet harassing and objectifying them within punk culture (2003). Female

punk’s role was “one of ‘doing’ (making zines, playing in bands, reading

zines, organizing conferences) rather than in ‘being’ (viewed as

spectacle)”(2003: 254). Norma Mendoza-Denton‘s female members of gangs

would “smile now, cry later,” put on a tough facade and hid their

emotions. Others outside of the gang critiqued the aesthetic appearance

of the girl gang members and labeled the women lesbians when they did

not conform to cultural ideas of femininity (2008). Nancy Macdonald

found female graffiti writers had to ‘get up’ more often and in

difficult places to prove they were not “timid, delicate little

thing[s]” (2001: 130). The feminine is devalued and the devalued

feminized. For the most part “[m]ale[s]...work to prove they are ‘men’,

but female[s]...must work to prove they are not ‘women’”(Macdonald 2001:

130)

Even though the radical subculture includes definitive arguments against

social inequalities and espouses feminism, it has similar gender

divisions within its own distinct forms of cultural capital. Like other

activist communities and social movements, sexual and/or romantic

relationships are widespread and have significant repercussions (Shepard

2005, Goodwin 1997). The combination of collective effervescence,

closeness of relationships, and sexual empowerment produce a prime

environment for romantic interpersonal relationships. The freedom from a

traditional lifestyle can also allow for more fluid definitions and

expressions of gender and sexualities. Noted by Ben Shepard in “The Use

of Joyfulness as a Community Organizing Strategy,” marches can be places

to meet attractive people and ‘cruise’ for sexual partners (439–440:

2005). In the radical community culture, the consistent stream of late

night house/apartment parties, bands playing shows, and dance parties

further the potential for these relationships. When social ties cease,

it can mean the end of participation in activism.

AS RADICAL LEFT SOCIAL MOVEMENT

Prefigurative Politics

The integration of the personal practices and political intention

affords a multitude of issues and methods by which radical left activist

subcultures can address social change. Participation entails

prefigurative politics (Gamson 1991), or “the experimentation and

practice of new cultural models” (Melucci 1989: 60). The interpretation

of politics is not homogenous or fixed, however, there is a process of

what McAdam called ‘cognitive liberation,’ or “the collective perception

of legitimacy and mutability of those conditions” of structural

inequalities (McAdam 1986: 35).

The process is not in a vacuum, but develops parallel to larger cultural

norms and behaviors, “‘within the womb’ of pre-revolutionary society”

(Hall 2007: 163). The attempt to apply ideological contentions in

material reality is a prefigurative politic developing out of trials,

errors, and negotiations. The results are fragmentary and customized to

those involved, the context, and the political ethic. Attending

meetings, going to demonstrations, writing blog posts, organizing

benefits, and tabling at events are interwoven into activists’ daily

routines of jobs, classes, and familial responsibilities. Participants

must reconcile beliefs about social justice with their surrounds,

creating a multifaceted lifestyle.

In the enactment of prefigurative politics, the community shifts

emphasis to agency and the potential for significant change. The

distinction between protest actions and leisure activities is blurred.

Radical left subcultures encourage creativity and artistic exploration.

Participants are empowered to establish affinity groups, organize

events, and create new projects. Activists “use their personal lives to

prefigure their goals” (Williams 2016: 74). The combination of an

antiauthoritarian vision with these available resources and cultural

context mean that actions stress DIY methods, pleasure, and are

frequently unorthodox in form. The prefigurative politics of radical

social movements are experimental and the need for autonomy from the

sources of social injustice, namely the state, require collective

development of alternative models (Scott 2014: xxi).

The experimentation takes place in a changing landscape. New social

movement literature has argued social movements are not empirical

objects, but interactive processes. Instead of examining them as

singular entities with precise points of coalescence, agendas, and

methods, social movements are a continual negotiation of ideas and

meanings. Individuals’ collaboratively define goals, actions, and

constraints, while communicating with one another to ‘organize’

collective action. This process of “formulating cognitive frameworks”

shapes the involvement, “relationships...and...emotional investments” of

activists (Melucci 1989: 35).

Activists are attempting to live in alternative ways based in cultural

schema that recognize hierarchies and inequality. Issues such as race,

class, gender and sexuality are in a continuous dialogue of reflexivity,

privilege, and calls for solidarity. Activists focus on non hierarchical

power distribution, consensus decision making, and dividing labor

equitably (Holland, Fox, Daro 2008, McDonald 2002, Bevington 2008). When

applied, these prefigurative politics incorporate acknowledgement of

social stratification and counteraction through non hierarchical

structure. Intragroup routines reflect mutual social justice politics.

To maintain a balance of power some participants turn their gaze inward.

In his study of anarchist subcultures, Uri Gordon discussed the

acknowledgement of “a re-emergence of patterns of domination within

and/or among communities, even if at a certain point in time they have

been consciously overcome” (2007: 45). The aim is not oneness and

awareness of intersections is not the same as unity of interests or

approaches. More precisely, the goal is to support one another across a

changing heterogeneous landscape in such a way that there is no

hierarchy and no charity. The familiar expression ‘another world is

possible’ demonstrates the conviction in these prefigurative politics

and endeavors at social justice organizing.

Dismantling hierarchical organization and challenging current power

structures is pivotal to the collective solidarity of the community.

Groups are non hierarchical or horizontal, with no participants having

greater authority or rank over others (Fitzgerald and Rogers 2000).

Everyone in the group must state whether they agree, disagree, or

abstain from the decision. The group recognizes everyone’s opinion and

must be in agreement. Consensus provides clear, established channels for

speaking and offering opinions, discouraging the monopolization of

conversation. Though these groups theoretically operate outside of

hierarchies, leaders inevitably emerge (Freeman 1972, Sahasranaman

2013). Often, people who posses privilege in society mirror their

position within radical groups if there is no explicit attempt to

balance power.

One strategy for addressing these inequalities is rooting the culture in

DIY, or ‘do it yourself.’ By nature, DIY focuses on agency and

accessibility. Individuals and groups can define their project, when,

where, and how they will carry it out. There is more room for

flexibility and immediacy. Organizers develop and share strengths and

skills, opening up new possibilities and opportunities for artistry. An

essential quality of DIY ethic, anyone can (and perhaps should) express

themselves without monetary or technical limitations. Instead of

depending on others, DIY emphasizes self empowerment and self reliance.

Because individuals are able to start their own groups, existing social

networks can encourage group development and shape group membership. The

DIY ethic tends to lead to organizing within existing friendship

networks (Freeman 2009). Yet DIY is not without a price. In taking on

this work, activists sacrifice resources such as time, labor, and

sometimes their own money.

Entry and Networks

Recruitment greatly shapes the subculture. When deciding whether or not

to participate in activism, people do not use instrumental reasoning

(Melucci 1996). The most seemingly obvious reason to participate in a

social movement would be ideological agreement, however, having

grievances and disenfranchisement is not reason enough to explain

participation in social movements (Melucci 1989).

Alongside common ideology, our social networks, cultural context, and

biography influence whether or not we take part (Ibrahim 2011, Blee

1991, Passy and Giugni 2001, Melucci 1996). While it might seem

individuals without previous commitments and limitations of time and

energy would be more likely to participate, there is more nuance to the

coupling of “biographic availability” and social movement engagement

(McAdam 1986: 70). By this logic, one can easily explain students’

strong involvement in the community. Nevertheless, biographic

availability alone is not enough to account for participation. Those who

are unoccupied, have time and ability, are not necessarily involved in

activism. Contrary to expectations, those who are already socially and

politically active are more likely to become involved in social

movements (Verba et al. 1995, Munson 2010).

Those entering and participating in the radical community are often at a

transition point in their lives. Transition points are a time when

routines and networks are shifting and people are “more open to new

ideas and new ways of thinking about the world” (Munson 774: 2010,

Robinson 2008). Changing networks lead to the development of new

relationships and access to new ideas and cultures (Taylor 2000: 222).

These relationships and friendships are a resource for recruitment into

the community (Taylor 1989, Snow, Zurcher, and Ekland-Olson 1980).

Participants are frequently drawn into the community through their

social attachments. Young adults seeking work or education frequently

move to urban centers, resulting in an abundance of potential community

members undergoing a transition point in their lives (Roberts 2013).

Social ties shape who joins, not to mention those who do not, effecting

the gender, age, and racial concentration of the community.

The subculture is internally structured as a network of affinity groups

and individuals (Melucci 1996, Jasper 1997). The network is dense, with

overlapping groups and individuals. Affinity groups are informal,

impermanent organizational forms focused on a particular issue. For

example, For the Birds is a feminist collective that addresses women’s

creative endeavors, POC Zine Project is a collective that concentrates

on promoting and distributing zines written by people of color, and

Ghost Bikes is a group that advocates for cyclists and constructs

memorials for cyclists killed around the city. Affinity groups form,

reshape, and dissolve over time. The fluidity of groups results in the

network relationships between these groups being loose or temporary. The

rise and fall of local affinity groups alters the design of the

community network.

Affinity groups have small memberships and are built from or contribute

to social relationships between participants (Pickerill and Chatterton

2006: 740). Because individuals are able and empowered to start their

own groups, existing social networks can encourage group development and

shape group membership. The DIY ethic tends to lead to organizing within

friendship networks (Freeman 2009). New in-group relationships alter

social networks and ending friendships can be instrumental in the

disintegration of groups.

Solidarity

The common feminist expression “the personal is political” is homologous

with prefigurative politics, albeit with additional connotations of

emotion and intimacy. Carol Hanisch wrote an article with the same title

in February 1969. The article is a response to radical movements of the

time dismissing women’s groups “discussing their own oppressions as

‘naval-gazing’ and ‘personal therapy’ — and certainly ‘not political’”

(Hanisch 2006). Hanisch believes personal experiences should be seen as

legitimate and pertinent within political activism. In his book Nomads

of the Present, Alberto Melucci argues the internal tensions of social

movements are becoming more centered on interpersonal relationships and

lifestyles. Conflicts are both “increasingly personal and revolve around

the capacity of individuals to initiate action and to control the space,

time, and interpersonal relations,” as well as aimed “towards the

production of meaning” (Melucci 71: 1989).

The maintenance of social movements requires the construction of

alternative cultural frameworks and the individual’s investment in those

frameworks. Whether participants feel solidarity and the culture of a

movement adjusts to their needs, can feasibly dictate the sustainability

of a movement (Gecas 2000, Collins 2001). Melucci defines solidarity as

a product of interpersonal interactions between members of the group;

“the ability of actors to recognize others, and to be recognized, as

belonging to the same social unit” (1996: 23). Activists sharing beliefs

or ideology is not requisite, but the development and maintenance of

solidarity is more critical than instrumental goals (Melucci 1996: 103).

I consider solidarity to be the recognition of fellowship that is

both 1) rooted in shared belief in social justice and 2) experienced in

interactions with fellow activists. The building of an activist

‘community’ is a process, a constant endeavor (Scott 1992).

Solidarity entails a measure of reciprocated care, responsibility and

interdependence. Feelings of belonging shape the community, yet the

community shapes who feels they belong. In a study of young urban

Canadian activists, Jacqueline Kennelly found participants’ race and

class greatly influenced their feelings of membership and belonging.

Unspoken knowledges determined power and therefore the feelings of

membership and belonging of participants. Many of these subcultural

norms developed out of “middle-class young people taking on a working

class identity, or performing grunge” (304). Though presenting a lower

socio economic status, the subculturalists demonstrate their privileged

position in their defining of activism as a form of charity, “something

that some people do for and on behalf of others” (299). Lower class and

people of color “experienced a sense of ‘not quite fitting’”(301).

Kennelly found the lack of integration resulted in these peoples’

withdrawal from the social movement. Similarly, in her study of

Scandinavian global justice activists Maria Zackariasson found the young

male participants felt their presence purposed to “fight for someone

else: suppressed women, the poor in the world” (2009: 36).

Relationships and Sex

Various studies have shown joining a social movement is more easily

“explained by whom people know, not by what they want or believe” (Kitts

1999). Preexisting and developing social relationships are strong

factors in the development of solidarity and the success of alternative

cultural blueprints (Passy and Giugni 2001, Gamson 1991, McAdam 1982).

Participants’ incorporation into affective relationship networks shapes

their level of involvement in social movements. Expressed in terms such

as “collective” and “solidarity,” friendships and sexual relationships

greatly contribute to feelings of belonging. Though social justice

issues are important, interpersonal relationships greatly influence

affinity group development, membership, and intergroup associations.

The relationships developed through participation shape and maintain the

radical community. The connections that develop between activists create

networks of interpersonal relationships both creating and hindering

solidarity. In his study of the Huk rebellion in the Philippines, Jeff

Goodwin found the emotional relationships between activists create a

libidinal economy in which pleasures of interpersonal interaction depend

upon emotional connection and reciprocated affection, resulting in a

“structure and economy of affectual ties” (53:1997). Though ‘libidinal’

connotes sexual, Goodwin’s use of the term considers other forms of

relation defined by the feeling of ‘love’ (54: 1997). Consequently,

libidinal bonds encompass sexual and familial relationships,

friendships, and a love for humanity.

The libidinal ties in a “soladaristic” group run in two different

directions (Goodwin 55: 1997). The first is a relationship with the

group and/or cause. For the population I am studying, libidinal ties

exist with the radical ‘community’ as an operational entity, or an

alternative family (Halberstam 2006). The tie distinguishes the group

and/or cause from the rest of society. The Participant’s moral

consciousness incorporates collective feelings and clarifies systems of

value and virtue. In his study of new anarchist formations, Gordon

argued the participants’ cohesion extends “beyond the level of personal

ties,” creating a ‘tribal solidarity’ whereby fellow activists are

“perceived [as] members of one’s extended family or tribe” (Gordon 2007:

33). Unlike traditional families, activists might express membership in

getting tattoos together, volunteering to help with a project outside of

activism, backing the person up in a physical fight or riding bikes home

together at the end of the night. Outside of immediate, interpersonal

relationships, obligations or duties to the community at large might

consist of accompanying an unknown intoxicated person to get home safely

or providing a place for transient friends-of-friends-of-friends to

sleep.

The second orientation are the libidinal ties within the group. As an

economy, repeated interaction and the building of mutual affection

create interpersonal relationships. The shared connection to the cause

and ideology produce trust and loyalty; “We trust those we agree with,

and agree with those we trust” (Jasper 1997: 112). Consistency and ease

of building these relationships greatly influence participants’

intensity of commitment (Taylor 1989). Accordingly, the strength and

reciprocation of participants’ interpersonal feelings reinforce their

libidinal ties with the group. There are erotic motives for entering,

participating in, and organizing community activities. In a study of the

feminist movement, Verta Taylor found partnering with a woman can

“facilitate feminist work because these women’s personal lives meshed

well with their political commitments” (Taylor 770: 1989). It is not

uncommon for sexual relationships to lead to activist projects.

Organizers tie monogamy, polyamory, sadomasochism, and various other

forms of sexuality to politics and put them into practice

(Portwood-Stacer 2010). While having these ties assists or possibly

accelerates involvement, relationships with outsiders can discourage

engaging in activism. As stated by community member Suzy Z “I didn’t

have to coax [my girlfriend] to come to the march; she came because she

helped organize it” (Exposito 2011).

POWER, CULTURE, AND PRACTICE

Bourdieu’s Framework

Dynamics of the subculture can be examined through Bourdieu’s analytic

framework of fields. Fields are structured spaces in which actors

struggle over power through relative forms of capital. Field boundaries

are not fixed and have connections with other social fields. Actors in

the field have shared cultural understandings, rules of the field, and a

“‘feel for the game’” (Bourdieu 1990: 66).

The actions of those in the field, including their belonging to

/participating in a field, are shaped by their habitus. An individuals’

habitus is the dispositions they have as members of a social group,

namely class. Habitus is “internalized as a second nature” and “tends to

generate all the ‘reasonable’, ‘common sense’, ‘behaviors’” within the

norms of a field (Bourdieu 1990: 56). Habitus reproduces social

stratification in ways that might be taken as natural, and therefore is

both structured by and structures social stratifications.

Stratification is reproduced in culture through cultural capital.

Cultural capital is knowledge, either objectified, embodied, or

institutionalized, that is culturally valued, embedded in culture, and

reproduced from generation to generation. What is valued is associated

with those with more power, is assumed to be natural or an objective

reality, and is “acquired by means of a sort of withdrawal from economic

necessity” (Bourdieu 1984: 54). When objectified, cultural capital is

“in the form of cultural goods (pictures, books, dictionaries,

instruments, machines, etc.)” (Bourdieu 1986: 243). In embodiment,

cultural capital is “perceived as the most natural expression of

innermost nature” (Bourdieu 1984: 192) and is “converted…into a habitus”

(Bourdieu 1986: 245).

Bourdieu also explores social capital as a means of replicating power

dynamics. Social capital is “the aggregate of the actual or potential

resources which are linked to possession of a durable network

of…relationships of mutual acquaintance and recognition” (Bourdieu 1986:

248). These memberships can act as a “‘credential, which entitles them

to credit, in the various senses of the word’” and allow for various

forms of capital and resource exchange (Bourdieu 1986: 249). The capital

is not only dependent on the relationships themselves, but the holder’s

ability to mobilize their networks.

Bourdieu conceived habitus, capital, and field to result in practices as

represented in the following equation: [(habitus) (capital)] + field =

practice (Bourdieu 1984: 101) . An individual’s habitus and forms of

capital, when in the context of the field and the rules of the ‘game,’

results in practices, which in turn “condition” lifestyles (Bourdieu

1984: 171). Lifestyles are clusters of practices and tastes, creating a

homology or ‘theme’ across seemingly autonomous areas of life. Though

taste might seem like a personal decision and way of distinguishing

ourselves as individuals, Bourdieu argues it is “the particular stamp

marking all the products of the same habitus” (Bourdieu 1990: 60) or

“the source of the system of distinctive features which cannot fail to

be perceived as a systematic expression of a particular class of

conditions of existence, i.e., as a distinctive life-style” (Bourdieu

1984: 175).

Applying Bourdieu to Subcultures and Social Movements

Concerning social movements specifically, Bourdieu has been critiqued

for placing “habit and assumption” of habitus in dichotomy against

“discourse, reason and reflection” (Crossley 2003: 48). This is in

contrast to the easily paralleled Resource Mobilization Theory, which

emphasizes the agency and rationality involved in such forms of

collective action. Nick Crossley argues Bourdieu’s examinations of

social movements tend to be limited to ideas of temporary crisis instead

of established social fields and the development of habitus that “draw

upon a stock of historically and culturally variable ‘techniques’ of

protest which agents learn: for example, petitioning, marching,

occupation, tunnelling and bomb- making” as well as “improvisation

or…the potential of agents to invent new techniques to add to the stock”

(2003: 49).

Some theorists have adapted Bourdieu’s idea of fields to collective

action and social movements as social action fields (SAFs) or ‘fields of

contention’ (Crossley 2003, Fligstein and McAdam 2011). These fields

have their own ‘rules of the game,’ habitus, and forms of capital

resulting in particular activist practices. Activists’ lifestyles,

including their activism, work, use of cultural artifacts and social

lives, are all defined by their politics and practices are carried out

respectively.

Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital has been modified to study the

internal cultural practices of subcultures. In her study of British

ravers, Sarah Thornton found subculturalists reproduced established

hierarchies at a subcultural level, discovering a ‘hipness’ as capital.

Being ‘cool’ was dependent on a culture-specific values and knowledges.

‘Subcultural capital’ derives from being ‘in the know’, wearing the

‘right’ clothing, having the ‘right’ haircut, liking the ‘right’ music,

and moving the body correctly within a given situation (1996). The

valued customs, aesthetics, and knowledges correspondingly infer one’s

subcultural capital. Gender, on the other hand, is of far more

consequence. For Thornton’s ravers, class can be a factor, but it is

often “willfully obfuscated by subcultural distinctions...a fantasy of

classlessness” (1996: 12). Female subculturalists either “acknowledge

the subcultural hierarchy and accept their lowly position” or if they

participate they “reject and denigrate a feminized mainstream” (1996:

13). Instead social hierarchies privileging males and masculine

qualities are often acknowledged, upheld, and sometimes adopted by

females.

In social movement studies, Resource Mobilization Theory has considered

‘cultural resources’ and ‘social-organizational resources’ components

when considering the creation and mobilization of social movements

(Edwards and McCarthy 2007). Cultural resources include strategies of

protest, how to communicate with news and media, organizing group

meetings, and creating cultural products like music, videos, and

publications. An individual or group that has these resources could be

argued to have cultural or subcultural capital. Social-organizaitonal

resources are social networks and organizational connections that enable

recruitment and mobilization. These resources can be directly compared

with Bourdieu’s concept of social capital.

In the radical subculture, being ‘in the know,’ can mean knowing the

valued and newest information. Familiarity with the common vocabulary

and colloquialisms like ‘zines,’ ‘infoshop,’ ‘COINTELPRO,’

‘CrimethInc.,’ as well as anarchist, Marxist, and socialist theories and

leaders are all symbols of cultural capital. In addition, activists

value when others help to organize a particularly large, clandestine

action or have relatively unknown knowledge. Reputation as an activist

and social network ties can reify status. Activists considered important

or dangerous enough to appear on the federal government’s radar are also

held in esteem.

In some cases knowing not to speak of knowledge, i.e. adhering to

security culture, is a source of capital. The phrase ‘security culture’

refers to the need for secrecy within the community. Security culture is

an abbreviation of the need for discretion within all aspects of radical

activist culture. It dictates who should and should not have sensitive

information and when and where they can discuss this information.

Activists keep potentially illegal or proscribed activities within a

limited group. The fear of repercussions from the state, by way of

direct or indirect surveillance, guides these policies. This information

can be about things that have happened in the past or will happen in the

future, about an action or person. Because of security culture,

activists’ clandestine actions are, by nature, exclusionary.

Those who regularly know exclusive knowledge or are in (unofficial)

leadership positions are frequently cisgender men. In a handful of

internal disputes, women, gender non binary, and people of color felt

silenced under the guise of security culture. When they criticize

organizers for not involving them, the common, sweeping response of

“security culture” places the objectors’ commitment to social justice

and authenticity as an activist into question. Evoking security culture

is a way of simultaneously casting aspersions on an opponent while

upholding one’s own authenticity and shutting down the argument. Akin

Thornton’s ravers, bragging about high-risk activities deflates

subcultural capital.

A SOCIALLY JUST CULTURE WITHIN A SOCIAL MOVEMENT

In its annual assessment of gender in social movements the Bridge

Program has argued for the possibility of “gender-just” movements. These

require “self-critique…patience as well as support as people work with

and reconstruct their belief systems and political worldview” (Horn

2013:66). There resulting social movement:

• Affirms the importance of tackling gender inequality and patriarchal

power as an integral component of justice for all and names this as an

explicit priority for action.

• Creates a positive environment for internal reflection and action on

women’s rights and gender justice.

• Provides active and formalised support for women’s participation and

leadership in all areas of movement practice.

• Consistently tackles gender-based violence and establishes zero

tolerance for sexual harassment in movement spaces.

• Assesses gender bias in movement roles and redistributes labour along

genderjust lines.

• Enables full participation of both women and men, taking into account

care work and reproductive roles.

• Appreciates the gender dimensions of backlash and external opposition

faced by activists.

• Engages with norms and notions around gender, taking into account

context-specific gender identities, trans and intersex identities and

shifting understandings of gender in social life and activism. (Horn

2013: 5)

Despite attempts, the radical left social movement I studied did not

meet these criteria in their prefigurative politics.

Many women, gender non binary, and transgender people face sexism and

abuse in radical left subcultures. The lack of solidarity and support

have lead to them shifting their participation or leaving. As stated by

one zine writer, young women “end up being identified primarily as

sexual objects, eventually get frustrated with the boy’s club, and

leave” ( Said the Pot). Previous academic articles and investigative

journalism have alluded to some of these issues (Schneider 2013, Graeber

2009), but do not specifically address these problems in favor of

examinations of the movement’s stated political goals.

Activists must remain ethical and conscientious of power dynamics when

their communal and intimate boundaries blur. Though the Bridge Report

does not include an in depth study of the ‘deep structure’ dynamics,

they raise the question of social movements developing “formalised

methods and structures of accountability” (91). The subculture must find

a balance in having preexisting pathways of holding one another

accountable and maintaining ideological beliefs while not reproducing

the structures of the state. The recreation of social institutions

requires consideration of the radical activist habitus, forms of

capital, and resulting lifestyle. I have researched how contemporary

leftist social movements address these issues in hopes of elucidating

the process of prefigurative politics. Specifically, my research

addresses the question of why activists are developing ‘accountability

processes’ to deal with problems in radical social movements and whether

or not they are successful.

CHAPTER 2 METHODOLOGY

Though social movements are a common topic in sociology, the issue of

interpersonal dynamics, and specifically sexual assault and

transformative justice, have not been represented in academia. Most

studies of social movements view them in relation to larger society and

their political goals. The dearth of studies seems to parallel arguments

by some contingents in activism, that emotions and relationships are

“petty problems” existing outside the sphere of a social movement. Yet

for those involved in activist subcultures, issues of gender and

transformative justice are incredibly important.

The radical left subculture I’m studying unifies around loosely defined

political beliefs. There is no underlying basis in racial / ethnic

identity, religion, gender / sexuality or exclusive focus on a specific

issue. Sociologists have critiqued the possibility of singular

resistances, but do not have many accounts of solidarity across multi

issue struggles (Hall and Du Gay 1996). While they continue to employ

more traditional methods of activism such as occupations and street

marches, community members are more attentive to their internal praxis

and culture. A cluster of practices relating to political prisoner

support, animal rights, bike advocacy, food justice, housing rights, and

more, activists share an explicitly radical agenda and construction of

collective identity based on perceptions and actions intended to

confront the source of these issues, social inequality.

To answer my questions about accountability processes, I have used

historical accounts, conducted interviews of activists, and analyzed

zines. In addition, I have used my own anecdotal experience as a form of

auto ethnography to elucidate my study. I believe my multi-pronged

approach will allow for both more expansive and richer understanding of

accountability processes and the use of transformative justice in

radical left subcultures.

HISTORICAL

The use of transformative justice through formal accountability

processes might be new, but the gender related issues underlying

problems have existed throughout New Left social movements. Though the

subculture I’m studying is not a direct descent of these social

movements, the field is part of the New Left social movement trajectory.

History and ideology developing out of the post citizenship movements

are instrumental to the community’s longevity and resilience. The

subculture is a result of the cultural third wave transitioning from

equality struggles to radical politics. There is an awareness of

privilege and intersections of power, requiring reflexivity and

empirical application of beliefs.

The revolutionary principals of post civil rights activists inspire the

community, which “unlike mainstream civil rights groups...sought

structural changes in American society itself” (Bond 2000). Current

affinity groups maintain correspondence with and advocate for political

prisoners of this period, including the Student Non-violent Coordinating

Committee’s Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin, the Black Panther’s Mumia Abu-Jamal,

and Student for a Democratic Society’s David Gilbert. Revolutionary

activists’ concern for social justice continues with the aspiration of

cultural change and recognition of intersectional oppressions.

To better understand the problems organizers are facing, I have

researched three mixed gender, youth oriented, multi issue activist

groups employing prefigurative politics. Using autobiographies and

historical accounts and interviews I have delimited a brief history to

look at the role of women in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating

Committee, the Black Panther Party, and Students for a Democratic

Society/Weather Underground Organization. It is important to consider

what issues were, how activists addressed them and how they effected the

respective social movement.

THE CONTEMPORARY CULTURE OF THE FIELD

The subculture is an overlapping network of anarchists, freegans, punks,

academics, and various forms of leftist activists. In calling themselves

a community, participants are metaphorically grounding the movement,

implying durability, consistency, and cohesion. Programs for events such

as the Anarchist Book Fair emphasize that attendance is a form of

participation in “our community” and the cohesiveness of said community

is necessary to ensure amenities such as free childcare and safer space

policies. Membership is a flexible designation, undefined with no

requisite markers or qualifications. Community is then a process

reflecting both contextual changes of the environment and biographical

changes of individuals.

Participants label scattered urban localities a community to evoke the

intimacy and connotations of a spatially traditional neighborhood or

small town. Vegan eateries, bike shops, collective living spaces and

radical bookstores in these neighborhoods become the town’s tangible

borders, to some extent self contained and self sustaining. Regular,

face to face interactions and shared cultural markers are important for

the development of relationships.

‘Local particularisms’ based in their specific context link to a larger,

global network (Featherstone 2005, Shepard and Hayduk 2002, Robinson

2008). Because the subculture exists on a local level, yet is a part of

this social justice “solidarity network,” the word ‘community’ is used

to reference the broader spirit of radical left activism (Pickerill and

Chatterton 2006). To different audiences, ‘our community’ will have

different meanings. The protest chant “From NYC to Greece, Fuck the

Police!” is a way of acknowledging these network connections and

commonalities relative to comparative prevailing power structures.

While some affinity groups are the product of particular local

conditions, others are the result of transnational connections and cross

interest groups. Issues happening outside of the local are brought into

local contexts. Coalitions and alliances connect groups and communities

at a global level. Groups or “social movement organizations” such as

Anarchist Black Cross Federation (ABCF), Food Not Bombs (FNB), and

Anarchist People of Color (APOC) exist as non hierarchical affiliations

with local branches; a kind of anarchist franchise operating as an

umbrella label for associated groups in cities across the world. These

usually have a handbook or set of basic tenets as to ideological basis,

detailed issues, and method of activism. There are also larger, umbrella

“movement industries,” such as prisoner rights, animal rights, and anti

war categories of activism.

The connections between affinity groups can vary from merges and

divisions to collaborations and conflicts. Individuals often have

multiple group memberships, connecting with one another through

organizing, friendships, and sexual relationships. Groups might

co-organize events, or act as allies to other groups, assisting with

fundraising or organizing a benefit. As stated by a queer woman of color

activist “the punk scene, in the queer community, in community

organizing, in activism, among people of colour...all these communities

have been linked for me” (King 2012: 96).

Though entering the community provides a network for meeting new people,

the extensiveness of the network can result in some affinity groups not

being in contact with others. Likewise, individuals who are a part of

the network are not familiar with or have even met all other members.

Layers of social and affinity group connections can lead to

concentrations of people within areas of the network. Groups connect

with others, relationships change over time and there is no single

center organization or group, making radical communities “difficult to

control, monitor and police” (Pickerill and Chatterton 2006: 740).

Punk

Radical activist culture has roots in ‘do it yourself’ or DIY,

emphasizing agency and the potential for social change. DIY methodology

is a means by which activists can apply radical left politics to

behaviors and practices. Organizers see self education as a liberating

force. The subculture prioritizes reading, teach-ins, and info shops, or

meeting spaces containing books, zines, and pamphlets. ‘Skill shares’

are meetings whereby activists learn practical skills from one another,

typically acquiring knowledge by doing the activity. There is no

payment, but organizers often exchange skills with one another. Examples

include sewing workshops, bike building, screen printing, and

transformative justice workshops.

The bricolage of various elements results in a multifaceted taste

culture and lifestyle tailored to those involved, the context, and the

political ethic. If there was a soundtrack to the community, it would be

punk music. Historically, punk has incorporated political viewpoints,

both conservative and liberal (Moore 2010). When asked, activists

frequently cite certain music or bands as their reason for becoming

politically active. The genre is innately democratic and DIY,

encouraging anyone to participate. A variety of unconventional cultural

practices integrated into the daily lives of participants, such as

writing zines or throwing parties to benefit a cause, communicate

political discord. It is common for punk bands to play benefits to raise

money for court costs, rent for community spaces, and various other

projects.

More specifically, in feminist and queer related affinity groups, the

1990s punk sub genre riot grrrl remains popular. Embedded in third wave

feminism, riot grrrl developed as an offshoot and response to the

traditional male centered punk (Gottlieb and Wald 1994, Siegel 2007,

Piano 2003, Kearney 1997, Leonard 1997, Wadkins and Konkiel 2011). The

sub genre is unabashedly female and has explicit political interests and

goals, communicating within the subculture as well as feminist

movements. In ideology riot grrrl recognizes intersectional identities

and inequalities, but the subculture is based around a traditionally

white musical form, limiting participation to members of a taste culture

and maintains punk’s inadvertent racial exclusions (Piano 2003, Schilt

2005).

Despite punk’s critical role in the radical culture, some try to

dissociate from the genre and its latent racial restrictions to become

more appealing to non punks. The genre is heavily white and young. The

punk aesthetic of torn clothing and unkempt hair intentionally signals

disorder and defiance. As with Hebdige’s study of punk in the 1970s, the

aesthetic continues to express “an antagonistic relation to the

prevailing culture and ideological practices” (Willis 1977, p. xiii). In

the radical subculture, punks can be a deterrent to non punks becoming

involved, especially within gentrifying neighborhoods. The communication

of “antagonism” is ambiguous and the aim unclear, particularly to those

without knowledge of the subculture’s symbols. Strategies for racial and

ethnic diversification include targeted event promotion, modifying the

genres of music performed at benefits, prioritizing neighborhood

relationships, and deliberate networking with radical groups not

associated with punks or punk music.

Demographics

The demographics of the radical subculture reflects the changing visage

of urban youth culture. Most participants span an age between early 20s

through mid 30s. Neither significantly male nor female, some identify as

queer or gender non conforming. As in previous studies of social justice

activists, many come from middle class or working class homes (Ibrahim

2011, Ruth 2005, Bagguley 1995). Participation is racially and

ethnically diverse with groups such as APOC (Anarchist People of Color)

and the POC (People of Color) Zine project. On the whole, however, there

is an overrepresentation of white activists (Holland, Fox, Daro 2008).

The lack of racial and ethnic diversity is a regular concern of the

radical subculture (Freeman 2009). Participants are rarely religious,

there is no associated religion; however, forms of astrology and

witchcraft are popular, especially with LGBTQ and female identified

activists. A few individuals and groups have even created their own

tarot card decks with politicized interpretations of the cards, such as

The Collective Tarot, Next World Tarot, and Slow Holler.

Participants are transitioning into adulthood and do not have the

teenager’s freedom from necessity. Some might own vehicles, but often

own bicycles and use public transportation. Some activists are current

students or recent graduates and have parental support, scholarships,

and student loans. Common employers conducive to radical politics

include vegan restaurants, health food markets, feminist and queer

identified sex shops, and various non profit organizations. Some

participate in the informal economy, undertaking jobs such as dog

walking, alternative medicine, and sex work, which allow autonomy and

schedule flexibility.

Numerous participants attend or associate with academic institutions and

have some college education. As previously mentioned, college campuses

have established activist groups and are a resource for and have ties to

the activist subculture. College students are in a position to

experiment with alternative cultural practices (Ibrahim 2011).

Friendships formed in classes, clubs, and other school events build new

social networks. Both inside and outside of the classroom, students

encounter criticism of current conditions and prevailing ideas, as well

as new ideas and ways of thinking.

Though some might live with their parents or in their own apartment,

many live with fellow activists or in collective / shared houses. Some

engage in squatting, or occupying vacant property. When possible, larger

living spaces housing activists double as meeting, event, and

multipurpose locations. There are a few houses specifically established

to function as both living and community spaces.

Participants in the community are seldom married or have children. While

this is in part due to age, it is also tied to ideology and lifestyle.

Marriage, either hetero or homosexual, forces engagement with the state,

has foundations in religion, and upholds traditional gender roles. There

is a range of sexuality practiced, including polyamory, multi partners,

and bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism. As a result, some in the

subculture see marriage as a process of assimilation into a culture that

is socially unjust.

Parenthood is also a limitation to participation. Activities would be

inconvenient if not impossible for those with children. Meetings late in

the evening, events held at night, and potentially illegal activities

require substantial time commitments and are generally not child

friendly. When organizing events, groups I was in or working with did

not intend to exclude children, nonetheless we inadvertently overlooked

or did not consider the matter. In response to this problem, some

activists wrote Don’t Leave Your Friends Behind: Concrete Ways to

Support Families in Social Justice Movements and Communities, a book

offering different ways to integrate activist and family lives. A few

groups are conscious of these limitations and are altering their

practices to be more accommodating to parents and children, with events

like the Anarchist Book Fair offering child care and child-friendly

workshops.

INTERVIEWS

Because I am studying a little known social process in a distinct group,

I do not intend for my interviews to be mathematically representative,

but to elucidate these processes and experiences of activists.

Numerically, it is unknown how many processes activists have attempted,

completed, or the number of people involved. I interviewed 12 people

from April to September of 2018 to gather data concerning gender,

interpersonal dynamics, and transformative justice models. Four of the

interviewees were people I met while involved in various activist

groups. The remaining eight were a snowball sample, recruited through

outreach to known activist groups and social networks. Requirements for

participation were that they were 18 or older, were willing to have the

interview audio recorded, and were directly or peripherally involved

with an accountability process.

I audio recorded the interviews to provide accuracy and specificity in

language use and tone of interviewees. The interviews lasted between 45

minutes and three and a half hours. I conducted all interviews in

English with people located in the United States. There are significant

groups and individuals working in Canada, Australia, England, France,

Germany, and other countries; however, I did not want different issues

of culture and criminal justice systems to convolute the study. Because

activists tend to relocate with some frequency, 10 interviews were over

the phone and 2 in person. The IRB expedited approval of my application

because I did not record the names of the interviewees and they remain

anonymous. I use pseudonyms to distinguish the voices of different

activists.

Of the 12 I interviewed, their demographic information varied. Though

not representative of leftist activists, they are likely representative

of activists involved in transformative justice. All but one were in

their twenties to thirties when they started participating in activism

and accountability processes. Racially, 11 self identified as white and

1 self identified as “mixed” Asian and Middle Eastern racial identity.

Gender and sexuality in the subculture are more fluid and experimental

than in more mainstream society. It is not uncommon for activists to

identify as gender non binary or gender non conforming. The term

‘cisgender,’ meaning identifying as the gender you were assigned at

birth, is a part of activist vernacular and used to create linguistic

balance with ‘transgender.’ Two interviewees identified themselves as

cisgender male. Two interviewees identified as gender queer or non

binary, one as a transgender female, and the remaining seven as

cisgender females. As to the sexuality of interviewees, 3 identified as

straight or “mostly straight,” 1 as bisexual, and 8 as queer. Queer as a

sexual identity means their sexuality does not adhere to the gender

binary.

I asked interviewees open ended, general questions about their

experience of activism leading up to their involvement in accountability

processes, the processes themselves, and the outcome. I followed with

more specific questions about the format of the process, requests, and

role of community. I also asked them to access if they believed they

were successful and if they had any regrets concerning accountability

processes.

Interviewees played various roles in numerous processes. Of those I

interviewed eight mediated processes, carrying out a role that connected

the survivor and perpetrator. Two were survivors and six were on a

survivor support team. One was a perpetrator and three were on a

perpetrator support team. And one did not play a formal role in any

processes, but was close to a process and wrote a well circulated zine

on the topic.

Understandably people who have participated in these processes might be

reticent to participate in my research. Researchers who study social

movements can leave activists disappointed, feeling as though their

interviews are “merely as part of a research itinerary to be ticked off

one by one” and rarely contacted after or provided the resultant article

or document (Kempson). There are also some issues around legalities,

such as activists making public statements and allegations about

specific individuals and the use of physical retaliation and violence. A

few of those I interviewed asked for verbal confirmation of their

anonymity.

At the same time, for some who have not had an opportunity to voice

their opinion or experience, I was sought out for interviews. A number

had participated years ago and had chosen not to think about the

processes since. Our interview gave some a place to air grievances or

reconsider their activist histories. Others still do this work, and hope

that in participating in the interview, they can contribute to pooled

knowledge of activist practices.

ZINES

Zine literature plays a crucial role in the community. Pronounced like

the third syllable of ‘magazine,’ a zine is a DIY form of publication

akin to a brochure or booklet, written by an individual, collective, or

a collaboration. In her book Stolen Sharpie Revolution, zine writer Alex

Wrekk defines zines as “physical, printed, self-published creations that

can consist of a single sheet of paper or many, fastened together,

usually with staples” (Wrekk 9). There is no correct criterion, though

most zines are the size of a standard sheet of paper, 8 1/2 by 11

inches, folded in half. Zines are usually made from photocopies, “but

can be offset, letterpressed, mimeogrpahed, or Risograph printed” and

“can have a print run from 1 or into the thousands but generally have a

run under 1,000” (Wrekk 9).

Zines are DIY both in their form and content. The layout of zines

intentionally displays their DIY character and process. Zines

“incorporate many different skills from writing, art, production and

even research” and enable the writer to “use more than text to tell

stories” (Wrekk 13, 19). Most have a cut and paste aesthetic, meaning it

looks as though the writer has removed words, images, and other contents

from their original source and pasted them into the zine. Text often

mimics typewriter style fonts are cut out in sections, and pasted on the

pages. Writers might coordinate fonts with the topic, add handwritten

sections, and intentionally vary styles. Images are cut out and collaged

onto pages or hand drawn. The combination and layers of styles reveal

multifaceted meanings.

Because there is an emphasis on artistic endeavor and informal

education, these cultures are highly prolific, creating and

communicating pools of shared knowledge and history. Zines can be about

“every imaginable subject matter, from food politics to thrift shopping

to motherhood” and tend to be reflexive about the experience of

activists (Piepmeier 2). As zines are typically written as part of

participation in a political subculture, they often include DIY or

‘how-to’ guides, such as vegan cooking, urban gardening, personal

health, or starting a collective. Particularly, queer and feminist

identified people embrace zines as a platform of self expression and

sharing of experiences.

Individuals or zine ‘distros,’ meaning distributors, circulate zines.

Distros “are generally small hobby mail orders, online shops, or,

occasionally, collections of zine and other items brought to shows or

events to sell” (Wrekk 11). Organizers ‘table’ zines at events, meaning

that groups have table space to put out zines and other group

information, patches, pins, and fliers. They are free, for barter, or

sale with the cost usually under $5.00 to cover printing cost or raise

money for a group. Rarely do zine writers make a profit. Much of this

information is now online, though paper zines are still written and

heavily circulated. Currently, zines are widely available online as PDF

documents or are purchasable online from distros or zine archive

websites. In addition, both Barnard College and CUNY’s Brooklyn College

now have zine libraries on campus.

Zine writers have addressed implementing restorative and transformative

justice models in the subculture. Because the subculture is generally

anti authoritarian and combative towards the criminal justice system,

activists are using available resources and their own cultural contexts

to create prototypes for more ethical justice. Discussion of these

policies has become prevalent at events and meetings, in zines, emails,

and blog posts.

To carry out this study I used 121 zines to look at the experiences of

activists. Fewer than half were hardcopy and the remainder were in PDF

form found and circulated online. I collected many of the printed zines

while I was participating in activities and the zines were in

circulation around the subculture. These would include zines from the

local Brooklyn and Feminist zine festivals, organizations tabling at

events like the Anarchist Book Fair or POC Zine Project Tour, or ones

made by friends. I purchased others at Bluestockings bookstore in NYC or

Wooden Shoe Books in Philadelphia, activist publishers like AK Press, or

online zine distros. I obtained PDF copies of zines at websites of

transformative justice groups like Philly’s Pissed and Support NY, or

online zine libraries such as the Queer Zine Archive Project.

Zines might be specific to a local area, listing localized resources and

information, yet they also cross national borders. My interest is

primarily in zines circulating in the United States, which does not mean

all of the zines are written by people in the US. I limited my study to

zines in English, as they are the most circulated; however, I did find

zines in Spanish, German, and French on topics of sexism, consent, and

transformative justice. As a member of Support New York, activists in

other countries would have meetings on Skype with our members about how

the group carried out processes. As a member of the For the Birds

Collective, we scanned zines to send to overseas collectives. The flow

of information makes it difficult to limit and demarcate along a

country’s boundaries.

The sample of zines I’m using are not intended to be numerically

representative of zines in general, but instead an assessment of zines

organizers are writing and circulating about gender related issues with

in activist subculture. I’ve separated the zines I’m using into four

major themes: 1) sexism, 2) consent and rape, 3) men’s groups, and 4)

transformative justice and accountability processes. Many are completion

zines, written by more than one person or group, with some pieces being

in multiple zines. Some are also a part of a series and I’m only looking

at the issue that addresses one of the aforementioned themes or I am

only using the issues I was able to obtain as zines “are published and

distributed erratically” (Freedman 2018). The source or author of many

zines are unclear, attributed to monikers, or are anonymous.

The first and most general category of zines I collected were about

sexism in activism. These covered topics such as meeting structures,

sexism and COINTELPRO, and gender’s relationship to violence. Some are

perzines, or zines “are focused on the author’s life, opinions, and

thoughts” (Freedman 2018). Others are general guides of how to deal with

sexism. The Super Happy Anarcho Fun Pages and On the Recent Occupations

include comic drawings. Of the zines about sexism, two especially of

note are The First 7 inch was Better, which was later published in the

academic journal W omen and Performance, and Why She Doesn’t Give a Fuck

About Your Insurrection, which was especially controversial in the

subculture as a response to actions of insurrectionist anarchists.

Sexism Themed Zine Titles (symbol indicating hard copy^ or PDF*)

• Betrayal: A Critical Analysis of Rape Culture In Anarchist

Subcultures^

• Brainscan #27: Ten Stories^

• Brainscan Epilogue^

• Breaking the MANacles: An Anti-Patriarchy Reader^

• Bros Fall Back*

• Dangerous Spaces: Violent Resistance, Self-Defense, & Insurrectional

Struggle Against Gender*

• Don’t Be a Dick*

• Erinyen: Anarcha-Feminist Inky #2^

• From the Kitchen: Sexism, Anarchism, and Men*

• Gendered Space, Volume 1^

• How Can I Be Sexist I’m Anarchist*

• How We Kiss: Privilege on the Dance Floor*

• My Feminist Manifesta: A Call Out to Men*

• No SafeHouses: Patriarchy on the Left Part iI of IV

• On the Recent Occupations^

• Said the Pot to the Kettle: Feminist Theory for Anarchist Men^

• So You Want to Start a Feminist Collective…^

• The First 7-inch Was Better: How I Became an Ex-Punk*

• The Super Happy Anarcho-Fun Pages #3*

• Think and Die Thinking*

• Vampire Hunt: Manipulation in Interpersonal Relationships and Groups^

• What Happened to Sisterhood? We Can’t Fight Patriarchy If We’re Too

Busy Fighting Each Other*

• When Women Attack*

• Why Misogynists Make Great Informants: How Gender Violence on the Left

Enables State Violence in Radical Movements*

• Why She Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Your Insurrection^

The second category of zines I’ve created are specifically addressing

consent and sexual assault. While a few are perzines like On the Table

and Everything. Is. Fine. , most of these zines are guides on defending

yourself, having consensual sex, and conducting workshops about consent.

Arguably Learning Good Consent was one of the most popular zines in the

subculture and is still regularly found at various zine fests and

events.

Consent and Rape Themed Zine Titles (symbol indicating hard copy^ or

PDF*) A DIY Guide to Prevent Sexual Assault*

• A Streetcar Named Consent: Tactics for Sexual Consent and Delight*

• AKA: How to Hit on Someone^

• Ask First! Resources for Supporters, Survivors, and Perpetrators of

Sexual Assault*

• Blackout #3^

• Consent is Part of My Operating System*

• Don’t Rape Each Other! Consent is a Community Issue*

• Everything. Is. Fine. Issue 1, Volume 1^

• Fucked: On Being Sexually Dysfunctional in Sex-Posi Queer Scenes*

• Haay Hottie! Consent, Communication & Boundary Setting in Party

Spaces^

• How to Put Together Your Own Participatory, Community-Specific Radical

Consent Workshop!*

• i’m Having a Long Sequence of De Ja Vu, #1*

• Learning Good Consent^

• Let’s Talk About Consent Baby*

• Let’s Talk Consent^

• Let’s Talk: Feminist Communication for Radicalizing Sex, Consent, &

Interpersonal Dynamics*

• Listen, Punk, Maybe You Misunderstood: Not Without My Clear and Full

Consent!

• My Body, My Limits, My Pleasure, My Choice: A Positive Sexuality

Booklet for Young People*

• Not Without My Consent! (Asshole!)*

• On the Table: My Sexual Assaults*

• Purge #3 Stories from Survivors of Sexual Assault^

• Sexual Violence Isn’t Only on the Streets: Ask Before You Touch Me^

• Silence = Death*

• Smart Tart: A Sex Positive Zine on Sexual Health for Women, Queer, and

Trans People #1^

• Support^

• Women’s Self Defense #2: Stories and Strategies of Survival*

A third type of zines I’ve included are written either by men’s groups

and or/are especially intended for male activists. The Philly Dudes

Collective was a particularly popular zine when I was a member of

Support New York and The For the Birds Collective. One not listed here

because it was only included in the later book version of The Revolution

Starts at Home, is The Challenging Male Supremacy Project’s essay “What

Does it Feel Like When Change Finally Comes?: Male Supremacy,

Accountability & Transformative Justice.”

Men’s Group Zine Titles (symbol indicating hard copy^ or PDF*)

• Beginners Guide to Responsible Sexuality (For Men)^

• Ex Masculus: Critical Reflections of Pro-Feminist Men’s Groups*

• Fight Rape: Dealing With Our Shit*

• Masculinities ^

• Men Can Stop Rape*

• Men in the Feminist Struggle*

• Men Speaking Out on Men and Sexism, Number 1*

• Men Unlearning Rape^

• Men, Sexism, and the Class Struggle^

• On the Road to Healing: A Booklet for Men Against Sexism*

• On the Road to Healing: A Booklet for Men Against Sexism, Issue 2*

• Social Detox, Issue #1: Resources for Anti-Sexist Men^

• The Philly Dudes Collective: Year One (And a Half)^

And the final category of zines are about transformative justice. These

include perzines, guides to and critiques of transformative justice. A

few of these are explicitly talking about a specific, named activist. I

have removed the individual’s name from the Regarding Xxxxxxxx zine for

this reason. Through the name is a moniker used by the person, his name

is known enough that it would be specific. Other zines like Baby I’m a

Manarchist and Brainscan name a specific individual in their content, so

in any quotes I will not include the names of people accused of abuse or

harm. Of these zines, Support, Taking the First Step, Gender Oppression,

and We Are All Survivors were especially common.

Transformative Justice and Accountability Zine Titles (symbol indicating

hard copy^ or PDF*)

• A Job for the A Team: A Zine on Awareness and Community

Accountability*

• A Radical Mini-Guide to Self-Care After Trauma^

• A Stand Up Start-Up: Confronting Sexual Assault With Transformative

Justice*

• A World Without Sexual Assault*

• Accountability Processes are Ableist as Fuck^

• Accountability^

• Accounting for Ourselves: Breaking the Impasse Around Assault and

Abuse in Anarchist Scenes*

• An Accountability Process Primer: How to Prepare For and Facilitate a

Process*

• As If They Were Human: A Different Take on Perpetrator Accountability*

• Baby, I’m a Manarchist^

• Beautiful, Difficult, Powerful: Ending Sexual Assault Through

Transformative Justice*

• Behind the Closet Doors: Confronting Emotional Abuse in Intimate

Partnerships^

• Bitterness and Rage: On Being a ‘Bad Survivor’

• Brainscan #21: Irreconcilable Differences^

• Brainscan #26: So, What’s the Deal With You and Microcosm?

• D.I.Y. Accountability: If You Don’t Get It From Them — Do It Yourself^

• Fix My Head, Issue #2*

• For Your Safety and Security…*

• Gender Oppression; Abuse; Violence: Community Accountability Within

the People of Color Progressive Movement^

• Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now: Support and Anarchist Communities^

• Hoax #12: Feminisms and Healing^

• If a Man Commits Rape in Newtown and No One Knows How to Deal With

It…*

• In Our Hands: Using a Community Accountability Approach to Address

Sexual Violence, Abuse & Oppression #1*

• It’s Down to This #2: On Sexual Violence, Accountability, Consent,

Healing^

• It’s Down to This: Reflections, Stories, Experiences, Critiques and

Ideas On Community and Collective Response to Sexual Violence, Abuse,

and Accountability^

• Making Spaces Safer^

• Miklat Miklat: A Transformative Justice Zine*

• Moving Towards a Culture of Transformative Justice^

• My Friend’s a Perp: What Do I Do?

• No More Words #3^

• Our Own Response: Creating Healthier Communities^

• Quarrel: Stories of Survivor Self Determination Direct Action,

Strategies for Safer Spaces & Ripping Patriarchy to Shreds*

• Regarding Xxxxxxxx^

• Salvage: Gendered Violence in Activist Communities*

• See No, Speak No, Hear No: Articles and Questions about Sexual

Assault^

• Setting Fire to the Church of Social Justice: 3 Critiques of Identity

Politics, Call-Out Culture & Other Models of Statist Thinking*

• Strategies for Survivors*

• Supporting A Survivor of Sexual Assault*

• Survive, Empower, Resist: A Resource Guide for Survivors of Sexual

Assault in New York City^

• Taking Risks: Implementing Grassroots Community Accountability

Strategies^

• Taking the First Step: Suggestions to People Called Out for Abusive

Behavior^

• The Broken Teapot*

• The Hammer in Our Hamlets: Patriarchy on the Left Part III of IV

• The Revolution Starts At Home: Confronting Partner Abuse in Activist

Communities^

• This is About More Than Who We Fuck (And Who Fucks Us)^

• Thoughts on Possible Community Responses to Intimate Violence (Redux)^

• Thoughts About Community Support Around Intimate Violence^

• Tired of Paper People^

• Transformative Justice and/as Harm*

• We Are All Survivors, We Are All Perpetrators // What to Do When

Someone Tells You That You Violated Their Boundaries, Made Them Feel

Uncomfortable, or Committed Assault^

• What About the Rapists? Anarchist Approaches to Crime & Justice*

• What Do We Do When? A Zine about Community Response to Sexual Assault,

Issue #2*

• What Do We Do When? Radical Community Response to Sexual Assault,

Issue #3^

• What to Do When Harm Occurs*

• What to Do When Someone Tells You that You Violated Their Boundaries,

Made Them Feel Uncomfortable, or Committed Assault*

• What to Do When You’ve Been Called Out: A Brief Guide*

• Witch-Hunt: Addressing Mental Health and Confronting Sexual Assault in

Activist Communities*

I read all of the listed zines and organized the content around

particular themes developed out of my historical research. I divided

content into issues in organizing and security culture, consent and

sexual relationships, safer spaces, abuse and harm, survivors and

perpetrators, processes, successes and problems, the use of violence,

critiques from within the subculture, and resulting changing of activism

or leaving. In my assessment of the literature, I hope to give the most

accurate representation possible of the context and sentiments of the

writers as well as the information circulating in the subculture.

In addition, I’m using other types of documents from the subculture to

further explore the transformative justice practices. As previously

mentioned, a few zines have been republished as books with additional

chapters and articles added, such as Learning Good Consent: On Healthy

Relationships and Survivor Support, The Revolution Starts at Home, and

The Encyclopedia of Doris. There are also a few subculture related,

anarchist newspapers and magazines like Crimethinc, The Fifth Estate,

and The Abolitionist. A few transformative justice collectives have

developed curriculums and toolkits for processes. Further, I am using

some artwork and comics, organization hand outs and fliers, event

brochures, safer space policies, blog posts, organization’s websites and

articles.

CHAPTER 3 HISTORICAL PATTERNS IN NEW LEFT MOVEMENTS

You can’t claim that you love people when you don’t respect them, and

you can’t call for political unity unless you practice it in your

relationships. And that doesn’t happen out of nowhere. That’s something

that has got to be put into practice every day.

Assata Shakur, Assata: An Autobiography

Because New Left movements were “grounded in American experience and

language,” they also reflect these power differentials (Flacks 2013:

840). Within radical left activism there is not a comprehensive

understanding of the internal cultures of past movements. Organizers,

both then and now, often view relationships as personal, separate from

or not as important as the cause. But patriarchy and sexism are major

impediments to the mobilization of women in gender-integrated movements

(Horn 2013, Kuumba 2001). To elucidate these dynamics, I want to look at

three social movements of the New Left to examine how they

conceptualized these issues, how they dealt with problems, and how they

effected the social movement as a whole.

I have specifically examined the history of gendered dynamics in the

Student Non Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), the Black Panther

Party, and Students for a Democratic Society / the Weather Underground

(SDS/WUO). When considering the overlap of a ‘generational underground’

and social movements, Stuart Hall cites “civil rights” (SNCC), “black

power” (the Panthers), and “campus rebellions” (SDS) explicitly as

existing in the “activist pole” of the cultural dialectic (2007: 160).

These successive movements are simultaneously rooted in the norms and

conditions of their respective times despite their struggles against

them.

SNCC, the Black Panther Party, and SDS/WUO are best examined within

their temporal framework. From 1960 — 1980 American women’s lives

underwent drastic changes. Many women were taught to “accept male

dominance and to consider [themselves]…a helpmate to men” (Jennings

2001: 146). In the preceding 1950s, society defined women in relation to

marriage and children, which was “part of the national agenda” against

communism and the Cold War (PBS 2003). While women made up 32% of

college students (LaGuardia and Wagner Archives), there was a frequent

joke that women “went to college to get a “Mrs.” (pronounced M.R.S.)

degree, meaning a husband” (PBS 2003) and only 33.9% of women were part

of the civilian labor force (Toossi 2002). By 1980, women made up 51.8%

of college students (NCES 2010) and 51.5% of the civilian labor force

(Toossi 2002). Public discourse around sex and sexual harassment /

assault also drastically changed over this period.

Activists in SNCC, the Black Panther Party, and SDS/WUO were entrenched

in these changing cultural norms. Elaine Brown of the Black Panther

Party has stated “We didn’t get the men from revolutionary heaven,”

pointing to the difficulties of carrying out ideology in the material

realities of everyday life. Putting ideology into practice means

activists are answerable to both current conditions and to the world

they are attempting to create. They are creating a culture that promotes

further social change and “revealing the underlying structures of the

formal institutions with which [they]…are in conflict” (Brotherton and

Barrios 2004:49).

I do not intend to create a conclusive history, but a succinct,

organized examination of how gender, sex, and organizing intwine in

these three social movements. Specifically I deduced four primary

themes: the officially and unofficially defined roles for women in the

group, how gender influenced group organization such as the division of

labor and leadership, social bonds and sexual relationships within the

group, and internal methods of dealing with conflict and self critique.

THE STUDENT NONVIOLENT COORDINATING COMMITTEE (SNCC)

The Student Non Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC, pronounced

‘snick’), formed in 1960 to support student actions against segregation

(Polletta 2013). Groups such as the Southern Christian Leadership

Conference (SCLC) and the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), met at a

conference at Shaw University with the goal of incorporating a student

branch into their organizations. Ella Baker, a founding member of SCLC

and organizer of the Shaw Conference, had been critical of SCLC’s

hierarchical and patriarchal organization (Abu-Jamal 2004, Greenberg

1998). At the conference, she instead counseled the students, who

included Julian Bond and John Lewis, to create their own autonomous

group. She wished for the students to “maintain not only their zeal,

idealism, and independence, but also their inclination ‘toward

group-centeredness, rather than toward a leader-centered group pattern

of organization’” (Giddings 2007: 274).

SNCC developed as a democracy with minimal hierarchy. The organization

had a chairman and some specialized positions and advisors, but was

primarily a network of workers and local people operating independently

in communities across the southeast (Urban 2002, Anderson-Bricker 1999).

The group’s early actions included sit-ins and voter registration. Staff

created close friendships with other workers and local people. SNCC

conceived the idea of a ‘beloved community’ as a kind of utopian,

prefigurative microcosm. They reenforced this through staff taking on

the clothing and mannerisms of the local, poor rural people, such as

denim overalls and women wearing little makeup (Ford 2013).

At its largest, SNCC had a staff of 160 people (Polletta 2013), with

significantly higher numbers of women than other civil rights

organizations. Jean Wiley, an SNCC organizer, stated she “had not idea

there’d be so many women, so many Black women in SNCC because in all of

the political groups that [she had] been in…were overwhelmingly male.

Black and white, --but male” (Veterans 2004). Some SNCC members believed

that local Black men were less likely to participate because they faced

real, physical danger from local white people. Hardy Frye, of CORE and

SNCC, noted “the men always were the last to come in to the church

because they had been out surveying the situation, they had weapons in

their trucks and they were basically security” against local white

supremacists (Veterans 2004).

Though one or two accounts discussed women’s treatment as “inferiors to

men“ (Urban 2002), most assess the organization as gender egalitarian

(Veterans 2004, Fleming 1993, Carmichael 2003). If anything, SNCC valued

tasks traditionally associated with women as strengths instead of

weaknesses. Local Black women were both “substitute mother figures” and

“militant…out-spoken…and willing to catch hell” (Evans 1980: 53, 51).

They were “looked up to by the whole community because of their wisdom,

tenacity, strength, and ability to transcend the oppressive nature of

their lives” (Giddings 2007: 284). The group valued women’s centrality

to the family and integrated these ideas into their organizing. Women

like Rita Walker “brought her husband and even the kids to the [Freedom]

House…she just made the Movement her life” (Veterans 2004). Other

organizers like Diane Nash simultaneously maintained movement

involvement while visibly pregnant. Nash became “a forceful

statement…that being a woman placed no restrictions on full and

significant participation in the Movement” (Holsaert 2012: 486).

Organization and Leadership in SNCC

Ella Baker was an early advisor to the group and guided SNCC’s

“political orientation, moral outlook, and organizing principles”

(Carmichael 2003: 305). Baker knew the complexity of power in few hands

and even her own “guidance was so natural, so gentle and unobtrusive, as

to have been almost imperceptible at the time” (Carmichael 2003: 305).

She emphasized ‘grass roots’ activism, that members were not ‘leaders’,

but ‘organizers,’ “who sprang from the organizing itself — not imposed

by others from the top down” (Richardson 2015, Ford 2013). SNCC members

often teased fellow members who drew more attention, such as Stokely

Carmichael being called ‘Stokely Starmichael’ for his media notoriety

(Greenberg 1998: 129). The group used consensus decision making to

address larger concerns (Cornell 2016), and “acted on the basis of their

own decisions and instincts” to operate daily (Anderson-Bricker 1999:

50). Activists rooted mutual trust in interdependence (King 1988) and

viewing themselves as “a family of siblings” (Holsaert 2012: 386).

Though the chairman of SNCC was always a man, women were important

leaders in the Movement (Holsaert 2012, Greenberg 1998). The

organization encouraged both men and women to become field secretaries

and project directors. Yet, in action women tackled traditionally female

tasks, such as cleaning Freedom Houses, clerical work, and taking

minutes (Urban 2002, Anderson-Bricker 1999, Giddings 2007, Evans 1980).

SNCC organizer Judy Richardson remembered “only the women are doing the

minutes… the guys aren’t doing them — Julian [Bond] certainly isn’t

doin’ no minutes. You know, Jimmy Bolton wasn’t doing the minutes. You

know, none of the men were doing the minutes” (Wiley 2007). As a

response, a group of women, including Mary King, Ruby Doris Smith

Robinson, Mildred Foreman, and Judy Richardson, staged a sit in in front

of Executive Secretary Jim Forman’s office. Richardson describes how

Forman was “greeted by a halfway serious sit-in …all singing ‘We Shall

Not Be Moved’ and holding picket signs that read ‘Unfair’…and ’No more

work till justice comes to the Atlanta office’” (Holsaert 2012: 361). As

a result, both men and women began taking minutes in SNCC meetings.

Some have argued that there was logic underlying the division of labor.

Due to the danger of their surroundings, men would drive vehicles

because it was one of the most high risk tasks (Evans 1980: 77). Because

of the taboo of Black men interacting with white women and threats from

local whites, white women undertook administrative roles. Black women

had a bit more “ability to make decisions and engage in high-risk

activism” (Kuumba 2001: 37). At the same time, SNCC encouraged more men

to take on domestic labor. Stokely Carmichael and James Forman notably

lead by example, cleaning dishes (Greenberg 1998: 147) and sweeping

floors (Wiley 2007). Much of the work carried out by SNCC involved

working with local communities, creating interpersonal networks, and

administrative work, “abilities that are commonly encouraged in women”

(Evans 1980: 46). The administrative work was not simply typing, but

larger scale organizing, managing meetings, and decision making.

Relationships in SNCC

SNCC’s self conception as a ‘beloved community’ framed the interpersonal

relationships in the group. Members’ personal lives and activist work

became enmeshed. Organizer Joyce Ladner has stated SNCC “relationships

were defined…first and foremost by the task at hand” (Greenberg 1998:

144). Even after difficult meetings, organizers would transition to

pleasure and relaxation. Mary King remembers “afterward there was always

music, with beer and dancing late into the night, and our basic

affection for each other would flow across the wounds of the day’s

diatribes” (King 1988: 451). The pressure and danger from outside of the

community intensified these bonds.

Sexual relationships were particularly important in SNCC’s evolvement.

Some who were children of “Old Left” activists and union organizers

eschewed sex with other activists for fear of complications (Greenberg

1998, Veterans 2004). Others found it “easier to try to settle in to” a

relationship because “[s]ex was a major preoccupation…it was getting

both…distracting and unnerving” (Veterans 2004). Participants were

young, challenging their existing social norms, and living under the

threat of danger. For some this meant “‘you would sleep with whoever was

there’” (Evans 1980: 79), such as Chude Pam Allen’s account of meeting

Wayne Yancy. “I don’t think it was 60 seconds, “Hi! You want to sleep

together?” [Laughter] And I was a little prude, right? I mean, I’m not

even sexually experienced, so I was just horrified. And of course then

he gets killed, and then I’m feeling guilty” (Veterans 2004). The danger

faced by activists was romanticized and inferred a form of cultural

capital. In interviews Bruce Hartford and Willie B. Wazir Peacock have

talked about how being a ‘freedom fighter’ imparted sex appeal, with

Peacock positing resultant increased participation, because “local

boys…got envious and jealous…[s]o a few of them started…getting involved

(Veterans 2004).

Interracial sex, specifically between white women and Black men, was

especially controversial. At the time, a white woman seen simply holding

hands or in a car with a Black man could put them at risk of physical

danger. Some thought interracial sex was part of creating the ‘beloved

community,’ challenging societal expectations in the “concrete reality

in the intimacy of the bedroom” (Evans 1980: 79). But in defining these

relationships as part of the creation of community, there was also

pressure to break the taboo “to prove that they weren’t [racist]” or

were dedicated to the Movement (Veterans 2004).

Sexual relationships became a particular problem and created tension

during the Freedom Summer of 1964. SNCC accepted or rejected female

volunteers from the north in part based on their physical appearance

(McAdam 1990). Some white women became involved with Black men who

already had wives and partners. When James Forman divorced his wife

Mildred, who was Black and an organizer, and quickly remarried a white

woman named Constancia Romilly, it signaled “white women had no respect

for relationships of black men and black women — which every black men

knew” (Fleming 1998). Organizer Gloria Richardson Dandridge remembers

spending much of her time addressing sexual relationships of other

organizers. “Becoming a sexual relations counselor was another one of

the tasks that was in my unwritten job description. Often this issue

took up an inordinate amount of my time and taxed me the most” (Holsaert

2012: 29!218). Gwendolyn Zoharah Simmons developed a “sexual harassment

policy [which] was converted to ‘She hates men’ by some of my male

colleagues” (Holsaert 2012: 31). Others went so far as to ban

relationships or forced out people seen as causing trouble (Fleming

1998, Veterans 2004).

Gender, Race and Internal Disputes

In the fall of 1964, Casey Hayden and Mary King, two white women on SNCC

staff, anonymously wrote an position paper for the SNCC Waveland

Conference called ‘Women in the Movement.’ The paper listed 11 instances

of sexism, including “Although there are some women...who have been

working as long as some of the men, the leadership group...is all men,”

and “Any woman in SNCC, no matter what her position or experience, has

been asked to take minutes in a meeting when she and other women are

outnumbered by men.” This list is not all inclusive as it “could

continue as far as there are women in the movement” and notes the

parallel privilege of whiteness (Kuumba 2001). A year later, in “Sex and

Caste: A Kind of Memo,” Hayden and King again reflected on their

experiences in activism, pointed to the lack of dialogue about gender in

the Movement, and raised questions about the operating division of

labor. Notably, neither statement addressed sex and romantic

relationships in the Movement. They sent the latter paper to forty

female organizers in various peace and civil rights organizations around

the country (King 1988, Greenberg 1998). Hayden has since written that

she did not intend for these pieces to show “dissension within the

ranks” but instead feminism emerging “because SNCC served as a model…to

pattern their own movements” (Greenberg 1998: 145). In retrospect,

historians have argued ‘Women in the Movement’ was a “reaction to

growing Black nationalism and an attempt to return SNCC to the ideals of

the beloved community” (Anderson-Bricker 1999: 53) and was written

anonymously because the women could “sens[e] their own precariousness”

(Evans 1980: 85).

The general reception within SNCC to the paper was not positive. There

was disagreement between many white and Black women about their

experience of sexism (Veterans 2004). Many Black women organizers did

not feel marginalized in SNCC, in part “because many female Black

staffers had more authority, respect and responsibility than their white

counterparts” (Anderson-Bricker 1999: 55). Others believed white women

“tried to dominate the office” (Fleming 1998) and that sexism was

primarily a concern of white women (Breines 1996). For some Black women,

though there was chauvinism in the group, it was not a priority in

relation to race (Anderson-Bricker 1999, Giddings 2007). “[T]hey

rejected an attack on black nationalism couched in the language of

gender” (Barber 2010: 105). When sexism did happen, women were expected

to be strong, refuse to tolerate it, and fight back (Holsaert 2012:

481).

The initial position paper of 1964 is the backdrop to the infamous

Stokely Carmichael quote concerning the position of women in SNCC. In

Freedom Song, Mary King argues that the quote is usually taken out of

context and recounts the exchange. On an evening during the conference,

roughly 25 SNCC members were drinking alcohol on a pier after meeting.

“Looking straight at me, [Carmichael] grinned broadly and shouted, ‘What

is the position of women in SNCC?’ Answering himself, he responded, ‘The

position of women in SNCC is prone!’ Stokely threw back his head and

roared…with laughter. We all collapsed with hilarity. His ribald comment

was uproarious and wild. It drew us all closer together; because even at

that moment, he was poking fun at his own attitudes. Casey and I felt,

and continue to feel, that Stokely was one of the most responsive men at

the time that our anonymous paper appeared in 1964” (1988: 452).

Accounts indicate Carmichael was jesting by referencing the

complications around sex during the Summer of 1964 Freedom Rides and not

genuinely giving his opinion on women’s role in the Movement.

The Summer of 1964 was a turning point for SNCC. The organization became

more hierarchical, centralized and urban. In 1966 SNCC transitioned to

an all Black organization and became increasingly radical, including

questioning non violence in the face of the failures of the national

government (McAdam 1985, Evans 1980). While some women did achieve

higher leadership levels such as Ruby Doris Smith Robinson, women’s

participation dropped (Kuumba 2001) and women who stayed involved became

more “openly critical of men” (Giddings 2007). In 1968 Frances M. Beal

started the Third World Women’s Alliance (TWWA) as a caucus within SNCC,

which later became an independent organization renamed the Black Women’s

Alliance (Anderson-Bricker 1999). Though not as memorialized as some

other civil rights organizations, SNCC influenced and shaped subsequent

student movements. These include the Black Panther Party and Students

for a Democratic Society.

THE BLACK PANTHER PARTY

Bobby Seale and Huey Newton founded The Black Panther Party, initially

called the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, in Oakland, California

in October, 1966. The emblem of a black panther originated in Alabama as

a symbol for the Lowndes County Freedom Organization (LFCO), an

alternative independent political party to the all white Democratic

Party. Stokely Carmichael of SNCC took up the image, and subsequently

the early Black power movements (Bloom and Martin 2016). The initial

goal of the group was to defend the Black community against police

brutality by arming themselves with guns and surveilling police

activity. Seale and Newton created a ten point Party platform as

follows:

• We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our Black

community.

• We want full employment for our people

• We want an end to the robbery by the White man of our Black community.

• We want decent housing, fit for shelter [of] human beings

• We want education for our people that exposes the true nature of this

decadent American society. We want education that teaches us our true

history and our role in the present day society.

• We want all Black men to be exempt from military service.

• We want an immediate end to police brutality and murder of Black

people.

• We want freedom for all Black men held in federal, state, county, and

city prisons and jails.

• We want all Black people when brought to trial to be tried in court by

a jury of their peer group or people from their Black communities. As

defined by the constitution of the United States.

• We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice, and peace.

(University of California Press. 2017)

Although military style self defense training remained at the core of

the Black Panther Party until the group dissolved in 1982, political

education and community programs such as health clinics and breakfast

programs quickly became significant components of their organizing.

Aesthetically, the Party uniform of black leather jackets, black

sunglasses, and natural or afro hair styles reflected this militancy. By

1967, Eldridge Cleaver, a noted poet and ex prisoner, joined the Party

leadership. According to historian Clayborne Carson, “Huey Newton…was

the visionary of the Party. Bobby Seale, he had the personality.

Eldridge Cleaver was the person who made the Party credible to Black

intellectuals, to the white left intellectuals” (Nelson 2015). At its

peak, the Party had chapters in 48 states and more than 2000 members

(Brown 2018).

Through 1967, membership in the Black Panther Party was young and male.

For the early organizers, the Party was “an organization that would

involve the lower-class brothers” and “educate and politicize the male

‘brothers on the block’” (Newton 2009: 101, Bloom and Martin 2016: 95).

A recruitment call in the first edition of The Black Panther, the Party

newspaper, stated “These Brothers are the cream of Black manhood. They

are there for the protection and defense of our Black community. The

Black community owes it to itself, to the future of our people, to get

behind these brothers… BLACK MEN!!! It is your duty to your women and

children, to your mothers and sisters, to investigate the program of the

PARTY” (Newsprint Vault 2018). Men’s position as the first line of

defense was part of the restoration of Black manhood denied in slavery

and under Jim Crow laws (Bukhari-Alston 1995).

Initially the Party separated women who joined into a subgroup of

‘Pantherettes,’ but by 1968 the label disappeared and women were

incorporated into the ‘Panthers’ (Spencer 2008). Women were drawn by

images of strength and virtue, the “‘in your face’ macho style of Party

leaders” sometimes alienated them (Josephs 2008: 410 ). Additionally,

women in the Party tended to have more formal education than the men

(Williams 2012: 40, Spencer 2008: 97). By 1970, women made up the

majority in the Black Panther Party (Nelson 2015, Josephs 2008) and

Newton was advocating unity with feminist and gay movements.

Gender in the Black Panther Party

Theoretically, there was gender equality in the Party and they referred

to women as ‘comrades’ and ‘soldiers’ in the Party newspaper (Bloom and

Martin 2016, Josephs 2008, McBean 2014). This attempt at equality is

particularly notable for its time. Similar organizations such as the US

Organization and the Nation of Islam with Farakkahan at the helm did not

offer women the same status in their organizations. In his

autobiography, Bobby Seal stated the Panther position as: “The way we

see it, the sister is also a revolutionary, and she has to be able to

defend herself, just like we do. She has to learn to shoot, just like we

do. Because the pigs in the system don’t care that she’s a sister; they

brutalize her just the same” (1996: 398). The Panthers believed both men

and women were subject to the violence of the police and therefore they

must be equal in their revolutionary position (Josephs 2008, Seale 1978:

178).

Some female Panthers say they did not feel excluded (Jennings 2001),

such as Kathleen Neal Cleaver stating “someone would ask, ‘What is the

woman’s role in the Black Panther Party?’ I never liked that question.

I’d give a short answer: ‘It’s the same as men’ We are revolutionaries,

I’d explain” (Cleaver 1999: 232). In 1969, six anonymous Panther women

were interviewed for a pamphlet called “Panther Sisters on Women’s

Liberation.” In the interview, the women stated that there was some

chauvinism previously, however, “The sisters have to pick up guns just

like brothers.” Because of her strength and leadership after the

assassination of her husband and targeting by police, both men and women

often cited Erika Huggins as changing the gender dynamic and how Panther

men viewed Panther women (Spencer 2008). In addition, the Party held up

Vietnamese women fighting in the Vietnam War as role models. “[T]he

[Vietnamese] women in fact play the role of the other half—not the

weaker half, not the stronger half, but the other half of the Vietnamese

men” (Bukhari-Alston 1969). It was Party policy for men and women to

carry out the daily activities and chores, such as cooking, answering

phones, cleaning, and babysitting (Nelson 2015).

Other accounts show the inconsistency and complexity of gender in the

Party. Though seen as a problem, racism and capitalism were prioritized

over sexism. The implementation of gender policy was dependent on the

Party chapter location (Bloom and Martin 2016: 97). Elaine Brown, the

only female to chair the Black Panther Party, states Brothers in

multiple chapters believed “[s]mart bitches’ like us…needed to be

silenced” (Brown 1993: 192). Likewise, both Angela Davis and Assata

Shakur similarly reference the Party’s “maleness” (Davis 1974: 161), a

“macho cult” (Shakur 2001: 223). In her autobiography, Assata, Shakur

states: “[A] lot of us [women] adopted that kind of macho type style in

order to survive in the Black Panther Party. It was very difficult to

say ‘well listen brother, I think that…we should do this and this.’ [I]n

order to be listened to, you had to just say, ‘look mothafucka,’ you

know. You had to develop this whole arrogant kind of macho style in

order to be heard…We were just involved in those day to day battles for

respect in the Black Panther Party” (2001: 422). Even leaders like Fred

Hampton, who was known for advocating the equality of women in the

party, “stated that washing dishes and sweeping floors was ‘women’s

work.’” (Williams 2012: 42).

After the outset, many women began to take on leadership roles as male

leaders were arrested or murdered. Seale, Newton, and Eldridge Cleaver

all faced serious charges by police. Cleaver and Newton separately fled

to Cuba, with Cleaver later moving to Algeria, to avoid prosecution.

Kathleen Cleaver was the first female on the Central Committee, and

became a recognizable public face of the party (Spencer 2008). Later,

after Newton’s exile, Elaine Brown became the only female chairman of

the Black Panther Party and was known for putting more women in

leadership positions (Brown 1993: 362). At the local level, women were

particularly important, yet often underestimated (Phillips 2014).

“Whether I was in Philadelphia, the Bronx, or in Berkeley, California, I

was under the authority of a female Panther who ran a tight and

efficient operation” (Abu-Jamal 2004: 180). Some male members believed

the Party was becoming “weak” and women were “eroding black manhood”

(Brown 1993: 357)

Sex in the Black Panther Party

Sexual relationships between members of the Party was common. Being a

Panther carried subcultural capital and “gave them this tremendous sex

appeal” (Nelson 2015). The Party sometimes used attractive female

Panthers to recruit new members (Bloom and Martin 2016: 96). In some

cases, women were told it was their duty to have sex with Panther men

(Lumsden 2009: 910). In his autobiography A Lonely Rage, Bobby Seale

remembers the Party kicking a woman out of the group for not having sex

with a member and states that he believes this pressure was wrong, “in

effect, they didn’t have a choice.” (1978: 117). There are accounts of

leaders like Fred Hampton, vocally condemning rape (Williams 2012: 43).

But in other cases, Party members treated sex as a prize. In her

autobiography Taste of Power, Elaine Brown recounts a conversation when

Bobby Seal asked Sister Marsha about the role of women. “‘A Sister has

to learn to shoot as well as to cook, and be ready to back up the

Brothers. A Sister’s got to know the ten-point platform and program by

heart.’ ‘And what else?’ Bobby urged. ‘A Sister has to give up the pussy

when the Brother is on his job and hold it back when he’s not. ‘Cause

Sisters got pussy power’” (1993: 189). Similarly, Eldridge Cleaver

argued ‘pussy power’ could be “a reward for male political behavior”

(Spencer 2008: 104). It is important to note when considering consent

and sex that Eldridge Cleaver was convicted of rape before joining the

Party. The Party recommended members read Cleaver’s book Soul on Ice, in

which he stated in the past he felt “[r]ape was an insurrectionary act

…I started out by practicing on black girls in the ghetto…and when I

considered myself smooth enough, I crossed the tracks and sought out

white prey” (33). Later in the book he discusses his developing

understanding of race and repudiates rape.

Party policy was anti monogamy, “to ward off petty jealousies and

unnecessary quarrels that might in future ruin the overall goal and

purpose behind the struggle for freedom” (Seale 1978: 187). For some

this meant that men could have sex with women from outside the party and

women could not (Alameen-Shavers 2017). But others say “women chose

their partners as freely as the men, and many could and did say no”

(Abu-Jamal 2004: 182). Without larger cultural shifts around gender and

sexual relationships, non monogamy tends to benefit men more than women.

If women did not respond to men’s sexual advances or acquiesce to non

monogamy, some were accused of lacking commitment to the cause. Women

might be “shut out” of organizing and information (Spencer 2008: 104),

given “ridiculous orders” (Jennings 2001: 150), called

“‘counter-revolutionary’” (Seale 1996: 397) or “bourgeois” (Josephs

2008: 425). As stated by Panther Regina Jennings, “it became a terrible

strain to fight oppression in the streets and coordinate community

programs during the day, then chase Panther brothers out of our beds at

night” (Josephs 2008: 425). Though an official Party “Point of

Attention” was “Do not take liberties with women,” for Regina Jennings

the Central Committee sided with her harasser, and “believed that [her]

attitude to sexual abstinence was both foolish and counterrevolutionary”

(Jennings 2001: 151).

Internal Disputes and Self-Criticism

The FBI’s covert counter intelligence programs contributed to the

organic internal disputes of the Party. COINTELPRO (Counter Intelligence

Program) consists of undercover agents infiltrating activist groups,

using unregulated levels of surveillance and strategized disruption to

malign members and their causes (Churchill and Wall, 2001). Targets

included the American Indian Movement, Students for a Democratic

Society, and other Black nationalist, feminist, socialist, and anti war

groups, however, the group of most interest to the FBI was the Black

Panther Party. Ultimately, the goal of COINTELPRO is to gather

information, agitate and create dissent amongst participants, press for

groups to commit to radical and illegal acts that result in arrest, and

undermine the Movement.

Whatever the source of conflict, there was not a consistent form of

recourse for internal disputes in the Black Panther Party. Panther Emory

Douglas contends the Party had “a structure of accountability” with

“‘mechanism[s] in place’ to ‘deal with’ situations” (Spencer 2008: 101).

Similarly, Bobby Seal argues that the Party “wrote some explicit rules,”

though he concedes “[i]t was a struggle to stop this kind of thing”

(1996: 402). In some cases, Panthers used physical violence as

discipline (Williams 2012, Brown 1993). Elaine Brown ultimately left the

Party when Huey Newton, reinstated as chairman after returning to the

United States, approved the punishment of Panther school administrator

Regina Davis. A male Panther physically assaulted Davis and broke her

jaw as punishment for chiding him. Other times, the Panthers suspended

or banished the member at fault from the Party (Seale 1996), such as in

the case of a male Panther who raped a young female Panther (Cleaver

1999: 235) or when Party leadership found out that all of the men in the

Milwaukee chapter were abusing women (Williams 2012: 43). Some Panthers

such as Regina Jennings and Elaine Brown argue there was “no way to

challenge” decisions (Jennings 2001: 150) and “our judicial system [was]

made up mostly as we went along” (Brown 1993: 275).

The Black Panther Party often saw interpersonal problems as lying

outside of their purview. Despite acknowledging the need to step in with

policy a few times, Bobby Seal also talked about relationships between

the men and women as “petty problems” (1996: 401). This was particularly

an issue when leaders were chauvinist sympathizers or the aggressor

(Alameen-Shavers 2017: 114). Eldridge Cleaver was known to beat his wife

Kathleen (Spencer 2008: 100) and Huey Newton committed sexual assault

(Nelson 2015) and hit Elaine Brown. When another lover beat Brown,

Newton’s response was “It was, arguably, a violation of party rules, but

categorically not really party business, he finished. Anyway, I should

never have been in the bed of such an ‘ugly black motherfucker,’ he

concluded” (Brown 1993: 313). Others in the leadership told her it “was

too personal a matter for a party decision” and “she ‘had it coming’”

(McBean 2014).

Some in the Party believed that women simply needed to stand up for

themselves and refuse to allow other to treat them badly. Panther Brenda

Harris believed “some women faced the danger of being ‘sexually

exploited if she didn’t have the wherewithal to stand up for herself’”

(Williams 2012: 41). Joan Gray similarly stated “[i]f you were the type

of woman that stood for and allowed a certain type of behavior to take

place then that would happen to you…” (Williams 2012: 41). The Panthers

placed the responsibility and impetus for change in the hands of women.

Jackie Harper advised Panther women to “show men they ‘meant business’…

to command respect” (Josephs 2008: 422). Though Panther women “were not

dainty, shrinking violets” (Abu-Jamal 2004: 180), some did withdraw from

the group or defect to other groups because of these dynamics (Davis

1974, McBean 2014).

Whether viewed favorably or unfavorably, for its time, the Black Panther

Party was liberal in its views of women and gave women space for agency

and critique. The Party adapted their prefigurative politics to focus on

self education and challenging traditional ways of thinking. Verbally if

not always in practice, the Party recognized what is now referred to as

intersectionality, balancing race with class, gender, and other issues

addressed by the Party. Many accounts of Panther women referenced in

this section are a result of their authors hoping “to alert young

activist brothers and sisters to their history...perhaps past mistakes

will not be future repeats” (Jennings 2001: 147).

STUDENTS FOR A DEMOCRATIC SOCIETY (SDS) AND WEATHER UNDERGROUND

ORGANIZATION (WUO)

Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) was a campus-based, student

activist movement that formed in 1960. Stemming from the Student League

for Industrial Democracy, the group operated as a participatory

democracy and was greatly influenced by the concurrent SNCC and later

Black Panther Party (Flacks 2013: 1284). In 1962, SDS ratified the Port

Huron Statement as a kind of manifesto of SDS. Drafted by Tom Hayden,

the document critiqued the government, racial and economic

stratification, supported non violence, and general “rebelling against

the experience of apathy” (Hayden 2005: 4).

The group grew rapidly from roughly 10,000 members in 1960 to 100,000

official members, and even more unofficial, in 1969 (Barber 2010,

Cornell 2016). This was in part due to the implementation of the draft

for the Vietnam war, changing sexual norms, and the rise of a robust

youth culture around drugs and music. Jack Weinberg’s famous statement

“Don’t trust anyone over 30” exemplified the cultural division (Galloway

1990). Over this period there was strain between earlier, older and

newer, younger members. Though the Port Huron Statement created some

unification of shared ideology, there continued to be tensions in the

minutiae of Marxism and Socialism in the increasingly combative

environment.

In 1968, the perceived ineffectual approach and ideological divide lead

to SDS splitting into the Revolutionary Youth Movement (RYM), who

identified themselves as fighting for the oppressed and revolutionary

action, and the Worker-Student Alliance (WSA) and Progressive Labor

(PL), rooted in Maoism and focused on labor issues (Cornell 2016). The

SDS-WSA branch continued with significantly fewer members as a national

college based organization until the mid 1970s, carrying out non violent

actions and protests. Much of the RYM dissolved. Those remaining,

primarily leadership within SDS, became the Weather Underground

Organization/ Weatherman (WUO), which carried out more violent and

theatrical actions until the early 1980s (Glass 2013: 1394).

Gender was a continuous struggle in SDS and later WUO. The previously

mentioned Casey Hayden and King sent “Sex and Caste: A Kind of Memo” to

the women of SDS. One month later a group of women, inspired by the

article walked out of the SDS national convention. They formed a

‘Women’s Caucus,’ though it resulted in “an extremely mild resolution”

that confirmed women’s participation and membership (Barber 2010: 106).

The issue arose again at the national convention in 1967, but members

incorporated it into a more general argument for equality and

anti-imperialism, and therefore “placed the burden of dealing with

sexism on women rather than on SDS as a whole” (Gilbert 2000: 60). The

division was in part because much of SDS’s activism was in opposition to

the Vietnam War and draft of young men into service. In SDS member Susan

Stern’s experience “[w]omen were almost systematically excluded from

anything but a secondary role…we did begin to force the male leadership

to share the radical burden with us” (Stern 2007: 50). Though most first

hand accounts I’ve read by both men and women seem to acknowledge gender

problems to varying degrees, women involved in the early to mid sixties

and in divisions mirroring the work of SNCC, such as Casey Hayden and

Carol Glassman, have stated they felt respected and empowered as SDS

members (Garvy 2000).

Although SDS recognized sexism was an issue, leadership discouraged

women from joining the feminist movement or forming all women’s working

groups. SDS/WUO believed women’s liberation would come after they

overthrew capitalism (Higuchi 2013). Many members saw sexism as

something caused by other men, an abstract category existing outside of

the group. Bernadine Dohrn, the Inter-organizational Secretary of SDS

and leading organizer of the WUO, did not see the problem as structural

and believed women must change themselves, “ceasing to act like women”

(Barber 2010: 137). SDS leadership considered the feminist movement

“self-indulgent” and acted as “therapy” (Barber 2010: 140).

Organization and Leadership in SDS and The Weathermen

As with other New Left movements of its time, SDS/WUO had a gendered

division of labor. Women of the group such as Jane Adams, Marge Piercy,

and Betty Chewning contend women did most of the daily, invisible work

such as making coffee, typing, cooking, and cleaning. The men

monopolized the decision making processes, theorized, pontificated, and

were “visible and respected” (Evans 1980: 177). SDS/WUO leader Mark Rudd

has noted that “women were the troops and typists,” while “[m]en were

the theoreticians and orators” (Rudd 2010: 122). While some expanded the

role of women to include “making love (or just ‘making out’)…[o]nly when

it came to standing on the barricades and going to jail…were women

considered equals” (Browder 2007: xxii).

Seemingly paradoxical, most leaders in SDS’s fight for equality were

students at some of the most prestigious and wealthy universities

(Barber 2010). SDS/WUO elected their national leadership, which was

almost entirely male (Garvy 2000). In meetings, men generally had a

competitive and aggressive demeanor. Susan Stern noted “whoever talked

loudest and fastest [in meetings] always won the argument” (Stern 2007:

43). Early leader and the author of the Port Huron Statement Tom Hayden

has admitted it was “an organization with a lot of very strong male

egos” and he in particular “threw his weight around [and]…was impervious

to criticism” (Miller 1994: 271).

There were limits on women’s ability to gain leadership or even

participate in SDS meetings. Susan Stern noted that at meetings, male

leaders wouldn’t listen to women. “Oglesby would smile musingly, Klonsky

would twiddle his hair or his fingers, Rudd would pace around the room

banging on objects, other women who knew better [than to speak] would

look embarrassed” (Stern 2007: 43). One area where women could thrive a

little more was the Economic Research and Action Projects (ERAP) of SDS

in the early 1960s, though men were still in control at a national level

(Barber 2010, Evans 1980, Cornell 2016). When Marilyn Buck gave speech

at the SDS National Convention in 1967 “[m]en hooted and whistled…threw

paper planes…and shouted such gems as, “I’ll liberate you with my

cock.’” (Gilbert 2010: 58). When another woman spoke at the SDS

demonstration at Richard Nixon’s inauguration, men catcalled ‘Take it

off!’ ‘Fuck her!’ ‘Take her off stage! Rape her in a back alley!’

(Barber 2010: 10). Bill Ayers, SDS/WUO leader, states in his rather

unreflective autobiography “Chicks in charge, I said mockingly. You’ve

got to love it” (2009: 104).

The few women in leadership positions usually engaged in macho culture

and did not challenge agendas of male leaders (Barber 2010, Berger

2005). These women also tended to be “part of a leading heterosexual

couple…women aspiring to leadership felt some pressure to do so”

(Gilbert 2010: 187). The most known female leader was Bernardine Dohrn,

who was elected Inter-organizational Secretary of SDS and later lead the

dissolution of RYM and start of WUO. J. Edgar Hoover gave her the

moniker “La Passionaria of the Lunatic Left” and many of the

autobiographies and historical accounts described her charisma and sex

appeal (Rudd 2010, Ayers 2009, Stern 2007). Dohrn disparaged the

feminist movement, advocated for militancy, and made the famous call to

evict PL from SDS. Dohrn, thought by some to be “too beautiful to be

taken seriously,” amplified her allure by sometimes leading meetings

with her shirt unbuttoned to her navel and wearing a button that said

“CUNNILINGUS IS COOL, FELLATIO IS FUN” (Burrough 2016: 41).

The group’s hyper masculinity and internal competition reflected the

change from non violence to insurrectionary methods. SDS/WUO leaders

engaged in a rhetoric of one up man ship. “You had to be more

radical…and more willing to take risks to prove yourself” (Klatch 2004:

495). By 1969, SDS rallied to ‘Bring the War Home,’ encouraging members

to obtain guns and take aggressive action. A common phrase for the group

was “VIETNAMESE WOMEN CARRY GUNS!,” and they began to push past rhetoric

into armed struggle (Rudd 2010: 166). The tactical shift culminated in

the Days of Rage action, organized by the Weathermen in October of 1969.

To promote the event, SDS/WUO women carried out ‘jailbreaks,’ which were

a form of theater where activists would run through a school, disrupt

classes, and pass out pamphlets to students (Berger 2005: 101).

Attendees expected thousands to converge, but only 200 showed up.

Notably there was a separate women’s action as part of the Days of Rage.

The women’s action, and the whole of the Days of Rage, failed to

accomplish much. Fred Hampton, the leader of the local Black Panther

Party, described SDS and the Days of Rage as “anarchistic,

adventuristic, chauvinistic, individualist, masochistic, and

Custeristic” (Rudd 2010: 173). When the WUO became autonomous, the group

began carrying out bombings, typically calling in advance to avoid human

collateral (Ellis 1996: 111).

Relationships and Sex

Sexual relationships in SDS/WUO were a focal point and could motivate

participation (Stern 2007). In the Leviathan newspaper, activists

referenced “the kind of ‘organizing’ practiced by Rudd and JJ: ‘fucking

a staff into existence.’“ (as referenced in Barber 2010: 197). If women

did not want to have sex, they were being prudish and were not truly

revolutionary (Evans 1980, Klatch 2004). David Gilbert, SDS/WUO member

and later Black Liberation Army (BLA) collaborator, stated in his

autobiography that “men were using ‘free love’ as a tool to make women

sexually available rather than as an opening to let love and equality

flourish“ (Gilbert 2010: 60). Problems experienced by women in their

relationships were then due to “their individual failings” (Gilbert

2010: 52).

Leaders of SDS/WUO, who regularly traveled across the US, benefited from

changing sexual mores. Mark Rudd remembers “[i]nevitably, women would

present themselves, or I would find them…I saw those one-night stands as

perks of my minor stardom” (Rudd 2010: 122). Tensions could rise amongst

women in competition for attention, wanting “to be close to power,”

leaders sometimes used this to their advantage, obtaining money, access

to vehicles, and other resources (Rudd 2010: 166). Unlike Rudd, Ayers in

hindsight remains oblivious to his privilege and power differentials. He

stated that “every [relationship with a] woman, the question of when or

whether we could sleep together lurked barely beneath the surface of my

mind …Best of all, we would just give in, make love at least once, and

sort it all out afterward” (Ayers 2009: 105). Susan Stern said of Ayers

“There was a quality about him that I couldn’t stand. It was almost as

though he expected every woman in the world to want to fuck him…[I]t was

common among SDS men” (Stern 2007: 76). In her review of Ayers’s

autobiography, Cathy Wilkerson disputes “the pressure for women to

consent was enormous” and “Ayers’s absolute lack of reflection since

then, especially in the face of numerous attempts by women to

explain…what it was like is mystifying” (Wilkerson 2001).

SDS/WUO’s integration of the personal and political in a prefigurative

politic resulted in sex acts becoming political acts. Activists equated

sex with liberation and group sex could create “an army of lovers”

(Ayers 2009: 142). Most accounts of the SDS/WUO orgies are as

emotionless and unpleasant (Rudd 2010, Burrough 2016). Despite

homophobia, there was also pressure for men to sleep with other men and

women with other women (Gilbert 2010: 140). This was not a part of the

LGBTQ movement and centered more on struggling against repression. Gay

SDS/WUO members remained closeted (Hayden 2005, Rudd 2010).

In the summer of 1969, SDS/WUO codified sexual practices with a ‘Smash

Monogamy’ initiative. In his autobiography, David Gilbert explained the

logic for the policy as twofold. It both critiqued traditional nuclear

family structures, seen as “a key institution of male supremacy” and

prevented couples from having stronger allegiances to one another than

the larger group (Gilbert 2010: 125). Notably, Dohrn and her partner

Jeff Jones were spared, but other monogamous couples were purposefully

split. Leadership argued women in particular would benefit from these

policies and needed to “[l]eave your boyfriends, your children, your

parents, school—anything that comes between you and the revolution”

(Stern 2007: 76), even if it was against her wishes (Wilkerson 2010:

269).

The policy and pressure of these forms of relationships had many

consequences. The “indiscriminate sex” resulted in widespread sexually

transmitted infections. “Gonorrhea, pelvic inflammatory disease, crab

lice, and a non specific genital infection we called ‘Weather crud’ were

epidemic among us.” (Rudd 2010: 166). Compelling people in couples to

have sex with others resulted in questionable consent. In Stern’s

autobiography she describes Rudd pressuring her friend to have sex, with

her friend saying “no,” “I don’t want to,” and “Please don’t.” Rudd

reportedly responded “Nothing comes before the collective…” (Stern 2007:

176). Other leadership knew Terry Robins was physically abusive to his

partner, but they said nothing. During the changes through 1969, many

people left WUO as a result of ‘Smash Monogamy’ and the interpersonal

dynamics of WUO.

Problems, Criticism, and Self-Criticism

Taking influence from Mao’s red book, SDS had criticism / self-criticism

sessions as a form of accountability to one another (Miller 1994, Rudd

2010). Typically a group of people would meet and focus criticism on one

of the group members. Criticism / self-criticism sessions could happen

at any time, last up to 6 hours, and were often vicious (Berger 2005:

105). Functionally, they were a way of providing feedback, addressing

individual issues, as well as emotionally toughening members. Cathy

Wilkerson has pointed out that it is one of the few ways that women

could act collectively to argue against men (Wilkerson 2010: 288).

Sessions always emphasized how the individual was not as important as

the whole. David Gilbert believes these were largely terrible, but he

did have a positive, constructive session. “As firm as the women were

about my intolerably cavalier attitudes, about the ways I undercut women

who loved me, the session also offered a hopeful sense that I was worth

struggling with, that there was a potential revolutionary there even if

encased in and marred by thick layers of male chauvinism” (Gilbert 2010:

55). In another instance, Michael Novick, a gay SDS member, was

“criticized by men for supposedly denying his desire to have sex with a

lot of women” (Berger 2005: 105).

Other than the criticism sessions, there was little internal

accountability. At some events, the group created its own “security

forces” to avoid internal physical fights (Stern 2007: 65). Leadership

limited knowledge and “the more prestigious work” to few and perceived

weakness could result in limited access to the upper echelons (Wilkerson

2010: 317). SDS/WUO members feared being cutoff and “placed a premium on

having a special, privileged relationships with those in power”

(Wilkerson 2010: 360). Criticism of leadership wasn’t valued (Berger

2005: 290) and “leaders kept the conflict quiet” (Wilkerson 2010: 312).

Because SDS/WUO members placed emphasis on physical actions, “No one was

paying attention to the internal dynamics anymore” (Wilkerson 2010:

297).

SDS/WUO accused women who left for same sex organizing of being

‘divisive’ (Gilbert 2010: 59) and dismantled women’s groups that tried

to form within SDS/WUO (Berger 2005: 292). The men of SDS/WUO “demanded

that we assert and re-assert constantly our loyalty to them, and not to

the independent women’s movement. Women within SDS had to denounce

separatism, you know, every five minutes in every discussion of women’s

issues or they would not be allowed to continue” (Grele 1985).

The group’s transition to more radical views was in tension with the

growth of the Movement. Though Dohrn received the advice in Cuba to keep

the group accessible to the larger population, Ayers and Rudd “browbeat

Bernardine into conforming to the Bring the War Home line that had been

developing all summer” (Rudd 2010: 167). The government did not use

COINTELPRO as heavily against SDS/QUO as it was against the Black

Panther Party, yet it did influence the group. Members began to

mythologize themselves, such as Bill Ayers stating “I was already a

rebel, and I would now become a freedom fighter” (Ayers 2009: 71). With

reflection, Rudd points out in his autobiography that “I did not realize

at the time that we had unwittingly reproduced conditions that all

hermetically sealed cults use: isolation, sleep deprivation, demanding

arbitrary acts of loyalty to the group, even sexual initiation as

bonding” (Rudd 2010: 162).

While espousing radical views, SDS/WUO faced a lot of internal problems

around gender, as well as race. Mark Rudd ends his autobiography at a

meeting amongst activists 40 years later, in which he admits that women

“did the lion’s share of the grunt work” and that African-American

students did not get enough credit (Rudd 2010: 319). At that meeting,

Rusti Eisenberg, the only female on the Strike Coordinating Committee

during the Columbia Occupation, stated “‘As a woman, a graduate student,

a person new to the Columbia campus, and a spokesperson for the

dissenters, I was an unwelcome presence in the Strike Coordination

Committee. At the time I was hurt and stunned by the machismo and

disrespect of the young men in that group. When I think back, the

notable exception, the person that I most remember for his sensitivity

and thoughtfulness despite our political differences, was David

Gilbert,’” who is incarcerated for the remainder of his life for his

role in the infamous Brink’s robbery of 1981 (Rudd 2010: 320).

Ultimately the women of SDS/WUO were not in a better position than the

women of preceding social movements.

PATTERNS ACROSS SOCIAL MOVEMENTS

Across SNCC, the Black Panther Party, and SDS/WUO patterns emerge around

organization and interpersonal relationships. All three groups had

policies of equality around gender, yet faced issues around relegating

women to traditional roles, such as note taking and cleaning. In SNCC

and the Black Panther Party, national leadership was primarily male but

women held positions of power at local levels. Of the three, women in

SDS/WUO seemed to have the most difficulty obtaining leadership roles.

It is difficult to compare practices around sex in the groups. The

racial dynamics of the south in the 1960s greatly shaped sex in SNCC,

though the importance of sex in the social movement indicates how

crucial interpersonal relationships are to a social movement. The Black

Panther Party and SDS/WUO’s policies around non monogamy parallel more

closely with modern social movement practices. Women “fighting for the

cause of equality and justice…were at the same time treated, within the

ranks of the New Left itself, as inferiors, servants, and sexual

objects, who were exploited and oppressed themselves” (Eisenstein 1984:

126). In addition the secrecy around COINTELPRO, cultural capital

associated with militancy, social capital in the form of relationships

with leadership, and selective inclusion and exclusion of relationships

from the purview of the group are all still issues in social movements.

As indicated in the quote from Assata Shakur opening this chapter, those

involved in these social movements, especially the Black Panther Party

and SDS, have in retrospect critiqued the lack of accountability and

frameworks around recourse. The knowledge and experiences of these

activists are not always passed on to younger generations and it is easy

for social movements to fail to learn from previous mistakes. Activists

often replicated gender, as well as racial and class, dynamics. SNCC,

the Panthers, and SDS/WUO have had a lasting influence on modern social

movements, but organizers have yet to remedy the problems faced around

interpersonal dynamics.

CHAPTER 4 ORGANIZING, SEX, AND RELATIONSHIPS

In contemporary social movements, participation in activism would seem

to imply a particular morality of character. It stands to reason

activists, especially those involved in feminist or queer activism,

would have more cognizance of sexism and heterosexism and adjust their

behaviors accordingly. Fellow activists are seen as virtuous in their

dedication to the larger political struggle, seemingly incongruous with

cultural ideas of sexists. Though activists’ individual habitus might be

rooted in established social inequalities, the rules of the field

dictate challenging these propensities and creating more egalitarian

social practices.

Despite the implied politic, the oppressions of mainstream culture are

frequently perpetuated and egalitarian politics are not always reflected

in social interactions. As stated by one female identified survivor of

an abusive relationship, “[s]ocial power and political righteousness

have a way of being able to obscure things” (Wrekk 2007). Activist

culture arguably is “dominated with a ‘White Male Privilege Hetero’

climate” that prioritizes perceived authenticity, influence,

effectiveness, and militancy ( Quarrel 2013: 90). Or, as stated by

‘Molly Tov,’ in Social Detox, “Once men slap ‘REVOLUTIONARY’ on

themselves, they are no longer a part of that problem, which they are”

(2007).

Hypermasculine behaviors would seem to be in conflict with subcultural

shifts against gender essentialization. Radical left subcultures have

been ideologically critical of the male/female binary and conflation of

sex assigned at birth and gender identity. There are exceptions such as

TERFs, or trans exclusionary radical feminists. But on the whole,

activists in the subculture have embraced more complex and nuanced

identities, such as gender queer and gender non binary. One person I

interviewed, who identified as gender queer, expressed some concern over

the potential exploitation of gender deconstruction to deny structural

inequalities faced by women and gender non binary people, i.e. arguments

against focusing on gender inequality because instead we should be

trying to get rid of gender as a concept.

Yet, activists continue to struggle over issues around masculinity. Two

portmanteaus used somewhat jokingly in the culture are “manarchy” and

“broism” or “brocialism”. These terms refer to the hyper masculine

behavior and attitudes exhibited by some activists. The underlying

activist culture can emphasize values of aggression, competition,

militancy, purity, and self-righteousness. A group of anonymous

anarcha-feminists in Philadelphia authored a questionnaire called “Are

You a Manarchist?” that has been copied, distributed, and included in

zines such as Breaking the Manacles. The questions are subdivided and

include some “activism questions,” such as #12 “Are you taking on the

‘shit’ or ‘grunt’ work in your organizing? (i.e.: Cooking, cleaning, set

up, clean up, phone calls, email lists, taking notes, doing support

work, sending mailings, providing childcare?)” and “sexual/romantic

relationship questions,” such as #27 ““If your girlfriend gets on your

case for patriarchal behavior or wants to try to work on the issues of

patriarchy in your relationship, do you break up with her or cheat on

her and find another woman who will put up with your shit?” (5). When

interviewed, many activist were familiar with the term manarchy.

Specifically, one interviewee said that while the label was never used

against them, they had called someone a manarchist.

“The ways that unexamined toxic masculinity… is just sort of a template

that can adapt any mask. It can adopt the frat boy mask and it can adopt

the black bloc mask, yet is the same fundamental core dynamic playing

out and…I’ve witnessed a lot of people get really defensive just hearing

this word. Which I think is significant. I think it shows that it is a

live wire, its an open nerve that men folk do not feel interested in

actually reducing their power, actually challenging the underlying power

relations of patriarchy”. Alexandra, 12:10

While the aesthetic might be particular to the subculture, the

underlying dispositions around gender and masculinity are the same as

those in larger society.

As with many other subcultures, masculine traits and behaviors are

associated with cultural capital. The legitimization of these qualities

as more authentically radical can compel women to follow suit. In The

First 7-inch Was Better, Nia King remembers seeing a femininely-dressed

girl at a show and wondering “whose girlfriend she was·. Didn’t we all

know the punk scene was a boys’ game and you had to out-dude the dudes

to win?”

There are some men’s social movement groups organized around addressing

masculinity and gender problems, though some men have critiqued their

emphasis on personal struggles of socialization and less on examinations

of their contemporary praxis ( Ex Masculus 2014, Men Against 1996, Rae

2008, Kooky). The lack of reflexivity arguably extends beyond gender

dynamics. Nia King has critiqued the entire subculture as lacking self

critique: “We organized on behalf of immigrant rights without knowing

any immigrants or even having friends of color.

We facilitated workshops about consent but had no fucking clue how to

handle community members coming forward about sexual assault perpetrated

by other punks. We shout about class war and think that eating out of

dumpsters and shoplifting absolves us of class privilege. (It doesn’t.)

We were hypocrites who talked a good talk and didn’t dig below the

surface to the places that made us uncomfortable, where real change

happens” (2012).

In this chapter, I discuss how sexism and patriarchy manifest in radical

left subcultures. Though these dynamics are intertwined, I’m dividing

this chapter into gender in “Organizing” and in “Sex.” This approach

parallels distinctions made in previous social movements, as discussed

in Chapter 3. I believe treating the categories as discrete will provide

clarity, as well as illuminate different tactics activists are using to

address these problems. Through both of these sections, I show how

social and cultural capital in the subculture contribute to continued

problems. I conclude this chapter with a review of arguments around

sexism in security culture and priorities in the movement.

GENDER IN ORGANIZING

Leadership

The groups constituting the subculture or ‘community’ have an internal

arrangement reflecting the prevailing radical ideology and

interpretation of agency into regular community practices. Groups are

non hierarchical or horizontal, with no participants having greater

authority or rank over others. As stated in our now defunct anarchist

community space’s information pamphlet: “there are no leaders and no

hierarchy. All volunteers or people involved in what is happening at the

space have equal access to decision-making power” (123 Community Space).

While groups theoretically operate outside of hierarchies, leaders

inevitably emerge. Some within the community believe those in leadership

positions are reflective of sexism, with most being cisgender male. As a

zine distributed in the community contends “A structureless,

‘leaderless’ organization will often have a de-facto leader, usually a

man, who get his way by force of will and experience” ( Said the Pot).

Without structure there is “no means of balancing those with certain

privileges with those who are oppressed” (Beallor 2001). The

difficulties around horizontal organizing manifest in similar ways

indicated by Jo Freeman more than 35 years ago in “The Tyranny of

Structurelessness.” People who have privilege in the rest of society

mirror their position within radical groups.

In the innumerable meetings I attended over the years as an activist, no

group named an official leader, nonetheless a few groups had an

unofficial leader. When one mixed gender group came together for our

weekly meeting, there was an important item on the agenda. The informal

leader of the group, a male activist, was unable to be at the meeting

and those in attendance, most of whom were female, postponed the topic

until the next week, citing the need for more time to consider the

issue. The following week, he again could not come to a meeting and

again the group tabled the agenda item. Though not recognized or made

explicit, members of the group did not want to make a critical decision

without the input of our leader.

One exception outside of gender specific women’s groups was my

leadership of Food Not Bombs. I did not intend to take charge of our

various projects and did not hold an official position, but I was the

leader in practice. The likely reason is the group centers on cooking

food. Early on it became clear that I was the member with the most

experience cooking, and more particularly, vegan cooking from whole food

ingredients. Since women in the U.S. spend more than twice the amount of

time preparing food as compared to men, my proficiency in a kitchen

conforms to traditional gender roles (Bureau of Labor Statics 2013).

When the group transitioned to cooking less and giving away more

groceries, the unofficial leadership transitioned to a male who owned a

vehicle.

Being seen as a leader can denote social capital. One interviewee

defined social capital in the ‘scene’ as being gained from “different

types of resources, whether they were intellectual or physical and the

ability to…make things happen, like if you called a meeting would

everybody come? If you wanted everybody to start working on this certain

campaign would everybody do it?” 11:15 Lee Having charisma and social

connections is equated with the ability to be effective and accomplish

goals, to mobilize people.

Meetings and Consensus

While not hierarchical, groups still have an order or framework. Meeting

attendees take on different roles. One person volunteers to moderate or

facilitate the meeting, prioritizing the agenda items, reading them

aloud, being conscientious of time, facilitating discussion, and

managing the consensus process. Another person takes notes, typically

typed and posted to an online email group or forum. If the group is

larger, there might be a ‘vibes watcher,’ to pay attention to the

tensions and emotions within the group. In groups with regular

membership, they are conscientious as to the distribution of duties,

trading off taking on these roles from week to week.

Decision making requires consensus. Instead of majority rule, the group

recognizes everyone’s opinion and must be in agreement. Everyone must

state whether they agree, disagree, or abstain from the decision.

Although consensus is usually verbal, in the more feminist and queer

leaning groups ‘sparkle fingers,’ or wiggling fingers pointing upward

were used as a signal of agreement. Later, Occupy Wall Street meetings

used ‘sparkle fingers’ or “feminist jazz hands” during meetings

(Johnston 2015).

If someone disagrees they state why they disagree or ask any questions

that might change or clarify their judgment. If multiple people have

questions and comments, they go on ‘stack,’ or a queue determined by the

order in which people have signaled a want to speak. Members with

concerns then ask questions and discussion continues until all agree.

Ideally consensus means there are no resentments, alliances, or

alienation between individuals. No one should do or participate in

something they do not agree with, thereby creating an environment of

mutual appreciation and empowerment.

Yet the method can become arduous and power dynamics can emerge.

Occasionally, there were meetings where we ‘tabled,’ or moved to the

next week’s agenda seemingly endless disagreements. The facilitator can

determine which items make the final agenda and how much time is

allocated for each. There can be pressure to answer in a certain way, or

at least abstain from decision making, if those with more social or

cultural capital are in agreement. One of my interviewees pointed to

some of these issues when talking about organizing.

“I also got really excited about the idea of participating in collective

processes and having everybody have kind of…equal decision making power…

and I think I definitely began participating in collective processes and

trying to kind of follow those ideals before holding a more nuanced

understanding of how internalized oppression can play out in those

groups… or for people, or for myself. How, as much as we can say… yeah

everybody is coming to the table equally, without looking at…in what

ways does each person hold power or lack power in the group dynamic or

in a larger society too without really looking at what each person is

bringing and how they are reacting. You know, I think it can be really

hard to have a true equal say in the process and hard to really make

those ideals happen in a way that everybody feels like they can fully

participate. There is a lot of ways the different kinds of oppression

show up.” Grace 9:30

In the above quote, Grace calls attention to the replication of power in

larger society. While activist groups might try to mitigate these

conditions, the dispositions are deep-seated.

On numerous occasions women and people of color have stated they were

talked over, not taken seriously, or ignored. The Thunder Collective’s

What to Do When? 3, a zine circulated in the community, asserts “It’s

too often the case...that men talk of equality in voices so loud that

women can’t be heard.” In doing so, women and people of color are not

heard and can be made to feel uncomfortable and demoralized,

particularly if expressing a dissenting opinion (Crass).

One activist observed that during the early stages of school occupations

in 2009 “[m]en constantly stood up on chairs and delivered grandiose

monologues about the revolution. Women kept getting talked over”

(Exposito 2011). A few zine anthologies, such as Breaking the Manacles

include the essay “An Open Letter to Other Men in the Movement: Shut the

Fuck Up, or How to act better in meetings,” which lists some common

infractions of consensus, including “Rephrases everything a woman says,

as in, ‘I think what Mary was trying to say is…’” and the facilitator

who “Somehow never sees the women with their hands up, and never

encourages people who haven’t spoken” (Spalding 10).

The makeup of groups can determine and be determined by these dynamics.

Who joins a social group can depend on who is already involved, their

methods for recruitment, social networks, and tactics. In the zine Why

She Doesn’t Give A Fuck About Your Insurrection, the anarcha-feminist

author recounts the following conversation with a male activist: “Yeah,

we’ve been trying to figure out why we’re so alienating to women and

people of color. But we keep trying to do it over beers, which is what

created the problem in the first place. It’s just that we never think to

call girls outside our mostly-dude social circle to talk politics or

anything” ( Why She 2009).

Activists sometimes adjust the consensus process to insure all have an

opportunity to be heard. Though most groups have some awareness of

racial, gender, or sexual privilege in meeting spaces, some have an

explicit ‘step up, step back,’ or less ableist ‘take space, make space’

policy. These are shorthand for encouraging those who do not usually

speak or do not have privilege to ‘step up’ and voice their opinions.

Those that are notably vocal in their opinions or who have privilege are

to ‘step back’ and dedicate themselves to listening to others. For the

policy to be effective activists who speak too much must be reflexive

and acknowledge their past behaviors and privilege and activists who

rarely speak must feel they will be heard and valued.

Though infrequent, at times organizers do not use consensus or

circumvent the process. One or few activists make decisions for the

group, justified as simplifying or hastening a process or maintaining

security around sensitive information. The bypass leaves other, possibly

dissenting, opinions out of the discussion. This can be exclusionary

toward women and people of color. For one activist in the NYC community

this occurred when a Take Back the Night march, which she had co

organized the previous year, was organized by men without her input or

knowledge. “The men mapped the route for us; they chose the room, the

time and date without our consensus...It was like being fed the food you

cooked yourself, after being chewed by someone else” (Exposito 2011).

Division of Labour

There are numerous responsibilities required for the day to day

existence of activist groups. Active members maintain emails, social

media accounts, and blogs, plan benefits, make posters, collect food,

attend meetings, and create, copy, fold, and staple zines. Activists

multitask and combine activities, silk screening shirts during a potluck

or folding zines during a group meeting. In sharing these tasks,

participants get to know one another more closely, creating and

strengthening social ties.

When things are usually done DIY, the amount of labor involved makes

equality important. Administrative issues are left to core members, such

as checking the group’s email, scheduling when and where to hold

meetings, publicizing group and meetings, procuring resources and

addressing problems that may arise. While this might counteract the

impermanence of participation, it also discourages neophyte’s continued

involvement. If established activists do not communicate with new

participants or explain to them the particular tasks, then they will

lack the ability and want to participate.

In many cases, the creation of a core and periphery in open groups often

results in unintended leaders and unofficial hierarchies. Activists are

concerned with burnout, or exhaustion and disengagement from activism.

But frequently, much of the work falls on few people. Dividing labor

amongst current members and the entry of new participants are necessary

to alleviate those who are overwhelmed or considering leaving the

community.

Many activists believe there are gender and sexual inequalities in the

distribution of labor. Though stereotype might assume women are visual

dressing while men do the ‘real’ work, within activism as well as other

subcultures, the opposite is true. Men are seen as dominating public

spaces and images, such as in news coverage of Occupy Wall Street

(McVeigh 2011). Some roles and tasks bestow more cultural capital and

are more fun or glamorous than others. Collectively cooking together

versus cleaning dishes; helping with a banner for a block party versus

going to a community board meeting; tabling zines at a benefit show

versus copying and stapling two hundred zines. In the zine

Transformative Justice and/as Harm, AJ Withers states “The bulk of

community building falls on women and trans people. The most important

part of community organizing is building and maintaining relationships.

This invisible and gendered labour is incredibly devalued in radical

organizing” (2014).

Despite the implementation of strategies within the meeting structure to

address inequality, there are rarely policies in place to hinder the

over commitment of some activists or ensure the equitable division of

labor. Only when doing activism in explicitly feminist groups did I find

groups taking measures to address this inequality. When members know

what is happening in another’s personal life, they might preemptively

stop them from volunteering for too many tasks and becoming overwhelmed.

This approach is explicitly explored in the For the Birds Collective

zine, So You Want to Start a Feminist Collective...:

“we also began to pay careful attention to who volunteers for what and

tried to recognize and label what had previously been invisible labor

tasks such as checking email accounts, creating meeting agendas,

facilitating meetings, taking meeting minutes, and volunteering to help

with different aspects of events...[creating roles] ensures that members

are recognized for the responsibilities they assume within the

collective, and prevents resentment from building up in group members

who are taking on more than their fair share of work”

Some members vocalized preference for specific types of work or had

access to resources not available to other members, but the quantity of

work was equitably distributed amongst them. In doing so, the collective

was able to be productive and remain constant when some members left for

personal reasons.

Direct Action

The topic of gender division in direct action arose in some zines and a

few interviews around black bloc. Black bloc is a strategy used

primarily by anarchists, whereby all participants wear all black

clothing, hoodies, and cover much of their faces. Activists are

difficult to distinguish from one another, making it more difficult for

police to identify individuals. Black bloc also provides visual

cohesion. The aesthetic can “indicate to others that they are prepared,

if the situation calls for it, for militant action…and thus easily be

able to avoid it if that’s what they wish to do” (Graeber 2012). The use

of violence itself isn’t gendered; however, it is highly associated with

masculinity.

These kinds of mass marches and street take overs create moments of

“collective effervescence,” whereby society’s power that manifests in

moments when gathering creates energy and excitement “[a]nd by

expressing this excitement, they also reinforce it” (Durkheim 218:

1995). ‘Riot porn,’ the images and videos capturing a massive and/or

intense actions, evokes both the insurrection of a ‘riot’ and the erotic

undertones of the excitement. Viewers can vicariously experience the

energy and hope of the moment.

The type of militancy and level of violence used can quickly change the

tone of a march to “macho and alienating” ( Why She 2009). One woman of

color activist found an anarchist Take Back The Night street take over

“felt more like a football game than a feminist action” due to macho

fueled haphazard violence (Exposito 2011). The march, intended to be

empowering to women and address issues of sexual assault, was led by

anarchist women. However, most of the 30 or so protesters were men “in

black hoods and skirts--so as to feminize the protesters.” Exposito is

not anti violence, but argues “[t]hrowing newspaper boxes in the street

feels good, fine. But if it’s a bunch of rich white dudes doing it,

then...you are precisely replicating the situation you claim to be

fighting.” At the same time, she is bothered by bystanders being more

concerned with the monetary damage of the anarchists than rape.

GENDER IN SEX

Sexual Relationships

Like other activist communities and social movements, sexual and/or

romantic relationships are widespread and have significant repercussions

(Shepard 2005, Goodwin 1997). The combination of collective

effervescence, closeness of libidinal ties, and sexual empowerment

produce a prime environment for erotic interpersonal relationships.

Noted by Ben Shepard in “The Use of Joyfulness as a Community Organizing

Strategy,” marches can be places to meet attractive people and ‘cruise’

for sexual partners (Shepard 439: 2005). In the radical community

culture, this is potential is expounded by the stream of late night

events, music shows, and dance parties.

Sexual norms in the subculture are often referenced as ‘sex posi,’ an

abbreviation of sex positive, meaning sex is considered “a healthy and

important part of being human” (Fuckin’ (A) and Support New York 2012:

4). Empowerment regarding the body, sex, and sexuality is particularly

salient. Pleasure seeking attitudes and anti shaming discourse are

embraced, though in the case of ‘uncommon’ sex acts, the sexual double

standard can still be an issue for some in the subculture. Zines, such

as Not Your Mother’s Meatloaf: A Sex Education Comic Book, delight in

topics otherwise considered improper, containing stories and drawings of

intimate sexual experiences. Sexual relationships and practices are

woven into activism and everyday life.

Sexual orientations and practices in the community are diverse. Both

monogamy and non monogamy are practiced, though the lack of clarity

around norms can lead to tensions in individual relationships. Some

deride traditional relationships as one element of the mainstream

culture’s “gender, marriage, the nuclear family...[and h]etero-monogamy”

(Caytee 21). As such, being part of a monogamous relationship might

influence an individuals’ cultural capital. Additional reasons cited for

disfavor include that it creates divisions or boundaries between

individuals, limits individual sexual experience, and can evoke feelings

of control and ownership of other individuals. Women or gender non

binary people in relationships with cis gender men can find themselves

defined by those relationships. In some cases, they only gain entry into

groups through those relationships ( Said the Pot, Clementine 2012).

In addition, one night stands, casual relationships, and variations of

polyamory, as well as BDSM practices, are not uncommon. Advocates

contend the ability and flexibility to define a relationship is

empowering. There is little precedent for these relationships and the

book The Ethical Slut: A Guide to Infinite Sexual Possibilities has

become the community’s informal authority for implementation. While

these alternative sexual practices are a response to perceived faults in

monogamy, they also function as a method of building social networks and

bringing new people into the community.

Objectification and Macktivism

Female activists pinpoint their sexual objectification by cis gender

males as a recurrent obstacle. Like previous studies of women in male

dominated subcultures, women activists feel they must prove themselves

as sufficiently radical to the community to gain respect, while

simultaneously facing sexualization. Solidarity incentives, or signals

of approval and encouragement from other members, are critical for

continued participation. Some female identified activists say that they

are only given this attention from male activists, holding effective

leadership status, if they are “perceived as sexually available” ( Said

the Pot). Even when displaying proficiency, women can experience

backlash in the process of proving themselves. Alex Wrekk, a well known

activist, gives an account of one such instance when she helped an

intoxicated male fix his bike tire.

“I watched him place a patch and attempt to pump the tube 3 times. So I

offered my help. I was working on his tire when a bunch of guys started

making fun of him for having a girl fix his bike. He responded about how

it was hott to watch girls fix bikes. Within a few seconds they had

surrounded me and were hooting and laughing and the guy I was trying to

help was pretending to have a video camera and was talking about making

porn with girls working on bikes as he went in for close-ups of me using

the pump. It went from him being made fun of to me being objectified as

some sort of transference of his shame” (2007).

Because a woman activist demonstrated of greater knowledge and skill

than a male colleague in the presence of other men, he denigrated her to

sexual object. Her competence challenged his masculinity. Admiration,

validation, appreciation of skills and proficiency can be dependent upon

sexuality, or social capital.

There is a recognized pattern whereby activists use shared politics and

subcultural capital to acquire sexual partners. The dynamic was common

enough for the development of the colloquial portmanteau ‘macktivist,’

combining the verb ‘mack,’ or to make sexual advances, and activist. The

term was recognized by nearly all interviewees, though might not be used

in contemporary vernacular. Macktivists were usually cisgender,

heterosexual male activists who used their activism as a means by which

to benefit their sex lives. Sexual relationships are not in and of

themselves thought to be negative, but in ‘mac(k)tivism’ erotic, not

activist, goals are prioritized. One interviewee specified that the term

denotes “shadiness,” a term implying intentional obfuscation.

‘Macktivists’ sometimes self identify as feminists as a form of

subcultural capital to acquire sexual partners, entailing emotional

manipulation ( Vampire). “There are men who use anti-sexist talk to pick

up wimmin,” raising the question if these male activists “care about

wimmin or about fucking them” (Tov 2007). The topic is the subject of

comics and zines in the subculture. Humorously addressed by a woman of

color activist in San Francisco, she created a list of the signs of

mac(k)tivism to help avoid “all the men we dated in our early 20s. Okay,

and mid-20s. Okay, maybe into the late 20s too. But we know better now”

(Kristia 2007). The list included:

“When you first met at the trendy-subversive bar-club, it became clear

through your conversation that ‘socializing,’ ‘dating’ and ‘organizing’

all fell under ‘networking’ in his vocabulary.”

“Leave him be if he compares himself to world leaders when describing

his upbringing. For example, “Well you know, like Gandhi and Ho Chi

Minh, I grew up in big port cities. So I have a similar experience with

the diversity of those cities and the hustle.” (Yes, a dude actually

once said to me.)”

Macktivism is associated with a superficial sense of political struggle

and particular and adapting cultural artifacts to the causes and issues

of a moment that may denote cultural capital.

Sexual and/or romantic relationships can facilitate collaborations, be a

means of recruitment, and a source of solidarity. They can also create

community tensions, lead to withdraw, and result in feelings of

isolation. Interpersonal relationships are inevitable and can both

strengthen and weaken ties to a social movement.

Consent

Over the last 15 years, the topic of consent became increasingly popular

in activist circles. Sexual norms have shifted from focusing on the act

of saying “no” to saying “yes,” as well as the influence of power

differentials in the decision making process. Consent has been defined

in various zines:

“consent is permission or allowance, often given verbally, to engage in

any potentially triggering act, or an act that is otherwise ‘intimate’

or personal. this ranges from holding hands to having sex and everything

in between” (Cheyenne)

“CONSENT means everyone involved wants and agrees to be present at each

step of the way. You can change your mind at ANY TIME before or during

sex. Consent means that ALL parties say YES! Just assuming someone wants

to have sex is not nought-it’s not safe.” (Generation Five 2006)

“CONSENT IS…Giving your okay, verbally and unimpaired (IE: NOT high or

drunk) with full awareness of your surroundings is consent. Forcing or

coercing someone into sexual activity or engaging in a sexual act with

someone who is high, drunk, passed out, or unable to give consent is

rape.” ( A D.I.Y. Guide)

“Consent goes far beyond ‘no means no.’ True consent is based on the

willingness to ask hard questions…and the courage to face possible

rejection” ( Listen 2007: 11).

Common themes in discussions include that it is a process that can

change during an interaction, can only be given non verbally if

previously discussed and agreed upon by those involved and can not be

coerced. Verbal consent has been questioned by some as unrealistic, but

others compare it to arguments about condoms, e.g. “It kills the mood” (

Said the Pot). Activists also emphasize that people of all genders can

be assaulted or raped and must give consent. Cindy Crabb created a list

of 83 questions around consent that is copied and reprinted in multiple

zines and in her books.

From my zine sample, it is obvious there is some awareness of the topic

within the subculture. Some activists believe these discussions are not

talked about enough, though one person I interviewed believes

“discussions of consent, rape, abuse, misogyny domestic violence

problematic behaviors and unequal power exchange racism transphobia…For

me, I find in the communities I’m a part of that those are topics of

continual and constant conversation…I haven’t been to a conversion or

conference….probably for the better part of a decade, that didn’t

address some aspect of these issues at some point.” Willow 20:05 Willow

did not seem to think this increased attention was bad, but subcultural

discussions about ignoring or not addressing these issues enough was

disingenuous.

Activists emphasize the power dynamics influencing consent. As stated in

the zine No Safehouse: Patriarchy on the Left “The overall structure of

society conditions what our individual choices can be in the first

place” (Cohn and Mitchell 2015: 9). Cultural gender dynamics can mean

female socialized people believe they shouldn’t say no or find they

can’t say no. The introduction to the zine See No Speak No Hear No

states “I can’t always say ‘no,’ or ‘stop, I feel uncomfortable,’ or

‘can we slow down,’ or ‘go away.’ I can’t get my brain to perform the

seemingly simplest function, to communicate those words to my mouth.”

For people who have been assaulted, this can be especially complicated.

They “might freeze up or zone out” and “it can be hard for people who

have been assaulted to say no, because they may feel like it won’t

matter if they say no” (Cheyenne).

Within activist culture, there can also be issues with prefigurative

politics being applied to sexual interactions. Sex positive culture can

lead to activists feeling they are under pressure to have sex, or that

it is a means by which to accrue social capital. In some parts of

activist culture, someone might be made to feel they aren’t “queer

‘enough’ or poly ‘enough’” (Kirsty, Anna, Hannah and Tasha 2014: 7) and

“prove their queerness, or feel unwelcome in queer spaces because

they’re not actively having sex or being sexual (Naught: 6). That “it’s

become taboo to want monogamy” and feel “pressure to live up to the poly

babe ideal, to go to dance parties and house parties with my partner and

be totally cool about them hooking up with other people” (Kirsty, Anna,

Hannah and Tasha 2014: 30). There is a general feeling that one

component of being a good feminist is enjoying sex (Traister 2015). For

those who participate in BDSM, “consent is even less nuanced than it may

be in other sexy situations. Every single thing happening between play

partners should be verbally negotiated, and if something was not

explicitly negotiated, that means that it’s not okay to do” (Naught:

17).

PRIORITY OF ISSUES

Security Culture

As discussed in Chapter 3, the need for clandestine tactics developed as

a result of the FBI’s covert counter intelligence programs orchestrated

from the 1950s through 1970s. COINTELPRO (Counter Intelligence Program)

involves undercover agents infiltrating social movements and surveilling

activities, with intent to obstruct actions, vilify activists, create

confusion, and generally hinder social movements. In more recent cases,

informants were employed or activists agreed to testify against others

at the behest of the government.

Those outside of the community might be cynical as to the veracity of

continued employment of COINTELPRO by the state, nevertheless it remains

a threat. The Department of Homeland Security and National Security

Agency have admitted to using social media, such as Twitter and

Facebook, to gather information about activist groups (Gibbs 2014,

Obeidallah 2012). Activists take measures to ensure they keep

information within the trusted group and not communicated to the state

or its agents. The legality of action is certainly an important factor;

however, the increased surveillance of the NSA and lack of transparency

resulted in a hyper awareness of potential infiltration by the state.

The phrase ‘security culture’ refers to the need for secrecy within the

community. Security culture is an abbreviation of the need for

discretion within all aspects of radical activist culture. It dictates

who should and should not have sensitive information and when and where

they can discuss this information. Activists keep potentially illegal or

proscribed activities within a limited group. The fear of repercussions

from the state, by way of direct or indirect surveillance, guides these

policies. This information can be about things that have happened in the

past or will happen in the future, about an action or person.

Activists do not ask one another intrusive or personal questions.

Security culture presumes members will volunteer any personal

information they want known. For example, it is not uncommon for the

more radical community members to use aliases. It would draw suspicion

to ask someone using a conspicuous pseudonym for their legal name or ask

questions about past and illegal activities.

The illicit nature of groups and parts of the network, and more

specifically the anarchist factions within the community, effect their

openness to new people. Because of security culture, activists’

clandestine actions are, by nature, exclusionary. The actions of daily

life build a slow and mutual trust between members. Radical activists

are hesitant to trust those to whom they have no loyalty or existing

social ties. The emotional investments required of activism make them

susceptible to infiltration and manipulation. In collectives oriented

toward disruptive or illegal actions, exclusivity is of considerable

consequence. Distrust of outsiders, particularly government

infiltrators, can lead to internal suspicion and uncertainty. While

activists encourage new people to become involved, the aim is not mass

appeal.

At times, they activists strategically used security culture to

disregard other individuals and groups. In internal disputes, women and

people of color have felt silenced under the guise of security culture.

Who is included and excluded can depend on who you know, or your social

capital, and whether or not you are trustworthy, or your cultural

capital. When organizing around the school occupations and student

actions, I found the secretiveness lead to multiple groups of seemingly

arbitrary activists organizing for the same action without being aware

of the existence of the other groups. In another circle of activists

organizing a different New York City school occupation “nobody saw it

coming, because most people weren’t invited. This wasn’t new” (Exposito

2011).

When women and people of color criticize organizers for not involving

them, the common, sweeping response of “security culture” places the

objectors’ commitment to social justice and authenticity as an activist

into question. Criticizing security culture can lead to accusations

being an agent of the state in agitating and opening the group to

conflict. The debate can also shift to accuse the disempowered for

putting the group at risk for the sake of peripheral issues. Evoking

COINTELPRO is a way of simultaneously casting aspersions on an opponent

while upholding one’s own authenticity and shutting down the argument.

At the same time, it has been pointed out that, as the title of the

original essay and later zine states, Why Misogynists Make Great

Informants. In the popular piece, Courtney Desiree Morris argues “we

need to come to terms with the connections between gender violence, male

privilege, and the strategies that informants (and people who just act

like them) use to destabilize radical movements” (2010). Morris uses the

example of Brandon Darby, an informant who went undercover as an

organizer with Common Ground in New Orleans. Despite his “domineering,

aggressive style of organizing,” and complaints from multiple women, he

was never held accountable. Another strategy used by COINTELPRO that

overlaps with misogyny is pressuring activists into “taking more

drastic, direct actions” (Exposito 2011). Whether or not they are

actually informants, the result for social movements is the same.

After the Revolution

Some activists believe issues around gender are secondary to larger

political goals. Two ways this is usually discussed are either that

“personal problems” can be addressed after the more serious issues of

class and government are dealt with or that gender liberation will

naturally come with the overthrow of capitalism or the government

(Kooky, King 2012, Morris 2010). Locally, a common phrase used around

these arguments was that “feminism distracts from the totality” ( Why

She 2009). Though sometimes lamented, gender related issues and violence

are “ultimately less important to “the work” than the men of all races

who reproduce gender violence in our communities” (Morris 2010). Because

these problems put the unity of a movement into question, activists who

focus on them are often seen as disruptive. As humorously indicated in

an image from the zine On the Recent Occupations, fun, subcultural

practices promoting solidarity, are more likely to be emphasized.

Overall, most zines cited three primary approaches for longterm social

change. The first is for activists to put their politics into action, to

“start seeing ourselves as the problem” (Tov 2007), “support wimmin in

their daily lives and speak out against sexism to other men” (Kooky),

“critically engage our identities while actively listening to women and

trans folk” ( Ex Masculus 2014: 4), and commit to “real change and

practice, regardless of the established norms or our own illusions” (Men

Against 1996: 10). The second is to take issues seriously and do

preventative work, such as that being done around consent (Mitchell

2016, Rae 2008). The third major theme in addressing gender related

issues is to build inclusivity in social movements, that currently

“groups that start off majority cismale will remain majority cismale”

(Mitchell 2016) and “people with marginalized or complex identities are

asked to leave a part of themselves at the door” (King 2012). But these

are easier said than done.

The cultural shifts required for these changes require a framework of

internal critique, whereby behavior can be examined without being seen

as divisive or eroding solidarity. Social movements are not autonomous

from other fields and inevitably reflect such inequalities. The

replication of hierarchies of power and marginalization of some

activists indicate the complexity of socially just social movements.

CHAPTER 5 TRANSFORMATIVE JUSTICE AND ACCOUNTABILITY

Though sexism and related abuse and violence occur, as a community there

is a reluctance to use the state or police as a source of justice. The

government is argued to perpetuate violence and injustice,

“systematically target and brutalize communities of color, radical and

queer communities and immigrants,” and is therefore unsafe (Erinyen

Collective). And the privatization of prisons continues to marginalize

already marginalized communities (Davis 2003). Unlike more moderate

groups, for radical activists calling the police isn’t considered an

option. Liberation is seen as being tied to prison abolition, and

therefore the dismantling of the criminal justice system. As stated by

in an interview from the StoryTelling and Organizing Project reproduced

in the Miklat Miklat zine, “The police are like, you know, the enemy…So

there’s the political level in which it’s like you don’t call the

oppressor to help you out. You just don’t. Then there’s the level of our

politics being like we need to like figure out ways to deal with this

shit that aren’t about calling in the source of violence, right?”

(StoryTelling and Organizing Project).

Even if the police are engaged, they do not recognize the myriad of

forms of abuse or the needs of the survivor. As pointed out by

Generation Five, a group using transformative justice to address child

abuse, those who engage with the criminal justice system “are rarely

satisfied with the results in terms of the survivors’ safety and healing

or a sense of justice,” are not protected from further harm by the

abuser or the investigation and “leave individuals and families with

partial solutions that open up trauma without actually transforming it”

(Generation Five 2007: 12). Not only are police and courts seen as being

inadequate in their dealings with domestic violence and rape, but that

relying on them may offer “an opportunity to break up our political

work” (Mitchell 2016: 21).

Instead, activists subcultures are relying on solidarity and community

to hold members accountable for their actions. Activists see

bureaucratic and hierarchical structures as inept in addressing issues

and aim for autonomy. To avoid governmental interference in daily life,

activists are creating alternative forms of community justice. In doing

so, activists are attempting to create cultural practices where all

members of the community are accountable to one another.

Counter institutions have to be developed before they are needed within

the subculture. The prefigurative politics of counter institutions

contribute to the homology of activist culture and lifestyle. The

commitment of activists to create an anti patriarchal, anti rape culture

are indicated in their counter institutions developed around safety,

sexual assault, and relationships dynamics. One transformative justice

group calls their approach ‘[r]evolution through trial and error’

(Colman 2009). Because calling the police and engaging with the criminal

justice system are disparaged, an alternative must be in place for

activists.

The creation of alternative systems requires considerable work; “[t]his

cannot happen out of spontaneous activity; it must result out of a

highly organized society based on democratic, decentralized structures”

(Beallor 2001). As a DIY practice, there is large amount of labor

falling on few individuals who already have other personal and activist

commitments, with no guarantee of success. Cindy Crabb, well known

writer of the Doris zine series, has stated:

“Sometimes I have mixed feelings about counter institutions because… it

just takes up all our time and energy and money, and brings out the

worst power dynamics, and ends in anger and despair, and it just seems

like what is the point. But…I think all the very real

counter-institutions that were set up that I now take for granted, like

rape-crisis centers, and food co-ops … community gardens, free clinics,

Community Supported Agriculture farms. It is so important that we do

this work. That we create functioning alternatives to way we’re supposed

to live” (2011: 206).

Cindy argues the possibility of creating established alternative

institutions, like those developed by previous generations, are worth

the labor. These counter institutions are particularly salient when

offering an alternative to the police, courts, and prison systems.

PREVENTATIVE: SAFER SPACES

Activist Safer Spaces

Though the term has become popular in dominant culture, ‘safer spaces’

practices have a specific meaning in activist subcultures. They are

largely associated with ideas of coddling people in not allowing for

dialogue; however, within activism, discussion is around challenging

oppressive structures and not stifling speech. Safer spaces are those

where strategies are in place to ensure physical spaces are ‘safer’ from

sexism, racism, homophobia, and other forms of ideological and physical

violence. But more than the absence of these oppressions, a space must

be inclusive and accessible, such as having wheel chair access and

seating areas (Potter 2018). Once a space is designated ‘safer,’ it is

theoretically safe for everyone the community to attend. In the zine A

Stand Up Start Up, the purpose of safer spaces are argued to be

threefold:

On an individual level, a survivors’ safety from immediate violence and

the threat of further acts of violence (sexual, economic, etc.) is

central. For the community, safety comes from fostering community norms

and practices which challenge violence and support conditions for

liberation. Lastly, across communities and collectives, safety means

mutual accountability, challenging power dynamics within and between

groups, guarding against backlash, and building strong alliances so that

we can collectively support and protect each other from interference and

targeting by the State.” (Generation Five: 20)

Safer space policies then act at both a micro and macro level. It is

argued to be a cultural practice addressing the immediate concern and

contributing to the development of prefigurative politics.

Safer space policies emphasize the reliance on one another and

importance of creating a safe ‘community.’ The is communicated in event

publicity, such as Facebook and fliers, posters at the entry and on the

walls of the space and lavatories, written in event programs or hand

outs, and announcements during the event. Everyone in the community is

argued to play a role in its support and maintenance, but there are

specific point people dedicated to administering the policy, usually

identifiable by way of matching shirts or arm bands and possibly sitting

behind an information table. These policies also help to facilitate

requests for specific individuals who are in the middle of or evading an

accountability process.

If the safer space policy is violated, both the individual and the

community are regarded as injured. Norms have developed around how to

address the violation of space policies. The point people first listen

to the account of the person harmed and immediately insure their safety,

sometimes by asking the violator to leave the space. The harmed

individual is asked what course of action they would like to have taken

and the safety of the community is accessed. Three options for the

harmed individual are offering to “keep an eye on the person,” talking

to the person about their behavior, or removing the person from the

space for the evening (Potter 2018: 15). If action needs to be taken,

there is a brief mediation with point people assigned to both parties.

Because attendees are made aware of the policy and it is based in

community understanding, force is rarely necessary in the removal of

safer space violators.

Safer spaces can be maintained in many locations frequented by

activists, with a few notable exceptions. They are the primary method of

preventing or addressing harm as it occurs. Some organizers created

NYCsaferspaces.com

as a resource for other activists trying to implement their own policy.

Annual community-wide events, such as the NYC Anarchist Book Fair, have

established policies, included a written copy in the program, and have

collaborated with safer space groups for enforcement. The following is

the safer space policy I, as a member of Support New York, assisted in

implementing for the 5^(th) Annual NYC Anarchist Book Fair:

“If you experience harassment, abuse, assault, or any other kind of

violation while at the event, or if someone who has engaged in such

behavior is adversely affecting your participation, or for any other

reason you need support, please come to a volunteer. There are trained

and experienced advocates and support people available to address these

issues.

This policy is instated in recognition and rejection of rape culture as

the status quo. Rape culture is that in which sexual assault and other

forms of sexual violence are condoned, excused and even encouraged. Rape

culture is part of a broader culture of violence, wherein people are

socialized to inhabit different positions in hierarchical relationships,

to commodify their fellow human beings, and to relate to each other

through violence and coercion. Rape culture is rooted in broader systems

of oppression — such as patriarchy, white supremacy, capitalism,

homophobia, and colonialism- and is not separable from them in how and

why it is perpetuated, experienced, and dealt with.

We strive to be survivor centric and survivor oriented. When a decision

needs to be made to give ‘benefit of the doubt’ to a someone who has

engaged in abusive behavior or support a survivor, the preference will

be to support the survivor.

If you are asked to leave the book fair in accordance with this policy,

please do so immediately. If you wish to discuss the reason for the

decision, an appointment can be made to do so after the event.”

The policy is specific to the event, but couched in the ideological and

political context of rape culture and “systems of oppression.” It also

anticipates potential conflicts and is definitive in categorically

supporting survivors and those who are harmed. Other forms of framework

have been used at convergences and mass actions. For example, one person

I interviewed had some experience in participating in the adaptation of

safer space responses to a protest setting. In preparation for a

convergence, a sexual assault response group was formed, along with a

phone number and wiki page, to help immediately and effectively deal

with any cases of assault. In addition there was a designated safer

space where activists could seek assistance.

Complications & Limits

One of the biggest issues in safer spaces can be found in the name.

Initially these were called ‘safe spaces’. However, activists had to

recognize that safety could not be guaranteed. Inequalities from

dominant culture are inevitably present and despite efforts of activists

can not be eliminated. Activists began to write about spaces as safe(r)

to acknowledge continued risk inherent to both social interaction and

radical activism. The change in terminology also leave space for further

critique, discussion, acknowledgement of fault, and adjustments.

Large groups might have difficulty agreeing on a policy. Occupy Wall

Street, for example, struggled to develop a safer space policy everyone

would agree upon. Occupy was a complex group of both experienced and

novice activists, with political beliefs that ranged from

individualistic libertarianism to collective socialism. Eva, one of the

activists I interviewed, played a role in the Occupy policy:

“that took 5 months to create a safer spaces policy…but we did go to a

GA [General Assembly] and have everyone write down the way they wanted

to see a policy and had…long talks with all these people about their

concerns and then workshop-ed it with…the spokes council over and over

and then… got thrown for a loop in the end because a deaf organizing

group told us that it was too complicated to translate into sign

language and…it was a whole journey. But we did get a policy passed

which everyone… felt so great about…and we’re like, ‘No y’all, its only

the beginning. Now we have to deal with next steps.’ But we never got

there because then Occupy had less location-centrality and organizing

was different and we were burned out, so we tried. We did get that

policy so thats a start” Eva 31:15

Eva had entered the Occupy movement with previous experience

implementing safer space policies. But because Occupy was such a large

movement, reaching agreement on the policy was especially difficult and

involved workshops, training, various group meetings, policy adjustments

and consultations.

These policies also require clear communication and follow through with

enforcement. Difficulties can arise when new members are unaware of

previous dynamics, relationships, and individual’s behaviors. One such

instance was when a group bottom lined by a controversial abusive male

activist tabled a feminist, people of color zine event. The activists

tabling for the group were all women who were new to the scene and the

organizers of the event were from punk and people of color areas of

activism and were less familiar with the freegans and cycling groups.

Neither were aware that the group was headed by a white cisgender male

accused of abuse, evading accountability, and calling the police on a

person of color. The particular male was not present and many of us

assumed he was no longer with the group. But our assumption was

incorrect and the organizing group wrote a statement about inviting the

group, resulting in an email/web site based exchange between all of the

groups involved.

While a number of different types of spaces can be made ‘safer,’

academic institutions have unique complications and limits. Activist

events and protests sometimes take place on campuses even if those

participating are not all students. Because school spaces are partially

state funded and have a location in larger bureaucratic, government, and

capitalistic power structures, institutional authority is defined by

these structures. Upon entering a campus we are made aware of this by

security guards, surveillance cameras, sign in policies, and

identification cards. When a physically unsafe situation arises, most

schools’ guidelines involve immediately contacting security and the

police. There is also a lack of organizational support on campuses. This

work requires dedicated people, circulating throughout the academic

community, informing and enforcing safer space policies.

Critiques

Many of those I interviewed believed policies are too oversimplified in

their application. To have signs stating ‘No Sexism’ or ‘No Racism’

themselves would not deal with the underlying, complex issues. One

interviewee compared the policies to rules at a public swimming pool:

“I think it is a little simplistic to say, like, ‘Don’t be sexist’ when

we live in a culture that is rooted in sexism or, like, ‘Don’t be

racist’ when our country was built on slavery. Its really really tough

to untangle that, and especially, you know, with a big sign thats

basically like at a swimming pool that’s ‘No Horseplay’ and ‘No

Diving.’” 38:15 Mary

Critiques of such spaces often argue they become meaningless, as few

activists would identify their behaviors as sexist, racist, or

homophobic, even if others might. Additional contentions around the

simplification of safer spaces include that it can lead to the

replication of “so many of the dynamics which are supposedly being

addressed,” instead of a larger purpose “to establish a framework in

which there can enable there to be productive dialogue” (Rachel 2016).

Policies’ basis in forbiddance means problems and danger are not

discussed, just moved from this space to another.

Others are pessimistic about safer space policies because they function

at the level of the individual and deal with personal interactions.

“Safety is an Illusion,” an essay published in a few different zines,

argues safety “can’t be mediated or rubber stamped at a community level”

and is contextual to individuals and their dynamics (Celeste 2014). In

our interview, Mary later told me about her worst experience with a

safer space policy, whereby she and other organizers had to spend much

of their time communicating with and about two activists:

“we had someone come to us and say that someone that was on the roster

of artists was an assaulter…I think we learned our lesson in that, we

tried to sort of get the whole story and ask him about it and like, it

was such a nightmare and we just told them both not to come because we

didn’t want any…we didn’t want the drama and it seemed like we were just

dealing with a really volatile situation that wasn’t going to work out

well for either of them…And I don’t think that was the right answer

either, but that was the best thing we could come up with…That was

probably my worst experience with safer space policy… because you can’t

just abstain from that either, you can’t just say like ‘Its not my

problem. Both of you guys take your drama elsewhere.’ So I don’t feel

great about doing that but I also don’t feel great about the accusations

that flew around in our email chain and the drama between them consuming

a lot of our meetings and it was counterproductive for us…I just think

its so easy to get caught up in the minutia of a situation between two

individuals or three individuals and not think about the larger

implications when you are just repeatedly putting Band-Aids on stuff and

the cuts are going to keep coming.” Mary 40:13

Mary’s experience is not unique. If processes are not clearly in place,

then there is no chain of communication and dealing with these issues

can feel frustrating and pointless. When activists feel they are caught

in the details of a heated argument, cases of abuse and assault can be

reduced to ‘drama.’

ACCOUNTABILITY

Before TransformativeJustice

Prior to the implementation of transformative justice models, community

justice meant activists were ousted from the community after causing

harm. Activists tend to be transient and when asked to leave, they could

simply move to another city and become a part of a new community. “If we

bought everyone who ever fucked up a one way bus ticket to Nebraska, the

scene would get real small real fast. And it wouldn’t be very fun for

the folks in Omaha” ( Thoughts About Community 2008: 3) . In kicking

someone out of a community, the person who caused harm is ‘demonized’

and might continue their behavior in their new location (Erinyen

Collective).

The other option was overlooking or denying the behavior. Sometimes the

result was the survivor leaving; “there’s no way to even start talking,

no space to start addressing these “personal issues”, and so we leave”

(Colman 2009). Another possibility was women writing zines about their

experiences. “[I]f you were sexually assaulted, you just wrote a zine

about it detailing what an asshole the person was and telling everyone

to stop being friends with them and push them out of the community.

Usually one or two people in every town took it seriously…” (“Thinking

Through…”). The most enduring of these is the zine Baby, I’m a

Manarchist, written by two women in 2003 about a specific activist in

Boston. The zine includes email and online conversational exchanges

between the parties. If the survivor wanted to stay involved and

believed they were not being taken seriously, some survivors began

retaliating against sexual assault. In Doris #21, Cindy Crabb talks

about girl gangs in the early 1990s:

“The girl gangs redefined rape, and suddenly everything counted. All the

shit that happened to me counted, they made it real. My stepbrothers

hands counted, the record store owner that used to get me to suck his

dick, the time Paul fucked me from behind in my mothers kitchen, all the

times I slept with that one boyfriend because he said if I didn’t he

would find someone else. All the comments on the streets, the

‘accidental’ gropes at the shows. Kill them all. It’s retribution time.

Can you imagine the power in saying that?” (Crabb 2018)

These attacks were around the rise of Riot Grrrl music and a new wave of

feminist empowerment. Overall, the approach was not available to

everyone harmed, was inconsistent, and didn’t result in major changes in

activist / anarchist subcultures. By the early 2000s, zines about

assault like the Doris series and Support, set in motion larger cultural

changes around consent and abuse ( Accounting for Ourselves 2013).

Restorative and Transformative Justice

Before transformative, restorative justice was the focus of community

justice projects. Restorative justice focused on restoring relationships

as opposed to punitive action. “Restorative justice is the umbrella term

for programs that seek to involve victims, offenders and community

members in addressing the harms caused by crime. It is defined by both a

set of values (e.g. empowerment, healing and openness) and a set of

practices (e.g. face-to-face interaction, open dialogue, participatory

involvement…)” (Woolford and Ratner 2010: 6). Emphasis is placed on the

needs of the survivor; “[t]he goal of a restorative justice process will

probably be more along the lines of enabling all people involved in a

situation to coexist with security and respect within the same

community, and most importantly, allowing the survivor to heal and move

on with their life in whichever way they want to, within a community

that they feel supported, respected and safe in” (“Restorative

Justice…”: 13).

Restorative justice is based on current practices in some indigenous

communities; however they are not universally used and discussion of

them tends to erase internal cultural differences (Withers 2014). The

documentary Hollow Water, about an indigenous Ojibway community in

Canada dealing with child sexual abuse, is commonly recommended amongst

those who do this work. In the last few years, the terminology has been

employed by traditional, conservative social institutions like public

schools, and “is often deployed in an ancillary system — maintaining

role within the broader system of criminal justice” (Woolford and Ratner

2010: 6).

Transformative Justice is very similar to restorative justice as a

community justice approach. But while maintaining a survivor centered

focus, also stresses the importance of transformation of the person who

caused harm and the larger social inequities contributing to abusive

situations. Transformative justice also “[a]ccepts that a person can be

both someone who was harmed and has harmed” (Femme Left). In practice,

restorative and transformative justice are not that different, but the

language around ‘restoring’ an abusive relationship versus

‘transforming’ an abusive relationship appeals to activist prefigurative

politics and practices aimed at countering larger social oppressions.

Generation Five, a group dedicated to addressing the impact of child

sexual assault within five generations, lists the goals of

transformative justice as follows:

• Safety, healing, and agency for survivors

• Accountability and transformation for people who harm

• Community action, healing, and accountability

• Transformation of the social conditions that perpetuate violence —

systems of oppression and exploitation, domination, and state violence

(Generation Five 2007)

In application, transformative justice often takes the form of

accountability processes. Accountability processes are flexible in

format and can begin at the behest of a survivor, social movement group,

the community, or the person who caused harm. For the individual, the

goal is to hold the person who caused harm responsible for their

actions, for them to acknowledge and accept that responsibility, and to

commit to future changes in behavior. As a community process, those

involved include partners, friends, and fellow activists. Transformative

justice organizations like Generation Five, INCITE!, and CARA

(Communities Against Rape and Abuse) created early guides that have

greatly influenced transformative justice in the activist subculture.

As Accountability in Activism

Transformative justice models are being used to address harm after it

has been committed. In the subculture, the perpetrator’s transformation

is most commonly referred to as them “working on their shit” or “dealing

with their shit.” These processes are almost exclusively mobilized

around sexual assault, relationship-based physical assault and emotional

abuse. Other forms of harm might be dealt with collectively in other

ways, such as intervention formats for alcohol and drug use. But

activists are only “held accountable” around romantic or sexual forms of

trauma.

All individuals harm one another and the abuser can be redeemed. “They

believe in helping each other figure shit out, that we all fuck up

sometimes and we all have the capacity to fuck up majorly, especially

having been raised in this sick and twisted environment they call

civilization. That the only way stuff is really going to get any

different is to call each other on shit and then learn how to do it

better the next time around” (Erinyen Collective). The prefigurative

politics of radical left social movements requires the community to work

together to help those who “want support and are interested in changing

themselves and/or situation” ( Thoughts About Community 2008).

One of the largest direct influences within the radical left activist

subculture was Philly Stands Up / Philly’s Pissed. The groups developed

out of conversations around a number of rapes at a punk festival in

2004. Philly’s Pissed (PP) was a women’s group organizing around

survivor support. Philly Stands Up (PSU) included men and underwent a

major change in their first year when an original member was ‘called

out’ for sexual assault. At a meeting of roughly 30 activists, nearly

all defended the person accused of assault. Only two people attended the

next meeting. As a result, what was “[f]ormerly a vast amalgamation of

straight and closeted men, PSU…became a tight-knit posse consisting of

out queer and gender-nonconforming members. For the first time, the

group was not all white” (Kelly 2012: 46). PSU and PP’s dynamic changed

over time, eventually settling on PSU “dealing with perpetrators” and PP

with survivors (Kelly 2012: 47). PP dissolved in 2008 and PSU became

inactive in 2012. Due in part to the early zines and guides from PSU and

PP, nearly everyone I interviewed cited the group as an early

inspiration.

Around the same time, Support New York (SNY) formed out of the New York

City punk/anarchist subculture. The collective formed “support the

survivors of…[sexual violence], to educate ourselves and others about

the effects of sexual and intimate partner violence, and to figure out

how we can respond without resorting to police and prisons that further

perpetuate oppression and abuse” (Support New York). Early on, the group

dealt with survivors, perpetuators (a term used by the collective), and

carried out processes. Over time with experience gained, SNY developed a

process framework, delineated roles in a process, and created a

curriculum. SNY ended actively taking on processes in early 2016 and

posted their curriculum online in 2018.

THREE COMPONENTS

The Survivor

Though numerous forms of sexism, racism and other inequalities exist,

accountability processes are almost exclusively organized around sexual

assault or relationship abuse. In my interviews, readings, and personal

experience, I have only heard of one process initiating around race. As

of September 2018 that process is still at the organizing phase. The

subculture includes a variety of gender identities and is generally

oriented against gender essentialism, so it is recognized that

“[a]ssault and abuse can be committed by anyone against anyone, across

gender lines,” though male identified people might be less willing to

identify abuse ( Accounting for Ourselves 2013: 5). However, it is also

acknowledged that the overarching pattern is cisgender males harming

women, gender non binary, or trans people ( Accounting for Ourselves

2013, Betrayal 2012, Withers 2014). In his zine about being sexually

assaulted, A. J. Withers, a transgender activist, spoke about the

complexity of gender and being a survivor:

“I have been sexually assaulted a few times in the radical scene in

Toronto and each one of those times, regardless of how I identify, were

very gendered. Whether or not they were related to my being trans, I

know that they were also about my being identified in whole or in part

by the person assaulting me, as a woman. However, just because my

experience is one of assault when my claim on masculinity was erased or

devalued, this does not mean this is the case for all trans

men/genderqueer folks. Some trans people are sexually assaulted entirely

because they are trans. Additionally, my talking about how part of the

reason that I was assaulted was, to some extent, about an imposed

‘womanness’ on me does not make it okay to simply include me in the

category ‘women’ when you are talking about sexual violence. I’m not one

and to call me otherwise is transphobic.” (Withers 2014: 14)

The use of the term ‘survivor’ to label the person who has been harmed

is moderately disputed. ‘Survivor,’ as opposed to ‘victim,’ is part of a

reclaiming narrative arising out of feminist movements in the 1980s

(Sehgal 2016). In choosing the identity of a survivor, someone is

placing emphasis on the strength of having lived through assault instead

of the weakness of victimhood. ‘Survivor’ “denotes ability to cope and

move on; to integrate the traumatic event into the context of their

lives and to accept it, rather than avoiding or ‘burying’ the incident”

(Cheyenne 5). But the change of primary terminology can force those who

have been assaulted into feeling as though they cannot be fragile or

heal on their own timeline and must wear a veneer of fortitude. Within

the subculture, I have not found any linguistic alternative. ‘Survivor’

was used, albeit sometimes critically, by everyone I interviewed even if

they themselves rejected label when self identifying.

Before a process can be entered, the survivor identifies or ‘calls out’

the abuse. The definition of abuse is broadened within the subculture

and redefined as “the mistreatment of someone that causes harm” (Wrekk

2007) or instances “where people’s boundaries are violated” (Crabb

2009). Along with physical abuse, this can include forms of sexual abuse

or the “utilization of sex as a weapon” including the “assaulting of

‘sexual parts,’…FORCED participation or watching pornography, ignoring

safe words” (Unowho). Within the subculture, many admit the defining

rape is “difficult” (The Down There Health Collective: 11) or “messy,

because the experience itself is messy” (Cohn and Mitchell 2015).

Generally, rape is considered as “[u]nwanted sexual contact of any kind

as defined by the survivor” (Dealing with Our Shit Collective: 5),

though that contains “an infinite amount of situations,” including

cultural pressures around non monogamy or polyamory and sex positivity

(Soph: 5). An number of activists have talked out the need for new /

more language to use around these situations:

“Maybe we need a hundred new words for when our friends or acquaintances

or partners assault or rape us. One word to describe ‘I let you because

I was half asleep and too tired to do anything else.’ One that’s ‘I was

sick of arguing about it.’ One for ‘It’s fucked up and scary the way you

talk to me.’ One for ‘I told you I didn’t want to do that.’ One for ‘Why

didn’t you notice when I wasn’t present anymore.’ One for ‘We had an

agreement you’d use protection.’ One for ‘You said if I didn’t do it,

you’d leave me. What choice did I have?’ Maybe we need a hundred new

words to talk about rape and sexual assault and sexual manipulation:

words that speak clearly about the seriousness of what is being done to

our bodies. Or maybe our friends and acquaintances and partners need to

have the courage to hear ‘You raped me’ or ‘That was assault.’” (Crabb

2016: 49)

Because of activists’ alternative sexual practices, unique issues around

consent emanate. Abuse might then be when a dominant in an BDSM fails to

follow safe words, ignores other forms of bodily communication, or fails

to provide adequate aftercare or when a polyamory agreement about safer

sex practices is violated.

Unlike the criminal justice system, transformative justice also

recognizes emotional abuse. Emotional abuse is defined as patterns of

behavior that project “power in order to demean or cause harm,” (Unowho)

or coerce “to get someone to do something against their will or better

judgment” (Wrekk 2007 ). Emotional abuse is recognized outside of the

activist subculture, but not as something serious or actionable by the

criminal justice system.

Within activism, identifying forms of abuse is particularly difficult

both because it manifests differently in the context of activism and it

means acknowledging abuse by a person thought to be politically ethical.

One theme is the survivor of abuse being used to advance the political

work of the abuser, dedicating “pieces of [themselves]...to someone

else’s cause” (Wrekk 2007). In one well known case, a survivor talks

about her ex husband “using [her] own politics against [her],”

manipulating her into changing sexual and consumption practices to

please his politics. She was made to feel she was not radical enough.

Other forms of emotional abuse include verbal abuse, gaslighting,

isolation, pressure to do more risky activism, threatening to harm

themselves, and destroying possessions (Cohn and Mitchell 2015,

Regarding ********, Thoughts on Possible 2013). In “Why Misogynists Make

Great Informants,” Courtney Desieree Morris speaks about their

experiences with abusive men:

“There were men like this in various organizations I worked with. The

one who called his girlfriend a bitch in front of a group of youth of

color during a summer encuentro we were hosting. The one who sexually

harassed a queer Chicana couple during a trip to México, trying to

pressure them into a threesome. The guys who said they would complete a

task, didn’t do it, brushed off their compañeras’ demands for

accountability, let those women take over the task, and when it was

finished took all the credit for someone else’s hard work. The graduate

student who hit his partner—and everyone knew he’d done it, but whenever

anyone asked, people would just look ashamed and embarrassed and mumble,

“It’s complicated.”” (2010)

Name calling, sexual pressure, not completing work and taking credit for

other’s work, and physical violence are all forms of abuse that are

present in activism. Emotional abuse is acknowledged to be a significant

problem in the subculture that “deserves far more attention than it

currently receives” (Cohn and Mitchell 2015: 12).

There are arguments that emotional abuse is innately mutual within a

relationship. In using the same terminology and the same processes,

various forms of abuse are equated and conflated. One of my

interviewees, Willow, was critical “that people feel…they need to defend

how much they were hurt and harmed by someone and I think, like,

alternatives would be to… actually be attentive to unhealthy power

exchanges and help our friends sort things out without such hyperbolic

language” around survivorship 10:40. Willow was also concerned that

within a very youth and party oriented atmosphere of the subculture, few

people’s behavior could hold up to scrutiny.

Others argue questioning the validity of emotional abuse is another form

of victim blaming and minimizing of the experience of survivors (“Safety

is an…”). Some activists challenge “hierarchies of trauma,” that

quantify some forms as worse than others, while others critique the

equating of various forms of abuse (Bayer 6). There are a range of

disagreements around the relative importance of emotional abuse. Some

believe the community must acknowledge emotional abuse as legitimate

trauma, others reason different forms of abuse need to be confronted in

different ways by activists (Cohn and Mitchell 2015).

Unlike state justice, accountability processes center on the needs of

the survivor. Organizers believe that survivors “should dictate what the

accountability process looks like and how it works, to avoid

re-victimization and restore agency & autonomy to the survivor” (Brown

2013). Typically, the survivor cites wanting to stop the perpetrator

from continuing their behavior and harming others as their reason for

participating. Though the survivor is not always a part of a process and

isn’t always the one to request a process. While less frequent,

occasionally a social movement group or the perpetrator themselves will

request a process.

When using the transformative justice model there is no burden of proof

required to identify abuse. The binary of victim and assailant is broken

down, as one zine is in part titled “We are all survivors. We are all

perpetrators.” Singular truth is questioned and instead the experience

of those involved is validated. “No one should ever be forced to defend

what he or she feels, least of all someone who has survived a violation

of his or her boundaries. Regardless of ‘what really happened,’ a

person’s experience is his or hers alone” (“We are all…” 2005: 39 ).

Having been socialized into state influenced culture this can be a

difficult adjustment. However, some activists draw parallels to the more

traditional topic of class inequality. “When you hear about striking

workers, you don’t ask for proof of the boss’s wrongs — you instead ask

how to best support the workers” ( And What about Tomorrow? 2009).

But some of my interviewees faced difficulty when actually carrying out

processes at the behest of survivors. For Lee, as a processes

progressed, they learned that the abuse / incident was integrated into

the couple’s regular sexual practices. The “initial story was pretty

grotesque”; the survivor went to sleep and told their partner they

weren’t sure if they wanted to have sex and woke up with the partner

“fucking them”. “And then you find out like 2 or 3 months later that

that was kind of a blanket consent thing in their relationship and…wake

up sex was actually not an off-the-table thing, and its like ‘Oh wait,

thats a totally different context’” 13:30. In this case the survivor

didn’t lie, but right and wrong dichotomy was drawn trough a grey area.

Jasmine had a similar experience where she felt that the accountability

group she was a part of was “not thoughtful in terms of correctly

assessing what had happened…ok, you believe survivors…and you give their

account…priority, check, and so that just lead to some assumptions.

Therefore we shouldn’t ask at all what [the perpetrator’s] experience of

these things is because somehow that would be creating an opening up to

misconstrue or cast aspersions…we really acted as the state, we acted as

cops…and this is in no way denying real harm was caused and there was

responsibility to be taken” 16:25. It is dogmatic to only consider one

party’s viewpoint and question the other. Because the process lacked

nuance, it is easy for the survivor/perpetrator division to itself limit

the possibility of transformation.

The Perpetrator

The person who has caused harm is usually called the ‘perpetrator,’

though this term is controversial. Philly Stands Up argued that they

“settled into using ‘perpetrator’ to commonly refer to the person

opposite the survivor in a situation around sexual assault. We use this

term because we feel that it represents recognition that someone did

something, not is something. It gives the opportunity for change while

recognizing that their actions have hurt someone” (Philly Stands Up). As

PSU was one of the most influential groups doing this work, other

activist transformative justice groups followed suit. Terms like

‘abuser’ imply that not just the actions, but the person themselves is

bad and can therefore not change. Similarly, “attacker/assaulter implies

that the perpetrator is physically stronger and that the sexual assault

was planned. it also implies violence, which is not always present,

though it certainly can be. for that reason, i choose to use the word

perpetrator — intentional or not, they engaged in an act that was

traumatic to another” (Cheyenne 5).

Though most groups use the term, it is highly criticized. Specifically

it is thought to have “a legal sound, and [can]… recreate some form of

the justice system“ (The A Team 2014). Particularly when shortened to

‘perp’ the word replicates carceral terminology. Activists who dislike

the label also argue though not intended, it still labels the person and

can become a master status within the activist subculture. Perhaps not

as harsh as more damning labels like ‘rapist,’ perpetrator is still a

difficult identity for someone to accept when entering process. One

interviewee, James, was involved with a transformative collective group

that used alternative language to perpetrator:

“we didn’t want to say abuser because part of the nature of our work was

about…building trust with the abuser and calling them the ‘abuser’ is

not going to do that. Also it was kind of about demystifying the nature

of who is abuser in terms of…it is not actually an archetype of an

abuser like you have in your head…its not a stranger lurking. Its

oftentimes an otherwise very nice person…it was easier to use language

that didn’t seem to be a categorical fundamental assessment of who they

were as a person. Some one who had committed abuse, but maybe is not

necessarily an ‘abuser’ and that shit is like, trust/semantics shit to

coddle the person that we want because the ultimate goal is to get them

to not harm anyone else. Perpetrator sounds like the cops…some people in

the collective would during meetings would still say ‘perp’ as shorthand

because we all secretly watched [Law and Order] SVU, which was like a

shameful catharsis for everyone in the collective, about A. just seeing

Ice-T beat up rapists every week and the…fantasy of a police apparatus

that actually cares about survivors is something that appealed to all of

us in some weird way…”

Others in the subculture consider sensitivity to the word part of

“strategies towards accountability which seek to accommodate a

perpetrators defenses” ( Betrayal 2012: 11). Even though I personally

agree with much of the critique against the term ‘perpetrator,’ I am

using it in this research because it is the most common nomenclature in

the subculture.

Alternative options used by groups and in zines are ‘abuser’ (INCITE!

2005), ‘assaulter’ (Withers 2014), ‘aggressor’ (CARA), ‘person who

caused harm’ (Creative Interventions), and ‘perpetuator’ of violence

(Support New York). Abuser, assaulter, and person who caused harm are

rather straightforward having been used before and in conjunction with

perpetrator. Perpetuator was a term argued for by Support New York as a

way of indicating the perpetuation of violence and patriarchy and

forming accountability around disrupting the perpetuation of these

cycles and “larger systems of oppression” (Support New York). The zine

Thoughts on Possible Community Responses to Intimate Violence (Redux)

eschews language altogether and uses a triangle symbol “for the

survivor/accuser/person who was harmed” and a four-pointed star symbol

“for the abuser/accused/one who’s the most apparent problem” (7).

Approaching someone to tell them they have been “called out” for their

behavior is complicated. Within the subculture there are arguments

around the idea of “call out” versus “call in” culture. Call out culture

is defined as “a culture of toxic confrontation and shaming people for

oppressive behavior that is more about the performance of righteousness

than the actual pursuit of justice” (Cheng Thom 2016), but even those

who have critiqued it argue “sometimes the only way we can address

harmful behaviours is by publicly naming them, in particular when there

is a power imbalance between the people involved and speaking privately

cannot rectify the situation” (Ahmad 2017). Whereas ‘call in’ implies

“calling in those who make mistakes and enact harm…discuss their

transgressions with us and collaboratively identify strategies to avoid

perpetrating similar behavior” (Rachel 2016: 3). Either way, initial

reactions can be quite volatile. In an interview with Transformative

Justice, EU, Anna Vo talks about the difficulty:

“So that is the initial challenge and I am still trying to find a nice

way to say “this person feels that you’re a perpetrator”. No matter how

its communicated, there is usually a pretty aggressive reaction. So,

with them, while this is happening I try to explain it in other terms,

in analogies that they can relate to. If I know something about their

lives I equate it to a situation where they may feel like a victim, like

if they are riding a bike and a car driver cuts them off. I know this

sounds trivial and simplistic, but sometimes it has to be an external

example that doesn’t threaten people.” (Vo 2011)

The survivor or an organization can call someone out. In our interview,

James, who had been involved in an accountability group over a long

period of time, found that early on most were about “sexual abuse and

emotional abuse in relationships. But towards the middle and end, the

people started getting called out by partners and they’d simultaneously

be getting called out by collectives that they were part of” 15:25.

First reactions often include denial and justification. People I

interviewed that had been present when a perpetrator was called out said

that the person “freaked out,” was “shocked,” used “denial and

rhetoric,” and said the survivor was “crazy.” In the essay “I Want to

Get Better,” a person who was called out said “When I got called out it

didn’t really sink in. They were wrong! It was their fault! If they had

said or done things differently this would never have happened! This was

a patten on behavior I couldn’t see in myself. I didn’t behave like

that, I was a feminist. An ally. An anarchist” (Rose 2015: 15). One

interviewee who had a lot of experience playing the role of initial

contact stated, in their experience:

“It’s this process of gently feeling out, trying to make sure you don’t

spook them, because they’re like these very skittish horses…and also

doing this interesting gender dance, because like, wanting to be taken

seriously which means performing masculinity, but wanting to do that in

a way that isn’t brutally inauthentic to who I feel like I am, and also

doesn’t reinforce patriarchy. Which is actually a really difficult

dance…” 42:30

As perpetrators tend to be cisgender men, they might find other

cisgender men and the projection of masculinity to be both more

relatable as well as more legitimate. Oftentimes, the person doing the

initial contact will first have a friend of the perpetrator who is

sympathetic to the process present, so that they feel comfortable and

have support that will not exacerbate angers and frustrations

One goal of transformative justice is to keep both the survivor and

perpetrator in the community. Everyone involved must believe that the

perpetrator has the capacity to self reflect and change their behavior

in the future. The ability to both adequately acknowledge behavior

patterns and have hope for future change can be complicated. In the

aforementioned essay “I Want to Get Better,” the perpetrator talks about

his need for transformation:

“One area I disagreed with my mediator…about was when he said, in

reference to my actions and behaviors: ‘This is part of who you are.’

Well, no. though I accept what I think he was getting at, which is that

I should not hide from what happened, and the process of self betterment

and accountability is an ongoing process, why do these identities have

to be a part of who I am? Why can’t they be a part of who I was? Without

the opportunity for re-authoring identity provided by the accountability

process and our community as a whole then there is little incentive to

engage in accountability. If we brand every one with no hope of

rehabilitation or restoration, then we lose all hope of real justice and

just re-create the system we seek to dissolve.” (Rose 2014: 14)

The person called out must believe they can transform. If not, the only

reason for a perpetrator to participate in a process would be to

maintain community position.

The process of transformation is is rooted in the idea that everyone is

potentially a perpetrator because “even the best of us can fuck up”

(Naught and Rachel: 22). Guides like What to Do When You’ve Been Called

Out: A Brief Guide, Taking the First Step: Suggestions to People Called

Out for Abusive Behavior, What to Do When Someone Tells You that You

Violated Their Boundaries, Made Them Feel Uncomfortable, or Committed

Assault, and We Are All Survivors, We Are All Perpetrators explain both

that anyone has the potential to commit abusive actions and the

importance of addressing such behaviors. These generally include things

like “Take responsibility for your actions” and “Seek help” (“We are

all…” 2005). The most popular of these is Taking the First Step, which

has been reprinted in other zines and lists 10 suggestions to people

called out. These are as follows:

• Be Honest, Stay Honest, Get Honest

• Respect Survivor Autonomy

• Learn To Listen

• Practice Patience

• Never, Ever, Blame The Victim

• Speak For Yourself

• Don’t Engage In Silence Behavior

• Don’t Hide Behind Your Friends

• Respond To The Wishes of The Survivor and The Wishes Of The Community

• Take Responsibility. Stop Abuse and Rape Before It Starts.

The phrase most commonly used is that a perpetrator needs to “work on

their shit” or “deal with their shit.” This generally means that they

need to change behaviors, but is otherwise vague. For any actual

transformation, the perpetrator must “both a) actually want support and

b) are interested in changing themselves and/or their situation”

(Thoughts on Possible 2013: 6). For some activists who have experience

with processes, it is only seen as worth the effort if the perpetrator

was willing to change: “When I started this work, I would spend hours in

session with one individual, waiting for something to register. Since

then, I have developed a skill over time to let stubborn creatures be,

and pursue change where it seems more welcome. “ (Vo 2014: 55). Some

critics believe that perpetrators are being asked to “‘work on’ his

existence as a male, his performance of masculinity…to adjust his role

as a man,” which merely supports a patriarchal culture, precludes any

true transformation, and fails to challenge power dynamics in the

subculture (“Notes on Survivor…”: 18).

The Community

In addition to being accountable to the survivor, the perpetuator is

held accountable to the community. Acts of abuse to an individual are

seen as harmful to the community as a whole. The perpetrator must take

responsibility and solidarity must be restored before they are brought

back into activist projects. “Being accountable to your actions and your

community means owning your mistakes and working hard to restore trust.

This trust goes beyond partners or potential dates. It exists among

friends, housemates, comrades, and folks with whom you do organizing

work and activism” (Crabb 2009). The underlying idea is that the

community as a whole is committed to prefigurative politics and holding

one another accountable.

The community is the primary reason perpetrators agree to go along with

a process. In my interviews the size of the city the activists are in

changes the motivations of perpetrators. In moderate to small sized

cities, there is no ability to change communities within the geographic

area. Being threatened with being not allowed at certain events or being

ostracized by certain people effectively removes you from the community.

Subcultural and social capital carries more weight and if those with

more capital do not want a process to happen, then it doesn’t. Lee was

involved in activism in a college town:

“They almost always became like, popularity contests. Who was going to

determine the narrative it was going to get? Who was going to determine

this historical narrative…almost became a fight for history. Whereas

somebody would get called out, but then over time whispers behind the

scene of what actually happened, what actually was going on would

dramatically shift how people felt about it and how people felt they

needed to or not need to be committed to accountability processes. So if

somebody was getting called out, and they didn’t have a lot of social

capital, and the people with the most social capital thought that they

needed to finish that accountability process, they would. If somebody

got called out and the people with the most social capital thought it

was a joke, then it was treated like a joke” 9:13

In Lee’s experience, cultural and social capital were the defining

factors of whether or not a process occurred and was supported by the

community.

In larger cities, such as New York, there are various overlapping

subcultures for a perpetrator to join and evade accountability.

Subcultural and social capital was a factor, but power was more diffuse

simply because there were so many people in so many different scenes.

One particularly well known and powerful activist was called out and

refused an accountability process. But he couldn’t go to a number of

events and spaces, fliers were handed out about him, websites and blog

posts were created and ten years later his name is still equated with

perpetrator by a significant portion of the activist community.

Fellow activists in their respective social networks make up support

teams for both the survivor and the perpetrator. For the perpetrator,

the support is general moral support but does not condone or justify

their actions. They might also help them to confront previous behaviors

and aid them in fulfilling the requests of the survivor. “Emotional

support is as necessary as anything else anarchists are doing. We cannot

accomplish anything unless we are stable, and this requires the

compassion and support of others” (Lilith). These support teams can then

take charge of communication, so that the survivor will not need to be

in contact with the person who abused them.

The survivor decides how much to inform the community about the

perpetrator and the process. Typically, information is not made widely

known unless a perpetrator is unwilling to be held accountable.

Otherwise it is usually targeted to specific individuals and groups. It

can be difficult for individuals and the community as a whole to support

the survivor, as it is predicated on information about the abusing being

public. If a survivor does not want their name or information known, it

can be difficult to amass any support. For example, when I was an active

participant, there was a well known, controversial response to an

assault. While the perpetrator was named, the survivor was not. About a

week later I received an email from a friend saying they were

disappointed I had not reached out and offered help. I did not know they

were the survivor or know the full extent of the fall out. The survivor

not being known might also mean that while those ‘in the know’ want to

tell others, they are unable because the survivor has requested that the

information not be transmitted.

Rumors around processes are common. Gossip has very gendered, negative

connotations, but the informal transmission of knowledge can be very

useful for activists, especially when warning about individuals’

behaviors: “‘that guy is really creepy, you shouldn’t hang out with him’

to ‘my friend had a bad experience with that person…’ to ‘watch out he

is really sexist behind closed doors’ to ‘have you heard that ___

sexually assaulted someone, this is what people are doing about it…’”

(Withers 2014: 51). But this can become complicated. One person I

interviewed had an experience whereby they tried to warn a friend about

someone who lived in the same town:

“I had made a statement to someone in the town where he was living, like

‘This person has a problem with consent, just a heads up’. I had never

spoken to him directly about it because I had not been authorized by

this person who had been harmed by him to do so. I don’t like to be…I

don’t like to shit talk…but I didn’t want this person to be able to just

show up in a town…and it was a subtle person-to-person heads up…I ended

up getting a letter from this man, who I had used to be very close

friends with years before, basically indignantly demanding that I

retract my sentiment…I didn’t know what to do because by this point it

was a couple of years later maybe and…[the survivor and I] weren’t even

in touch anymore. And I wasn’t going to track her down and call her and

be like “Hey, by the way, this person who sexually assaulted you years

ago wrote me a letter and can I tell him that you felt…No! I’m not going

to do that. No way, so I ignored the letter. And it sucks because I can

put myself in his shoes and be like, how would I feel if some friend

comes to me and is like “Hey, someone just told me you have a problem

with consent. Whats that about…”…I would feel horrified and I would feel

angry. I’d feel terrible. I mean, I would probably approach it a little

bit differently…like god, who do I need to make amends to ?” 1:00:00

Gossip can of course also be used to spread untrue or negative

information about either party and can lose accuracy in its

transmission. Gossip about survivors being ‘crazy’ is quite common, as

are minimizations and exaggerations of the abuse by the perpetrator.

Gossip favoring the activist with more social and cultural capital is

likely to be believed and spread further.

Depending on the clarity of information, how communicated, and the

perpetuator and survivor, this can result in the community feeling as

though they must take a side. People do not want to hear that their

friends, partners, and fellow activists are perpetrators and try to

dismiss as allegations or shield them from accountability (Otto: 18). In

the case of one men’s collective, when one of their members was accused

of assault they responded by saying “‘A good guy like him would never do

a thing like that’ or ‘Whats a guy to do when a woman is lying naked in

his bed?’” (Dang: 9). But denial means doing nothing, which inherently

is in support of the perpetrator. In doing so, “You’re sending a message

that you value a sense of normalcy over their safety” ( Accounting for

Ourselves 2013).

In some cases the distinction between the perpetrator and the survivor

is drawn into question. Typically, the perpetrator claims ‘mutual

abuse,’ or that they themselves were the victims in the relationship.

Though some in the subculture believe mutual abuse does happen, it is

also a form of the perpetrator counter organizing against the survivor.

It can become highly politicized and put a strain on others’

relationships in the movement. Transformative justice organizations

argue “when a survivor (the individual with less power within that

relationship) strikes back in any manner it is always self-defense NOT

abuse” (Unowho). Yet to deny either party’s understanding of the

incident as community mandate signals a significant shift of power.

For example, in my interview with Alexandra there was a situation where

sections of the community itself had a different understanding of a

situation:

“One person calls out another for sexual assault, a single incident. Its

understood by some people that in the opposite direction there was a

longterm pattern of emotional abuse. And…I think had we had the ability

or maybe the courage to name that more clearly…then maybe something

slightly different could have come out of it? But it was tough because

the person who was being called out didn’t want to do that tit-for-tat.

You know, ‘I’m using the A word because you’re using the A word.” 8:25

After all of their experiences, Alexandra believes “this idea of like,

you always believe the survivor…makes sense as a survivor support

principle, but not as a community accountability principle.” As a

policy, valuing one person’s perspective and experience over another’s

complicates the process of mediation.

Though some argue that people are not on trial, others believe the

community does act as a jury. “[N]o one need be on trial, because there

is no sentence/verdict involved, and this is purposely outside of a

court of law…each member of the community (i.e. the jury) will decide

for themselves if they want to act on the punitive process or ignore it”

(Vo 2011: 2). In a few interviews, activists referenced the scene in

judicial terminology. The direct comparisons belie the creation of a new

or alternative process and instead point to its re-creation.

The community might also blame the survivor for internal divisions

resulting from an accountability process. In some cases, survivors “are

blamed for tearing the community apart and ultimately for undermining

‘the struggle’” ( Betrayal 2012: 9). Preexisting internal divisions,

personal and ideological, can be exacerbated and fought through an

accountability process. Speaking out can diminish the survivor’s

activist credibility and cultural capital.

THE ACCOUNTABILITY PROCESS

Requests

Once the survivor has labeled abuse they then determine how they feel

the abuser can be accountable to them as well as the community, which

varies greatly depending upon the situation and relationship.

Accountability requests of the survivor depend on the circumstances. It

was common with Philly Stands Up “for a survivor to create a list of

‘demands’ for the perpetrator to meet. If a survivor is interested in

creating a list of demands, we encourage them to envision what would

make them feel safe and more in control of their lives again, and what

would make them feel that the person who assaulted them is being held

accountable for their actions” (Colman 2009).

Probably the most common request is for the perpetrator to not attend an

event or go to a particular space or to coordinate so that they do not

attend the same event at the same time. Survivors rarely want to share

the same space with someone who has caused them harm. This request is

particularly controversial. Banning individuals before entering or while

in a process is viewed as a punishment. Sometimes this can be a sticking

point for perpetrators; “they resent missing out on [events], or resent

sacrifices in general that they hadn’t thought of in beginning the

mediation process” (Vo 2011: 2). The perpetrator might be asked not to

attend an event and not know who has accused them. There have been a few

contentious situations around zine festivals and book fairs, where the

perpetrator called for transparency but the survivor requested

anonymity. In smaller scenes, this can be more difficult because there

are fewer events so it can be a more encompassing social sanction. In

addition, a couple of people I interviewed were involved in an process

whereby the perpetrator was asked by the survivor to leave shared living

situations.

For survivors, requests can be difficult to make. Similar to issues

around consent, there can be pressure to not make requests about events

and spaces even if you would like to. Survivors can also not change

their mind once a decision is made (Withers 2014). If the survivor did

not anticipate the perpetrator being in a space, they might still have

to share a space or personally ask them to leave. In Transformative

Justice and/as Harm, A.J. Withers talks about an experience whereby he

was giving a performance and someone who abused him attended.

“I remember saying that I couldn’t do it [perform] in front of him. I

just kept being asked if I wanted him to leave. At one point I said that

I didn’t want to be the one to have to say that — that it was always me

and I didn’t want to be singled out…Eventually I said ‘yes.’…From the

group’s perspective, however, if there was a ‘bad guy’ that evening, it

was me. I had several people tell me that they had come across town or

cancelled other plans to come and see me perform. It felt like people

thought I was over reacting or being over sensitive or diva-ish. Rather

than people checking in on me and being tender with me, I was blamed for

ruining their night” (Withers 2014: 31).

In some cases, the people organizing or other community members believe

that the survivor should just master their feelings and get over it. The

default to no policy and no request is that survivors do not attend

events and quit going to certain spaces.

Coordinating schedules of events can be very time consuming and labor

intensive for support groups. Both venues as well as mediators sometimes

enter into these calls. In our interview, Lee described feeling

frustrated with the phone calls and communication around requests not to

attend events or spaces.

“The phone chain situation that would happen! Like, ok, who is going to

be the point person… there are support people on either side. Then are

those direct support people also going to be the one who fields calls?

So the survivor wants to go to this …radical poetry reading and wants to

know if the perpetrator is going to be there so then they talk to their

point person, who then talks to the the phone person, who then talks to

the perpetuator’s phone person, who then asks the perpetuator if they’re

going to be there. And sometimes, by the time it would all work through

the events half way over.” Lee 1:11:25

Between 3 and 5 phone calls might be needed to make the request, to

which the perpetrator would respond with another 3 to 5 phone calls. If

there was disagreement, or the venue was brought into the mediation

process, communications could become more complicated.

Other than mediation and not sharing spaces, requests might include

returning objects, entering therapy, writing a letter of apology /

accountability, informing new partners, paying for resulting medical

bills and seeking support for alcoholism or drug use. Of these, entering

therapy is probably the most difficult to fulfill. Finding an affordable

therapist who sympathizes with radical left politics is rare. For some

survivors, if requests are specific and quickly addressed, a process

might not need to occur.

Separation

The survivor and perpetrator’s processes are usually separate from one

another. Transformative justice groups like Support New York didn’t

always treat them as individual processes, but found over time,

processes were more successful when they were separated. Separating the

processes also makes it so that communication doesn’t have to happen as

frequently and can be carried out through their support teams. SNY

developed a format whereby there are designated liaisons between the

support groups and the mediating team “to transmit general impressions

of how the process is going and inform the accountability team of any

feedback from the survivor including their suggestions on content or

readings.” (Support New York 7).

Inevitably, there is overlap around more concrete requests. Both

processes might depend on the survivor or perpetrator moving or

returning goods. Around more general requests to ‘work on their shit,’

the survivor and the perpetrator often have different timelines for

changes to occur and can result in setbacks for survivors. Groups who

carry out transformative justice try to dampen hope of survivors that

perpetrators will follow all demands in order to lessen this effect.

Otherwise, the survivor’s process is independent. Various zines have

been written as guides through this process, listing steps for the

survivor, possible pitfalls, and tips for support teams. A “Survivor’s

Rights & Responsibilities” checklist is typically given to the survivor.

This list includes a right to “feel angry, hurt, sad, loving, or

forgiving of my perpetrator(s)”, “speak about my abuse”, “confront

perpetrators and those who have participated in violations and abuses,”

“love and be loved”. Responsibilities include “take care of myself,”

“reflect on the ways abuse has affected me,” “form healthy

relationships,” “survive my history, circumstances, and violations”

(Lara 2011: 138).

Preparation

Before a process begins, there is some need for preparation. If a

preexisting accountability group is not carrying out the process, then

the group of people who will needs to be decided. The group must develop

a strategy for approaching the perpetrator and a plan for

accountability. The Chrysalis Collective listed eight steps to a process

in their zine Beautiful, Difficult, Powerful: Ending Sexual Assault

Through Transformative Justice:

• step 1. gathering: form a survivor support team

• step 2. expanding: form an accountability team

• step 3. communicating: defining the relationship between teams

• step 4. storing and developing: create a transformative justice plan

• step 5. summoning: prepare for the first approach

• step 6. building: the first meeting

• step 7. transforming: meetings with the accountability team

• step 8. evaluating: lessons learned

Some groups try to reach out to friends and family of the perpetrator

before approaching them, so that they will have support in the process

from the beginning (Quarrel 10) . The time required for this preparation

can mean the perpetrator is prematurely informed about the confrontation

and can begin counter organizing against the survivor or leave town. A

few of those I interviewed had an experience where the perpetrator found

out an accountability process was being organized and quickly moved out

of the area, which in and of itself is not an oddity in the subculture.

Processes that are more organically created within a scene are usually

less formal. Formation of groups might not be as distinct. For example

there might be only one person meeting with both the survivor and

perpetrator directly, or the survivor’s team are the mediators. Another

possibility is a perpetrator engaging with an outside source, such as a

group for men who have abused partners or Alcoholics Anonymous.

The Mediators

Sometimes the mediators of a process are members of an accountability

group, like Support NY, Philly Stands Up, or Femme Left. For those

without experience or who are not a part of an accountability group,

zines like A Stand Up Start Up and Thoughts On Possible Community

Responses to Intimate Violence (Redux) are usually used as a reference

and guide. Mediation can be carried out by one or a handful of people;

however, Support NY found three people who can distribute the work

amongst them was best. In one interview, a member explained:

“Usually we had three facilitators for an accountability process because

one-on-one got too intimate and was almost always fucked up and weird,

two-to-one seemed to really fall into a good cop/bad cop thing pretty

fast…and three seemed to be the magic number where different stuff

irritates different people, so…a different person might be the hard-ass

at any given meeting”

Because the perpetrator, survivor, mediators, and everyone involved is a

part of the activist community, interpersonal issues can arise within a

group. For example, one person I interviewed considered being a

facilitator in a process whereby their lover was the survivor:

“I look back and I’m like what the fuck was I thinking! This is a man

who had sexually assaulted my lover in a way that ruined my

relationship. And I’m going to mediate that? No! I hated this man…I was

furious, I was so hurt and upset. There was no way that I could have in

a constructive way…but I felt like that was what I had to do, that there

was a feminist imperative to put my own feelings aside so that I could

do the right thing.” 1:04:00

Their relationship with their lover still dissolved when the dynamic

changed from being sexual and romantic to being survivor support. Two

people I interviewed also talked about someone who had volunteered to be

part of a process later being called out themselves for abuse.

People might play various roles in a process because it is DIY. As such,

it requires responsibility on the part of mediators. In one of the

processes Jasmine was involved in, the mediators had been chosen by the

survivor and seemed to drop out of the process. The survivor requested

the perpetrator cover some costs associated the the abuse. The

perpetrator “has the money and none of the people responsible for the

process are responding to him with what to do about that. He’s like ‘I

don’t think I’m supposed to contact [the survivor]” 37:00. As a result,

that perpetrator has “been x’ed from a bunch of spaces. And people have

a whole bunch of judgements about him based on that information” that he

did not complete the process 36:00

Inconsistency is understandable because the work being carried out is

very emotionally taxing and is often taken on by survivors. In our

interview, Lilly expressed concern that the labor might be wasted on

some perpetrators. “Its a lot to ask…you know I think the people drawn

to the work tend to be survivors themselves…and its kind of vicious to

ask a bunch of survivors to put the time into trying to transform people

who weren’t really willing yet.” 20:40. In retrospect, Alexandra noted

that they were probably not jovial company while doing this work; “I was

at the library and I realized I was feeling really haggard and grim

and….I looked at the stack of books I had and I had 6 books on rape and

sexual assault and 1 fantasy novel!” 1:17:00

Activists involved in a transformative justice group create emotional

bonds with one another to mitigate the emotional exhaustion of working

with perpetrators as well as deal with healing from personal experiences

of assault. When I asked Grace why she became involved in accountability

processes, she said

“it felt both like something i was interested in changing, and also kind

of a way to start to…be just like around other people who may have had

similar or slightly different experiences but just people who were

talking about what it meant to be a survivor of sexual assault, rape, or

abuse. To kind of like, find some community through that and I don’t

think I would have said this at the time, but I think I was looking for

some ways to heal a little bit through helping other people and trying

to create some change somewhere…as a way to kind of deal with and get

through this situation in which I felt very powerless” Grace 17:15

James contextualized the importance of forming a collective as a young

activist in the subculture as being a crucial part of his self

development, a source of emotional support, and enabling him to

understand and process his own experience of assault:

“I think we were all just confused, and young, and partying really hard.

Some of us more than others…I really do no know if I would have…survived

that time in my life in one piece if I hadn’t had that weekly

[meeting]…I don’t think any of us realized at the time the kind of

support we were giving each other, but…being in that collective was so

instrumental to my survival in a fucked up world…We learned a lot about

supporting other people via trying to get together with support

survivors, then we did that for each other. I had a revelation in that

time that something that happened to me was sexual assault, but I had

never categorized it that way or characterized it as that and it really

fucked me up, and I remember just crying in that kitchen to my friends

who I trusted so much, just week after week and I don’t know how I would

have gotten through that period if it wasn’t for the kind of bond that

we had” 41:00

Internal emotional bonds can also lead to the end of transformative

justice collectives. In the second edition of the zine Thoughts on

Possible Community Responses to Intimate Violence, the organizing group

added the addendum:

“Two of the participants in the group that created this pamphlet got

into a fight with each other (they were housemates), and the group was

unable to even speak about the conflict. Years later, none of us are

friends with each other anymore. There are no experts. This is hard for

everyone. Find your own, better, way(s).” (3)

Meetings

If regularly meeting, the mediators and the perpetrator usually meet

once every two or so weeks, with the entire process ideally staying

under a year long. From their experience, Support New York had a policy

to limit number of processes they conducted “according to member

availability and capacity” and to hold meetings in public spaces

(Support New York). They also determined they could only carry out

processes with people who were in the geographic area or could travel as

needed.

There have been various reading lists and approaches in circulation, but

in the summer of 2018, Support New York finalized and made its

curriculum for carrying out processes publicly available. The curriculum

integrates “somatics and journaling” into a reading list to diversify

their approach (Support New York 2018: 6). The framework is intended to

be flexible for those who might have different needs and focuses within

a process. There are 20 sessions or topics for meetings that use a

combination of academic articles and zines, as well as practices and

assignments for the perpetrator. For example, the following is an

abridged version of Session 2 of Part 1:

Session 2

Talk about the reading and the perpetuator’s written response. This

reading is useful in that it sidesteps the common initial reaction of

claiming being ‘falsely accused,’ since the writer talks about being

accountable to the community despite finding out that his call- out was

due to a miscommunication. At this point in the process, we generally

try to balance challenging the participant while still focusing on

trust-building and maintaining faith that the participant will grow

throughout the process.

ACTIVITY

• Pages 1–7 of Section 4 F (TakingAccountability) of the Creative

Interventions Toolkit Begin to discuss what the initial steps in this

process will be…If the survivor has made requests or demands, discuss

any that would need to be addressed immediately (i.e. safety concerns,

issues of sharing space, what communication will look like)…

ASSIGNMENT

Reflect on any connections between survivor requests (or community

requests, whether expressed or perceived) and the idea presented in the

Toolkit section utilized in the activity above of accountability as a

process and a staircase. This could mean journaling, drawing, or just

making lists. What does accountability mean to you in this context? What

emotions come up when thinking through this?

The assigned readings, writings, and practices carried out speak to

gender dynamics at a macro and micro level. Accountability groups read

about and discuss sexist behaviors, particularly in the context of what

the abuser has done and their own histories with abuse and violence.

If there is not clear plan or outline of topics and conversation, a

process can easily fall apart. Organizer Vanessa Vendetta wrote an essay

for the Ex Masculus zine about a friend who went into a process

seemingly interested. She hoped “the perpetrator [would]…take advantage

of the opportunity…but time passed and i heard over and over again from

the members i knew intimately of how the group “never talked about

anything”” (39). Similarly, in our interview, Lee remembered a situation

where the team working with the perpetrator was not following through on

transformative justice practices.

“…the support person and I were having a conversation, like ‘Oh, how are

talks with that person going?’ and he was just like ‘I don’t know what

we are supposed to be talking about. We just go over there and chill.’

‘Oh… I think you should be talking about patriarchy and dominance, or I

don’t know…what do you think?’ and he was like ‘I don’t know how to talk

about this stuff with this person. I don’t know him that well.’ Like, oh

god, this is a failure. Ok.” 21:15

If the mediators have no experience with these topics or mediation and

are unclear as to the purpose of their mediation, it is impossible to

create any kind of transformation.

Meetings with a team often lead to the abuser writing a letter to the

survivor or community “that acknowledges the harm they caused, outlines

what they’ve learned in the process, and names what steps they will take

to change their behaviors in the future” (Support New York). If the

letter is requested by the survivor, it might be written to them

specifically. If not, it is sometimes still used by a mediation team to

access progress. The letter is usually written over time and goes

through many drafts and its completion can mark the end of a process.

The following is an excerpt of an accountability letter that was emailed

to a community at the request of the survivor and with the consent of

the perpetuator:

My ex-partner had to constantly worry about what she might say or do

that would provoke me to threaten her own, my own, or both of our

physical safety — especially anything critical of me as I often acted

out when I felt negatively about myself. It coerced her with the burden

of having to satisfy my feelings.

Physical abuse was present from early on in our relationship, but I

escalated to much more violent behavior in the last two years of our

relationship…being increasingly abusive as the relationship went on.

I would consistently:

• break things around her, including punching through the window of our

room

• grab her violently

• scream at her

• smother her

I also:

• hit her

• shoved and tripped her

• pushed her down stairs

The duration of completed processes vary. Of those I interviewed,

accountability processes stretched anywhere from 1 month to two years.

In one case, the process lasted over a year because it developed into a

more longterm mentor / mentee relationship between the facilitator and

the perpetrator. Those who talked about longer processes also mentioned

people’s schedules, moving, and changing relationship situations. There

is no single definition or determining factor of a process being

finished and in many cases, processes were dropped or faded away.

CHAPTER 6 DEVELOPMENTS AND CONSEQUENCES

“I don’t see this as a war against dudes. If I did, your house would be

on fire.”

Anonymous, Why She Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Your Insurrection

As a format, accountability processes have now been practiced in

activist subculture for at least 15 years. Indicated by the number of

zines written about the topic, transformative justice has become the

preferred approach to dealing with interpersonal problems around sex and

abuse. Because of overlapping participation with other subcultures and

institutions, versions of activist accountability models have been used

in labor unions and at music festivals. Yet they are controversial for

seemingly contradictory characteristics; for being simultaneously

draconian and lackadaisical, inconsistent and normative, hyper feminist

and patriarchal, over zealous and impersonal, too radical and

replicating state or colonial structures.

Activist communities are embracing this approach to justice and

solidarity. When Support New York lead a discussion at a punk festival

in a city where there were no structures of community justice, one male

identified person volunteered that he had left an activist community

because of an act that he now recognized as a mistake. He would have

liked to have these models in place to atone for his act and remain in

the community. Even during the early stages of implementation, some

activists readily adopted these policies. Years ago, a direct action

turned violent and a female of color was injured. One of the

perpetrators of the violence immediately sent an email out to an

activist list acknowledging his role in the violence, apologizing, and

offering to be held accountable.

But there are contingents who believe accountability processes are too

extremist, recreating police and judicial structures. Some individualist

and insurrectionary sects within anarchism have issue with processes as

a form of regulation. A couple of people I interviewed felt there was no

room for internal critique of processes. As a prefigurative practice,

processes have crystalized into mandate, and therefore recreated power

structures and could not be a “liberating practice” (“Questioning Rape”

2014: 30).

Others voice frustrations at the limitations of the work and resistance

of fellow community members. While the models place the survivor at

center, some believe “we often put most emphasis on helping men stay in

activist circles [rather] than supporting women through their

recoveries, which might involve the need to have the man purged from the

political group” (Nopper 2013). The safety of women is said to be

sacrificed, and abuse addressed only because “she might not continue

doing ‘good work’ for the organization” if it goes ignored (Nopper

2013). It is also argued that in some cases, the removal of a person is

necessary. “Can you really say it’s petty when someone can’t come to a

‘street party’ (i.e. militant action) because the asshole who used to

beat the shit out of them will be there? Maybe it would be radical if we

got to the root of the problem and just banned that person for life,

regardless of ‘accountability’” ( Why She 2009).

Though transformative justice is becoming more widely used, it has not

stopped the stream of female and queer identified activists leaving the

community. When consistent female involvement came up in conversation

between myself and a white, cisgender male leader, he expressed concern

and wished they wouldn’t all leave, but he could not pinpoint their

reason for leaving. “What’s more paralyzing to our work than when women

and/or queer folks leave our movements because they have been repeatedly

lied to, humiliated, physically/verbally/emotionally/sexually

abused?...Nothing slows down movement building like a misogynist”

(Morris 2010).

In the following chapter, I will discuss the results of these processes

using the theoretical concepts of Bourdieu. First, I consider the power

dynamics and weight of social capital in carrying out of processes. How

the community views the survivor, perpetrator, and process itself are

all greatly influenced by social capital. Then, I examine how cultural

capital is tied to subcultural norms around violence and the state. The

authenticity of an activist is tethered to their willingness to carry

out and be targeted by violence from the state. Violence from fellow

activists is more disputed. I continue looking at the culture of the

social movement, how practices are rooted in a DIY ethic, and how this

ethic shapes the effectiveness of practices. Finally, I will review the

implications of these thematics for the sustainability of social

movements.

SOCIAL CAPITAL AND POWER

Who is Believed

Social capital derives from a position of knowledge or access to power

through social connections. Social capital can determine whether the

survivor or perpetrator is believed, who receives support or defense

from the community, and whether or not the accountability process

happens. As previously mentioned in Chapter 5, the majority of

pioneering anti rape men’s group Philly Stands Up supported one of their

male members against accusations of sexual assault because he was their

friend and fellow organizer.

As in other subcultures, women, queer, and gender non binary people tend

to have less cultural capital gain a lot of their status from their

partner, or social capital (Cohn and Mitchell 2015: 13). In my interview

with Jasmine, she talked about a process she was involved in whereby the

perpetrator was a transgender woman who ended up being forced out of a

community.

“I think she is a really valuable person to organizing and revolutionary

activity. And because of the way that this has played out in the larger

social aspect, I think she essentially had to absent herself from that.

And I really think it is the movement’s loss. And the fact of her being

absent doesn’t mean that there aren’t a lot of more objectively harmful

and less accountable people in the movement…who just had enough social

cache because of their different identities or just scene politics that

they didn’t have to get forced out.” 24:30

Jasmine’s friend lacked social capital and was for all intents and

purposes, ostracized from the activist community. Other activists, who

had committed more egregious abuses continued in activism, while someone

who had tried to participate in an accountability process was no longer

able to be a part of the community. Jasmine noted in our interview, that

for a transgender person to be removed from a community or have

community support withdrawn during transition can be especially

isolating. Lee also had a situation whereby social capital became a

determining factor in a process.

“Even the situation where I ‘called someone out,’ it was like, I invited

her over to have tea at my house with one friend to support me and just

to be like, ‘Hey, this thing happened between us. It actually really

sucked for me and I want you to know that. Can you, like, read some

things, and I just want you to know it happened.’ And there were no

demands, it was not even a formal process. It was just like a, ‘Hey,

letting you know.” And it erupted into probably the messiest one. And

things like that you don’t expect…And she was dating the person in town

who has THE MOST social capital and I did not…he and I had been friends

for ten years! And I did not expect him to be so defensive and to just

throw so much weight behind the situation. But he did. And it got really

ugly.” 41:20

In Lee’s situation, the person they called out responded by calling out

Lee as an abuser. Lee initially tried to have a relatively small, not as

publicized process, but it eventually became extremely public. Though

Lee had a longterm friendship with the new partner, the nature of the

relationship between Lee’s ex and their new partner conferred status on

Lee’s ex. Because the new partner had so much social capital, the label

of ‘perpetrator’ stuck to Lee despite initially identifying as a person

who was harmed.

Survivor Centered

Centering a process on the survivor can result in placing additional

strain on the survivor, linking their transformation to the

perpetrators’, and ultimately harming the healing of the survivor. The

label of perpetrator is rooted in the hope for change, but someone can

never be anything other than a survivor; there is no transition out of

the role. To be a survivor is a static identity. Some argue that

thinking of themselves as survivors is not healthy or healing, that an

identity rooted in an experience of rape or abuse “is not emotionally

healthy…Personally, I don’t find it helpful to think of myself as a

victim or survivor” (“Half a dozen” 2014: 36).

Processes also put the burden on a survivor to call out the abuse and

pressure them to play a role in the process. Implied is the

responsibility of the survivor to stop future abuse by identifying it

and starting a process. In “Beyond Revenge and Reconciliation:

Demolishing the Straw Men,” author A(legal) pointed out that we do not

hold the same burden when dealing with authoritarian, criminal justice

institution. “We need to be watchful of falling foul of the missionary

complex: we have no duty to ‘save’ or ‘transform’ individuals,

particularly if we feel little affiliation with them. We don’t think

it’s worth our while trying to ‘convert’ cops or judges, so why would we

think differently about serial abusers?” Depending on the organization

and support groups, the survivor might also be expected to organize a

process. In the case of an anonymous survivor who was not working with a

pre established group, “[t]here was an unspoken expectation that I would

convene the group. Convening the group in particular put an enormous

amount of pressure on me, not completely realized by myself until later”

(“Confronting Rape”). The survivor can be put in a position of being

responsible for the transformation and behaviors of the perpetrator.

The automatic belief of survivors leads to the parties being

essentialized into a binary of survivors being good or right and

perpetrators being at fault and causing harm. This can erase harm and

oppressions carried out by the survivor, including racism, transphobia,

sexism, and ableism. For the survivor, blanket support might be

comforting and affirm a feeling of community belonging, but it does not

leave room for self critique and behavioral change, nor does it create

equitable relationships within the community. In recreating a binary of

‘good’ and ‘bad,’ the purpose of transformation is easily lost.

In the zine Miklat Miklat, an anonymous person wrote about their

experience of being called out in “Healing from Accusations of Abuse.”

The writer is a trans person who had a background in feminist politics

and believed “‘the survivor was always right,’” so “accepted the mantle

of perpetrator.”

“I did all the things one is supposed to do to “be accountable”. This

made no difference in how others treated me – in fact it made the

conditions of my life, and the treatment I experienced from people, much

worse. This leads me to feel that many people who call for “community

accountability” don’t actually believe that perpetrators can be healed,

and that healing isn’t actually their goal….There is also a disturbing

hypocrisy when people who claim to advocate for restorative justice,

ostracize and brand you forever. These same people who would fervently

agitate for the rights of prisoners, and send books to accused

murderers, saw no problem ostracizing someone they’d known for

years…Soon hundreds of people who’d never met me were standing up

protesting my inclusion in films, insinuating that they’d also been

abused by me, and insisting that spreading this rumor was necessary for

“community safety”. Over the last 10 years I have worked through a lot

of my depression and anger… This was my worst nightmare. I had built a

supportive trans community for myself and I basically lost all of it. My

phone stopped ringing. People now made flyers for events saying “No

Abusers Allowed” – this meant me.”

When processes become the norm, activists who might not believe in them

or not believe that their perpetrator can change still must use

accountability as the form to address interpersonal problems and abuse.

And for the perpetrator, while the term ‘perpetrator’ is used to

disconnect the act of abuse from the individual, the label can become a

master status within activism despite any actions taken after being

labeled.

Refusing to Participate and Indifference

In some cases the abuser refuses to enter an accountability process.

Initially abusers tend to be defensive, in denial, minimize the abuse,

or blame the survivor. Sometimes they say that if they don’t know the

accountability people, then they are not in the same community and

therefore can not be held accountable by them. The primary reason for

participating is a social contract, personal investment in maintaining

participation and status in a community. But that isn’t always enough.

The want of the abuser to remain in the community and the community’s

support of the survivor are large determinants as to if the abuser is

willing to be held accountable. Ideally, the process would be viewed as

beneficial to all of the parties involved. But as our current political

climate has proven, accepting responsibility can confirm and associate

someone with misconduct. In our interview, Alexandra pointed out there

is no incentive to admitting fault:

“[H]ow do we..respond to others in a way that give them an incentive to

identify with [the parts of themselves that tend towards liberation and

transformation]…Not saying that we have to like, pat people on the head

and give them a cookie for, like, doing what should be the basic, bare

minimum humanity of treating people with respect and decency and taking

responsibility for their actions. But, on a collective level, how do we

set up social norms that reward behaving responsibly and taking

accountability? Because if what happens, when people say “Yes I fucked

up. And I’m going to acknowledge that publicly.” If they continue to be

ostracized and looked at as dirt, then that incentivizes people being

like, “Nope, I didn’t do it. Not true.” It doesn’t incentivize taking

responsibility” 39:50

As discussed in Chapter 5, the only incentive to participate in a

process is to continue participating in community activities. But if

someone has enough social capital, then they might be able to continuing

participating, even without being held accountable. And participating in

a process could be seen as admitting fault.

Even when perpetrators agree to participate, they are not always

dedicated to the process. Whether or not they are truly ‘working on

their shit’ shapes the ability of mediators to work with them. In their

curriculum, Support New York cautions against continuing to invest

effort and time in a process framework if the perpetrator is “not

participating in a productive way. There is often some resistance in the

initial few meetings, however, if this is not overcome towards the

middle of the process (i.e. if very few goals can be met or the same

issues keep happening), it may be worth referring to another kind of

program or asking for more support from the perpetuator’s community

members or friends” (Support New York 2016: 9).

Perpetrators might also become more focused on themselves and rewrite

their personal biography through a lens of self victimization. In “With

or Without You: The Tactic of Pressure to Prioritise Consent and Build a

More Radical Counter Culture” in the Ex Masculus zine, Vanessa Vendetta

discusses learning that one of their friends raped another one of their

friends. Vanessa believed accountability would work because he seemed to

be self aware; however, the process ended unsuccessfully.

“he was able to understand (to some extent), from the survivor talking

to him about it right after it happened, that his actions had

constituted rape and had deeply hurt the survivor. and although he

recognised that he had not had an understanding of what he had been

doing at the time, he did not deny it and was engaging with people he

was close with about what he had done, openly and honestly. he realised

that his understanding of consent was absolute shit, and seemed

interested in gaining more knowledge and skills…but in time it became

clear that he was not following through with any part of it to the

satisfaction of the survivor…he has spent a lot of time since the rape

talking about and focusing on how depressed he is, and how upset he is

with himself, and how difficult all of this has been for him, and all

the things that he wants which would make him feel better, and this is

an example of self-victimisation. and helplessness” (40).

Though said to be survivor centered, it could be argued the perpetrator

is at the center of a process. They can dictate when they meet, how

frequently, and have the attention of a group of people. In focusing in

on the perpetrator’s individual behaviors, critiques at a macro level

can be lost and the process might encourage narcissism.

Processes can become particularly contentious around survivor requests

for someone not to attend an event or being banned from a space for

evading accountability. Designated safer spaces will usually not allow

an individual who is refusing to be held accountable to attend. In

addition, the survivor or mediators might contact event organizers to

let them know that a person is evading accountability. There is

sometimes confusion around the idea of banning and communication. In our

interview, Sofia talked about an instance where a fellow activist who

was in a leadership position asked their group if they wanted to ban

people. With no context, the group said of course they didn’t want to

ban anyone, everyone should be allowed to attend.

“When I was involved in this activist group when I was young…I must have

been 19…I hadn’t heard the term [safer space]…I was asked by somebody if

I wanted to ban people from this event we were having, with no context,

just asked if I wanted to ban people. And of course I was 19 at the

time…so I said “No! Why would we ban people?”…but somebody came and

explained the situation and I was completely appalled. I’m thinking, no

of course. There you go, there is a reason to ban people, but without

the context it was a little confusing to me. So I was completely

supportive of safer spaces and people’s safety is paramount. I always

think back to that time. It was such a learning experience.” 40:10

After some emails, the group she was in was informed that those who

would be banned were perpetrators who were either refusing

accountability or it was requested by the survivor they not attend and a

safer space policy was enacted.

In some cases, when the organizers are unwilling or unable to set a

policy, the survivor and supporters try to approach the person and ask

them to leave, which can become confrontational. In the zine What Do We

Do When? #3, an anonymous author describes such a situation. “You made

some stupid argument about your rights to be there in the space while

others sat outside in tears, others left the party” (3).

Revenge and Power

When a survivor calls someone out they might be trying to regain power

lost from the person who caused harm. But the question of wielding

community power is complex, and the language of accountability

circumvents discussion of revenge and retribution. In “Safety is an

Illusion,” one of the most known critiques of accountability, Augustia

Celeste argues we must de-essentialize the categories of survivor and be

more direct with our attempts at justice in the subculture. “If someone

hurts you and you want to hurt them back, then do it but don’t pretend

it’s about mutual healing. Call power exchange for what it is. It’s OK

to want power back and it’s OK to take it, but never do anything to

someone else that you couldn’t stomach having someone do to you if the

tables were turned” (2014). For interviewee Mary, a process they became

involved in seemed to be more about revenge and less about

accountability. She believed “for someone who has just survived a sexual

assault or something [revenge] is understandable as a fresh reaction,

but that doesn’t translate well into recovery for either party.”

The power differential is particularly complicated around ‘counter

organizing’. Counter organizing is considered a malicious actions taken

against the survivor. Typically, counter organizing involves the person

accused of abuse actively organizing against the survivor, such as

claiming they are crazy, that the relationship was mutually abusive, or

that they themselves were the victims in the relationship.

Transformative justice organizations argue “when a survivor (the

individual with less power within that relationship) strikes back in any

manner it is always self-defense NOT abuse” (Unowho).

Pubic Call Outs

If a perpetrator refuses to be held accountable or the process isn’t

successful they might be publicly ‘called out’ for their behavior. As

previously mentioned, this is difficult if the survivor wishes to stay

anonymous or if making the perpetrator public innately indicates the

survivor. Within the subculture there are two traditional forms of

calling out. The first is an open letter or statement to a community.

These are emailed to individuals and groups or printed and distributed

at events. More recently, call out letters have been posted on websites

like Indymedia, Facebook, and organization websites.

The second form is in zines. One of the first and most noted zines to do

this is Baby, I’m a Manarchist. It became a model for using zines,

perhaps the most prevalent form of communication within anarchist

cultures, to ‘call out’ an abuser to the community. It was written about

one particular activist in a community who abused a number of women but

would not acknowledge his actions. A survivor, along with a few

supporters, put together the zine as a way of informing other activists

about their experiences and interactions with him, both during and after

the particular abusive situation.

One of the most well known examples of a call out using both public

statements and zines centered around a radical collective. A husband and

wife cofounded a publishing collective and later had a contentious

divorce in which the business became sole property of the husband. The

woman called him out publicly for abusive and manipulative behavior. One

or two accountability processes were attempted but failed and activists

tried to have the publishing collective develop a safer space policy and

hold the man accountable. She wrote about her experience of the marriage

in zines, he countered with a zine critiquing processes as ableist. In a

number of public statements and correspondences, the collective has

denied, acknowledged, and admitted fault. Some collective members have

left and a number of authors have discontinued to publish with the

collective.

Because all of these interactions are rooted in prefigurative politics,

there are tensions around making such information publicly known. Some

continue to believe in a more traditional separation of romantic and

sexual relationships from public life, though the division is belied in

the sex positive cultural practices in radical activist lifestyle. In

addition, there is still some “belief that groups who face systematic

oppression (such as queers and people of color) shouldn’t ‘air the dirty

laundry’ of intra-community violence, since it could be used to further

demonize them” ( Accounting for Ourselves 2013). In interviews, two

people explicitly discussed regretting writing public statements,

primarily due to resulting social backlash from fellow activists and

ineffectiveness at addressing the contemporary or future harm.

“I felt so overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do. And I think releasing

the open letter was the…dumbest move, that I could have... Maybe not, in

hindsight, the WORST thing that happened because it started this open

letter war, which I could have…now looking back, I’m like ‘Well, of

course they would just release one back.’ But for some reason I felt

like that wouldn’t happen? I don’t know what I was thinking.” Lee 46:00

“I think that I let my anger try to decide the right course of action. I

don’t think that was the right choice. And, you know, shortly after that

wrote an open letter to the community and sent it around with you know…I

aired my grievances against this person and I think that…years later it

hasn’t changed anything.” Mary 53:52

CULTURAL CAPITAL AND VIOLENCE

Prevention and Fear

With increasing use of accountability processes, some activists have

said they fear being called out. The implication is their fear is

limiting their sexual relationships, their sense of community

solidarity, and possibly their involvement in activism altogether. There

are occasional articles such as “Why I’ve Started to Fear My Fellow

Social Justice Activists,” that argue “after witnessing countless people

be ruthlessly torn apart in community for their mistakes and missteps, I

started to fear my own comrades” (Lee 2017). Similarly, after having a

couple of negative experiences with processes, Jasmine is very wary of

how activists use transformative justice and the implications

particularly for those who might rely on community as an alternative

family.

“I don’t think its generally good for movements, for people to be

fucking petrified of making mistakes…feeling if you slip up once, you

might lose all your social support, and just be a super isolated queer,

without any of the people you just a minute ago had called community or

family.” 42:30

Another person I interviewed had written a popular zine critical of

accountability processes. They told me that they had received an email

from a reader who had a friend that committed suicide after being called

out.

Some argue they should not be scared of being called out and see it as a

chance to consider and be reflexive about their prefigurative politics.

The zine We Are All Survivors, We Are All Perpetrators… states “The goal

of the process is to have the abuser understand being ‘called out‘ is

not a punishment, but is a gift. It is an opportunity to grow. Embrace

that. Assault is cowardly. Owing up to it is brave” (2005). But, even

though prefigurative politics requires some reflexivity, self criticism

and self transformation as still not entirely welcomed or viewed

positively.

Others argue this fear is the counterpart to fear experienced by women.

“Maybe, for the first time in your life, you are feeling what it is like

to walk into a room, and not automatically know if you’re safe, not know

who your friends are…I don’t have time to feel sorry for you, no way, no

time, not when a woman in America is raped every 2 minutes…I don’t have

time to nurse your wounded ego, or shed a tear for the dying patriarchy”

(Anxiety 2004). Similarly, one person I interviewed argued that while

women might wield a lot of power in accountability processes, perhaps it

was the swing of the pendulum and the change in power dynamics could be

a step towards more socially just interpersonal relationships.

Cultural Norms and Violence

Much of the culture around the radical left subculture involves late

night parties and events where alcohol and other substances are present.

As mentioned in Chapter 4, it is also a sex positive subculture where

casual sexual relationships are common. The result is consent is not

always established or clear.

While there are workshops around consent, they rarely breach the issue

of substance use. This is in part due to larger cultural norms around

the use of alcohol. “Humor and conversation norms reinforce the notion

that extreme drunkenness is normal and funny, and that people are less

responsible for their actions while drunk then while sober. Weekend

after weekend, we create highly sexualized spaces with strong pressure

to get intoxicated, resulting in groups of people too drunk or high to

give or receive solid consent” ( Accounting for Ourselves 2013). Spaces

designated safer might have informal and piecemeal enforcement, with

little preparation or strategy for prevention. On a few occasions

friends and myself escorted a woman home or verbally checked with people

who seemed like their ability to give consent was in question.

Another cultural norm around processes is non violence. The subculture

is by no means anti violence in their strategies of action, yet when it

comes to interpersonal problems, violence as retaliation is greatly

discouraged. There are some situations outside of a process whereby the

survivor has wanted physical retaliation and violent action against the

abuser, such as beating them up. “Is it more honest, more direct, more

real, to enact a visceral physical response – even revenge – or to

engage in a lengthy pseudo-judicial “process”? (“Notes on Survivor

Autonomy” 18).

There have been a few notable incidents whereby the survivor, along with

their supporters, carried out physical harm to her abuser. As noted in

the historical zine Hammer in Our Hamlets, “Beginning in 2010, some

feminists threw out the accountability approach, swinging the hammer in

the opposite direction; they turned to vigilante revenge” (20).

Following are sections from anonymous communiques, reprinted in zines,

from groups who have taken this tactic. I have removed the names,

however, they are included in the original communiques and zine copies.

“This particular individual, whose vocabulary consisted of

anti-patriarchal jargon, had committed sexual violence before, and

participated in survivor-defined accountability processes. Since he

continued to transgress boundaries, raping and sexually assaulting women

in Boston and Santa Cruz, we decided to confront him. We met him at his

home and verbally confronted him. He refused to take responsibility and

his words were manipulative and insulting. When he refused to shut up,

we shut him up. The intent was to inflict pain, albeit it would only be

a small portion of the amount of pain his victims have felt…Attempts by

some self-identified “male allies” to take control of the action by

confronting **** themselves, pressuring women for inclusion and calling

a public meeting without our permission undermined our practice of

self-organization. Rather than demonstrating their support these men

made it clear that they were unwilling to allow us to act on our own

behalf without their involvement. The type of action we took as a group

of female-bodied comrades aligns clearly with anti-hierarchical politics

and goals of self-determination. If our male-bodied ‘comrades’ want to

be considered as comrades, we’d like to see them behave that way…This

action sets a precedent, the beginning of a new kind of accountability

process, one that leaves the perpetrator in pain and articulates our

call for the dismantling of male supremacy in radical political

communities and beyond. We know that **** is not the only guilty one. We

know there are more of you out there... “ Communique, Anonymous

“***** awoke, at three a.m. in his…cabin, to a cacophony of voices.

Thirteen figures, mostly masked, surrounded him. The women he had raped

threw a cup of menstrual blood on his head. She directed what followed,

secure, in the power of the group, to face her rapist without fear. It

was a poetry slam of rape and resistance. We spoke in turn about our

anger, then our pain, then our hope for his healing. When he protested

that rape was not a violent act, she punched him in the face. We chose

not to do this in the daylight because we wanted him to fear. We did

this so he would know what it was like to be naked in the dark and

vulnerable. We also acted because we will not tolerate rape as a

community” Pangaea and Opal, “An Internal Action by the Vaginal

Liberation Front”

“At the very least, the perpetrator should feel something, some lasting

mark of his behavior, something he will remember every time he has sex —

that is, if he ever has sex again. So we decided to make sure this is an

assault that ***** never fucking forgets. We rolled in with a baseball

bat. We pulled his books off his shelves: he admitted it, not a single

one mentioned consent. We made him say it: “I am a rapist.” We left him

crying in the dark on his bed: he will never feel safe there again. This

is a precedent. This is the beginning of a new kind of accountability

process, one that leaves the perpetrator in pain – though this is still

only a tiny fraction of the pain that he has caused. We know that *****

is not the only guilty one. We know there are more of you out there. We

are not sorry, and we will not stop: from now on, we will respond to

sexual violence with violence.” Communique, “We’ll Show You Crazy

Bitches II”

These three incidents were all female and gender non binary people

seeing physical retribution against someone who sexually assaulted them

or their friend. The publicness of these were used as a simultaneous

call out against the named individuals, as well as a critique of

processes and demand for the political legitimacy of violence. It is an

act that creates solidarity amongst the participants, is direct and

contradicts views of women and gender non binary people as non violent.

The last of these three communiques, “We’ll Show You Crazy Bitches II,”

happened locally while I was participating in the activist subculture.

This incident became so well known, that during my interviews, one

activist from the Midwest talked about the story “where like, someone

got their perpetrator and beat him with a baseball bat and everybody was

excited about it.” Though people at a distance might have been excited,

the women, queer, and gender non binary people involved faced

considerable backlash from some in the community and were themselves

threatened with physical violence. The most known participants were

doxxed, or private information about them like their addresses were made

public, on an anarchist email list that was undoubtedly followed by

police.

Though most transformative justice organizations advise against physical

violence, ultimately the survivor determines what will happen. “If they

want street justice to be done to the assaulter, that is their choice

also. Just be supportive, and don’t make assumptions” ( Said the Pot).

Some argue that while women can carry out retributive violence, men can

not because they must “interrupt the cycle of male violence” (supporting

a survivor of sexual assault). Others argue it should only be an option

when it is in retaliation for acts of physical violence (“Half a Dozen”

2014: 38). In four interviews, when the issue of violence arose, the

person I was interviewing stated they were concerned about the act

backfiring and resulting in further harm to the survivor.

COINTELPRO, Policing, and the State

Those who do not support these policies often tie the work to that of

the police state as a way of delegitimizing it. ‘Fema-nazis’ are then

‘policing’ the community, ‘banning’ people without reason or end.

Particularly within some anarchist contingents, any form of regulation

of behavior is argued to be counter revolutionary. When the topic of

accountability as ‘policing’ arose in interviews, there were varied

responses.

“Well, I mean it is [community policing]. You’re saying you have an

ascribed expectation around how people comport themselves in intimate

sexual and interpersonal relationships. And if people do not keep within

those behavioral expectations then there will be consequences.

Definitionally speaking, that is exactly what you are doing. And the way

you are leveraging power is maybe different than how the state does it,

but you are leveraging power though reputation, through access to

community spaces, through social currency. I mean, I think those

parallels are made because they are adept.” Willow

“That’s fucking dumb is what I think about that…I think it is so

transparent why that is dumb. Also not practical. If people are going to

live together, even if we are going to establish a beautiful new world

in our hearts or whatever here on earth, there still are going to be

grievances that need to be resolved in some way. And the revolution is

not just everyone gets to do what they want. Thats not what my anarchy

looks like.” James 33:05

“I can see that perspective…an accountability process…is a collective

response to community harm, and an individual harm most particularly,

and what collective response to harm wouldn’t be called policing?… it

needs to be more nuanced. I mean, we’re not taking people to the cops,

so we are definitely avoiding the system most of the time, so its not

working with the police, thank goodness. But I can also see how, there

is a streak of individualist liberty, especially in the more sort of

libertarian leaning anarchists, without the social part so much, that

people shouldn’t tell you what to do and you know what is right for

yourself…then people of any kind saying what to do are going to seem

like police. And I think there is a weak, but a philosophical point that

they have there. It sort of doesn’t include the fact that we are

interdependent.” Carl 53:35

“The things that were policed, it wasn’t just sexuality, though. It was

all sorts of things that were being policed. So I also don’t want people

to…when I hear accountability processes are people policing each other,

sometimes that makes me laugh. Because I’m thinking, “Well, Jesus

Christ! These small scenes police each other on everything! On the

clothing they wear, on the word choices they use, on the books that they

read…We’re not just policing one another’s sexuality, we are policing

each other’s everything. And I don’t always think thats a bad thing…but

I think it is a bad thing a lot of the time. I go back and forth within

myself about whether humans wanting to conform to one another is

inherently bad or wrong. Sometimes it is actually always fucked up to

demand other people be like you, but then we get to something like

gender pronouns and I’m like, ‘Wait! I do want everyone to do that.’”

Lee 54:00

As indicated in these quotes, there were a range of opinions as to the

veracity of the comparison to police and judgement of the practice. The

balance of individual liberties and collective bonhomie are placed in

opposition. In addition, the application of ‘policing’ to sexual

relationships, social interactions, or overall culture arise in

discussion.

Though police and state justice institutions are usually seen as

negative, the underlying concepts are deeply rooted in our

understandings of justice. When first introduced to the idea of

transformative justice, it was difficult to conceive of a process that

did not operate as “innocent until proven guilty,” considered requests

or demands outside of a form of punishment, or that did not require a

conviction. As pointed out by the author of Accounting for Ourselves,

even “anti-state militants” make arguments such as “Whatever happened to

innocent until proven guilty, man? Don’t I get a fair trial? Can’t I

defend myself? Listen to my character witnesses!”

COINTELPRO, the aforementioned counter intelligence government program

from the 1950s — 1970s used to infiltrate and disrupt political

organizations, is frequently cited as re emerging in community justice

models. Those involved are argued to be dividing the scene from the

inside, possibly as tools of the government. These references put into

question the radicalism of community justice and imply some amount of

‘snitching.’ In our interview, Eva discussed how COINTELPRO was used to

delegitimize accountability processes:

“It just had an immediate connotation of snitching, and of being an

informant, and being shady and, you know, trying to destroy things. Like

that was a way you dismissed people, like “Maybe they’re an informant,

this is all COINTELPRO.” COINTELPRO just was like, shorthand for ‘This

person is not legit. The things they’re saying are not true. We can

dismiss them by saying they are part of the government and they’re doing

this to undermine our legit activism’…Not to say there weren’t

informants everywhere, there were…actually government informants were

generally engaging in violent behavior and creating these kind of

situations where people had to deal with the violence. It wasn’t people

calling out violence, it was the violent abusers were also government

informants…or they were just able to exploit the tensions that were

always there.” 59

Many self identified women and queer people argue they are not policing,

but that their freedoms are already being infringed upon. There is an

“unfortunate contradiction of living a life unrestrained by others rules

or impositions and yet not wanting to deal with other’s being imposed

upon because it means your own attempts to achieve some kind of freedom

are interrupted” (Thunder Collective). When considering behaviors of

large groups of people, inevitably limits and rules are necessary. For

women and queer people safety structures can be liberating “in terms of

throwing off the yoke of complete socio-political manipulation and

fighting for our collective freedom from the oppressions and

expectations of gender and sex” ( Why She 2009).

At the same time relying on community justice as opposed to the police

can be used as against the survivor. There are a few well known

activists who have been ‘called out’ but were not held accountable

attempted to sue their respective survivors. There are no official

records or proof of abuse in the eyes of the government. The Quarrel

zine specifically states “we want to keep QUARREL members safe from

police enforcement because some of our targets have pursued legal action

against us and/or survivors. Snitches get stitches. xoxo” ( Quarrel 6).

Thus far, the most public of these was thrown out. There are have also

been a few cases whereby male identified activists who were called out

for abusive behavior were not held accountable for their sexist actions,

but eventually were removed from the community when they used state

force (the police) against fellow activists.

PRACTICE AND EFFECTIVENESS

DIY Labour

The DIY nature of processes implies both that the community is capable

of doing this work and has a political and moral imperative to do so.

Information about processes is communicated in interactions and through

zines, though this is not always consistent or efficient. Emphasis is

placed on doing the work, gaining first hand experience, and sharing

those experiences and skills to help others. In our interview, Eva

expressed some frustration when a well known academic was consulted

about interpersonal and gendered violence in the Occupy Wall Street

movement.

“Transformation involves everyone. Everyone has the capacity to do this

work…and has the skillset even if you are not a professional…I think its

important that people are always deferential to degrees, deferential to

certain experiences…I had a very disappointing ‘kill your heroes’ moment

with Judith Butler when I first interacted with her outside of just

reading her work or seeing her speak about her work…and like, still

major respect for her, but in this case people are asking for her

authoritative opinion on something she just doesn’t know about, which

was how to deal with violence at Occupy. And her answer was not

good…somebody asked her a question in the end about safer spaces and

community agreements and all that. And she was like ‘Yeah, its hard’ and

then she had this idea that she put out where…you have certain people

who are the greeters but they are kind of on the outside checking people

out, sussing them out. But it became this whole, like, ‘Who are these

people that we are investing authority in to determine who gets to come

and stay? That’s a terrible idea, you’re just building up the same

manipulative, abusive structures that are always there…and then I was

also like, actually Judith Butler why do you have an opinion on this?”

1:36:00 Eva

Even within the Occupy group, there was an emphasis on expert opinion.

Eva was frustrated because she had first hand experience with safer

space policies before Occupy, yet more weight was given to Judith

Butler’s words, despite the well-known academic having no direct

experience or specializing in this specific work. Butler’s answer to the

question also did not seem radical in its politics or seem to be well

thought out, when these are issues people like Eva have considered at

length.

Some of the other activists I interviewed believed qualifications are

needed to do mediation work and they experienced difficulty when seeking

out professional help with processes.

“I also wonder about…how realistic it is to assume that just because a

culture is really fiercely DIY and wants to do everything for itself,

how effective its going to be at doing that. There are professional

people who have written books and do trainings on restorative justice

processes and things and I don’t think a lot of the people that did

these accountability processes were experienced in that. I think they

were motivated for personal reasons without really having

qualifications. And I don’t think thats always a bad thing, but I think

in situations where there is something as serious as rape, or, you know

beating someone up, it seems like…people study for years to be

therapists and to do interventions and to do non violent work. You know,

I don’t think that going to shows and caring about it a whole lot is

enough to qualify you to really like, solve such a big social problem.”

Mary 25:15

Mary believes these issues are too large to be handled by inexperienced

people. Though she does believe experts are needed, she specifies that

these should be experts in these specific areas and in mental health

fields. Difficulty finding experts was especially an issue around mental

health and outside assistance. Finding affordable therapists or

counselors with akin politics is very difficult. Radical politics around

anti hierarchical organizing, gender identities, defining abuse and

power dynamics do not necessarily align with traditional mental health

professions. In addition, not all activists have health care coverage

and even if they do, might not be able to afford copays.

The DIY format of zines are not consistent in their coverage of

accountability processes. Different zines make different arguments, make

some steps seem quite easy that in practice are difficult, and might

work in a given context or city but not in another. In our interview,

Lilly cited writing a zine making accountability processes seem too

simple and straightforward as her greatest regret.

“I feel like in a way, I regret…less the processes and more writing I

did about accountability. Like, I regret making it seem like this was

something that was possible as a way to hold people accountable and,

like, heal our communities. I feel like I contributed through my writing

to this idealization of how it could work when really, to have it work

effectively, it just needs so much more cohesiveness in the community

and so much more dedication and skills of the people involved and, yeah,

so I regret that. I regret making it seem like it was more possible than

I think it really has panned out to be by lay people. I mean, I really

think it takes a lot of special skills and training to be able to engage

in that kind of psychological work with people.” 17:07

In a number of interviews, interviewees stated that they felt in

retrospect that the processes they carried out were clumsy or messy. In

some cases this was due to disorganization, not anticipating reactions,

the emotional turmoil around these issues, or lack of long term panning.

“I facilitated one and it was a disaster…Tensions were very high.

Everybody was very upset. Emotions in the room were super strong and I

think that clouded things.” Mary 15:45

“I look back and I’m just thinking ‘What a shit show some of these

were!’” Lee 45:30

“Collectively, I think we were doing the best that we could in

impossible circumstances where we are all so deskilled and existing in a

context of so much trauma to begin with, and so much taboo and tension

around sex and all these different things mashing up together. It’s a

wonder that we were able to do anything.” Alexandra 7:30

As a DIY practice, mediators involved had to balance their time with

other obligations in life, including jobs and school. This work is being

carried out by young people with active social lives and can be

emotionally exhausting. Only one interviewee cited their personal drug

or alcohol use as a factor in the work.

“I think I was doing too much at a point and I couldn’t have been doing

a good job at any of it because I was so fucked up. There was a time

when I was definitely at the bar every night until after it closed just

doing coke off the bar with the guy that owned the place. Sleep until 4

or 5 PM, working just some bull shit…jobs and barely getting by as a

human and I was also facilitating three simultaneous accountability

processes. And thats ludicrous. And I think it was that, like, when you

can’t help yourself, you just try to help other people to put…as a way

to not deal with your own shit. Kind of a standard psychological…looking

back on moments like that, I don’t think I did a bad job on any of those

processes, but I was just really going on autopilot and thats the kind

of work that needs really deep engagement.” James 37:00

Others discussed having trouble sleeping, frustrating communication, and

impossible scheduling. In the “What Does It Feel Like When Change

Finally Comes,” which was a chapter in the book version of The

Revolution Starts at Home, RJ Maccani discussed his experience trying to

facilitate an accountability group.

“It would take over a year before the circle itself came to fruition:

Mr. X dragged his feet in many ways, and the rest of us were juggling

multiple commitments while trying to push this process forward. Over a

year to pull Danielle and me, one of the two women who had initially

come forward, Mr. X, and five other people who had some relationship to

Mr. X (either current or former friends, or concerned community members)

into the same room at the same time.” (Jashnani, Maccani, and Greig

2011: 222)

In this latter case, the process was a circle format that had one long

meeting, developed a list of requests out of the conversations, and some

in the circle committed to aiding and following up with the perpetrator

about the requests. But in a subculture where the population isn’t

stable, more than a year of preparatory work for the assault or abuse to

be addressed is an extremely long time.

Traditional gendered divisions of labour are reflected in the requisite

work for transformative justice. Though some groups maintain their own

safer spaces, there are collectives to help implement and carry out

these policies. The members of these collectives are primarily female or

queer identified. The work includes making signs and any other markers

of the space, having meetings to discuss strategy, creating a list of

people who have been asked not to attend and possible problems that

might arise, staying sober and remaining vigilant for the evening, and

the actual enforcement of the policy.

These divisions are also found in transformative justice work with

abusers and survivors. There are a few men’s groups involved in specific

cases, but most of the work is carried out by female or queer identified

people. This can include the creation of a reading curriculum, hours of

meeting with the perpetuator weekly, hours of meeting with the

collective or larger group doing this work to check in, being available

at all times for phone calls, in some cases having to stop everything to

go to an event and help deal with a problem, the emotional burden of

working with an abuser, as well as holding workshops to guide others to

become involved. It is widely recognized “the vast majority of the folks

who have to deal with the shit are women” ( Why She 2009). This division

has been frustrating and activists have vocalized a need for more male

allies. “Many women and queers are now expected to work doubly hard,

providing emotional care and sexual/romantic labor both in political

spaces and in the personal spaces that inevitably still exist“ (Mitchell

2016: 15).

Bureaucracy

Much of the critique of accountability is the mediation adding

unnecessary bureaucracy and removing direct confrontation. In the

aforementioned “Safety is an Illusion,” Augustia Celeste argues

activists “have set up a model where all parties are encouraged to

simply negotiate how they never have to see each other again or share

space“ (2014). In taking up the time of organizers, the Hammer in Our

Hamlets feminist zine argues “if our political milieu is disrupted every

time two people aren’t getting along, we are no longer putting our

political work first. We degenerate into a friend circle, a sex club, or

a support group. These types of groupings are not necessarily better or

worse than a political project, but they are simply not the same thing”

(16). There are arguments that smaller mediation processes might work to

“avoid escalating the conflict and consuming the energy of a group that

probably has other priorities” ((A)legal ), though other activists

remain more pessimistic.

Defining Success

Some feminist activist also question the effectiveness of transformative

justice in addressing gender violence. There is no set criteria for

success and it can be defined differently by participants in a process.

If a process is ‘working on their shit,’ what does it mean they must do

and at what point are they done? If the purpose it to prevent future

acts does success mean they have prevented further harm? If it is

survivor centered does the survivor need to define success? Parallel to

discussions of prisons, the purpose of accountability as deterrence,

rehabilitation, or societal protection is not entirely clear. In

addition, the question has arisen as to if perpetrators should be held

to a lower standard as comrades who share the revolutionary politics of

the community or higher standard for problematic behaviors despite their

political awareness.

Going through a process does not guarantee actual behavioral change or

political transformation. Some fear perpetrators, who are often accused

of manipulation, are able to take the language of accountability and

produce seemingly desired results for the mediation team. In

Transformative Justice and/as Harm, A.J. Withers spoke of “concerns…that

individuals who have caused harm are preforming

accountability/responsibility rather than doing it” (2014: 36). New

subcultural practices can open a new space by which to carry out

manipulative and harmful behavior. A few zines spoke of perpetrators

using accountability processes to wield power or continue interactions

with the survivor (Withers 2014, The Broken Teapot). Whether or not the

perpetrators are changing their behaviors after processes is ambiguous.

If a process is survivor centered, it would seem logical that success

would be survivor determined. Overall, survivors seem to believe

processes were successful if requests were specific, concrete, and

immediately addressed. Ruby was the only survivor I spoke with who

unequivocally said their process was a success. Though she was unsure if

the perpetrator changed, her request that he leave their shared living

situation was quickly met. But for some survivors, even if the

perpetuator carries out all requests, they might feel the person has not

changed or transformed.

When I asked people involved in processes as facilitators or mediators

about their successes, the results were mixed.

“Seventy to eighty percent I think would be successful. If success is,

it depends on how you gage success. If success is the survivor forgave

the perpetuator, then like ten percent were successful. If success is

that the survivor had the space to do the healing that they needed and

the perpetuator ostensibly, at least as far as I’ve heard, has not

continued their pattern of abuse, then the number is much higher. I

mean, as far as I know, only…one or two people that completed processes

abused further.” James 35:25

“I think that…most of the processes had a lot of successes within them…I

really couldn’t say how many survivors in the processes…felt that the

processes themselves were successful…Its a real challenge to measure and

I don’t know…with these processes there’s no kind of standard follow

up…a number we had I think ended in frustration a lot on the part of the

survivor if they didn’t fell like their requests were met or due to a

number of things, like the process just kind of petered out and took a

long time and didn’t rap up in a particular way that felt really

successful…” Grace 28:35

“Of those, I think one was very successful. The other three I think had

moments of success, but I would say on the whole…if success is the

survivor feels like their demands have been met and they’ve been given

the space to heal from the situation, if the perpetuator has also made a

lot of reflexive movements within themselves and will go on to no longer

cause harm, or at least the same kinds of harm, and if the community

itself either remains intact or is also healed from the situation…that

success I would say happened one of the four times…All three of those

are sufficient and are necessary for success…I would say the other three

had elements of that, but there would be a key one missing” Lee 35:30

These quotes indicate that a dichotomous success/failure categorization

does not fit the lived experience of processes. There is particular

difficulty when considering a survivor-centered process not having a

survivor-centered conclusion.

COMMUNITY AND SUSTAINABILITY

No Community

Accountability rests on the idea of community. The community is what is

ultimately holding the person accountable and processes are rooted in

activist culture. The prefigurative politic of accountability integrates

personal and political, public and private. This is critiqued by some

activists because the activist community is not a true community,

prefigurative politics is insular and does not contribute to the

building of a mass movement, and the use of process argot can distance

personal experience by using political language (Cohn and Mitchell 2015,

Celeste 2014).

The models is based off of work that has happened in indigenous

communities. Activists involved in transformative justice often cite the

documentary Hollow Water, which is about a small indigenous community in

Canada that had to deal with an epidemic of child sexual abuse. But as

pointed out in a couple of my interviews, our communities are not the

same.

“We talk about community accountability…we don’t really have communities

in the same way…we were inspired by [Hollow Water]… well, they’re in an

isolated community and everybody is related or knows each other, so you

have different types of social pressures there. We don’t live in those.

We see perpetrators leave one community and go to another one…I think

that is a failing of community accountability, ‘cause we don’t really

have communities. But the harm continues, so what do you do about it?

Especially for people who are resistant.” Carl 50

The activist subculture does not constitute a full, developed community.

Firstly, there are no longterm development over generations. Few

activists in the subculture are over the age of 40, and there are no

elders to provide stability, support, or advise. After attending an

event about accountability with younger activists, I became particularly

aware of the lack of elders or transmission of information across

generations. I listened to them grapple with issues that myself and

others had experienced around accountability. There are zines, but they

are not uniformly distributed and there is no centralized location to

hold this information. In our interview, Carl pointed out that elders do

exist but are removed from the subculture or community.

“I think they are legitimately elders, but I don’t think we have the

culture to access them as elders. I mean, a lot of young, liberated

anarchist, ‘don’t tell me what to do’ types and they’re not going to

listen to anybody. And if anybody sounds authoritative, thats not

‘cool,’ its not the anarchist way.” 1:14:30

In the last year, when I attended a talk about transformative justice at

an anarchist space, everyone in attendance was young and relatively new

to activism. When mentioning activists who founded particular groups 5

to 10 years ago, almost none of the names were recognized by those in

attendance. Some resources about transformative justice, in the forms of

zines and websites, were known, but many of the resources that we had

collected and organized were not passed down to the new generation.

There are also few familial ties within community. Along with older

generations, there are very few children. When activists have children,

they often lack support from others (Rae 2008). Rarely are familial

relationships effected by activist community dynamics, jobs are not

limited to ones connected to the other activists, and it is easy to

interact with people from outside of the community on a daily basis.

While being kicked out of the community is serious, it does not

necessarily mean the same thing as it would in traditional, stable

communities.

There are cultural commonalities to hold together and constitute a

subculture; but built into that subculture is transience. Punk and youth

cultures often involve moving and travel for work or education, if their

band is on tour, or simply the want of a change in environment. In every

interview carried out for this research, activists moving and leaving

was discussed as a significant issue. Lee estimated that roughly one

third of their community was stable, another third there for roughly

four to five years, and the final third were impermanent. Social

institutions can become anchors of a community, but those also change;

community space landlords fail to renew leases, radical bookstores and

venues close, collective living spaces disband.

Broken Community

Despite differing opinions about the existence of community, in

interviews and zines many spoke about processes polarizing activists and

the splitting or breaking of community as a result. In zines and

interviews, this was talked about as a demoralizing experience. “In

reflecting on this time I am also overwhelmed with sadness, at a

community that I saw come together in some amazing resistance, only to

be torn apart, lately by acts of sexual assault and manipulative

behavior” (David 108). In the historical zine Hammer in Our Hamlets, the

author advised readers that while this should not discourage survivors

to come forward, realistically, “If your group or milieu is dealing with

an instance of gendered violence, your group is probably going to fall

apart, people will get hurt, and some (mostly likely the survivor and

their supporters) will be isolated“ (21). It is perhaps pessimistic, but

also realistic to anticipate a community rupture when there is an

incident of assault and abuse.

As a specific example, in our interview, Alexandra discussed an

accountability process that resulted in a community split and was a

factor in them leaving that community.

“It fit the standard template. A man and a woman who had been dating for

a while…they break up and after that the woman calls out the man for… a

single incident of sexual assault. And despite so many of us in that

immediate community having participated in many, many other processes,

despite us having authored texts about it, done workshops about it,

attended conferences about it…we had so much collective experience to go

on. It was like, this oncoming train, we couldn’t get out of the way…

Some people…recognized what seemed pretty clearly like patterns of

emotional abuse going in the opposite direction. Some people looked at

the kinds of power dynamics that were a lot more complicated than man

inflicts on woman. Some people looked at the way that the accusation and

the outflow from it were being used to consolidate social power within

networks…everyone’s relationships were so thick and everyone’s trauma

histories so complex, that when people started fighting about it, it

became a proxy war. People were fighting out conflicts a decade old on

the terrain of this one accountability situation, where unresolved

tensions around gender dynamics, people who felt like they hadn’t got

support in the ways they wanted to be supported when they had a process

going on, people who just hated one person or the other person for

whatever shit, valid or not… and then all the ways these political

differences also mapped on…people who were more into insurrectionary

anarchism, “Beat the fucker up!,” and you know, other people

who…understood feminism in a certain way being like “We have to believe

what a survivor says, no matter what. Even if it literally doesn’t match

our experience at all.” And just…a fucking nightmare. A community-wide

melt down…ultimately, what ended up happening was, the person who had

been called out had been completely socially isolated…and would mostly

spend his time at work or with [his new partner]…and ultimately when

some group of people felt like he wasn’t doing whatever they wanted him

to do…busted the windows out of his vehicle and wrote “Get the fuck out”

or something in paint on the vehicle. And this is outside the home of

this single mom…it got really nasty, so he…left and has never been

back…the survivor in this situation, when she found out she was, like,

horrified. Everything about it was a total disaster”

In Alexandra’s example, the situation was particularly frustrating

because many members of the community were aware of potential problems

and pitfalls of accountability processes, yet the breaking up of the

community could not be mitigated. The layers of social and cultural

capital of those in the community fighting along a multitude of rifts

resulted in no clear process or way to address harm. The automatic

belief and support of the survivor by those who do this work was also

difficult, when their experience belied their political stance.

Shifting Activism

Experiences with accountability processes lead some activists to shift

their forms or types of activism. For those I interviewed who maintained

faith in accountability or are involved in work around consent,

accountability processes often shaped or became the focus of their

activism.

“I think [processes] became my activism…I still went to demos or

whatever but I wasn’t as deeply…it took so much emotional energy and it

seemed like important enough work to dedicate…like, this is what my role

is in the movement…in a grander sense. That felt like my contribution.”

James 34:10

“I did start to see this framing a lot of the work I did for a while and

I also think you are most useful when you have your particular role…and

in this case I really saw… “Oh, this is a skillset I can bring to

things”…don’t want to just show up places…I was, like, what can I do

that’s useful?” Eva 1:29:00

For others, involvement with accountability processes resulted in

alterations of their activism or ‘community.’ Perhaps due in part to the

makeup of those involved in processes and wariness after being involved

in activism with cisgender men, People of Color and/or Queer LGBTQ

activist subcultures was one of the cited shifts. In The First 7-Inch

Was Better, Nia King ends her zine by talking about her transition of

communities:

“I no longer have the desire to be accepted by people who hide behind

their “radical” lifestyle politics and aren’t able to work with people

who don’t eat out of dumpsters and can’t afford get arrested to make a

point, to make real change happen. I’ve got something better now, a

community of queer activists and activists of color whose priorities are

more like mine, who accept me for who I am.”

Leaving Social Movements

Typically this isolation and lack of support have lead to young women

leaving the activist community entirely. This cycle is written into the

common biography of the subculture, a norm taken as such. “In many

anarchist punk scenes... you will find only younger women, despite

diversity in the ages of men. Why? Because young women often enter a

scene (often only invited in the first place by a boyfriend), end up

being identified primarily as sexual objects, eventually get frustrated

with the boy’s club, and leave” ( Said the Pot). Female identified

activists “have remained silent...have slipped away from our

organizations and movements because they couldn’t take it anymore,

and... have been pushed out for shouting out about oppression and abuse”

(INCITE! 2005).

Despite the disruption of larger activist goals, the discontent and

absence of experienced female identified and queer activists are

generally not seen as a problem to be addressed. “What’s more paralyzing

to our work than when women and/or queer folks leave our movements

because they have been repeatedly lied to, humiliated,

physically/verbally/emotionally/sexually abused?...Nothing slows down

movement building like a misogynist” (Morris). While arguably for the

sake of community “[w]e need it to be the exception, not the rule, that

the woman leaves the scene when a hetero couple breaks up” (Why She

2009).

The topic of community and transformative justice has been an extremely

divisive and controversial topic within the activist community. “The

question of what to do about it is one that comes up frequently and

causes divisions within radical communities almost every time” ( Said

the Pot). As with the required work, opinions concerning the importance

of transformative justice and safer spaces are divided along gender.

This became apparent in a series of online posts concerning safer spaces

at shows. The following excerpt from the initial webzine post made by

Lauren Denitzio, the feminist lead singer of the Worriers and former For

the Birds member, about safer spaces:

What I think of when I imagine a scene without sexism is a scene where

we consciously make an effort to create a safer space for everyone, no

matter who they are. So while we might not be saying “you can’t be in a

band or go to this show because you’re a girl”, there are plenty of

other things that go on that I consider to be sexist…you know what makes

me feel unsafe? When you’re the only guy in the pit who doesn’t get the

message to not fly full force into someone half your size or strength.

When you take your shirt off at a show. When you ask me if I’m “IN the

band or WITH the band” after a male bandmate says the four of us are all

IN the band. When you tell me I play guitar well for a girl. When you

say that all the guys want to fuck the girl in that band. When you make

a rape joke. When you use the word bitch or call someone a slut. The

list doesn’t end there. (2011)

This post resulted in a backlash and horde of online comments, reblogs,

and responses. While too many to systematically address, many of the

comments focused blame for sexism on the character of the female

subculturalist.

The myriad of experiences with and responses to accountability processes

in radical left subcultures have resulted in internal tensions and then

end of some movements. While the context has changed, the dynamics

around sexual assault and abuse are very similar to those experienced in

earlier New Left movements. Tamara Nopper’s statement that “Many times I

was told by people that they were ‘surprised’ to find out that I had

‘put up with that shit’ because unlike ‘weak women,’ I was a ‘strong’

and ‘political’ woman” could be a direct quote from the autobiography of

a Panther or Weatherman. It is obvious that there are issues to be

addressed in the subculture, yet it is not clear that accountability

processes are addressing these problems.

CONCLUSION

My research found that cultural experimentations in social justice are

attempting to address issues of inequality pervasive in dominant

culture. The prefigurative politics in activism must address concerns

around the criminal justice system and issues around gender inequality,

rape, and assault. Activists are developing alternative structures in an

attempt to create a more conscientious and ethical culture outside of

dominant institutions.

Despite efforts to meet the needs of women, transgender, and gender non

binary people, the use of transformative justice and materialization of

accountability processes seem to be unsuccessful. There may be

individual instances of success, but when put into practice, on the

whole, the format is ineffective and possibly destructive. Though not

intentional, accountability processes do not satisfactorily address

problems in the subculture and simultaneously recreate some of the

critiques of the criminal justice system.

Gender-related problems are well established in the history of the New

Left, and continue into contemporary movements. Though acknowledged to

various extents, groups like SDS and the Black Panther Party either

failed to address problems or were at best inconsistent in their

approach. In marginalizing gender issues in organizing, leadership,

division of labor, and sexual relationships, the women themselves were

marginalized. The onus to correct problems was and continues to be

placed on those who experience sexism and not the community as a whole.

Gender-related problems are longstanding, but in the last 15 years,

activists have tried to create a DIY system to focus on sexual assault.

The pathways used in current social movements have been erratically

applied and inconsistent in their end results. Terminology developed

Bourdieu, namely social capital, cultural capital, and practice

facilitate an examination of power dynamics within a culture. Changing

prefigurative politics have questioned how we define and understand

abuse, particularly in relationship to an activist sense of ‘community.’

If, as many activists would argue, the personal is political, then

relationships and practices are expected to be ethical and rooted in

radical values.

While disagreements in detailed transformative justice and safer space

policy are to be expected, the struggle over the basic recognition of

gender inequality and its importance within radical left subcultures has

been surprising. For some activists, gender inequality is a part of the

base upon which leftist activism and independence from the state is

built. The outcome of these processes are significant for both as a

consideration of prefigurative politics, as well as the continuation and

longevity of social movements.

ANALYTIC AND EMPIRICAL FINDINGS

Prefigurative Politics in a Subculture

There is an innate ontological struggle in attempting to build a new,

socially just society and cultural practices within a pre existing

unjust society. No participants come from ‘revolutionary heaven’ and are

socialized in dominant culture’s sexism, racism, classism, and other

biases. It can be difficult to critically reflect on interactions,

assumptions and deep structure.

Activists applying frameworks predicated on the existence of a

‘community’ to a subculture face inherent difficulties. By self

identifying as a community, activists imply a wholistic lifeworld,

beyond the stylistic choices of leisure. Accountability processes rely

on the coherence of a community culture that has established norms that

can be violated and and must be addressed. In addition, processes also

depend on a community act as a cohesive unit in response to the

violation and holding the perpetrator accountable. Though, I have argued

their solidarity is not community based, it is a solitary that can

damaged or destroyed within activists’ interactions and relationships

with one another.

Since these politicized dynamics take place within interpersonal

relationships, social and cultural capital influence every aspect of

accountability processes. As in dominant culture, power in the

subculture effects if the perpetrator or survivor is supported by other

activists, if the perpetrator is held accountable, the ability of either

to employ or resist labels, the ability to resist attempts to curtail or

sanction behaviors, and how easily they are seen as having atoned for

their actions.

Criminal Justice Alternatives and Contradictions

The criminal justice system, consisting of police, courts, and prisons,

is one of the most heavily critiqued dominant institutions. Though there

have been efforts to avoid replication, the dichotomy of survivor and

perpetrator is entrenched in our understanding of justice as shaped by

the criminal justice system. There are many difficulties in creating a

new, alternative social institution that addresses justice,

accountability, and transformation without racism, classism, or biases.

Further, to develop a framework that successfully breaks down

dichotomies of good and evil, while not retraumatizing the survivor,

critically examining interactions, behaviors, and their cultural

contexts is seemingly impossible.

Seemingly contradictory, the language of transformation does not lend

itself towards transformation and maintains a dichotomy. The survivor

can never not be a survivor and does not have much space for critical

reflection of their behaviors. The perpetrator can still be referenced

as a ‘perp’ and might still be labeled despite trying to complete an

inconsistently organized process or successfully completing a process.

Though accountability is survivor-centered, the survivor does not

determine their success or end.

Ultimately, the purpose of accountability as transformation is also

questioned. In limiting justice to transformation, activists are not

allowed the motivation of punishment and retribution. The denial of

anger, frustration, and use of violence is especially interested for a

group that articulates these feelings in relation to the government and

dominant culture. Some pointed out prisoners are given the benefit of

the doubt that fellow activists are not. Others have argued survivors

and supporters should be able to carry out physical violence against

abusers if the survivor wishes. The subculture is not anti violence in

their tactics and ideology, yet strongly discourage retributive

violence. There is a lack of clarity as to whether or not fellow

activists should be held to lower or higher standards than the general

population.

Feminist Politic in Mixed Gender Movements

The application of political beliefs to gendered interpersonal

interactions is ambiguous and inimical. Continued gendered divisions in

leadership, meeting dynamics, division of labor, and security culture

reflect the enduing regard for masculine traits. The use of terminology

like “manarchy,” “broism,” or “brocialism” acknowledges these problems.

Yet there is no pathway to address gendered (or racial or class)

dynamics. Unless in conjunction with sexual assault, it is left to the

individual to confront sexism in interpersonal interactions.

The development safer spaces and elaboration of consent are attempting

to develop realistic norms to practice in the subculture. The cultural

complexities of sexual practices extend beyond a yes/no binary and there

are shifts towards positive consent. The subculture is sex positive and

involves a number of late night parties and events were drugs and

alcohol might be present. Yet there isn’t as much reflexivity about

being sex positive and the possible effect of drug and alcohol use on

consent. There is recognition of a widening definition of abuse and

subcultural specificity of types of abuse. Women, transgender, and

gender non binary people, and more specifically fellow survivors, carry

out the bureaucratic mediation work that requires immense time and

energy, which can lead to additional stress and burnout.

POSSIBLE RESOLUTIONS

I found two sources that argued addressing the gender dynamics might

come from autonomous organizing or limiting personal and sexual

relationships with cisgender male activists. In this way, the expression

“the personal is political” is being put into question by some feminists

with a call to demarcate the personal and political. These arguments are

twofold: in the political realm, the focus can remain on the political

project at hand and in the personal realm, survivors can privately

address issues without justification or legitimation from a larger

‘community.’ As stated in the zine No Safe Houses, “[b]y telling women

repeatedly that they have to make their claims “political,” they end up

using political language to describe deeply personal events” (18).

While some of these arguments are persuasive in their simplicity, I do

not believe it is realistic to delimit the personal and political.

Politically, we recognize they are intertwined. Issues like

intersectionality, bodily autonomy, and sexual and physical assault are

heavily politicized in the subculture, as well as dominant culture. As

to limiting personal relationships, a significant part of participating

in activism is the emotional draw of friends and lovers. It can not be

forgotten that much of activism is a fun, social experience. Even when

considering the problems of accountability processes, their most

compelling strength is activists’ development of social ties around

emotional support.

Considering a resolution or treatment for the issues facing the

subculture is difficult. In my research three large problems around

accountability became apparent: 1) the use of community-based strategies

in a amorphous subculture, 2) the complexity of developing flexible

alternatives to social institutions, and 3) practicing gender equity,

especially in the inevitable sexual relationships. And all of these

difficulties are occurring in a subculture with an unstable and mobile

population who are continuously engaged in dominant institutions and

cultural practices.

The first of these problems is seemingly contradictory. The social

movement subculture is both not a community and a community that can be

broken or split. In claiming status of a community, the subculture is

conflating the prefigurative want of a new society with the political

practices of daily life. While there might be social interdependence,

activists are not dependent upon one another for their income, housing,

or childcare. They do not have strong or longstanding familial bonds.

Though it would not create the same web of relationships found in a

traditional community, more cross generational involvement in the

subculture would encourage the development of some stability.

Specifically ‘elders’ might aid in intergenerational transference of

information and skills. But, as discussed in Chapter 1, social movements

are processes and by their nature lack the stability required in a

community.

Additionally, integrating non radical, sympathetic organizations and

groups would aid in limiting the use of DIY where there are those with

more experience and qualification. The emotional and temporal

requirements of processes are not sustainable as a DIY, volunteer

process. Not only would pre existing social institutions loosen the

burden on individual activists, but would also limit the creation or

recreation of unnecessary bureaucracy and policy. These two

possibilities might be combined if, as in the case of one activist I

interviewed, more older and ex activists who have become mental health

and social work professionals continue their involvement.

The last of these three large issues is difficult to address. Simply

asking people to not be sexist will not address the problem. Because our

gendered interactions are based in larger cultural contexts, liberal

shifts in young Americans’ defining of gender and understanding of

intersectionality suggest potential for long term change. As the

subculture is in some ways at the forefront of these changes,

experiments in the development of preventative norms and bystander

intervention offer some promise.

Overall, these presuppositions might alleviate problems, but will not

solve them. As a cultural group, there should be strategies in place to

attend to various forms of intra group conflict, mitigating the

influence of social and cultural capital. Though the subculture is

critical of power dynamics, it would be particularly difficult to place

checks and balances on abstract and emotional social and cultural power.

We do not have a cultural basis that encourages constructive critique.

Activists have language of reflexivity and privilege, yet have

difficulty accepting criticism. That is not to suggest a return to the

criticism / self- criticism sessions of Students for a Democratic

Society. But the ability to admit fault and commit to future change is

not in our cultural repertoire. The dominant culture, specifically in

the political and entertainment spheres and the #MeToo movement, has

proven individuals benefit from denial of fault. In the case of

transformative justice, even if transformation does occur, it is not

recognized. For a more socially just social movement, we need a politic

that allows for productive criticism.

SIGNIFICANCE OF RESEARCH

The interpersonal dynamics within activism can determine who

participates, political goals, and the sustainability of social movement

groups. Within the subculture, the topic is important enough for

activists to hold workshops and trainings, write zines, create

curriculum, spend hours of personal time, form groups and end

communities. For all of the labor and energy put into these processes by

activists, questions arise as to how they are actually carried out,

their effectiveness at addressing sexual assault, and how they are

shaping activist subcultures. Though a focus of some activists, these

issues can be sidelined both by activists and academics who do not see

these problems as important as compared to the stated goals of activist

groups.

Activists are ‘canaries in the coal mine’ for dominant, larger culture,

addressing issues and developing cultural norms that are indicative of

larger, dominant cultural shifts. Contemporary discussions of the #MeToo

movement include many of the questions activists have been grappling

with for the last 15 years: the lack of justice via the criminal justice

system, the variations of subtle and cultural power dynamics around

issues of gender and sexual assault, when to ‘call out’ an abuser or

rapist and backlash against the survivor, the importance of gender in

balance with intersectionality and not limiting survivorship to cis

female-specific experiences. ‘Accountability’ and ‘transformative

justice’ are becoming more common in popular lexicon around sexual

assault and interpersonal violence.

If activists’ aim is solidarity, activists can not condone injustice and

the marginalized can not continue to be marginalized. If the goal is

defined as creating activist communities focused on taking care of one

another, we need to further research about those who leave social

movements and the gendered work of activism. If others in the community

do not agree and see sexism as peripheral to the political goal, then it

is doubtful that other forms of community justice could address these

problems.

THE FUTURE OF ACCOUNTABILITY AND TRANSFORMATIVE JUSTICE

Though the activist subcultures started using the language of

accountability 15 years ago, it continues to be a popular topic. In the

spring of 2019, the event “Building Accountable Communities” at Barnard

College was over capacity, the waitlist filled, and people were asked to

view the event via livestream. In the fall of 2018, activist group

Decolonize This Place and Free University — NYC held an event called

“Cultures of Accountability / Culturas de Responsabilidad.” In the

summer of 2019, Brooklyn anarchist space The Base held an event hosted

by Anarchist Black Cross called “Towards a Culture of Transformative

Justice.” It is undeniable that this topic remains important to various

branches of radical left activist subcultures.

When I attended the latter event, I was surprised to find that over a

period of 6 to 7 years, the various resources we had pooled had been

lost to the new generation of activists. The younger activists at the

event had not seen the zines I was reference and didn’t have the

practical trial and error knowledge from the previous generations

attempts at prefigurative politics. The loss of a few online archives

means much of the written information is now scattered and more

difficult to find.

As noted in a number New Left activists autobiographies used as source

material for Chapter 3, there is a real worry that social movements will

fail to learn from previous movements’ mistakes. There are significant

problems in radical leftist social movements around sexual assault and

gendered interpersonal dynamics. Unfortunately, while accountability

processes might offer suggestions, they are not a solution that

adequately addresses these problems.

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in What about the Rapists? Anarchist Approaches to Crime and Justice.

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Abu-Jamal, Mumia. 2004. We Want Freedom: A Life in the Black Panther

Party. South End Press.

Ahmad, Asam. 2017. “When Calling Out Makes Sense.” Briarpatch Magazine.

Retrieved October 1, 2018. (

https://briarpatchmagazine.com/articles/view/when-calling-out-makes-sense

) Alameen-Shavers, Antwanisha. 2017. “An Interview with Norma Mtume.”

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