Corey Pierce

To an extent that has not yet been recognized, this election is about manliness.

In one sense, a federal election in Canada is a preposterously complicated phenomenon. Something like, oh, 1,500 politicians are scrapping for seats in 308 electoral districts of incredible cultural and geographic diversity, spread over nearly 10 million square kilometres. Of course, now that the national media has done its job, things don’t look so complex. The narrative of any given election tends to revolve around a very limited number of dominant themes. Before the economy swept in to assume top billing, the overarching theme this time around was supposed to have been the environment.

There are, of course, a few secondary issues that occasionally rise to prominence, such as arts funding. This election, however, has revolved around another, largely implicit theme, one that has less to do with policy than with our perception of the leaders: manliness.

According to sociologist Michael Kimmel, who has published several books on the topic, manliness has long operated as a kind of political currency, at least in the United States. “Since 1840,” Kimmel writes, “the president’s manhood has always been a question, his manly resolve, firmness, courage and power equated with the capacity for violence, military virtues and a plain-living style that avoided cultivated refinement and civility.”

Canadians, by contrast, tend to be more dubious of these supposedly masculine values and aren’t especially comfortable talking about the “manliness” of our leaders. Manliness is an antiquated idea, after all — it insists upon a substantive difference between the sexes and runs counter to our official ideology of gender neutrality. We pride ourselves on our progressive policies, our gender equality at all levels of society and the fact that we’ve had — however briefly — at least one female prime minister, which is one more than the political neanderthals to the south.

And yet, in their different ways, each of the major party leaders has been at pains to cultivate a manly image.

Stéphane Dion’s campaign is most obviously concerned with shoring up his manhood, probably to combat the popular perception of the Liberal leader as a bespectacled nerd. At thisisdion.ca, you will find videos of Dion engaging in various forms of manly exertion. Mostly, Dion works to project an image of rugged, frontier manhood: we see him marching through the snow with his dog; he tells us that he loves to spend time “in the bush.” We see images of Dion fishing and playing ball hockey, while his wife, Janine Krieber, boasts that he “caught the biggest fish” on the lake. She admits that she is often lonely on Saturday nights, because Dion is always out playing hockey. Another scene shows Dion pounding a gavel and pumping his fists in manly fashion. Despite the best efforts of his media consultants, Dion’s manhood still looks compensatory; the whole concept is obviously animated by a profound anxiety that Dion isn’t perceived as manly enough to lead the nation.

Conservative leader Stephen Harper works to cultivate a very different sort of manhood. Strategists consistently point toward Harper’s difficulty in connecting with female voters, so rather than emphasizing his manly prowess, à la Dion, Harper’s campaign has attempted to soften his image. In his much maligned campaign ads, Harper plays the genteel patriarch, the sensitive (yet firm) father figure who delights in spending time with his family. He confides in the viewer that he enjoys playing piano — can you imagine Dion admitting such a thing? Harper’s ads are set around the hearth, rather than in the boardroom or outdoors. Instead of emphasizing his manly vigour, Harper’s ads cast him as the embodiment of strong patriarchal authority.

Speaking of “strong,” have you seen the New Democrat’s ads? There’s Jack Layton, with his sleeves rolled up, chest puffed out, staring directly into the camera, growling at us about “the new kind of strong.” The “new strong,” whatever it is, certainly doesn’t look any different from the old kind of strong, in that it will be an essentially masculine display of firmness and determination. Despite the NDP’s overt (and often sanctimonious) commitment to gender equality, Leighton’s ads emphasize its rhetorical commitment to the most conservative gender stereotype of them all, which links strength and manliness.

If this election is in some sense a contest over manliness, where does that leave Elizabeth May? Is she the odd woman out? Not according to one Linda Leon, who wrote a pithy post-debate letter to the Globe and Mail: “It was crystal clear who the smartest guy in the room was. Congratulations, Elizabeth May.” She may be a woman, but, for many, Elizabeth May has proven that she can wear the daddy pants in this election.

At a time, then, when the American Presidential candidates are fighting to own the issue of “change,” our own leaders are waging a silent battle over who properly embodies the static clichés of manhood. Underlying this contest are some ancient and sexist assumptions about the gender of power and authority. Rather than challenging the clichés, or even ignoring them, the party leaders are scrambling to conform. Dion, Harper and Layton are each trying to give us a crude version of the manliness they think we want — and in this respect, at least, the issue of political masculinity is the same as any other.

Ira Wells is a writer and doctoral candidate at the University of Toronto. He has written for the Calgary Herald and the Toronto Star.