Do you know a dangerous woman? Am I dangerous? Are you?

Some thoughts following a guest panel at the inaugural Festival of Fiction (Perth, WA)

dan·ger·ous [ˈdeɪn(d)ʒ(ə)rəs] ( from The Oxford Dictionary)

adjective 1. able or likely to cause harm or injury: "a dangerous animal" · "insecticides which are dangerous to the environment". Similar words: menacing, threatening, treacherous, savage, wild

adjective 2. likely to cause problems or to have adverse consequences: "it is dangerous to convict on his   evidence" Similar words: hazardous, perilous, risky, high-risk, unsafe

Last weekend I was a guest at the fantastic new Festival of Fiction in Perth, WA, which was brilliantly dreamt up by WA author Tess Woods as a day of celebrating popular fiction. I was speaking on a panel called ‘Dangerous Women’ along with authors Amy Brown (My Brilliant Sister) and Nicola Moriarty (Every Last Suspect), which was moderated by Nadia King (Claire Malone Makes a Friend). We had an excellent discussion both around the ideas of Dangerous Women and our writing processes, but it was a challenge to fully address the topic in the time we had – so here’s my expanded take, after another week of letting this roll around in my thoughts.

On the panel we talked about what it actually means to be a ‘dangerous woman’. It often feels like a badge of feminist pride to describe ourselves as such, but does this label truly serve us or does it undermine us? Can we fully reclaim the term ‘dangerous’ as a source of inspiration among women, or is the concept layered and nuanced? What do we mean by dangerous? Who are such women dangerous to? And what does this danger look like in action?

I’m continually fascinated by the way our understanding and use of language serves to influence our culture in the Information Age, and the idea of ‘Dangerous Women’ speaks very clearly to this topic. However, before exploring this in depth, it’s good to first consider some broader context around language and word definitions, because we all constantly witness the way language is spun and manipulated in the media and in political and cultural power games, as well as in everyday life. It’s clear that there are certain people – particularly those in power – who are continually trying to prove that they know more or better than others. (1) And as we observe this, it’s also uncomfortable to see that our shared language can be so easily sequestered in service of their individual or group aims.

Our sophisticated use of language is an intrinsic part of our humanity, but while it’s the best thing we’ve got when trying to reach one another and make ourselves understood, it’s also a fallible and incomplete communication system. There are around 7000 languages in the world, and that’s just the beginning, before we include things like dialect and subcultures, or language specific to situations and experiences. Language binds us together, but also separates us through its misuse and misunderstandings. It’s constantly changing and developing – therefore, words can quickly become imbued with new meanings, and every generation plays with language and develops original words to define their experiences (there was no ‘rizzing’ in my youth, thank god!). Which means that, very often, it’s difficult for people to say exactly what they mean, and to mean exactly what they say. And there can easily be a false note between what is said and what is done.

So in this context, does the term ‘dangerous women’ serve us or undermine us? I think it might be doing both simultaneously, which is disorientating. The idea of a ‘dangerous woman’ (which makes me think: subversive, courageous, resolute) fires me up in a completely different way than the label a ‘dangerous man’ (which makes me think: menacing, violent, abusive, power-hungry). Which definition of dangerous is true? Can they both be true? And what does it mean if the term ‘dangerous’ can be used in either a galvanising or negative sense, when describing exactly the same narrative of female agency and empowerment? While a feminist movement might seek to celebrate dangerous women, those promoting the patriarchy will oppose these same women as quite literally dangerous. And yet, I don’t think many feminist women (myself included) would mind being seen as dangerous in this context, because we want to be dangerous to patriarchal norms.

However, when we use the term ‘dangerous woman’ as empowering, we rely on the listener having an understanding that we have subverted the word, because the common dictionary definition of dangerous – and its associated synonyms (see above) – does not provide any clue. Would it therefore serve women better to prioritise precision of language as a better way forward, and use another word that more clearly defines our meaning: courageous or brave, perhaps? Why do I suspect that many women – myself included – might find it easier to see ourselves defined as ‘dangerous’ rather than ‘courageous’? Is there a psychological component at play here, where we’re more comfortable subverting a definition with negative connotations rather than lauding ourselves with a label that openly asserts our power and positivity?

So how can we reach a conclusion about whether we are successfully repurposing language by using terms like ‘dangerous women’, or letting ourselves be defined in ways that don’t truly support us? (2) I’m not sure if we can do this fully from within the realm of language. While our language is an astounding, immeasurably powerful, ever-changing, historically complex tool, it is not where we start and finish, and perhaps the only way we can tell more about the intent behind language is to consider how language aligns with the actions of whoever is speaking, and who their words and actions serve to help or harm.

Sometimes, there are standout moments in history where we witness an attempt to repurpose words in order to bring new possibilities into culture. In the women’s marches in the US in 2017, women asserted their agency after Trump’s horrific ‘grab ’em by the pussy’ quote by proudly wearing knitted pink ‘pussy hats’. According to a study in Fashions and Textiles journal, which analysed this phenomenon, ‘approximately one-third of the maker–wearers referred to women’s power and strength when explaining what the hat symbolized. A maker–wearer who marched in Utah explained, “Women are angry, fed up, and we are reclaiming our power. We will not be silent.”’ Most women exhibited a desire for unity and inclusivity in the meaning of the pussyhat, ‘by declaring it a symbol of women’s rights, a symbol of political resistance, a symbol of equality and justice for all, and a way to take back ownership of derogatory words describing female reproductive genitals. An Asian craftivist who marched in Washington, D.C. explained that she marched, “to stand up for women and all our rights, to resist the Trump administration, to protest misogynistic, racist, antisemitic and anti-immigrant language and actions.”’

The response to the march wasn’t entirely straightforward. There was pushback when ‘a small number of respondents and emergent voices in mainstream media indicated concerns about potential racism and trans person exclusion represented by the pussyhat.’ The researchers concluded that, ‘even as the pussyhat is recognized as a unifying symbol, it is simultaneously representative of exclusionary, potentially divisive practices within both craftivism [using craft as a way into activism] and feminism.’ However, I would add another question to this, which I feel is just as critical. Did this attempt to reclaim something from Trump’s horrendous and disempowering narrative effect real change? Because without that consequence, we’re stuck playing semantics. How can it be that half a million women marched in the streets in response to one powerful man’s words, and yet seven years on, Trump (a truly dangerous man to the safety of many people, not to mention a liveable planet) is once again knocking on the door of the presidency, and an astounding number of voters appear content to let him in.

Would you rather see the women who marched against Trump labelled as dangerous or courageous? Would you rather spend time working on subverting language, or trying to work with the language definitions we have, and using them to greatest effect? Can we do both? (3) Whichever we choose, we can’t afford to get stuck in a circular debate – if we want to use language to effect change we must look at how it can best stir inclusive, powerful action. And that’s why I’m picking a side here, and voting to replace the ‘dangerous’ label with ‘courageous’ for the many women across the world who push back against the norms of patriarchal society, and who continue to inspire us all.

(1)  I was struck by something Iain McGilchrist said on the

Sarah Wilson

podcast recently: that those of us who explore life and ask questions, rather than thinking we know, invariably realise how little we actually know, but that our limited understanding might be a salvation at this stage rather than a curse. I can’t recommend this podcast episode enough: and you can listen here.

(2) Asking these question makes me think of Pip Williams’s novel The Dictionary of Lost Words, a beautifully told story about reclaiming lost words around women’s lives and experiences.

(3) I haven’t talked about the idea of reclaiming language in this context, but I see this pursuit as different to subverting language, and in particular the push to reclaim the language and wisdom of Indigenous groups throughout the world is vital work that seeks to restore deeper understanding and connections between people and history. A leading author and publisher in this field in Australia is

Anita Heiss

- please follow her and support her work!

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