It was a cold morning on the campus of the little Christian college I attended in Western Pennsylvania. Along with about 20 other students, I’d trundled in and unwrapped my coat and scarf. Now we all sat there sipping our coffees, waiting for the hardest class of the year to get rolling.

Our literary criticism professor paused as he announced the optional reading titles on our list for the next week, a funny look on his face.

“This one,” he said, “you may not like. It was written in 1984, published in ’85 or ’86, and was a reaction against the rise of the religious right — against the values that places like our school stand for. It’s pro-feminist, and anti-complementarian — against traditional gender roles. It sort of parodies what we believe in, in an interesting way. I’m curious what you’ll make of it.”

The shade thrown by my usually soft-spoken professor caught my attention. I had to read this book.

And so I did, unwittingly cracking open the beginning of the end for meek, conservative Christian me.

The story of The Handmaid’s Tale is a fairly simple dystopian one: A young woman is re-educated by the new totalitarian (and Christian) government regime to be a childbearing surrogate for the wife of a high-ranking military official. She tells her story after the fact, a narrative recorded on audio tapes found years later in someone’s attic. Her name is Offred, literally of Fred, having no name of her own anymore in this new society. It takes place in the U.S., post-Constitution, post-democracy, post-liberal humanism. Women are chattel. Religion is god. Order comes above all else.

To the average American in 1985, it seemed pretty far out there, an unlikely vision of future written as a warning. It’s been controversial since it came out, making ALA’s 100 most banned books list between 1990 and 1999, but that was because of the sex scenes in it and the way it depicted Christianity. It wasn’t really taken seriously as political foreshadowing.

But for me, when I read it for the first time, it felt like a prophecy that echoed rhythm of the world I had been raised in, reflecting the vision my church and community had for the future of American culture and politics.

Is ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ A Prophecy Of America’s Future?
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I was raised in a fundamentalist Christian community — the church we attended could fairly be called a cult, and my parents took things a step further than even our church did, homeschooling and raising nine kids. I was the oldest. We were part of a larger movement now called “Quiverfull,” the term taken from a Psalm where the writer talks about God blessing the man whose “quiver is full of arrows.” The metaphor refers to children, and our community understood this to be a command: Have children and raise them in this aggressively conservative faith, and then there will be more “true” believer Christians in the world to bring about cultural revolution in the name of Jesus Christ. Children like me were raised to see life as apocalyptic, and ourselves as serving on the front lines of a culture war to make America Christian.

Women in this world were treated much like those in The Handmaid’s Tale — most, like my mom, didn’t have their own bank accounts, didn’t have their own email addresses, and couldn’t leave the home without permission from their husbands. They were called helpmeets, a word taken from the King James Version of the Bible, which refers to wives as created to meet the needs of their husbands and be helpers to them.

Children like me were raised to see life as apocalyptic, and ourselves as serving on the front lines of a culture war to make America Christian.
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I even participated in a super-conservative worship church dance troupe for young women, called His Handmaids — again a term taken from the Bible, from the Virgin Mary’s response to the angel Gabriel telling her she’s going to be pregnant with the Messiah, which some translations open with “I am the Lord’s handmaiden, let it be unto me as you say.”

Just like Offred, women existed within the community to serve higher purposes than our own desires. Young girls who led the congregation wore white dresses and were stripped of identifying features — no jewelry, no nail polish, hair tied back and not in the face — while wives were submissive helpers to their husbands, with my mother used as the fertile ground for my father to breed a quiver full of Christian culture warriors.

And me, the oldest child in a family of nine? As was common in the movement, I was my mom’s right hand. She sometimes called me her strength, because I helped her co-parent my younger siblings and keep the household running. When she had twins shortly before my 13th birthday, it was me who got up with her during the nighttime feedings, not my dad. When things were too busy on Sunday nights, I took over doing all the family laundry and ironing. And I did the dinner dishes almost exclusively for about 10 years, foregoing activities with my peers at church and in the community because I had too many obligations to fulfill at home. Like Offred, my life’s purpose was subsumed into serving the “greater good” of my far-right Christian community.

We were not alone, either. My situation grew out of a larger movement in the conservative Christian community to be more invested in politics and cultural affairs on the national level. This push was led by the “Moral Majority,” a group of Christian leaders founded by Jerry Falwell in 1971, which sought to take on Washington to bring Christian ethics to bear on policy at a national level.

The Moral Majority focused on issues related to their priorities for promoting and protecting traditional family values. They celebrated Ronald Reagan’s presidency and encouraged his refusal to act on the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which was killing thousands, largely because they saw it as fundamentally a judgment from God on the “immoral” behavior of homosexuals. According to historian Rachel Coleman — a Ph.D. candidate at Indiana University, who is also a Quiverfull Daughter and whose research focuses on 20th century history of childhood, children, and religion — it wasn’t until kids started getting affected and dying from infected blood in transfusions that the issue was seen as valid. As a result, President Reagan eventually did act, releasing a series of PSAs about the epidemic…but these were all focused on kids, the future of the religious crusade for a Christian United States.

The Rise Of The ‘Alt Right’ And Religious Right Are Chillingly Similar
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Also part of this movement was the rise of Operation Rescue, a Christian group that encouraged protest (and, loosely, some terrorist-style) tactics against abortion practitioners and those receiving abortion services. In the wake of Roe v. Wade passing in 1973, the Moral Majority hit on abortion as the issue that would most viscerally and immediately grab the attention of their audience and rally support and action at the grassroots level. We still see this struggle impacting negotiations on the Hill today, as abortion remains an impossibly hot-button issue, regularly derailing policymaking. Shock-and-awe tactics with grisly photos of dead fetuses and terror of increased government oversight on family-related issues drummed up droves of supporters buying into the agenda of the Moral Majority.

This terror-based approach to protecting the “traditional family” and “family values” had a watershed affect, driving the Right to work against civil protections for sexual orientation and gender presentation, creating a fear frenzy that drove the War on Drugs to incarcerate an entire generation of young black men, while causing Christian universities (led by my alma mater) to seek legal exemption from being under Title IX if they would surrender access to federal funding.

This collective terror also allowed Phyllis Schlafly and the Moral Majority to lobby successfully against the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment in 1982. The United States is one of the last remaining countries in the world without a constitutional clause that protects the rights of women as full and equal citizens with men, and this prevents us from participating in key international coalitions against gender discrimination (like CEDAW, which we haven’t ratified either). The Moral Majority effectively took the United States backwards a century policy-wise — and we still haven’t fully recovered.

The U.S. is one of the last remaining countries in the world without a constitutional clause that protects the rights of women as full and equal citizens.
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It was during this rise of the Moral Majority that Atwood wrote The Handmaid’s Tale. I was born, the first of what would be nine kids, just about five years after the book was first published.

Atwood has given many interviews about the writing of The Handmaid’s Tale and her creative process for it, but the thing that stands out to me the most is her comment that she made a rule for herself not to include anything in the novel that hadn’t already been done by some society, somewhere. Nothing was new.

And so, as I read the book for the first time that cold morning in 2010, the fictional world sounded a whole lot like my real life.

My ex-husband, who I met at that same little Christian college and who had also grown up in the same group of churches, wanted nothing more than to be a father, to have 10 kids and to homeschool them. When our marriage was careening to an end, we were sitting in a car outside his family’s house when he asked me if I might consider having a baby with him to rekindle something.

We’d chosen to wait initially for a host of reasons, the strongest one for me being that I had been raising kids for the last 10–12 years of my life and couldn’t see myself having the energy to plunge back into the world of poopy diapers and snotty noses. Two years into our marriage, I’d had a few pregnancy scares and each time as I waited for my period, I had had nightmares and panic attacks, unable to shake a deep-set terror of being trapped at home with a baby and no life outside the home. I would wake up crying and shaking from a dream about being pregnant, and the next morning he’d make me coffee and listen to my stories and try to assuage my fears.

So when he asked me to have a kid to save our marriage, I was stunned. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“Don’t be that way!” he responded. “I just think that I could love you again if you were a mother.”

Speechless, I told him to get out of the car. “I’m not discussing this,” I said. “There’s no way in hell I’d bring a kid into this mess if we can’t fix this on our own.”

It was our last big fight. We stopped communicating shortly thereafter, and the next time I had a real conversation was at the courthouse after our divorce hearing. He asked me to go to lunch, and I said no.

Because I running was late for my gynecologist appointment to get myself an IUD.

Offred learns early on that she is not the first Handmaid to be given to the Commander’s household to bear a child for him and his wife. The last one, she gathers from bits of gossip here and there, committed suicide.

In her room there is a little cupboard, and on the back wall of the cupboard is scratched nolite te bastardes carborundorum, which is bad Latin for “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” Offred assumes this message is left for her by the last Handmaid, a hand of camaraderie offered to her from beyond the grave.

When I ended my relationship to my father shortly after I got divorced, it was because he and I reached a crossroads where he had to choose to treat me according to his religious ideology or to treat me like a human, his daughter, his firstborn. He chose his ideology, and continued to use it to manipulate and mistreat myself and my mother and my siblings. We stopped talking, and I got my first tattoo — a black armband with script, “N.T. B. C.” Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Don’t forget you are human. Don’t forget what you have overcome.

Offred never tells the reader her real name — she only says she had another one, once. Under the new regime, her name is that of the man for whom she exists as a birthing vessel. It’s not important, she doesn’t exist as an individual anymore, her life is not her own.

When I got divorced, I repudiated the worldview that had been imposed upon me, rejecting a life where I existed only according to my relationship to my father or my husband. I took a new last name, a family name from further back on my grandmother’s side, naming myself to own myself. That was also the year I got my own bedroom for the first time, coming full circle out of a universe where my identity could not exist on its own terms, and carving out for myself a place in the world, a home, a name, a future that was my own to direct.

Today, Donald Trump is President of the United States, and there is increasing “constitutional anxiety” on Capitol Hill — what will he do next? The 24-hour news cycle is high-strung and exhausted, shrilly reporting on his tweets and Melania’s whereabouts and Ivanka’s so-called feminism.

Mike Pence is second in line for the presidency, and if Trump is impeached, we will have instead of an incompetent egoist for a president, a calculating and careful man who leaves a legacy behind him of anti-women, anti-LGBTQ, anti-immigrant policy-making. VP Pence is exactly the kind of man the Moral Majority of 1985 would have hoped to elect, as is demonstrated by their rallying around anti-minority and anti-choice legislators and policies and foundations.

The Quiverfull movement was created for this kind of world. I was raised to be a helpmeet in a world like Offred’s, and watching (white, middle class) liberals around me be shocked and unnerved by the election results has been curious for me. Didn’t they know this has been in the works for decades? I didn’t come out of nowhere, and neither did Trump, and nor did The Handmaid’s Tale.

Atwood recently wrote about the book in the New York Times, in anticipation of the new mini-series coming out on Hulu today, starring Elisabeth Moss and Alexis Bledel. In it she says:

“Is ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ a prediction? That is the third question I’m asked — increasingly, as forces within American society seize power and enact decrees that embody what they were saying they wanted to do, even back in 1984, when I was writing the novel. No, it isn’t a prediction, because predicting the future isn’t really possible: There are too many variables and unforeseen possibilities. Let’s say it’s an antiprediction: If this future can be described in detail, maybe it won’t happen. But such wishful thinking cannot be depended on either.”

The publication of The Handmaid’s Tale during the time of the Reagan presidency and the Moral Majority was an apt collision of vision and fears expressed through fiction — the release of the new mini-series timed at the end of the first 100 days of Donald Trump, U.S. President #45, is a powerful piece of foresight on the behalf of the studio which created it. Americans are more politically engaged than they have been in years, and we would all do well to pay attention to this “antiprediction” of a TV show in hopes that we can learn from it and resist the fruit of 1980s Christian conservative thinking running our government today, and save the future of our democracy.

By Laura Beans

When Janine, a young woman from the Republic of Gilead, testifies to being gang-raped at 14 and forced to have a subsequent abortion, an accusing finger raises its ghostly visage. “But whose fault was it?” demands Aunt Helena, a self-righteous authority figure in charge of indoctrinating the Handmaids. “Her fault, her fault, her fault,” a chorus of women responds. “Who led them on?” Aunt Helena prompts again, and the chorus resounds: “She did. She did. She did.”

I describe of course, Margaret Atwood’s dystopian novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, which sets its now-iconic stage in the fundamentalist Christian, gender segregated, and class-obsessed Republic of Gilead.

Gilead is a fictional, faraway land tucked into the cockles of our bleakest imaginings, but it’s also a chilling blueprint, a kind of literary prophecy for the not-so-future state of women in America here and now, in the land we call brave and free.

‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ feels like a chilling blueprint for the future state of women in America.
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Is Gilead so different than say, Steubenville, Ohio in 2013, when two high school football players were convicted of raping a young girl while she was unconscious at a party? After posting images and videos of their unconscionable acts on several social media platforms, the young men were arrested, and the small town — and the nation writ large — quickly became polarized. Some allegations placed the blame squarely on the young woman’s shoulders, touting the antiquated, if classic, allegation that “she was asking for it.” Meanwhile TV anchors and hosts lamented the fact that these star athletes’ futures were ruined, and the victim was ostracized by her community. She even received death threats for speaking out about the horrors wrought on her unconscious body.

It was a case study in victim blaming.

A similarly horrific narrative — one that, again, reads like pulp fiction — played out more recently in the case of Stanford University swimmer Brock Turner, who, though convicted on three counts of felony sexual assault for raping an unconscious woman behind a dumpster, received a prison sentence of only six months. The judge who sentenced him was worried a longer sentence would have “a severe impact” on Turner and his future; he ended up only serving three.

Turner’s victim, as in Steubenville, was excoriated — both by the public and even in court by Turner’s lawyer — for her choices to party and consume alcohol as if she, too, were to blame for her own assault. The role of the female victims in sexual assault cases is almost always raised as if some deviation from the idealized female standard are conscionable grounds for such attacks.

Deviation from the idealized female standard are offered as conscionable grounds for sexual assault.
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In Turner’s case, the fact that he had consumed too much alcohol in collegiate overzealousness was excuse enough for the judge to more-than-justify his conduct, but for his female victim — who did the exact same thing — her intoxication served as an indictment of her character. It was in fact, such a potent indictment that the judge dismissed questions about consent.

America’s rape culture is a stark and ubiquitous double-standard, revealing an insidious extension of our patriarchal society. When women are posited as “asking for it” — shouldered with the responsibility of vigilantly countering an ever-present bodily threat — and men are universally excused for predatory violent behavior on the bastardized gender notion that “boys will be boys,” we render our society no better than the sadistic dystopia Atwood envisioned more than 30 years ago.

Gileadian government reigns with a heavy hand; it is a totalitarian Christian theocracy which predicates its power on the systematic subjugation of women. In an era of dwindling birth rates and impotence from infertility among whites due to environmental pollution and STDs, women’s rank within the female sphere is based solely on their fertility.

The worst-off among them — the “Handmaids” — are women who have become a potent commodity; they serve no purpose but to reproduce in a world that caters to the whims of men. Stripped of all autonomy, the Handmaids are “owned” by a Commander and his Wife and are required to pass on their children to the couple for the “greater good” of future generations. In addition to being glorified sex slaves, Handmaids are often forbidden to read, write, or speak to the men of Gilead. In fact, their names themselves are synonymous with subordination; all Handmaids carry the literal prefix “Of-,” proclaiming them property of the Commanders they belong to — Ofwarren, Ofglen, Offred.

Atwood went to great lengths to explain that The Handmaid’s Tale was not science fiction but speculative fiction; it was imperative to her that readers understood she believed this world could come to pass.

“This is a book about what happens when certain casually held attitudes about women are taken to their logical conclusions. I believe as the Victorian novelists did, that a novel isn’t simply a vehicle for private expression, but that it also exists for social examination. I firmly believe this. The society in The Handmaid’s Tale is a throwback to the early Puritans whom I studied extensively at Harvard under Perry Miller, to whom the book is dedicated. The early Puritans came to America not for religious freedom, as we were taught in grade school, but to set up a society that would be a theocracy (like Iran) ruled by religious leaders, and monolithic, that is, a society that would not tolerate dissent within itself.”

The novel isn’t simply a vehicle for private expression — it also exists for social examination.
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While certain progress toward gender equality has undoubtedly been made — everything from women being allowed to fight in ground combat to the continued advocacy for equal pay to women being more likely than men to earn college degrees — the current state of American womanhood remains a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t situation.

Look no further than the current election cycle to see the sort of misogynistic tropes that led Atwood all the way to Gilead. Democratic Presidential nominee Hillary Clinton — throughout her 40-year career — has endured blatant discrimination and sexist contempt, reminding us that regardless of power and stature, women will be openly disrespected. It’s arguable that with said power, the discrimination only becomes more pointed; women in power feel like a fundamental threat to our very fabric of our society.

When former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright made her “feminist pronouncement” in support of Clinton’s run, she admonished the younger generation, saying,“There is a special place in hell for women who do not support other women.” She was instantly met by angry, disheartened young women appalled by her accusation that they should blindly support a candidate on the sole basis of her gender; she subsequently published a mea culpa on the New York Times.

And so it goes.

The setting for Atwood’s now cultishly cited book is a dark but not distant reality — in truth it is but a shadow of our own world. Perhaps that’s why it’s sold millions of copies, been adapted into plays, film, and an opera. The modern classic will make its debut as a Hulu series next year.

Atwood emphasized again in The Guardian in 2012 that she wanted her novel take aim at our own society; The Handmaid’s Tale wasn’t designed to be an an alternative reality, but a parallel to our own, rooted in the very Puritanical foundation America is built upon.

“I made a rule for myself. I would not include anything that human beings had not already done in some other place or time, or for which the technology did not already exist. I did not wish to be accused of dark, twisted inventions, or of misrepresenting the human potential for deplorable behavior. The group-activated hangings, the tearing apart of human beings, the clothing specific to castes and classes, the forced childbearing and the appropriation of the results, the children stolen by regimes and placed for upbringing with high-ranking officials, the forbidding of literacy, the denial of property rights: all had precedents, and many were to be found not in other cultures and religions, but within western society, and within the ‘Christian’ tradition, itself.”

The Handmaid’s Tale’ is parallel to our own reality, rooted in America’s own Puritanical foundation.
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The Ayes Have It

With no male accountability, the women of Gilead are held liable for the downfall of society — it’s a neo-Adam and Eve tale that posits women as the hybrid of a villain and a child; they are to be punished, controlled, and protected. Protection of course is not manifested by a freedom to choose, but by stripping away choice altogether.

For the women in Gilead, the options are few, and Handmaid-ship can seem far superior to a future in The Colonies, labor camp-style detention centers meant for infertile women (“the Unwomen”), so many accept their mandated fate for fear of a worse one. The brainwashing is powerful and omnipresent — many women believe themselves to be the problem; they believe they need protection from their own selves.

While Gilead’s methodology — obstructive bonnets designed to prohibit women from seeing as well as being seen — is a far cry from the hyper-sexualized, ideal female body proffered to modern young women, the hefty prison of scripted womanhood is almost identical.

The Long Arm Of The Law

In addition to Atwood’s harrowing vision of societally-sanctioned misogyny, her visions of xenophobia and jingoism ring eerily familiar as well. She writes:

“It was after the catastrophe, when they shot the president and machine-gunned the Congress and the army declared a state of emergency. They blamed it on the Islamic fanatics, at the time. Keep calm, they said on television. Everything is under control. I was stunned. Everyone was, I know that. It was hard to believe. The entire government, gone like that. How did they get in, how did it happen? That was when they suspended the Constitution. They said it would be temporary. There wasn’t even any rioting in the streets. People stayed home at night, watching television, looking for some direction. There wasn’t even an enemy you could put your finger on. . .”

It is the compliance of the masses that perpetuates and sanctions the government’s control. The Handmaid’s Tale is a cautionary one that reminds us of the danger of apathy, of resigning ourselves to the erosion of our liberties. “There were marches, of course, a lot of women and some men. But they were smaller than you might have thought. I guess people were scared. And when it was known that the police, or the army, of whoever they were, would open fire almost as soon as any of the marches even started, the marches stopped.”

It is the compliance of the masses that perpetuates and sanctions government control.
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And with millions of the U.S. population — including the Republican Presidential nominee himself, who calls for a ban on Muslims entering the country — perpetuating anti-Islamic attitudes and continuous, unwarranted attacks on Muslim-Americans, modern-day America could be this imagined past, a time of casual racism teetering on the brink of authoritarianism and blind indoctrination in the name of Greatness.

The Body Politic

There has been an almost constant effort to scale back people’s rights to obtain abortions. Even 40 years after the Supreme Court affirmed women discretion over their own bodies, legal challenges as well as gory, propaganda campaigns — such as the series of videos released by the Center for Medical Progress alleging that Planned Parenthood profited off the fetal tissue obtained during abortions — have sought to undermine theoretically protected health services. Even though investigations carried out by nearly a dozen states proved the accusations false, lawmakers and other special interest parties jump on the Planned Parenthood crusade, resulting in defunding action in numerous states.

And this is to say nothing of the numerous studies which proven time and again that safe access to abortion is not only a basic human right, but beneficial to mental health.

In many ways, the utter absence of bodily autonomy in Gilead is not far off. Echoes of its warnings can be heard all around us from dangerous individuals like Robert Lewis Dear, who believe themselves to be “warriors for the babies,” to the politicians who refuse people abortions even when the babies born to them will be severely deformed.

The Gileadians really only have themselves to blame, however; they acquiesced to gradual, societal shifts until eventually, their Constitution was suspended and the democratic government ousted.

“What will Ofwarren give birth to? A baby, we all hope?” Offred wonders in The Handmaid’s Tale. “Or something else, an Unbaby, with a pinhead or a snout like a dog’s, or two bodies, or a hole in its heart or no arms, or webbed hands and feet? There’s no telling. They could tell once, with machines, but that is now outlawed. What would be the point of knowing anyway? You can’t have them taken out; whatever it is must be carried to full term.”

Instead of seeming further from the truth, the novel’s warnings only seem to echo louder in recent years. Atwood’s analysis of her own twisted kingdom headily describes our own reality here in America; we proffer a rhetoric of freedom even as we strip our people of rights, jail the innocent, violently invade other countries, clandestinely collect private data, and feverishly support an openly bigoted real estate tycoon as a viable leader for our nation:

“Gilead has utopian idealism flowing through its veins, coupled with a high-minded principle, its ever-present shadow, sublegal opportunism, and the propensity of the powerful to indulge in behind-the-scenes sensual delights forbidden to everyone else. But such locked-door escapades must remain hidden, for the regime floats as its raison d’être the notion that it is improving the conditions of life, both physical and moral; and like all such regimes, it depends on its true believers.”

America proffers a rhetoric of freedom even as we feverishly support a blatant bigot as our leader.
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The epilogue of The Handmaid’s Tale takes readers to an academic symposium held by the Gileadian Research Association centuries in the perceived future, where a scholar on the period is giving a lecture on the authenticity of the preceding pages — now one of the few relics left of that darkly misogynistic time. The unnamed professor’s ends his lecture with, “Are there any questions?” reminding us that we’ve just borne witness to how easily our collective ennui could render us monstrous.

Atwood doesn’t leave us with instructions of how to avoid such a fate, but she does leave us with fear; we must fight against oppression or else succumb to its weight and our burial beneath it.

This article was produced in collaboration with The Alignist — a site dedicated to bringing works of literature into conversation with current events.