Authored by Harriet Rubin and published by Doubleday, The Princessa: Machiavelli for Women starts with a letter: "I have written this book for you, Princessa. Like Machiavelli’s prince, you may be sitting alone somewhere safe, wanting to take control of a kingdom run amok... This book is about war, not the bloody kind, not the kind provoked by Caesar’s hatreds or Sun Tzu’s deceits or Napoleon’s egomania. It’s about the wars of intimacy, where the enemy is close enough to hurt you, betray you, whether it be a spouse, boss, client, parent, child. It is about war on the route to power. By war, I mean conflict. By conflict, I mean a particular kind of relationship with others, with yourself, and with the world. Conflict is constant. It requires power; it builds power."
As we all know, women in the past occupied a lowly position as man’s inferior. The superiority of the male of the species seemed to flow from the biblical account of Eve being created out of Adam’s rib.
Robert Mueller, a well-known modern day philosopher, captured this state so well when he narrated: "I asked a Burmese male why their women, after centuries of following their men, now walk ahead. He said there were many unexploded land mines since the war." Freud, however, finds the desires of women too complex and was quoted as saying: "Despite my 30 years of research into the feminine soul, I have not yet been able to answer the great question that has never been answered: What does a woman want?" And remember Clare Booth Luce and her famous line: "But if God wanted us to think with our wombs, why did He give us a brain?"
This article has nothing to do with feminism. I am not a feminist and never have been. I grew up under the guidance of a wonderful father who gave us (four daughters and a son) all the opportunities for an excellent education. The girls, however, were kept away from the business he had shaped into the noteworthy success it was during his time.
I fell in love and married one of the most chauvinistic men in the world, who instantaneously swept me off my feet and ran away with my heart. And presently I’ve got three grownup sons and a daughter whose educational and professional achievements I can, by and large, be extremely proud of. But since chauvinism seems to be a matter of genetics, my sons are just as chauvinistic, even if they firmly deny it.
On July 25, I saw the personification of Harriet Rubin’s Princessa in Gloria Macapagal Arroyo during her State of the Nation address at the Batasan. Rubin, in offering her book to her readers, says: "I have found a way for a woman to become the artist of her anger and her desire."
There was PGMA conquering almost everyone in the hall – the Philippine version of what the author calls "Machiavella," for she had two men of great political influence literally eating out of her hands – one absolutely clapping and jumping with uncontrolled ecstasy up on stage, and the other visibly exhilarated as he was interviewed later on by media.
The Princessa stood there relishing every single moment of the thunderous applause. She looked pensive at some point, when she probably realized that this was a crowd that did not need to be conquered at all. She forgot to look behind her at the great mass of her constituency, hungry for words to alleviate the pain of their stricken consciences violated by a transgression of truth. They were waiting for assurances of wrongs being righted, of corruption being addressed once and for all, and how. They waited for the road map to salvation, to a national cleansing. What they got was a highly political statement of much needed reforms through an extremely political congressional device. Everything else was swept under the carpet of disillusionment and despair!
The lessons learned from Rubin’s book are replete with indisputable truths. Her provocative work celebrates a woman’s unique gifts: passion and intuition, sensitivity and cunning, and extracts from history’s legendary saints and sinners, artists and activists, who, armed with a desire for justice, a thirst to right a wrong, and a spirit of outrageousness, achieved their impossible dreams. Rubin’s The Princessa codifies all these.
I lent the book to a friend because she said she needed it in her corporate struggle. She was appointed CEO in an exciting upstart company based in Hong Kong with tremendous odds stacked against her. Lyn read the book again and again, kept it for about six months and returned it to me over brunch at Antonio’s in Tagaytay when she visited our country after her corporate triumph. She, without a hint of disappointment, told me about the challenges and problems she tackles every single day of her corporate existence. She confessed to me that not being able to find the book in the bookstores in Hong Kong, she had the pages xeroxed and bound and kept it as a sort of security blanket in her office.
Femininity is a vast inheritance, a windfall, and deserves to be treated as such. In this matter, I couldn’t agree with Rubin more. Vulnerability, she writes, is one of these riches, as she cites the experience of one who, acclaimed as a great lady achiever in the business or government world, with her frail health now, goes under a CAT scanner. The machine’s slit eye "swoops over her, stares into her closed eyes and body, sees her through her robe and skin," knowing that the scanner will reveal the story of what is physically wrong with the body. It is here that the feeling of vulnerability engulfs one’s being.
It is in this state of powerlessness that an individual – whether a powerful chairman of a great business empire, or a leader of a nation proclaiming the country is ready for takeoff and thus needs her leadership gravely – is ready to learn about true power. It is neither about control nor intimidation. It is not fooling others for they know no better. It is not self-deception either. It is also not reengineering so that the distasteful and sinful are hidden and buried deeply, while the glorious shout at the very top of their voices.
This is the key to the power of the Princessa. Power is the opposite of command and control ("I want them eating out of my hands."). Power neither commands nor controls ("I will tell them what kind of a boss I am, just wait and see."). It marches one into the fray, keeps one "open and unarmored in the face of whatever comes." One’s vulnerability, as a woman, as Machiavella, can be the source of true power. Vulnerability can be the most valuable asset of a female leader for its poignancy touches men no end. Use it well in the corporate or government jungle, but with the polish of pure and decent guile.
According to this book, probably the best book I’ve read for female leaders and women wanting to lead, "A Princessa has to destroy the half-dead things in her life the way a forest fire destroys the barren ground and prepares it for new growth. Make a clear, clean end."
I learned from Rubin that endings are of two kinds: good destruction and bad destruction. Bad destruction is self-destruction. It means destroying something prematurely before its time, before its solution. It means, according to Rubin, "sweeping the gravel, the distasteful and unpleasant problems in your leadership under what is called the carpet of despair... and that’s that.
Remember Emily Dickinson? When she was 47 years old, she caught the eye of a widower, Judge Lord, who wanted to marry her, the "recluse of Amherst." Here was her first chance at love since she was spurned by Charles Wadsworth 15 years earlier. Yet Dickinson said no.
Was it her retreat to a safe, chaste position or had she no feelings for Lord? When you walk away or turn your back on something or someone, you give yourself a strength that is poorly understood in this culture of gratification. You strengthen yourself to come back and fight again for what you truly desire, because saying "no" builds your strength.
What truly sets princessas apart, according to the book, which I think should be a bible for female leaders, is this: That they say no, not to others, but rather to themselves more often than other women, especially on great matters that strike at their consciences.
It’s sad that, as the Philippine Machiavella, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo stood on her lofty perch in that great big hall, and couldn’t say no to herself.
It’s unfortunate that she could not give credence to what Socrates said so convincingly for all women to bear: "Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior."
The Princessa was not at the Batasan Hall after all that Monday afternoon.