Daughters of the Patriarchy fight back

How domestic spaces become sites of resistance and liberation

Sarah Stankorb’s latest feature in Elle brought a smile to my face: whether we call them deconstruction doulas or abuse advocates, we’re seeing a wave of women who are rising up and saying no more to abusive, patriarchal structures.

I have worked in or been adjacent to half a dozen advocacy teams over the past few years. Without exception, those teams are survivor-led and primarily female-operated. I appreciate the good men who participate, but they’re outnumbered 3 to 1. Part of me is annoyed that it falls on women—yet again—to clean up the mess, but I’m also delighted to see another generation of women turning the tools of our oppression against the system.

Stankorb describes the reality that many of my peers face:

Many of the women do not have access to family bank accounts or their own credit history, nor do they have job experience, and some don’t even have driver’s licenses. They are supposed to be cheerful exemplars of women’s place inside the patriarchy: submissive wives, serving their husbands and raising children. Meals, cooked from scratch. Single-income budget, managed by thrift and coupons.

I may be an archivist, but the patriarchy trained me to be a wife and mom. When you are denied access to money, education, and jobs, you learn to be really creative to survive. That creativity and determination fuel the resistance. Who is trained to keep moving through sleep deprivation, a never-ending list of tasks, and unrealistic expectations? The daughters of the patriarchy.

I sometimes joke that our ACNAtoo moms get more done during naptime than the College of Bishops can accomplish in a year. We give press interviews in the car during soccer practice. We run background checks on our phones while rocking children to sleep. We record podcasts in our basement and gather survivors around our dining room tables. Our kitchens, bedrooms, and bathrooms become sites of resistance.

Domestic spaces are usually ignored by the people in power. The white church locates its power in buildings, with men in pulpits. Who would take you seriously if you delivered a homily from your kitchen sink? Who expects the homeschooling mom with eight children to become the best spymaster?

To be sure, not all women choose this path. Some prefer the crumbs that drop from the tables of power—it’s better than nothing. This is why I’m grateful to Stankorb and the other journalists who highlight the women who tackle systems of oppression, even at great personal cost.

We lose our family, friends, and communities that prefer silence and submission. The burnout is real. But in losing old communities, we find new ones. Stankorb quotes Margaret Bronson: “It’s my favorite thing to see people meet their best friends in real life for the first time.”

I think of the gatherings that have spilled into every room of a red split-level in West Chicago. People from all over the country—many meeting for the first time offline—flying in to honor the fight for justice and accountability.

When the daughters of the patriarchy rise in resistance, abusive leaders should tremble. We were raised as weapons in the culture wars, and we know how to fight. (And yes, we also know how to bake excellent treats for our parties.)