My Riot Grrrl
by Johanna Fateman
"The Sylvia Plath story is told to girls who write," Kathleen Hanna sings on "Bloody Ice Cream." It's a fast, noisy track on
Reject All American,
Bikini Kill's final album, released in 1996 -- the year the meteoric
riot grrrl phenomenon seemed to have run its course, and the year used
as the approximate end date for the Fales Riot Grrrl Collection.
Kathleen and I had been friends for a few years then, and in a few more
we would start the feminist band Le Tigre together, but to me, the burst
of anguish on "Bloody Ice Cream" marked the end of an era. As riot
grrrl chapters dispersed, and the militant youth movement receded in the
public imagination, the short song reiterated the high stakes of girl
revolution. Kathleen -- an iconic figure of riot grrrl from the
beginning -- switches between enraged shout singing and talking,
settling on a menacing, and maybe hopeful, singsong delivery for the
final line. "We are turning cursive letters into knives," she proclaims,
suggesting a radical alternative to Plath's grim fate.
By 1996, the use of girlish script as a subversive weapon was not just a
feminist fantasy; Kathleen's lyric alluded to a literary and visual
style that she had helped to innovate. Riot grrrl, in a conscious
response to second-wave feminists' rejection of the word "girl,"
reclaimed it with pride -- and also in parody. Songs, performances, and
fashion statements mocked the depictions of feminine innocence and
compliance served to us in the face of discrimination, exploitation, and
endemic sexual abuse. And in a new tradition of self-publishing, girls
used loopy cursive, hearts, stars, photo-booth portraits, and kitsch
images (of housewives, superheroes, schoolgirls, and cheerleaders) to
set off type or handwritten communiqués, cultural criticism, fiction,
and philosophy. The feminist punk zines of the '90s, with their DIY
aesthetics, humor, and raw truth telling, were a crucial counterpart to
the urgent and infectious music associated with riot grrrl. They were
also instrumental to the pre-Internet formation of local scenes and an
international network of angry-girl punks.
As I sifted through my personal collection of zines, flyers, videotapes,
and correspondence to donate to the Fales Collection in 2009, I
discovered a few gaps in my archive. Some of my own disavowed young work
was missing, as were a couple of the zines that I recall vividly -- I
must have given them to other girls -- but mostly I had carefully saved
this stuff: my documentation of the secret art world that defined my
late teens and early twenties. The consciously ephemeral material of
riot grrrl, like the movement itself, was mythic in its day. Zines,
photocopied in small batches and informally distributed, were made to
address a moment or to build a scene -- not to stand the test of time.
Mostly, their young authors let them fall out of circulation quickly.
This book, as a sampling of riot grrrl's feverish output, demonstrates
the difficulties that have accompanied attempts to define the movement
since its heyday -- "riot grrrl" was a self-designation available to
anyone, and a label shrugged off by some girls who appeared to be at the
center of its activities. I've used the term loosely, to encompass a
broad strain of third-wave feminism that took root in punk scenes. In
retrospect, it's the best descriptor for the scene that radicalized me,
and shaped my enduring attitudes toward collaboration, activism, and
friendship.
Whatever riot grrrl became -- a political movement, an avant-garde, or
an ethos -- it began as a zine. Titled in the blown-up type of a cursive
typewriter, the collectively produced
riot grrrl first
appeared in July of 1991 in Washington, DC, where the Northwest-based
bands Bikini Kill and Bratmobile had convened for the summer. With
like-minded discontents in the male-dominated scene, band members tested
the waters for feminist action with this weekly newsletter. The first
issue establishes a signature mix of passionate and pragmatic content,
capturing the frustration of the time, and the allure of a new feminist
counterculture. A casually written but serious statement of intent
bemoans "the general lack of girl power in society, and the punk rock
underground specifically," promising the mini-zine will keep readers
apprised of the nascent girl scene's coming events. "Maybe," it
continues, "we'll spotlight 1 or 2 special girls who make our lives a
little easier to stand." By the end of the month, a meeting at a nearby
punk activist house heralded the start of the DC chapter of riot grrrl.
And at the end of the summer, the bands brought their new strategies for
grassroots organizing back to Olympia, Washington.
That fall, I was seventeen, and left my parents house in Berkeley,
California for college in Portland, Oregon. As I shook off the sexist
indignities of high school, I drifted into punk and found the women's
center on a campus dotted with fluorescent Queer Nation stickers. I was
unaware then of the waves feminists were making in the underground music
scene just a two-hour drive away, but the emergence of feminism's third
wave was palpable, and the events that set the stage for riot grrrl's
ascendance quickly unfolded. In October, Anita Hill's testimony in the
Clarence Thomas confirmation hearings galvanized students around the
issue of sexual harassment (my college had no policy to address
complaints). By Thanksgiving, Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was a
hit, putting a spotlight on the band's Northwest punk origins; and for
Christmas, I gave my mom Naomi Wolf's feminist best seller
The Beauty Myth.
Its argument -- that escalating standards of female beauty constitute
an insidious cultural campaign to undermine women's political gains
since the 1970's -- supported my growing conviction that the progressive
establishment of my childhood had congratulated itself prematurely on
the arrival of a post-feminist era.
The next summer, I got the lease for an off-campus house in Portland and
waited for my friends to return for the fall semester. One of them
excitedly brought with her a copy of a
Seattle Weekly newspaper
featuring a cover article about riot grrrl. I studied it with
incredulous pleasure before cutting it up to make a flyer for our
girls-only back-to-school dance party. That house, with its roomy
basement, rose bushes, possum infestation, and view of the neighboring
cemetery, came to be called the Curse.
We went to see girl bands play when they came to town, and ordered music
from the Olympia-based labels Kill Rock Stars and K Records -- Mecca
Normal LPs, the first Bikini Kill EP, a Heavens to Betsy cassette and
their split seven inch with Bratmobile. Teen pixelvision filmmaker Sadie
Benning (who would later also become my bandmate in Le Tigre) stayed
with us after her screening at the Portland Art Museum, and so did her
friends, the Toronto queercore band Fifth Column (who were then touring
with musician and
Chainsaw author Donna Dresch). Miranda July and I, best friends from high school, made a short zine called
Snarla in Love during winter break back in Berkeley, and gave it to girls at a show at 924 Gilman, the local all-ages punk club.
I think at that time we had never seen a riot grrrl zine -- that is, one that identified itself with the movement -- and so
Snarla, in the beginning (the zine became a six-issue collaboration) reacted to the zines, mostly by boys, that we
did
know about. It was punk-by-association and in style, but Miranda and I
were determined to present our own content distinct from what we viewed
as standard zine fodder. In the place of scene reports, records reviews,
and travel diaries, we asserted a more abstract world of memory and
self-reflection, filtered through our new, unforgiving feminist
analyses. We'd soon learn, though, as we came into contact with the
confessional writing associated with riot grrrl, that we weren't alone
in our introspective approach.
When I met Kathleen, she was collecting zines for Riot Grrrl Press, an
ambitious new girl-run distributor that carried a small catalogue of
feminist zines. She made an announcement about it after a Bikini Kill
show at the X-Ray Cafe in Portland, and I handed her a copy of
Snarla.
We became friends, and while Bikini Kill was on hiatus for a year, she
moved into the attic of the Curse (the flyer on page 165 is for a party
we threw in the basement). The zines in her collection -- like her band
mate Tobi Vail's
Jigsaw, and
Girl Germs,
made by Allison Wolfe and Molly Neuman of Bratmobile -- included ardent,
funny reportage on other girls' projects, and tackled serious issues in
a conversational style.
Vail's essay in the first issue of
Bikini Kill (the band's
eponymous zine), which exposes the subtle sidelining of girls in the
author's underground milieu (and debunks the popular parable of Yoko Ono
and the Beatles's break-up), is exemplary of riot grrrl's social
critique, while another trajectory of the movement's political thought
was particularly self-reflexive: It emphasized the need to confront
one's own participation -- material and psychic -- in the diseased
parent culture. Grrrls put the colonized mind under the microscope, from
the imperatives listed in Kathleen's handwriting on the early "Trust"
flyer ("Resist the internalization of capitalism, the reducing of people
+ oneself to commodities meant to be consumed") to Nomy Lamm's
unflinching analysis in her influential zine
I'm So Fucking Beautiful.
Lamm's acutely vulnerable critique of fatphobia in society extends to
her punk feminist community, and most profoundly, to her own inner
dialogue. Such challenges to cultural conditioning were a constant in
riot grrrl's oeuvre, but their tone took a turn after the first years.
In a flyer for the Seattle Girl Convention of 1996 the welcoming
language of the early "Girl Talk" flyers (which publicized feminist
discussion groups) is gone. It's replaced by a warning: During the
convention there will be "no hiding under safety blankets and
privilege," the text demands, "cos being safe = not having to recognize
or take responsibility for yer/our own privilege and ways you/we oppress
others."
The examination of privilege within riot grrrl grew out of a fundamental
question that many of us would grapple with: How could girls -- drawn
from punk's predominantly white demographic, who relied on that scene's
resources and aesthetics -- forge a truly inclusive, revolutionary
agenda? The movement was sharply critiqued in its day for failing in
this regard. Riot grrrl was not, however, all white: punk girls of color
were also in the scene, making art grounded in their experiences, and
providing a crucial counter to white grrrl's often solipsistic
discussions of race.
Frustration with the white-centered culture of riot grrrl was very
apparent by 1995. Mimi Nguyen, in a call for submissions to her zine
Evolution of a Race Riot,
writes pointedly of the need for "taking back the conversation @ race
& re-centering it around ourselves, not as voiceless victims or
objects-to-be-rescued of white punk antiracist discourses." Some
narratives attribute the dissolution of the movement to such rifts, and
indeed, challenges to racism and class bias within riot grrrl did prompt
existential crises for some local chapters. But these necessary growing
pains were paired with fatigue: From early on, distorted portrayals of
riot grrrl in the mainstream press drew converts as they narrowed its
image -- showing the movement as both homogenous and hierarchical,
always focusing on a few predictable "leaders." Complicated and
seemingly intractable personal-political dynamics arose in part from
this disconcerting attention. For many of the young women initially
involved with riot grrrl, the result was their unsentimental shedding of
the term "riot grrrl."
In 1994, I escaped the Northwest to attend art school in New York. My
first friends in the city were Ramdasha Bikceem, author of the zine
Gunk,
and some of the women who had been active earlier in Riot Grrrl NYC. In
this new circle of artist friends, I felt a post-riot grrrl sense of
possibility -- a shared drive to make politically engaged work in a DIY
spirit, but not only for an insular punk scene. From this came my zine
Artaud-Mania...the diary of a fan, in 1997, a work indebted to Kathleen's
My Life with Evan Dando Popstar for its conceptual confessional tone, and its use of ironic fandom as a vehicle for cultural critique.
Artaud-Mania
is evidence that, by this time, even if my commitment to radical
feminism hadn't faded, I approached my riot grrrl past with a measure of
self-parody.
Reading through this collection, though, I'm brought back to the time
when each girl's photocopied missive was a revelation, and much of riot
grrrl's meaning was derived from the simple fact of its existence. As a
teen, it astounded me to discover that girls were organizing to fight
their exclusion and silencing, and that they were doing it with
intoxicating subcultural style. Two decades later, the imprisonment of
members of the Russian feminist band Pussy Riot, who -- also
astoundingly -- cite riot grrrl as an inspiration for their punk music
and guerilla performances, drives home the breadth of the movement's
influence. For those who love riot grrrl for its music, or know it only
from journalistic accounts, this book will give its legend some missing
detail: Here are some of our souvenirs from a bold experiment, the
cursive letters we turned into knives in the '90s.
Print of Molly Neuman Drumming, Tinuviel Sampson, circa 1993. The Molly Neuman Riot Grrrl Collection.
Bikini Kill no. 1, Kathleen Hanna, Tobi Vail, and Kathi Wilcox, 1990. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Thorn no. 2, Kelly Marie Martin, 1992. The Kelly Marie Martin Riot Grrrl Collection.
I (heart) Amy Carter no. 1, Tammy Rae Carland, 1992. The Tammy Rae Carland I (heart) Amy Carter Collection.
Bikini Kill no. 2, circa 1991. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Flyer, author unknown, undated. The Becca Albee Riot Grrrl Collection.
Flyer
from the Riot Grrrl Convention, LA, 1995. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Flyer
from Riot Grrrl Orange County, author unknown, undated. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Flyer with Bikini Kill tour dates, undated. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Flyer
for Huggy Bear + Bikini Kill, Bill Karren, 1993. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
What Is Riot Grrrl Anyway?, collectively authored, 1993. The Becca Albee Riot Grrrl Collection.
My Life with Evan Dando, Popstar, Kathleen Hanna, 1993. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Heavens to Betsy flyer, Tracy Sawyer and Corin Tucker, 1994. The Becca Albee Riot Grrrl Collection.
Draft Record Liner Lyrics, "Rebel Girl," circa 1993. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Artaud-Mania: The Diary of a Fan, Johanna Fateman, January 1997. The Johanna Fateman Riot Grrrl Collection.
The Official Kathleen Hanna Newsletter, Kathleen Hanna, 1996. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Bikini Kill no. 2, circa 1991. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
Bikini Kill moshing tips flyer circa 1995. The Kathleen Hanna Papers.
I'm So Fucking Beautiful no. 2, Nomy Lamm, 1994. The Tammy Rae Carland Zine Collection.