IGNITE
UBC Women’s and Gender Studies
Undergraduate Journal
Madness as Social Protest (Article)
Mollie Deyong
Ignite, Vol 4, Number 1, Spring 2012 pp. 18-26
© the Contributors
University of British Columbia, Vancouver
Madness as Social Protest
Mollie Deyong
The term “madness” usually evokes pejorative connotations. “Crazy” or “mad”
behaviour is the binary opposite of “normal” behaviour, and as such, it is relegated to
the realm of the distasteful. A mad individual is often seen as weak or frail in mind or
spirit: a person unable to control certain desires, emotions, or impulses.
However,
until relatively recently, madness has been analyzed as an issue of social milieu,
transforming madness from an individual disease into a social phenomenon. Amongst
certain feminist thinkers, female madness and hysteria are seen as objections to
oppressive patriarchal structures, and have even been hailed as heroism (Felman 2).
What are the implications, however, of assigning heroic significance to mad actions?
For one, this perspective presents the danger of homogenizing madness as courageous
rebellion. Moreover, what constitutes a “mad action”? I define a “mad action” as
behaviour that is contrary to social norms, often involving a display of seemingly
irrational emotion. Defining madness itself is much more difficult; any individual is
capable of committing a mad action. I believe there is more to be learnt from structural
examination of these mad actions than from the process of determining what or who is
“mad” and what or who is “not mad.” Madness is socially constructed and can be
strategically diagnosed, and psychiatric rhetoric is not appropriate for the purposes of
this paper1. I argue that there is no universally applicable definition of madness, but that
it can be an individual’s drastic reaction to deeply entrenched oppression. I will analyze
the protagonists of two iconic feminist texts – Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow
Wallpaper and Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea – to explain and validate the notion of
madness as revolt. I argue that in the face of oppressive structures the act of going
mad can constitute a form of social protest, and Gilman and Rhys’ narratives represent
certain realities of marginalized reactionaries.
1 Importantly, Schenk notes (240): “[I] question the very concept of ‘madness.’ [I] explore and ultimately reject a medical reading of women’s mental illness, and suggest that in a cultural context, ‘madness’ can be viewed as a label imposed to control those who deviate from traditional social norms.” 18 To fully understand how going mad in response to oppression can constitute a
social movement, it is important to understand the nature of both oppression and social
movements. Notably, there is considerable disagreement amongst scholars as to what
constitutes a social movement. Steven Buechler nevertheless asserts that most new
social movement theories have evolved to encompass “symbolic action in civil society
or the cultural sphere as a major arena for collective action” (442). Contrary to the
traditional emphasis on large mobilizations in the political and economic spheres, most
scholars now agree that social movements also include “processes that promote
autonomy and self- determination, [as well as] strategies for maximizing influence and
power” (Buechler 442). The definition of ‘social movement’ has expanded, and no
longer applies only to large-scale political movements that redistribute power, achieve
radical political reform, or seek to remedy economic or class disparity.
New, modern conceptions of social movements necessarily acknowledge the
latent, structural nature of oppression, because it is this systemic nature that reveals the
need for unconventional modes of protest. Iris Marion Young explains that the causes of
oppression are “embedded in unquestioned norms, habits, and symbols, in the
assumptions underlying institutional rules and the collective consequences of following
those rules” (56). Oppression can manifest as an overt conflict, but frequently, it exists
silently in the norms that underpin our society. In the absence of a clear oppressor, it
becomes possible to see how an individual could be oppressed yet lack the insight to
identify his or her own oppression. In this way, an oppressed individual may display
seemingly abnormal behaviour in reaction to an oppressive structure. This reaction,
subconsciously instigated in a desperate plea for autonomy and self-determination,
could constitute a form of social protest.
Guida West and Rhoda Lois Blumberg argue that the politics of protest has
developed around masculine structures, making it necessary for women to find alternate
methods (4). From a feminist perspective, “the personal is political” (Hanisch). This
concept suggests that personal problems are political problems, and this is in tandem
with the structural nature of oppression. An individual’s personal grievances may well be
a symptom of structural inequality and thus, an indicator of a larger political problem.
Following this premise, when one’s behaviour defies social custom, personal actions
19 can become political statements (8). West and Blumberg explain, “a feminist analysis of
social protest includes a dynamic, historical, inclusive view of people as political beings
acting collectively and individually with different resources to stake their claims and
survive within systems of power and dominance”(11). Though an individual’s descent
into madness may not result in the political backlash or social movements associated
with more traditional or public forms of protest, it could nonetheless be considered an
expression of social defiance.
Insanity may be a subconscious rebellion, but oppressive structures can be so
deeply embedded that conscious retort is barely conceivable. As noted by Herbert
Marcuse, “social controls have been introjected to the point where even individual
protest is affected at its roots. The intellectual and emotional refusal to ‘go along’
appears neurotic and impotent” (9). Marcuse is referring to a system of norms and
values that is so deeply entrenched and accepted that individuals reacting to this
system are considered irrational rebels. This is very much at play in the notion of
madness as protest; rendered helpless by structural captivity, the mad individual reacts
in a socially unacceptable manner. The ability of an individual to engage in social
protest should not be encumbered by lack of resources or opportunity, and alternative
forms of protest should not be discounted. In her discussion of female possession,
Colleen Ward asserts, “An individual must choose a particular adjustive strategy to meet
the demands of the stressful situation. Choice of strategy is directly dependent upon the
availability of alternative coping mechanisms” (416). To dismiss these alternate
mechanisms would be to reject the modest methods of personal revolution that are
available to the most severely oppressed members of society.
Admittedly, it can be difficult to accept mad behaviour as a form of protest. Phyllis
Chesler has criticized,
“Depressed and terrified women are not about to seize the means of production
and reproduction: quite the opposite of rebellion, madness is the impasse
confronting those whom cultural conditioning has deprived of the very means of
protest or self- affirmation. Far from being a form of contestation, ‘mental illness’
is a request for help, a manifestation both of cultural impotence and of political
castration” (Felman 2).
20 Though I agree with much of Chesler’s statement, the premise on which she
rules out madness as a form of protest is flawed. “A request for help, a manifestation
both of cultural impotence and of political castration” is not “the opposite of rebellion.”
On the contrary, I would argue that it is integral to the very definition of rebellion. Often,
if not always, the driving forces behind rebellion are cultural impotence and political
castration. Additionally, if all methods of protest were defined by the direct ability to
“seize the means of production and reproduction”, Gandhi’s hunger strike, and more
recently, Mohammed Bouazizi’s self-cremation – which sparked the revolution in
Tunisia – could not be deemed effective protest. Neither starving oneself, nor setting
oneself aflame, provide an obvious or direct route to results (certainly, in the latter case,
the ability to “seize” anything is eliminated). These personal protests are the building
blocks upon which large-scale rebellions develop. Following this line of thought, it could
well be argued that the women’s liberation movements of the 1960s in the USA were
influenced by the nervous hysteria and depression observed in some of the women of
previous generations. I will not venture to argue that madness is always, or even often,
a method of social protest. However, like all social behaviour, insanity should be
examined structurally, and not disregarded as an individual mental illness.
The experiences of both Gilman and Rhys’ protagonists, though fabricated,
contain important historical components. Gilman’s narrator represents the repression
experienced by many women in the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, a
demographic notoriously distressed by their containment within the domestic sphere.
Rhys’ Antoinette is rendered fragile and frantic by her ostracization in a post-colonial
society, also a reflection of unfortunate realities. It is this context that allows the
deterioration of the individual characters to be perceived as an – albeit unconventional –
form of social movement.
Charlotte Gilman’s gothic narrative is partially autobiographical, drawing obvious
parallels between her own experiences and those of the narrator2Gilman, restless and
2 Notably, the narrator is not explicitly named, though at the end of the story she exclaims, “‘I’ve got out at last,’ said I, ‘in spite of you and Jane!’” It is unclear if she is referring to herself in third person, and if she is in fact “Jane”. Jane may also be her husband’s sister, who has been previously mentioned. 21 unhappy with domestic life, struggled with depression and tolerated numerous failed
treatments and frustrating psychiatry sessions (Vertinsky 58). One of her physicians
suggested, “[h]ave your child with you all the time… lie down an hour after each meal.
Have but two hours intellectual life a day. And never touch pen, brush, or pencil for as
long as you live” (Vertinsky 64). Gilman later asserted that these remedies pushed her
hazardously close to the brink of her sanity (ibid). Similarly, Gilman’s protagonist is
patronized and belittled by her husband, John – a physician – and is instructed to
pursue comparable antidotes. She exclaims, “[i]f a physician of high standing, and
one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter
with one but temporary nervous depression – a slight hysterical tendency – what is one
to do?” (Gilman 39). Placed under house arrest, consistently patronized, and
presumably bored out of her mind, the narrator’s depression gives way to something
more manic and obsessive3. She abhors The Yellow Wallpaper in her room, describing
it as “repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the
slow-turning sun” (ibid 41). Eventually, she envisions a woman trapped behind bars
within the wallpaper, and becomes obsessed with monitoring the wallpaper-cage. She
becomes protective of the wallpaper; she is paranoid and certain that John and his
sister are trying to uncover its secrets. To conclude the tale, John finds his wife tearing
at the wallpaper, “creep[ing] smoothly along the floor”, immersed within the task of
freeing the woman behind the paper (Gilman 53). Upon witnessing this spectacle, John
– the ever-calm physician – promptly faints. His wife proceeds to crawl over him,
undeterred, and exclaims, “I’ve got out at last… in spite of you and Jane! And I’ve pulled
off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!”(ibid). Her final statement paradoxically
reveals the extent of her delusion and simultaneously suggests a moment of clarity, as
she identifies the woman behind the paper as herself, in acknowledgment of her own
captivity.
The Yellow Wallpaper has been interpreted as a statement on both the antipsychiatry movement and the prevailing phallocentric structures of the time (Vertinsky
66). The narrator’s experiences, though dramatized, reflected a very real social
phenomenon of the late Nineteenth Century. Patricia Vertinsky elucidates, “[t]he tension
3 It is implied that the narrator may be suffering from post-­‐partum depression 22 between a medical paradigm which restricted physical mobility and non-domestic
activity and the new momentum in women’s search for self development was evident in
claims of a disturbing increase in female ill health – especially nervous disorders” (62).
Simultaneously denouncing both patriarchs and psychiatrists, Gilman illustrates one
woman’s torturous and repressed descent into insanity. The narrator’s behaviour could
be interpreted as the inevitable repercussions of leaving a frail and volatile mind unmedicated, but I prefer to understand her actions as the subconscious protest of a
muted woman. Charlotte Gilman “suffered throughout her life from her inability to
reconcile the… narrow maternal mould [available to] Victorian middle-class women
[with] her desire to transcend the limitations of female experience of the day” (Vertinsky
68). Some believe that Gilman’s eventual suicide, committed after contracting breast
cancer, was one last attempt to gain control of the remainder of her life and body (ibid
70). Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper, as both an autobiography and fictional parable,
chillingly depicts one woman’s madness, a symptom of and reaction to the patriarchal
environment in which she is confined. Alternatively but similarly, Jean Rhys’ Antoinette
is driven to madness not by the margins of patriarchy, but by the remaining fragments of
colonial hierarchies.
Antoinette Cosway spent her childhood in post-colonial Jamaica, where her
family was ostracized both by the remaining English colonizers and the newly liberated
Black locals. As a white Creole trapped between classifications, Antoinette was labeled
a “white nigger” and denied acceptance to either group. After the Cosway’s house was
set on fire during a spiteful protest, Antoinette’s mother degenerated and slipped from
reality, and Antoinette was sent to a convent. She eventually married an Englishman
whom she had never met – arranged by her step-father for strategic purposes – and the
two spent their honeymoon on an old estate of the Cosway’s in the Caribbean Islands.
Though there are prior signs of potential madness, Antoinette lost her grip on her sanity
after she overheard her husband being unfaithful with the maid. Rhys’ story prequels
Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, and Antoinette is Bronte’s Bertha, the infamous
madwoman in the attic.
There are many possible explanations for Antoinette’s madness. Her mother,
Annette, was an institutionalized ‘madwoman’, so it could be argued that Antoinette
23 suffered from an inherited disease. She also endured the disgrace of witnessing her
husband’s indiscretion, so it could be that Antoinette’s most powerful trigger was a
betrayed and broken heart. However, near the end of the novel, she painfully asserts,
“Do you know what you’ve done to me? It’s not the girl, not the girl. But I loved this
place and you have made it into a place I hate... [Now] it’s just somewhere else where I
have been unhappy” (Rhys 121).
Antoinette was born in the bloody shadow of colonial legacy, denied a place both
within the local Black society and amongst the crumbling aristocracy. Postemancipation, the Cosways, as impoverished White Creoles, occupied an unenviable
rung on the Jamaican social ladder. Despised by ex-slaves and scorned by delicate
White society, most White Creoles with financial means fled the colonies to escape the
wrath of their former subordinates, despite the chilly reception awaiting them in the
metropole (Lambert 5). Antoinette’s temperament and personality is steeped in this
entrenched feeling of rejection, in the knowledge that she has an ambiguous and lonely
place in the lingering colonial hierarchy. The above quote, uttered upon Antoinette’s
departure for England and prior to her complete deterioration, reveals that it is the
contamination of Antoinette’s haven that ultimately triggered her demise. I suggest that
rather than a broken heart, or genetic predisposition, or parental neglect, it is the
colonial heritage so intrinsic to her being that provided both the initial condition and the
eventual catalyst of Antoinette’s madness. Jeannette Marie Mageo explains, “In
colonial circumstances, which complicate people’s sense of self and are likely to
compromise their cultural identities, the past acquires particular weight” (5). Though any
one of the aforementioned factors may have contributed to the corrosion of Antoinette’s
sanity, none are more pivotal than the combination of a history of alienation combined
with the promise of future isolation. It can take generations for a culture to recover from
violent ethno-racial divides, and as described by Professor Adlai Murdoch, Rhys “mines
[the] critical implications of [post-colonial] instability… pointing out the impossibility for
[Antoinette to belong] completely to either of the dominant social and ‘racial’ categories”
(5). In essence, Antoinette goes mad in protest of the past and present social structures
to which she cannot relate and cannot belong. The violation of the place she loves
24 exposed Antoinette’s deepest feelings of alienation, causing her to reject the
surrounding world and retreat into her mind.
Madness is frequently misconstrued as a one-dimensional phenomenon. It is
often seen as an individual malady; an unfortunate mutation; a chemical imbalance.
Though these presumptions are not necessarily false, I argue that there can be an
additional dimension to madness, a larger social catalyst. As exemplified by Gilman’s
autobiographical tale and Rhys’ post-colonial narrative, foregoing sanity can be a form
of subconscious social protest. Antoinette Cosway’s insanity, though indicative of many
misfortunes, is ultimately a retort to the alienating ghost of colonialism. Gilman’s
narrator resorts to madness when she is denied autonomy, creative outlets, and
freedom; a reflection of Gilman’s own experiences with marriage and physicians.
Though some analysts have argued that protest must be validated by results or
conscious political drive, this view discounts the debilitative effects of oppressive
structures on one’s physical and mental capacity, thus undermining the very premise of
social protest. I do not attempt to glorify madness or make sweeping generalizations
about mad individuals. I assert that madness is not simply a medical condition, but a
complex experience that has been stigmatized and simplified. Failure to appreciate the
nuances of madness and social protest will result in a missed opportunity to better
understand oppressive structures and their role in the creation of the mad individual.
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