Daughters of Eve: The Book That Taught Me to Hate Men

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The calendar placed the first day of fall on the 23rd of September, and on the afternoon of Friday, the 22nd, Ruth Grange walked slowly down Locust Street, her schoolbooks gripped by one hand, a brown paper sack by the other.

As I hit the mid-point of my third decade, I'm finally willing to admit that no small portion of my righteous indignation at the crimes of malekind stems not from things I've actually experienced, but from repeated, late-night readings of Daughters of Eve. Certainly the novel itself engenders enough rage at the patriarchy to fuel nationwide bra-burnings. In a rare supernatural-free narrative (OK, there's one psychic character), Daughters of Eve, on the surface, is the story of Irene Stark, dark-browed, dark-hearted feminist faculty advisor, who leads her 10 unenlightened, high-school-aged charges into a twisted version of women's liberation. But despite Duncan's admirable efforts at parity, what emerges is only an unforgettable portrait of rank injustice.

We find the pre-lib girls ensconced in Modesta, Calif.—a town whose name itself denotes placid submission—at the beginning of the school year, in the act of inducting three new sisters into the Daughters of Eve sorority. There are, as I've said, 10 of them, but let's keep our eyes on the big hitters: Bambi Ellis, an icy (is there any other kind?) Homecoming Queen; Ann Whitten, a dreamy artiste; Tammy Carncross, resident Cassandra; Fran Schneider, budding scientist; and the three novitiates: Ruth Grange, household drudge; Laura Snow, a sweet, chubby outcast; and Jane Rheardon, holder of a terrible secret.

Yes, that's seven. Stick with me here! As the book commences, Duncan takes care to establish in excruciating detail the various levels of oppression under which the girls operate. And, although her problems are the most banal, I have always sympathized profoundly with Ruthie Grange, who is forced to babysit and pick up after her three cocky, filth-producing brothers in order that her mother may work a job to feed their college funds:

The boys' cereal bowls from the morning sat out on the table with milk soured in their bottoms, and the egg plates were thick with yellow yolk dried onto them like cement. There was a pool of some identifiable liquid on the linoleum at the base of the refrigerator ...

The sticky intractability also stands as a symbol for Ruthie's own position, where she is trapped like a fly in amber, not even allowed to attend the weekly meetings of Daughters of Eve—that is, until another member pipes up and reminds her that she might as well go on strike and enrage her parents, since she's already effectively grounded.

The other new girls, in ways large and small, are also locked in their positions. Laura Snow, both "cringing" and overweight, is an easy target for a boy who lies to her to use her for sex, while Jane Rheardon is the daughter of a brute who beats his wife for anything—as in, in one of the most terrifying, memorable scenes of wife-beating I've ever read, refusing to sing the secret song all Daughters of Eve are taught:

"That sounds like a winner," Mr. Rheardon said. "Let's hear it."

"Oh, I can't," Ellen Rheardon said ..."It's just that we took an oath. We wouldn't sing the song anywhere except within the sisterhood. It was—sort of—sacred." Ellen gave a short, nervous laugh ...

"But this is almost twenty years later! You're a grown woman, for God's sake, or at least you're supposed to be. You're a married woman whose husband is making a simple request of you, and you sit there and tell him—"

No, Jane cried silently, no, no, no! ...

Jane pressed her hands against the sides of her face to control the twitching. From the room below there came a thud and a high-pitched cry.

A moment later a thin, wavering voice began to sing.

That's a far cry from the sexism of the Grange household, which, besides enslaving Ruthie to devote all her labor, gratis, to her spoiled, obnoxious, messy, ungrateful brothers, is subtle, if no less dictatorial: