essay

Great writing, even when an author sets a story in early 20th century Maine or during ancient uprisings, often sheds light on our own era. From a novel starring a sentient gale-force wind, on to a memoir from a leading African American writer, this month’s titles provide illumination as we lose daylight.

FICTION

Helm: A Novel
By Sarah Hall
Mariner Books: 368 pages, $30
(Nov. 4)

U.K. inhabitants of Hall’s native Cumbria region have grappled for centuries with a wind known as “The Helm.” Different eras have deemed it a measure of divine anger or human sin, and more recently, as one of earth’s vital signs. Helm’s narration alternates with chapters from perspectives including an astrologer, an astronomer, a Crusader, an herbalist and a climatologist, each adding to the strength of the immortal force.

Palaver: A Novel
By Bryan Washington
Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 336 pages, $28
(Nov. 4)

As in his first two novels “Memorial” and “Family Meal,” Houston-based Washington weaves scenes of Americans at home and in Japan with exquisite attention both to queer culture and to emotions. “The mother” and “the son” are never named; her Jamaican origins affect his upbringing, as well as his identity. When she makes an unannounced visit to see him in Japan, the title’s gentle irony becomes apparent.

Queen Esther: A Novel
By John Irving
Simon & Schuster: 432 pages, $30
(Nov. 4)

Readers will recall Dr. Wilbur Larch from “The Cider House Rules.” Here he is the 1919 go-between for Esther Nacht, a 14-year-old Jewish refugee whom he places with the Winslow family as an au pair. Like so many women through the ages, that role results in a different kind of labor for her, one that turns this most Irving-esque (wrestling! sex!) book into writer Jimmy Winslow’s origin story.

The Silver Book: A Novel
By Olivia Laing
Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 256 pages, $27
(Nov. 11)

The 1975 murder of Italian subversive film director Pier Paolo Pasolini forms the tortured heart of Laing’s first historical novel. In 1974 protagonist Nicholas Wade leaves England and lands in Venice, where he meets Danilo Donati, costume designer for Pasolini as well as Fellini and others. Their relationship reflects those auteurs’ themes, especially those of fascism’s rebirth in Pasolini’s “Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom.”

The White Hot: A Novel
By Quiara Alegría Hudes
One World: 176 pages, $26
(Nov. 11)

Noted playwright Hudes pens a stunning debut novel that rends conventional notions of motherhood. Years after disappearing from her child’s life, April Soto writes her daughter Noelle a letter to read on her 18th birthday. Less apology than explanation, and less explanation than soul-searching screed, this novel has a huge voice, a woman’s attempt to create meaning from the depths of family trauma.

NONFICTION

Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts
By Margaret Atwood
Doubleday: 624 pages, $35
(Nov. 4)

Only Margaret Atwood could write a debut memoir at age 85 and make it significantly different from her previous work while at the same time infusing it with her droll wit and many passions, literary, environmental and familial. While she has always combined public and private in her acclaimed and groundbreaking novels, essays, and poetry, this volume beautifully fuses Atwood the person, and Atwood the writer.

Front Street: Resistance and Rebirth in the Tent Cities of Techlandia
By Brian Barth
Astra House: 304 pages, $29
(Nov. 11)

Barth, a freelance journalist, spent time in three different Bay Area encampments of unhoused people, including Oakland’s Wood Street Commons, and, as Gov. Gavin Newsom moves forward on a new task force targeting these areas for removal, he argues that solutions to homelessness should come from the ground up, with the involvement of those most affected.

Without Consent: A Landmark Trial and the Decades-Long Struggle to Make Spousal Rape a Crime
By Sarah Weinman
Ecco: 320 pages, $32
(Nov. 11)

Until the 1970s in most states, a married woman could not legally refuse to have sex with her husband. The 1978 Oregon trial of John Rideout for marital rape of his wife Greta — despite his then-acquittal — raised awareness of this legislation and led to Rideout’s conviction for rape and sodomy nearly four decades later in a case involving two other partners. Weinman (“The Real Lolita”) writes with energy about a case with present-day ramifications.

Revolutions: A New History
By Donald Sassoon
Verso: 432 pages, $40
(Nov. 18)

You say you want a revolution — and historian Sassoon says: Consider your predecessors. Although we focus on hot-button moments, the long tale of these uprisings can lead to long-term instability and injustice (e.g., the young United States choosing to persist with enslavement). What is the real price of transformation? Is it worth considering when people unite against tyranny and oppression?

Languages of Home: Essays on Writing, Hoop, and American Lives 1975–2025
By John Edgar Wideman
Scribner: 400 pages, $29
(Nov. 18)

Wideman’s 1985 essay “The Language of Home” was about the power of words to capture our foundations, so it’s fitting that his new collection covering 50 years of his powerful prose mimics that essay’s title. The new title’s plural refers to the author’s constant themes, which aren’t surprising. What does surprise is his prescience about still-relevant concerns, from a disappearing middle class to police brutality.

Last year the prolific and gifted Zadie Smith stumbled into controversy with the publication of “Shibboleth” in the New Yorker. She purportedly approached the white-hot Gaza demonstrations with the nuance and complexity they deserved and yet derided pro-Palestinian students at Columbia University as “cynical and unworthy,” stirring up a hornets’ nest among her young fans, who expressed their anger on various internet platforms. The controversy gained traction because of Smith’s record of championing the marginalized, citing theorists like Frantz Fanon while targeting empires and the omnipresent patriarchy. That she singled out one group of activists, many Jewish, at the very moment Arab toddlers were being blown apart by U.S.-funded bombs raised doubts about her touted values. Her conclusion was startling, her tone defiant: “Put me wherever you want: misguided socialist, toothless humanist, naïve novelist, useful idiot, apologist, denier, ally, contrarian, collaborator, traitor, inexcusable coward.” The lady doth protest too much?

“Shibboleth” appears in “Dead and Alive,” Smith’s collection of previously published essays, in which she assumes most if not all those roles she attributes to herself. Fanon is here as well, amid an array of artists and authors such as Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, and Philip Roth. Smith is arguing for the necessity of vigorous criticism and often makes her case. The book’s finest pieces wrangle, in elegant prose, with humanity’s contradictions; the weaker ones indulge in name-dropping, footnotes and op-ed invective.

Zadie Smith

(Ben Bailey-Smith)

“The Muse at Her Easel,” in the opening section, probes the relationship between English painter Lucian Freud and his model, Celia Paul, also a painter, via a review of her memoir. (Paul is the mother of one of 12 children he fathered outside of marriage.) Smith’s sly trick here is a bit of Freud-play: Lucian seen through the prism of his grandfather Sigmund, the family romance on steroids. Celia revolves around the artist here much as she did when he was alive, vulnerable and reflective, a moon to his sun. It’s both a restrained and overwrought essay, a cryptic tale of sexual politics, like her fellow Brit Rachel Cusk’s novel, “Second Place,” but one that urges us to think hard about abuses in the service of “museography.”

Smith brings an empathic eye to other artists, from the allegorical Toyin Ojih Odutola to the subversive Kara Walker. And she shines a bright light on numerous writers who have inspired her, particularly in remembrances of Didion (whose influence we sense throughout “Dead and Alive”) and the great Hilary Mantel. Her pieces on two books, “Black England” and “Black Manhattan,” excavate hidden histories of Black resistance and the painful compromises brokered to move forward. Her tone in “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction” is elegiac, as though smartphones have killed off the craft; yet it’s also a manifesto of sorts, and a declaration of her own aesthetics. “Belief in a novel is, for me, a by-product of a certain kind of sentence,” Smith observes. “Familiarity, kinship, and compassion will play their part, but if the sentences don’t speak to me, nothing else will.” Amen, sister.

Her forays into social commentary are more problematic. She’s strong on the weird population kink known as Gen X, squeezed between the larger boomers and millennials, and the switchback road we traveled to marriage and parenthood: “We all still dressed like teenagers, though, and in the minds of the popular culture were ‘slackers,’ suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequences of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash,” Smith asserts. “We felt history belonged to other people: that we lived in the time of no time.” She’s persuasive when she remains within her comfort zone, opining on race, gender and, occasionally, class. Not so much when she ventures into technology. In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present. It’s tough to parse irony from self-congratulation. “I have to say how immensely grateful I am that the work I have been so fortunate to do these last twenty years — writing books — has also gifted me the opportunity, the privilege, of devoting the time of my one human life to an algorithm. To keep almost all of it, selfishly, outrageously, for myself, my friends, my colleagues, my family,” Smith writes. “There are memes I will never know. Whole Twitter meltdowns I never witnessed. Hashtags I will forever remain ignorant about.” Which raises the question: Why lament a social paradigm shift if you haven’t bothered with it in the first place? Something isn’t right. Elsewhere in the essay she claims that social media is “excellent for building brands and businesses and attracting customers.” Could the same be said of a disingenuous essayist?

She comes across as preaching to her peers rather than seeking converts, a whiff of Oxbridge elitism. Hence references to Derrida, Dickinson, Knausgaard, Borges, shout-outs to Booker laureates “Salman” (Rushdie) and “Ian” (McEwan). This level of self-regard in a writer and thinker as justifiably exalted as Smith may explain why our nation is turning on reading: aristocracies breed resentment among the proles. Then Smith steps into the muck of global conflicts. The moral bothsidesism found in “Shibboleth” splits the baby; she does herself no favors with Solomonic pronouncements and Pontius Pilate-like self-exoneration. (Elsewhere she indicts Trump and Netanyahu while neglecting the money and media that empower them.)

“Dead and Alive” does what it was designed to do: It gathers the author’s criticism, literary obituaries, a university address and an interview with a Spanish journal between two covers. The execution falters. Smith’s provocations are often stunning; her prose is thrillingly strident; but her fiction better captures the messiness of public and private selves at war with each other.

Cain is a book critic and the author of a memoir, “This Boy’s Faith: Notes From a Southern Baptist Upbringing.” He lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

When “Kiss of the Spider Woman” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, it was in the shadow of President Trump’s return to office.

Just days earlier, Trump had begun his term with a wave of executive orders to expand the country’s immigration detention infrastructure, fast-track deportations, remove protections preventing Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials from targeting schools and churches, and a declaration that the U.S. government would recognize only two sexes.

Referencing these developments ahead of the screening in Park City, Utah, writer-director Bill Condon told the audience: “That’s a sentiment I think you’ll see the movie has a different point of view on.”

Released in theaters Oct. 10, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” is set in the final year of Argentina’s Dirty War, the violent military dictatorship that spanned from 1976-1983. The story begins in the confines of a Buenos Aires prison, where newfound cellmates Valentin Arregui Paz (Diego Luna) and Luis Molina (Tonatiuh) find they have little in common. Arregui is a principled revolutionary dedicated to his cause, while Molina is a gay, flamboyant window dresser who’s been arrested for public indecency.

Undeterred by their differences, Molina punctuates the bleak existence of their imprisonment — one marked by torture and deprivation — by recounting the plot of “The Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a fictional Golden Age musical starring his favorite actress, Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), casting himself and Arregui as her co-stars. Transported from their dreary cell to the bright, indulgent universe of the musical, their main conflicts become a quest for love and honor, rather than a fight for their basic human rights.

When Argentinian author Manuel Puig began writing the celebrated novel, “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” in 1974, it was just a year into his self-imposed exile to Mexico as his native Argentina lurched toward authoritarianism. By the time the book was released in 1976, a military junta had seized control of the government. The next seven years were marked by the forced disappearance of an estimated 20,000-30,000 people, many of whom were kidnapped and taken to clandestine detention camps to be tortured and killed. Among those targeted were artists, journalists, student activists, members of the LGBTQ+ community and anyone deemed “subversive” by the regime.

Initially banned in Argentina, Puig’s novel has been adapted and reimagined multiple times, including as an Oscar-winning film in 1985 and a Tony Award-winning musical in 1993. With each iteration, the central elements have remained unchanged. And yet, as the 2025 adaptation arrived in theaters this month, this queer, Latino-led story of two prisoners fighting the claustrophobia of life under fascism feels at once like a minor miracle, and a startling wake-up call.

Tonatiuh, left, and Diego Luna in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Sundance Institute)

In the months since the film’s Sundance premiere, the parallels between the fraught political climate of 1970s Argentina and that of our present have only become more pronounced.

Under Trump, an endless stream of escalating violence from masked federal agents has become our new normal. ICE officers have been filmed apprehending people outside of immigration court; firing pepper balls, rubber bullets and tear gas at journalists, protesters and clergymen; and, earlier this month, they descended from Black Hawk helicopters, using flash-bang grenades to clear a Chicago apartment building in a militarized raid that had men, women and children zip-tied and removed from their homes. As the country’s immigrant detention population reaches record highs, widespread reports of abuse, neglect and sexual harassment, particularly against LGBTQ+ detainees, have emerged from facilities across the U.S.

Amidst these headlines are people just like Molina and Arregui — activists, artists and human beings — finding their own ways to survive and resist an increasingly paranoid and repressive government. And while Arregui’s instinct is to remain unwavering in his cause, Molina’s is to retreat into the glamorous, over-the-top world of the “Spider Woman.”

In dazzling musical numbers expertly performed by Lopez, who delivers each song and dance with all the magnetism of a true Old Hollywood icon, both the prisoners and the audience can’t help but be drawn further and further into her Technicolor web.

Jennifer Lopez and Tonatiuh in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Roadside Attractions)

It might be easy to write these moments off as nothing more than a superficial distraction, as Arregui does early on, and characterize musicals as shallow and cliche. At first, Molina is happy to admit that’s why he loves them, but the truth is more complicated.

During Argentina’s dictatorship, discrimination and attacks by paramilitary groups against LGBTQ+ people became more and more frequent. Molina accepts the role society has cast him in, allowing himself to be the “monster,” the “deviant” or the “sissy” that people want him to be, while retreating mentally into the world of classic films and pop culture. For him, their beauty is a salve — an opportunity to abandon reality and cast himself in a role that doesn’t actually exist for him.

Though he never explicitly claims an identity, it’s made clear that he doesn’t just love “La Luna” — he wants to be her. And in their first feature lead role, the queer, L.A.-born actor Tonatiuh embodies all of Molina’s contradictions — his bluster, his pain, his radiance — to heart-wrenching effect.

As Molina and Arregui grow closer, the boundaries between reality and fantasy begin to melt, and their formerly rigid perceptions collapse along with them. Arregui takes on some of Molina’s idealism, and the musical he once saw as a tired cliche becomes something invaluable: a sliver of joy that can’t be taken from him. A cynic convinced of the world’s brokenness, he realizes that revolutions need hope too.

In the film’s final act, while the world around Molina hasn’t changed, he has. Still trapped within the confines of a society that is doing its best to crush him, he adopts Arregui’s integrity and realizes that he has a choice: “I learned about dignity in that most undignified place,” he says in the film. “I had always believed nothing could ever change for me, and I felt sorry for myself. But I can’t live like that now.”

Like the film within the film, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” isn’t an escape. It’s a lifeline — and a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, art has the power to transport us, sustain us and embolden us to be brave.

The expression “stay woke” started out as an affirmation for African Americans.

In the last decade it has been used by some Republicans — and some Democrats — as a pejorative for people thought to be too “politically correct,” another term that took on negative connotations as it gained wider use.

“Woke” has come up in cultural and political firestorms. Eight months into his second term, President Trump pledged to review content at the Smithsonian Institution for being “WOKE” and where “everything discussed is how horrible our Country is, how bad Slavery was.” At the beginning of this year, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott declared in his State of the State address that government would keep “woke agendas” out of universities and K-12 schools, including “woke gender ideologies.”

On Tuesday, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth said he was ending the “woke” culture in the military, saying the service has been hamstrung by political correctness. He referenced diversity efforts, transgender troops, environmental policies and other disciplinary rules.

“America is no longer woke under President Trump’s leadership. The word ‘woke’ represents radical ideologies that are used [to] divide the American people and harm our country,” Liz Huston, a White House spokesperson, said in a statement.

Here’s where “woke” came from, and how its meaning has evolved:

The history of ‘woke’

“Wokeness” originated decades ago as African American cultural slang for having awareness and enlightenment around racism, injustice, privilege or threats of white supremacist violence.

Several historians trace the idea to a 1923 compilation of speeches and articles by Jamaican-born Black nationalist Marcus Garvey. In one essay, Garvey writes “Wake up Ethiopia! Wake up Africa!” Another reference appears in 1938 in the song “Scottsboro Boys,” by blues artist Lead Belly, whose real name was Huddie Ledbetter. The tune follows the true story of four Black youths unjustly convicted by an all-white jury of the rape of two white women (they were later freed). The lyrics warn Black listeners to be careful and “stay woke. Keep your eyes open.”

Gerald McWorter, a professor emeritus of African American studies and of information sciences at University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, says “woke” was about having a voice after hundreds of years of Black suffering going back to the African slave trade.

The phrase also popped up in a 1962 essay by novelist William Melvin Kelley for the New York Times. The headline — “If You’re Woke, You Dig It.” Kelley’s widow and daughter believe he heard the term while walking around their Harlem neighborhood, said Elijah Watson, a pop culture writer and editor who has written about Kelley, who died in 2017.

‘Woke’ reawakening

In the 21st century, singer-songwriter Erykah Badu is often credited with reviving the term “woke.” Her song “Master Teacher” on her 2008 album, “New Amerykah: Part One,” includes the refrain “I stay woke.” Badu picked up the phrase from co-writer and producer Georgia Anne Muldrow, who heard it from a saxophone player she collaborated with — Lakecia Benjamin.

The 2014 fatal shooting by a white police officer of 18-year-old Michael Brown — who was Black and unarmed — in Ferguson, Mo., made “woke” and “stay woke” galvanizing pledges in the growing Black Lives Matter movement.

The movement drew support from other racial groups. “Woke” also became popularized by white liberals who wanted to show they were allies.

The war on woke

The backlash against “woke” and “wokeness” bubbled up in the 2010s, amid discussions about including more Black history in American history lessons. Many people said that bringing “critical race theory” to schools was meant to program children to feel guilty for being white.

This argument became front and center in 2022 when Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis signed the “Stop W.O.K.E. Act” into law. It banned teaching or business practices on race and gender. (The law is now on hold after a federal judge deemed it unconstitutional).

For George Pearson, a former chair of the Illinois Black Republican Coalition, “woke” is a hollow word.

Democratic politicians who purport to be “champions” of wokeness and DEI have done little for Black people, he said. So, “woke” has no sway as a rallying cry. He also thinks it’s unfair that those who do not support “woke-ism” are told “’you’re racist. You’re a homophobe. You’re a bigot.”

Even among liberal Black Americans, there is a debate whether the intention of “woke” does more harm than good.

Who says woke now?

In Watson’s experience, “woke” is no longer part of Black vernacular. If he hears it from anyone in his social circles, it’s almost always said “in jest.”

Some progressives are trying to take the word back. Academy Award-winning actor and activist Jane Fonda brought up being “woke” while receiving the Screen Actors Guild lifetime achievement award in front of an A-list audience.

“Make no mistake, empathy is not weak or woke. By the way, woke just means you give a damn about other people,” Fonda said.

Seena Hodges started her own business as a DEI strategist for individuals and groups in 2018 and called it the Woke Coach. She and her team consult on everything from workplace interactions to best recruiting practices. She touches on inclusion for groups from people of color to breastfeeding mothers.

The “bastardization” of “woke” and DEI as words akin to slurs doesn’t bother her, she said. To her, at its core being “woke” is about awareness.

“What it really boils down to is helping people develop a more acute level of emotional intelligence,” she said.

Tang writes for the Associated Press. AP writer Christopher Megerian in Washington contributed to this report.

We won! Or, at least those of us who were rooting for Amaya Espinal and Bryan Arenales to take home the prize on Season 7 of “Love Island USA.”

After a blockbuster season with its fair share of controversy, the 25-year-old nurse from New York City and the 28-year-old accountant, bartender and real estate agent from Boston, respectively, walked out of the villa $100,000 richer and became the first Latino couple to win “Love Island.” In a time when many Latinos in the U.S. are being inundated with threats to our safety and freedom, this example of a mutual, fun and respectful Latino love is an indulgent little triumph for us all.

The dating show became appointment viewing for millions of fans, including myself, with new episodes dropping almost nightly as the show airs in near real time. “Love Island” — which launched in the U.K. in 2015 and has since spawned several international versions — confines single hotties in a Fijian villa, where they must explore romantic connections and couple up with each other to remain on the show. Viewers and cast members known as “islanders” vote regularly to decide which contestants or couples must pack up their swimsuits and go home. As with most reality TV, there’s messiness, drama, silliness and sexiness that keeps viewers glued to their screens, and we clock in for our shift at the island mines with dedication.

Espinal, a self-described “Dominican Cinderella,” entered the villa as a “bombshell,” a cast addition meant to stir things up for the original couples. Meanwhile, her Prince Charming, Arenales, who is Puerto Rican and Guatemalan, came in during the Casa Amor segment of the show, when islanders are separated by gender and introduced to hot new cast members vying for their attention.

The two coupled up several episodes after meeting in Casa Amor, igniting a romance in large part over a shared understanding of their cultures. Being super hot probably didn’t hurt either, but it was seeing Arenales stand up for our sweet Amaya Papaya against a pile-on from his fellow male islanders that sealed the deal — not just for Espinal, but for the viewers, in particular Latinx ones.

Espinal’s rough start on the series reflected the cultural valleys that exist between Latinos and their non-Latino counterparts in the United States, which can generally make for a tricky dating experience. Three of the male contestants she coupled up with expressed discomfort with her personality and bold manner of expressing herself. It started with a blowup with contestant Ace Greene after he vocalized his discomfort with Espinal touching him and using terms of endearment, in particular the word “babe.”

The same issue came up when she coupled up with Austin Shepard and Zak Srakaew, who took issue with Espinal “moving too fast” by acting overly romantic (on a show called “Love Island,” mind you). This was despite her explaining that in Dominican culture terms like “mi vida,” “mi amor” and “babe” are common terms of endearment, and asking if it was OK that she use them. (Both agreed it was fine.)

Espinal certainly lost her cool — in most cases, I would argue, rightfully so — and regularly became emotional, struggling with feeling misunderstood and attacked. Still, she defended herself with confidence and strength from those who seemed intent on painting her as erratic, intense, pushy and aggressive. During a game in which islanders wrote letters to air out any grievances, she offered them a simple option: “I’m just not your cup of tea to be drinkin’, so don’t f—ing drink it.”

It was during that game in which Greene, Shepard and Srakaew went in on Espinal that Arenales stepped in to defend her, explaining what Espinal had long been saying: Those terms of endearment are common in Latino households. “You’re telling her to meet you halfway,” he said. “You gotta meet her halfway too.”

Arenales gallantly stepping up to support Espinal against a social firing squad sparked a flame between the two. Fan votes showed this moment to be a turning point for Espinal, who became a favorite. It doesn’t hurt that her nurturing personality and adorable zaniness make her very easy to root for.

Seeing Arenales voice his appreciation for who she is and understanding her background — and Espinal herself refusing to change parts of her personality that she views as the strengths of an “emotional gangsta” — made their coupling a powerful display of Latino love. Those two crazy kids just get each other!

“This is just a message to everyone out there who’s misunderstood: Nobody should be tamed and there’s always someone out there for you who’s going to love you for you and appreciate all your craziness,” Espinal told host Ariana Madix after their win was announced. “Don’t ever settle for nobody.”

This was an especially lovely and important win after this season was marred by a racism scandal in which two Latina islanders were found to have used racial slurs online and in a podcast.

As much as Espinal may have felt misunderstood, Espinal is not a difficult person. There’s no need to decipher her because it’s not that complicated, regardless of her cultural identity. From everything I saw on the show, she showed a tremendous amount of character and kindness. She just didn’t put up with B.S. from guys who were trying to diminish her, call her irrational and insinuate she was clingy. Amaya Papaya always stood on business.

I love that Espinal found someone who sees and appreciates her in Arenales. And judging by their win, she found that in innumerable people who voted for them as well. But there’s nothing anyone should struggle to understand about her.

Yes, parts of her behavior are informed by her culture — but yelling at a man who is trying to make you seem crazy is a universal experience we should all partake in.