O Captain, My Captain!

Beware of men in Feminist clothing

Back when it first came out, I was enamored with Dead Poets Society. A poetry-quoting teacher who passionately exhorted his cute male students to seize the day, all while critiquing entrenched systems of oppression and rigid gender roles?

What’s not to love?

Of course, I was barely out of girlhood when I saw it. I couldn’t tell an entrenched system of oppression from a rigid gender role if you paid me. I thought that Ethan Hawke was kind of hot and the whole carpe diem thing seemed edgy and romantic, in a dead poet kind of way.

Now Ethan Hawke is old and scruffy and between the laundry, work, and eating enough protein, there’s not a lot of room for daytime carpe-ing. But over the years I have gotten much better at critiquing entrenched systems of oppression, including the one at the heart of Dead Poets Society, and, unsurprisingly, this essay.

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I spent a lot of time working out how to say what I want to say here. When you’re a woman who writes about women, if you don’t use your words wisely, you’re often inviting vitriol, trolls, and entire corners of Reddit to invade your space with third-grade playground insults.

Sometimes, even from those who claim to be aligned with you.

I can only shine and polish my thoughts so much without losing the gist entirely, so it would be great if we could all be adults and parse through this together.

Deal? Great.

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John Keating, the teacher in Dead Poets Society, was one man taking on the stodgy institutions of education, masculinity, and essentially, patriarchy.

In Feminism, there is no John Keating.

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Women have been documenting their experiences with misogyny and oppression for centuries, long before the printing press, the internet, social media, or Substack. Some women write work that carefully acknowledges the harm done to men in a patriarchal system. In between the sentences of rage, they use quieter ember words to soothe, cajole, placate, and convince.

I do it myself. Not all the time; sometimes I’m angry and unapologetically sarcastic and talk about how I want to go live in the woods by myself, screw the rest of you. But other times, I go to great lengths to empathize, to proffer evidence of my respect for men—not all—and to appreciate allyship when it’s shown.

I shouldn’t have to do that, but you know, there are a lot of vacancies over here on Team Smash the Patriarchy. Also, in this year of our Goddess 2026, I still have to work to convince some people of my humanity.

In the same space that I’m writing, sometimes a male writer shows up, climbs on a desk, shouts that women are, indeed, human, climbs down, and waits for women to applaud like trained seals at the fishy snack thrown our way.

And we do. We clap and bark—probably because we’re so fucking relieved that someone’s paying attention.

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

Arf. Arf.

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Does this essay make my ass look bitter?

I am bitter, a little bit, but not because men are writing about entrenched systems of oppression or exhorting classrooms full of boys to eschew rigid gender roles for authenticity and some diem seizing.

If I’m bitter, it’s because sometimes when men write in Feminist spaces, women are far too quick to express gratitude for simply recognizing our humanity in a way that repackages the ideas and work of women.

There is no John Keating in Feminism.

Some are men in Feminist clothing, pulling the old Crick and Watson wool over our Rosalind Franklin-tinted glasses, using our research, and claiming to have discovered something new.

The biggest, bitterest issue, though, the heart of it all, is this: when men profit from writing about Feminism, they’re profiting off the labor of the women who came before. When women support that, especially over the work of other women, we’re essentially reinforcing the same damn system we’re trying to dismantle.

We’ve been working hard, gals, but now here’s a man who can steer us toward the shore. Captain, oh my captain!

I get it. So many of us are hungry for the vindication of the rights of women, ravenous for men to say, yes, Virginia, there is a patriarchy, that we line up like little Oliva Twists begging for crumbs. Please sir, may I have another?

But Fagin is no John Keating. And John Keating was still upholding the patriarchy, even if he seemed like a cool guy.

And anyway, there is no John Keating in Feminism.

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There are men who are navigating a self-reckoning with the ways a shitty system has harmed them. That’s needed. There are men who are writing for other men, which is great, because Lord knows, most men don’t listen to women—not even some of the ones who like to wear a Feminism feather in their cap.

Then there are men who are walking onto an already occupied stage, standing front and center in a circle of light, as if only now that he is here, the show can begin.

That’s not Feminism. That’s just three performative Feminist raccoons in a trench coat.

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There are no John Keatings here.

Men who write in Feminist spaces are not reinventing the wheel. And that’s often what is missing—the recognition that the work is not new.

The ideas, frameworks, theories, and proposed solutions are all things that women have spent centuries explaining, experiencing, speaking, and writing about. So when a male writer suddenly comes onto the scene, writing about those very same things, without crediting women?

Yeah, I’m suspicious.

The most Feminist thing a man writing in this space can do is to amplify the voices and work of women, to pay for the labor they’re doing, and to credit the work that has enabled their own.

No one should expect kudos, a cookie, or even a tasty fish snack for arriving at the party after everything is set up and paid for.

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There is no John Keating in Feminism. There are no captains.

Women built this ship. We built it using the skin and bones of the women who died getting us to where we are now. We do not need anyone to tie themselves to the mast in a display of masculine leadership. The sirens are our sisters, not our enemy. Scylla got a raw deal, and who knows, maybe Charybdis is menopausal.

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Nope.

Women need deckhands, not a captain.

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There have always been men who have stood arm in arm with those who are fighting for recognition. Not for accolades or profit or clicks, but because it’s the right thing to do. If that’s you? Keep doing it.

But asking for or relying on the support of women, in a system that will happily watch us die while telling us to smile more and go make dinner, is just a different way of reinforcing the very same system.

There’s a good reason why some women are wary about men who write in this space. It’s because we’ve been here before, watching men step into leadership roles they feel entitled to, captaincies they didn’t earn, using the work of women to further their standing or career.

There is no John Keating in Feminism.

There are no captains here. If you’re truly on board, then pick up an oar and row with us.

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Zawn Villines at Liberating Motherhood wrote a note about this the other day, and, for reasons of my own, I wanted to expand upon it. There are good men out there doing the work. And there are others playing performative Feminist bingo and profiting off the backs of women. If you need help spotting them, they’re usually the ones who, at the first sign of pushback, will reach for the ‘bitch’ they keep in their pockets. If you see one in the wild, report and block. x