The feminist mystique

There are certain standing openings in American public life. There is always going to be somebody in the Jesse Jackson role, the Pat Robertson role, the Warren Buffett role. And while the role of feminist-in-chief is currently occupied and probably will be at least through 2016, every sub-polity has a spot for its own Hillary Rodham Clinton, a wide-open channel for the communication of whatever it is that has feminists chanting at any given moment.

Being a feminist icon is a pretty good racket. Financial disclosures recently showed that Miss Davis, ex-tornado-bait trailer-park-refugee single-mom crusader for the common folk, has used some $131,000 in campaign funds to house herself in luxury apartments in Austin boasting “five-star resort amenities.” Among her most enthusiastic boosters is Cecile Richards, daughter of the late Texas governor, who is paid nearly a half-million dollars a year for her work defending the surgical dismemberment of unborn children in the furtherance of sexual convenience. Miss Fluke is very likely to find California politics an amenable environment and is no doubt headed for a lifetime of comfortable sinecures.

So the money’s good, but feminism throws up pretty poor leaders. The constant posture of wounded outrage — outrage that can only be salved with a ritual offering to the great “I Want!” — makes one poorly suited for the actual business of responsible governance, which is by necessity an exercise in prudent negotiation and compromise.

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