Read­ing, James McNeill Whistler, 1879

The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art, Gift of Susan Dwight Bliss, 1967

Mid­way through Anya Ulinich’s 2014 graph­ic nov­el, Lena Finkle’s Mag­ic Bar­rel, the epony­mous pro­tag­o­nist — who, like Ulinich her­self, is an Amer­i­can nov­el­ist and Sovi­et émi­gré — dreams that she is sit­ting beside Philip Roth on a bus. Lena’s gushy fan­girl response (“Oh my god, Philip Roth, is this real­ly you? … Lis­ten, I love your books! You and I are so much alike!”) meets with hos­til­i­ty from the famous Jew­ish Amer­i­can writer. You’re noth­ing like me!” Roth tells her. First you’re a woman, and not even a pret­ty one! Sec­ond, you’re an immi­grant!” Through her visu­al ren­der­ing of the char­ac­ters, Ulinich sug­gests that she agrees that the two authors are dif­fer­ent: an aged and scrag­gy Roth is drawn with rough, sketch-like strokes, while Lena appears in a vivid con­trast of black and white, as if drawn in per­ma­nent mark­er. Lena quick­ly retal­i­ates by attack­ing Roth, announc­ing that she hat­ed [his 2007 nov­el] Exit Ghost so much [she] threw it in a sub­way trash can.” Before Roth him­self exits the text, as soon as we turn the page and the dream is over, he advis­es Lena to read The Mag­ic Bar­rel instead of his work. This ref­er­ence to Bernard Mala­muds 1958 short sto­ry col­lec­tion, named for his mag­i­cal real­ist fable fea­tur­ing rab­bini­cal stu­dent Leo Fin­kle, cir­cles back to the title of Ulinich’s graph­ic nov­el, remind­ing us that Lena did not require Roth’s guid­ance. She, and Ulinich, had already laid claim to the mag­ic bar­rel, emp­ty­ing it of the one-dimen­sion­al images of women that per­vade Jew­ish Amer­i­can men’s fic­tion of the so-called gold­en age and repur­pos­ing it as a con­tain­er for agen­tic self-representations.

Ulinich is far from being the only con­tem­po­rary Jew­ish Amer­i­can woman writer to posi­tion her work as an inter­tex­tu­al response to male-dom­i­nat­ed, mas­culin­ist lit­er­ary tra­di­tions and to imag­ine a space in which Jew­ish women’s writ­ings, voic­es, and expe­ri­ences are made cen­tral to lit­er­ary his­to­ry. We see such allu­sive ges­tures, for exam­ple, in a num­ber of twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry nov­els by Jew­ish women, includ­ing Meg Wolitzer’s The Wife (2003), Nicole Krauss’s The His­to­ry of Love (2005), Dara Horn’s The World to Come (2006), Rachel Kadish’s The Weight of Ink (2017), Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s Fleish­man Is in Trou­ble (2019), and Melis­sa Broder’s Milk Fed (2021). Anal­o­gous inter­tex­tu­al impuls­es under­lie cre­ative works of fem­i­nist exe­ge­sis, from E. M. Broner’s A Weave of Women (1985) and Ani­ta Diamant’s The Red Tent (1997) to Anna Solomon’s The Book of V (2020) and Liana Finck’s Let There Be Light: The Real Sto­ry of Her Cre­ation (2022), in which Jew­ish Amer­i­can women authors rewrite famil­iar bib­li­cal sto­ries from fresh, female perspectives. 

In mark­ing their depar­ture from patri­ar­chal tra­di­tions via mas­culin­ist inter­texts first invoked and then thrown in the metaphor­i­cal sub­way trash can, these twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry women writ­ers present us with a conun­drum. The very act of push­ing lit­er­ary patri­archs aside in an effort to cen­ter women has the unin­tend­ed con­se­quence of reify­ing cul­tur­al rev­er­ence for the canon­i­cal male lumi­nar­ies of Jew­ish Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture. The sub­ver­sion nar­ra­tive posi­tions women’s writ­ings as deriv­a­tive and ancil­lary, sug­gest­ing that the only way to achieve recog­ni­tion is through men: their books, their insti­tu­tions, their aes­thet­ics. The love-hate rela­tion­ship to misog­y­nis­tic patri­archs replays time and again in debates about Philip Roth. To cite one exam­ple, the 2021 vir­tu­al pan­el Rethink­ing Amer­i­can Jew­ish Lit­er­ary Stud­ies in the #MeToo Era (or: Enough with Philip Roth),” spon­sored by the Alan D. Leve Cen­ter for Jew­ish Stud­ies at UCLA, focused almost entire­ly on Roth (and the con­tro­ver­sy over Blake Bailey’s biog­ra­phy), with pan­elists argu­ing, con­tra the par­en­thet­i­cal in the title, that Roth’s work should con­tin­ue to be taught and stud­ied. Despite the fact that the pan­el sig­naled an inter­est in mov­ing away from the sup­pres­sive log­ics of the canon, going so far as to invoke #MeToo’s eth­i­cal imper­a­tive to high­light women’s sto­ries and lis­ten to their voic­es, women writ­ers were rarely mentioned. 

Our aim in edit­ing Matri­lin­eal Dis­sent was to curate a col­lec­tion of essays that indi­vid­u­al­ly and col­lec­tive­ly rethink the field of Jew­ish Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture by cen­ter­ing Jew­ish women writ­ers and their wide-rang­ing con­tri­bu­tions to Amer­i­can lit­er­ary cul­ture. As writ­ers, edi­tors, and read­ers, women have con­sis­tent­ly been at the fore­front of Jew­ish Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture. While remain­ing atten­tive to gen­dered con­straints on pro­duc­tion, con­sump­tion, and recep­tion, our book’s refram­ing of Jew­ish Amer­i­can lit­er­ary his­to­ry shows women to be dom­i­nant play­ers work­ing with­in main­stream cul­tur­al insti­tu­tions and cre­at­ing insti­tu­tions of their own. The per­cep­tion that women are mar­gin­al­ized out­siders, on the fringes of Jew­ish lit­er­ary pro­duc­tion in the Unit­ed States and in need of repar­a­tive crit­i­cal atten­tion, is due in large part to the way that lit­er­ary his­to­ry has been told: through the dis­tort­ing lens­es of patri­archy and misogyny.

By trac­ing alter­na­tive lin­eages of Jew­ish Amer­i­can writ­ing, the essays in Matri­lin­eal Dis­sent exam­ine how women authors sys­tem­at­i­cal­ly write against reflex­ive and mono­lith­ic under­stand­ings of Jew­ish­ness in Amer­i­ca and toward new modes of belong­ing to het­ero­ge­neous and emer­gent com­mu­ni­ties. Rather than tak­ing the con­tem­po­rary peri­od as a start­ing point, as oth­er antholo­gies have done, our book traces Jew­ish women’s writ­ing in the Unit­ed States back to the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. In sit­u­at­ing texts as prod­ucts of their his­tor­i­cal moment while also locat­ing endur­ing con­cerns that con­nect Jew­ish Amer­i­can women’s lit­er­a­ture across time and place, the col­lec­tion fore­grounds rela­tion­al­i­ty as a hermeneu­tic prac­tice as well as a strat­e­gy of sur­vival. It takes seri­ous­ly the neces­si­ty of com­mu­ni­ties, lit­er­ary and oth­er­wise, in sus­tain­ing women’s writ­ing and the pow­er of lit­er­a­ture to devel­op, nur­ture, and reimag­ine com­mu­ni­ties in turn. Explor­ing the polit­i­cal projects that grow out of and through Jew­ish Amer­i­can women’s writ­ing, we sit­u­ate their texts as tools and liv­ing prac­tices rather than as ends in themselves. 

Com­pris­ing crit­i­cal assess­ments by estab­lished and emerg­ing schol­ars as well as a mod­er­at­ed con­ver­sa­tion fea­tur­ing Mizrahi women writ­ers, Matri­lin­eal Dis­sent show­cas­es crit­i­cal and schol­ar­ly approach­es that have rede­fined fem­i­nist lit­er­ary study, from inter­sec­tion­al fem­i­nism and the #MeToo move­ment to queer the­o­ry and dis­abil­i­ty stud­ies. The essays sit­u­ate Jew­ish Amer­i­can women’s writ­ing as prod­ucts of com­mu­nal and com­mer­cial net­works that shape lit­er­ary pro­duc­tion, dis­sem­i­na­tion, mar­ket­ing, and recep­tion. Sev­er­al of the con­tri­bu­tions offer impor­tant reassess­ments of lit­er­a­ture from the ear­ly and mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, high­light­ing mid­dle­brow, Pro­gres­sive Era, Yid­dish, and sec­ond-wave fem­i­nist works that present alter­na­tives to famil­iar assim­i­la­tion nar­ra­tives. Oth­ers engage with twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry texts, account­ing for inno­va­tions in con­tem­po­rary lit­er­ary form and genre by con­sid­er­ing, for exam­ple, the recent pop­u­lar­i­ty of aut­ofic­tion and graph­ic nar­ra­tives. The fact that our col­lec­tion incor­po­rates so many dif­fer­ent gen­res — among them, nov­els, peri­od­i­cal fic­tion, plays, poet­ry, auto­bi­og­ra­phy, lit­er­ary biog­ra­phy, and even screen­writ­ing — tes­ti­fies to how influ­en­tial Jew­ish women writ­ers have been in every facet of lit­er­ary culture.

The mis­con­cep­tion that Jew­ish women writ­ers are sec­ondary to the tow­er­ing male fig­ures of Jew­ish lit­er­ary his­to­ry is large­ly due to a par­tic­u­lar break­through nar­ra­tive. This nar­ra­tive revolves around a gold­en age” of Jew­ish Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture, and espe­cial­ly fic­tion, in which sec­ond-gen­er­a­tion men writ­ers (plus one or two token women) burst onto the lit­er­ary scene in the post – World War II peri­od and rede­fined what it meant to be Jew­ish, Amer­i­can, and Jew­ish Amer­i­can. This inac­cu­rate ver­sion of Jew­ish lit­er­ary his­to­ry, with Ashke­nazi Jew­ish men at the cen­ter, has exert­ed tremen­dous pow­er and influ­ence, hold­ing sway not just in schol­ar­ship but also over so much of con­tem­po­rary Jew­ish women’s lit­er­ary pro­duc­tion, as our open­ing exam­ples of inter­tex­tu­al­i­ty sug­gest. Lena Finkle’s Mag­ic Bar­rel reg­is­ters this ten­sion, for instance, when Roth’s dis­mis­sive­ness forces Ulinich’s pro­tag­o­nist into a posi­tion of either fawn­ing sup­pli­ca­tion or explo­sive rebel­lion. More crit­i­cal and expan­sive con­sid­er­a­tions of the canon offer gen­er­a­tive pos­si­bil­i­ties for writ­ers and schol­ars alike, bring­ing into focus alter­na­tive worlds of writing.

______

In the recent graph­ic nar­ra­tive, Let There Be Light: The Real Sto­ry of Her Cre­ation, car­toon­ist Liana Finck takes us back to the begin­ning by offer­ing a retelling of the book of Gen­e­sis in which God is depict­ed as a woman. Finck’s God may have lost the gray beard, but her embod­i­ment is still self-con­scious­ly spe­cif­ic: loung­ing in the clouds, she wields a star-shaped wand and wears a tiny crown sug­ges­tive of girl-pow­er princess fan­tasies. The author’s note at the end of the book informs us that this play­ful vision of God emerged from Finck’s own girl­hood: Study­ing the Torah at Hebrew Day School, I thought of it most­ly as a por­trait of one child­like (and there­fore relat­able) char­ac­ter full of feel­ing and desires: God.… This book is an attempt to draw out that char­ac­ter as I saw her (since I start­ed writ­ing this book, it hurt to call God him’) when I was young. Giv­ing God a new gen­der — my own — was my first step toward reclaim­ing this work of lit­er­a­ture for myself.” The child­ish­ness of Finck’s por­tray­al — togeth­er with the book’s epi­graph from Jamaica Kin­caid, in which she describes Gen­e­sis as a book for chil­dren” — sug­gests that we must com­pli­cate nar­ra­tives of fem­i­nist sub­ver­sion as sure­ly as Finck’s God must out­grow her princess crown. The reap­pro­pri­a­tion of God as a woman is just the first step” toward more rad­i­cal recon­fig­u­ra­tions of iden­ti­ty that dis­rupt gen­der bina­ries and patri­ar­chal systems.

In addi­tion to cre­at­ing a new ori­gin sto­ry in which woman is the Cre­ator, Finck takes a page out of the 1970s fem­i­nist play­book by recast­ing Lilith as a Mil­ton­ian hero. Let There Be Light depicts Lilith as a sil­hou­ette with a long, straight body and two thin ear-horn-anten­nae – some­where between a snail’s and a cat’s. Finck’s shad­owy Lilith reads like a gen­der­less shape-shifter, more crea­ture than human. When God invites Adam to name the crea­tures of Eden, Lilith refus­es Adam’s name: For your infor­ma­tion, I am not named woman,’ ” Lilith insists. I am Lilith, mon­ster of the night!” And while Finck’s God lies to Adam about her true iden­ti­ty to pro­tect his frag­ile ego, assur­ing Adam, I am an old man with a beard. You were right about every­thing,” Lilith absents them­selves from the scene rather than accept Adam’s false image of them. When Lilith next appears, they are offer­ing Eve the apple from the Tree of Knowl­edge in a scene that bears visu­al res­o­nance with Michelangelo’s Cre­ation of Adam.” The tuft of hair we glimpse spring­ing from Lilith’s armpit as they hand the apple down to Eve is a wink­ing fem­i­nist promise: this, too, is a real, fleshy body, one that the read­er can inhab­it, regard­less of gender.

God is the grand mover of Finck’s Gen­e­sis, the charis­mat­ic artist who strug­gles with lone­li­ness, self-doubt, and tem­pes­tu­ous emo­tion. But she is also an enabler and, it seems, pri­mar­i­ly male iden­ti­fied. We twist our­selves into knots in our desire to be liked by men,” declares a frame in the epi­logue placed over an image of God prone on a cloud, look­ing down, like a pin­ing, lovesick teen. But if this God may dis­ap­point some fem­i­nist read­ers by favor­ing men, Lilith offers oth­er pos­si­bil­i­ties, becom­ing a redemp­tive cre­ator in her own right. At the end of the nar­ra­tive, Lilith is trans­formed from a ser­pent back into their orig­i­nal mon­ster” shape, and the clos­ing frame shows Lilith’s new­ly restored hands ten­der­ly hold­ing a lump of clay they have scooped direct­ly from the earth. While the Lilith of sec­ond-wave Jew­ish fem­i­nism was an icon of women’s auton­o­my and self-deter­mi­na­tion, Finck’s Lilith chal­lenges the cat­e­go­ry of woman” itself — an inter­ven­tion made pos­si­ble, not inci­den­tal­ly, by the ground­break­ing work of Jew­ish queer and trans writ­ers such as Leslie Fein­berg, Kate Born­stein, and Judith Butler.

Matri­lin­eal Dis­sent thinks with Jew­ish Amer­i­can women writ­ers who offer mul­ti­ple, often con­tra­dic­to­ry ways to grap­ple with gen­der and Jew­ish­ness. Some of these writ­ers work with­in and rede­fine estab­lished iden­ti­ty cat­e­gories, while oth­ers move us toward more rad­i­cal acts of dis­sent, inven­tion, and self-nam­ing, reject­ing not only mas­culin­ist tra­di­tions but also well-worn fem­i­nist nar­ra­tives. In devot­ing the pages of our book to them — and invit­ing more to come — we embrace their world-mak­ing endeav­ors, exchang­ing the mag­ic bar­rel for the unformed lump of clay.

Annie Atu­ra Bush­nell is the exec­u­tive direc­tor of aca­d­e­m­ic pro­grams at the Cen­ter for Com­par­a­tive Stud­ies in Race and Eth­nic­i­ty at Stan­ford Uni­ver­si­ty. Her recent research explores Jew­ish wom­en’s inte­gra­tion into and deter­mi­na­tion of white norms of fem­i­nin­i­ty through fem­i­nist prac­tice and theory.

Lori Har­ri­­­son-Kahan is the edi­tor of The Super­woman and Oth­er Writ­ings by Miri­am Michel­son; co-edi­­tor of an edi­tion of Heirs of Yes­ter­day by Emma Wolf; and co-edi­tor of The Case of Lizzie Bor­den and Oth­er Writ­ings, a Pen­guin Clas­sics edi­tion of jour­nal­ism and fic­tion by Eliz­a­beth Garv­er Jor­dan. She is also the author of The White Negress: Lit­er­a­ture, Min­strel­sy, and the Black-Jew­­­ish Imag­i­nary and a full pro­fes­sor of the prac­tice of Eng­lish at Boston College.

Ash­ley Wal­ters is assis­tant pro­fes­sor of Jew­ish stud­ies and direc­tor of the Pearlstine/​Lipov Cen­ter for South­ern Jew­ish Cul­ture at the Col­lege of Charleston. She teach­es cours­es on mod­ern Jew­ish his­to­ry, Jews and the Amer­i­can South, and wom­en’s and gen­der studies.