Feminist Book Club: Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl

Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl: A Memoir, by Carrie Brownstein

Those of us who lived and breathed the Northwest’s feminist post-punk riot grrrl movement in the ’90s know Carrie Brownstein as  one-third of iconic rock band Sleater-Kinney. If you don’t know her in that context, chances are you recognize her from a little show called Portlandia. Either way, it’s tough not to be intrigued by Brownstein. The riffs, wails, and lyrics that make up her portion of Sleater-Kinney have much in common with her many Portlandia personas. She dances from defiant to tongue in cheek, abrasive to conspiratorial, all without missing a beat. If she has the air of a fascinating, many-layered person, it’s because she is one—a fact that’s made abundantly clear in her debut memoir Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl.
Brownstein’s descriptions of her early years are at once unusual and recognizable. Her life growing up in suburban Washington seems rather ordinary on the surface, even picturesque. Two parents, two children, one dog—her home life encapsulated the ideal American family. Dig a little deeper, and it becomes clear the Brownstein family struggled. Brownstein’s mother suffered from disordered eating, spending Carrie’s childhood in and out of rehab centers before finally leaving the family to start a different life. Brownstein’s father came out as gay when she was a young adult, having spent years battling with his identity. Through it all, Carrie was the quintessentially parentified child—an adolescent struggling to be her own anchor by approximating adulthood. The patriarchy’s imprint on Brownstein’s young life by way of her parents’ oppression is obvious: both her mother and father suffered from their attempts to force themselves into societal molds. It’s little wonder Brownstein was drawn to the empowerment offered by feminism and the riot grrrl scene.
Brownstein’s account of that scene is truly one of the book’s crown jewels. If you came of age listening to riot grrrl royalty like Bikini Kill and Heavens to Betsy, prepare to be enthralled. That said, familiarity with the movement is hardly necessary to feel what Brownstein describes here. In the pre-Internet world, it was possible to get in on the ground floor of a truly underground musical movement and subculture. That’s just what Brownstein did, launching her musical career in several lesser-known-but-much-loved outfits like Excuse 17 before joining the powerhouse that became Sleater-Kinney. Brownstein and bandmates Corin Tucker and Janet Weiss established themselves as a pillar of a movement that encouraged girls and women to play for each other and themselves, to be brutal with their honesty as well as their sound. Brownstein points out the stark contrast between the riot grrrl ethos and what she terms the “dumbed-down, Spice Girls” version of feminism that was beginning to creep into the cultural consciousness of the day. These women sang (and screamed, and growled) about misogyny, sexual abuse, homophobia, and marginalization, giving voice to a whole generation of “outsider” and  “misfit” girls—without ever patronizing them.
The “outsider” experience is one Brownstein explores with an unflinching eye. She describes the paradox that is separating oneself from the crowd while striving for connection with others. She talks about how she and others in the movement used their irreverent, ironic, and offbeat wardrobes as “signifiers so that we could locate other outsiders quickly.” This catch-22 of wanting to be free from conformity and yet yearning to belong to a tribe is one that will be familiar to any member of the counterculture, and certainly to the whole of the feminist community. Brownstein also shines a light on another paradox within her world—the fact that many punk-rock, anti-establishment kids and young adults were and are privileged. Indeed, many among her cohort were middle and upper class children who, as she puts it,  “needed (their) rebellion underwritten by (their) parents.”  Brownstein handles this quite deftly, as to ignore it would have seemed tone-deaf. She acknowledges it without apology, and moves on.
This memoir also shines in its treatment of the complexities of female friendships, fluid sexuality, and the closeness versus the alienation musicians can feel toward their fans. Perhaps most marked, though, is Brownstein’s compelling narrative around the media’s treatment of women, especially women who happen to be musicians. She illuminates the ways in which our culture sets women up to be pigeonholed. In a hackles-raising passage, she gives just a few examples of quotes from magazine articles about the band—making it clear that, even when writers were trying desperately to avoid tropes about all-women bands, they usually failed, and miserably. Brownstein posits some expert theories on why the media landscape can be such a minefield for women. She theorizes that women who have achieved some measure of fame aren’t given the luxury of being private or “mysterious,” a label often applied with gusto to their male counterparts. Instead, we as the audience demand to “know” our women idols, and, according to Brownstein, to exert some measure of possession or dominance over them in that knowing. If they don’t acquiesce to our unbridled demand for familiarity, famous women are often branded “aloof,” “cold,” or worse, ”bitchy.”
Of all the insightful commentary in this book (and there’s quite a bit), this idea about what we demand from our female idols hit me the hardest. As I made my way through the book, I knew I liked it—the book, I mean. But I wasn’t ever able to make up my mind about whether I liked Carrie Brownstein. I think she would agree she can come off as spoiled, petulant, and one of the biggest music snobs imaginable. But the question isn’t whether Brownstein is “likable.” The more pertinent question is, why do I feel entitled to critique her personality or to assume it’s important that I like her? I’ve read other musicians’ biographies and given zero thought to whether I would personally enjoy their company. They’re musicians, after all, creative wunderkind who are allowed to have moments of arrogance, petulance, and worse. As I thought about what separated my experiences with those other musicians’ memoirs from my experience with Brownstein’s, I realized there was one major difference. Those other musicians were men.
Next month’s selection: All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation, by Rebecca Traister