In The Community
It misses the point entirely
Photo by Engin Akyurt
When someone says "Not All Men," they’re usually trying to defend themselves or others by saying that not all men are predators, harassers, or sexist. While that might be true, it completely sidesteps the real issue. The conversation isn't about whether every single man is guilty of these behaviors. It’s about the fact that all women, at some point, have faced sexism, harassment, or worse. Saying "Not All Men" derails a conversation that’s meant to address a real, painful, and widespread problem. It’s like hearing someone talk about their house being on fire and responding with, "Well, not all houses are on fire." It’s irrelevant and unhelpful.
It defends the status quo
Photo by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto
By saying "Not All Men," the implication is that the problem isn’t that big of a deal because it doesn’t involve every man. But here’s the thing: patriarchy benefits all men, even the “good” ones. It’s a system that’s designed to keep men in positions of power and privilege, often at the expense of women. Even if you’re not actively sexist, if you’re not challenging the system, you’re benefiting from it. So, when you throw out “Not All Men,” you’re essentially defending a status quo that harms women.
It ignores the reality of patriarchy
Photo by chloe s. on UnsplashLet’s be real: the patriarchy is everywhere. It’s woven into the fabric of our society, and it affects everything—from the way we talk to the way we think. Even if not all men are directly sexist, all men benefit from a patriarchal system that puts them at an advantage. So, when you say “Not All Men,” you’re ignoring the fact that the problem isn’t just about individual men being bad—it’s about a system that supports and perpetuates gender inequality. And until we address that, the problems women face aren’t going anywhere.
It dismisses women’s experiences
Photo by Engin Akyurt
Imagine you’re opening up about a traumatic experience—something deeply personal and painful—and instead of empathy, someone responds with "Well, not all people are like that." It’s dismissive, right? That’s exactly what happens when women talk about the sexism or harassment they face and are met with "Not All Men." It shuts down the conversation and invalidates the lived experiences of countless women. The truth is, if you're a man who truly cares about women's experiences, you wouldn’t need to say "Not All Men." You’d be more focused on listening and supporting.
It's factually incorrect, period
Photo by Polina Zimmerman
Here’s the kicker: statistically speaking, “Not All Men” isn’t even accurate. When you look at the numbers, the vast majority of violent crimes, especially those involving women, are committed by men. And even if you aren’t one of those men, the fact that so many men are makes it impossible to distinguish the “good guys” from the “bad guys” on sight. Women have to be cautious around all men because they don’t know who they can trust. And if that sounds harsh, it’s because it is. But that’s the reality women live with every day.
If you find yourself wanting to say "Not All Men," take a step back. Instead of getting defensive, try to listen. Acknowledge that while you might not be part of the problem, the problem is still very real and very serious. And instead of defending yourself, use that energy to be an ally! Challenge the men around you, speak up against sexism, and support the women in your life. Because at the end of the day, it’s not about whether you’re “one of the good ones.” It’s about making sure that all women are safe, respected, and heard.
As Anzaldúa navigated through her youth, she sought solace in education. She walked the corridors of Pan American University, feeding her hungry mind, before furthering her studies in English and Education at the University of Texas. Armed with her master's degree, Anzaldúa ventured into the academic world, leaving her mark on institutions like San Francisco State University, the University of California, and Florida Atlantic University.
Anzaldúa’s voice was destined to echo beyond lecture halls. As a Chicano theorist and writer, she dared to dismantle traditional constructs and shine a light on the intersectionality of Chicano culture, queerness, and feminism. The world took notice in 1987 when she birthed her seminal work, "Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza." It was more than just a book; it was a vibrant tapestry of her experiences woven intricately with theories on marginalized identities.
In this groundbreaking work, she spoke of "borderlands," an intricate dance between the physical—the US-Mexico border—and the metaphorical—a space for those balancing on the tightrope of varying cultures, genders, and identities. She breathed life into the concept of "mestiza consciousness," inviting Chicanos and others to embrace their multifaceted identities, thus creating something beautiful and new from the conflict of cultures.
Her influence didn't stop there. As an openly lesbian woman, she brought forth the unheard stories of queerness within the intersection of race and ethnicity. Her writing was a testament to the struggles she faced, the prejudices she overcame, and the indomitable spirit that refused to be silenced. It was in these words that she challenged not only American society but also her Chicano community to confront their biases.
Her voice amplified others. Alongside feminist scholar Cherríe Moraga, Anzaldúa co-curated "This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color." This anthology was a sanctuary for essays, criticism, poetry, and visual art by women of color. Serving as a cornerstone of the Third Wave Feminism movement, it succeeded in spotlighting the voices of queer women of color.
The end of Anzaldúa’s life came in 2004, but her influence was far from over. She left behind a treasure trove of scholarly work and activism that continues to resonate in academic and social spheres. Her ideas about mestiza consciousness and intersectional identities have woven themselves into the fabric of identity politics and cultural hybridity.
In the end, Gloria Anzaldúa was more than a scholar or activist. She was a revolutionary, a transformative force that sent ripples through the Chicano and queer movements. She fearlessly highlighted the interplay of various forms of marginalization and urged everyone to embrace their unique identities. Her life's story serves as an enduring testament to a more comprehensive understanding of intersectionality, fostering greater inclusivity and acceptance within and beyond the communities she represented. And so, her legacy lives on.
