On Our Best Behavior: A Reflection on the Seven Deadly Sins and the Patriarchy
When I first stumbled upon Ruth Whippman’s On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Patriarchy, I was intrigued—both by its title and the promise of a deep dive into the cultural taboos that shape our behaviors. As someone who often wrestles with societal expectations, I felt an instant connection to Whippman’s exploration of how our instincts have been vilified and turned into "vices." This book isn’t just a read; it’s an invitation to re-examine our own relationships with these so-called sins through a lens that’s refreshingly candid and, at times, a little uncomfortable.
The book’s structure is a clever one: aside from the introduction and conclusion, Whippman splits it into nine chapters centered around the Seven Deadly Sins, plus an exploration of sadness as an overlooked eighth sin. Each chapter reads like a conversation—sometimes enlightening, sometimes prompting a “well, duh” reaction, and often making me ponder societal norms in a new light. Whippman’s awareness of her identity as a cisgender, heterosexual white woman permeates her narrative, inviting readers to grapple with her positionality while still finding universal truths in her arguments.
For instance, her chapter on Envy—which I found to be particularly impactful—encourages us to embrace our desires rather than suppress them. This revelation hit home for me; it offered a new perspective on feelings often deemed immoral or petty. Whippman’s reminders that recognizing envy can unearth our true lacks and wants is a testament to the emotional intelligence we must cultivate for personal growth. The logistics of emotion are complex, and her insights felt like life hacks for navigating human experience.
Her exploration of Rest—locating sloth in a broader discussion of self-care, particularly as women often bear the heaviest loads at home—resonated with my ongoing dialogue about the necessity of downtime. I couldn’t help but share it with my friend Del, who’s all about transforming rest into an act of resistance. And speaking of engaging conversations, Whippman’s historical context around the Patriarchy was equally stimulating; it challenges us to rethink moral teachings twisted by those in power.
Yet, no book is without its critiques. In her chapter on Anger, I felt that Whippman could have delved deeper into intersections of race and social identity, especially given the significant role anger plays in advocating for justice. While her anecdotes and personal narratives enrich the reading experience, I found myself yearning for a broader scope in some arguments.
Despite these minor qualms, the gems I found throughout On Our Best Behavior made the journey worthwhile. Whippman includes references to other notable works like Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, which added layers of resonance for me. It feels less like a self-help manual and more like a shared exploration—an expedition into reclaiming our instincts.
In conclusion, I’d highly recommend this book to anyone looking to challenge societal norms, especially women navigating the blurred lines drawn by traditional gender roles. On Our Best Behavior is a bold testament to the power of personal reflection and understanding in a world often littered with conflicting messages. As I continue to contemplate the insights gleaned, I can’t help but feel a renewed sense of empowerment. Thank you, Ruth Whippman, for exploring the intricate dance between our instincts and the societal narratives we’re taught to suppress. This book has a permanent spot on my shelf of transformative reads!
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