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Who comes to mind when thinking of women embodying empathy and humility? I’ll wager it isn’t Elon Musk, Rupert Murdoch, Michael Milken or Sylvester Stallone.
Bafflingly, those were the winners of an award to celebrate women exemplifying such virtues, in honour of the late US Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. To be fair, the award also went to Martha Stewart, who is actually female. But the announcement sparked fierce criticism. Trevor Morrison, professor of law at New York University and a former clerk to Ginsburg, wrote that he was “surprised and, frankly, appalled” by this decision “to honour people who exhibit none of the values that animated the Justice’s career”. This week the Opperman Foundation, responsible for the awards, withdrew the prizes and cancelled the ceremony.
Anyone who has sat through interminable discussions on male allyship will be familiar with the Opperman Foundation’s argument for including men on the grounds that “we thought RBG’s teachings regarding EQUALITY [their capital letters] should be practised”. But empathy and humility? Walter Isaacson, Musk’s biographer, said of the tech billionaire: “He does not have a fingertip feel for . . . empathy, emotions.” Murdoch was a curious choice in this respect too. His reputation for ruthlessness is hardly restricted to business. In an email communicating his decision to divorce Jerry Hall, according to Vanity Fair, he wrote: “Sadly I’ve decided to call an end to our marriage. We have certainly had some good times, but I have much to do.”
However, it is the foundation’s central defence which seems guileless. “We did not consider politics . . . Our goal is only to do good.” Dear do-gooders, where have you been? Musk uses his X social media platform to amplify political views on issues ranging from immigration to pronatalism, while Murdoch’s conservative Fox News TV channel has spread disinformation. Awards are never neutral. From judges to winners and losers, to acceptance speeches and presenters, they are riven with politics. Even outfits are a statement. At this year’s Oscars some attendees wore political pins in support of a ceasefire in Gaza — while in 2018, black dresses signified solidarity with sexual harassment victims.
The RBG prize is a reminder of the risks. In 2019 the Booker Prize, whose shortlists have in the past been called both elitist and too readable, came under fire for splitting the prize between authors Margaret Atwood and Bernardine Evaristo. Two years earlier, in an agonising mix-up, presenters announced La La Land as the winner of the Oscar for best film before correcting their mistake and giving it to Moonlight.
It’s easy to scoff at prizes. After all, Enron received plenty of awards and even established its own prize for distinguished public service before revelations of accounting fraud. Milli Vanilli’s 1989 Grammy was rescinded after the duo admitted they didn’t sing on their records. But awards can be transformative. Paul Lynch’s Prophet Song sold 6,000 copies in the 16 weeks prior to its Booker win and 63,000 copies in the 16 weeks after, according to Nielsen BookData. They are not just financially rewarding, but personally. After being told by her record label she wasn’t good enough, Raye broke free and this year won six Brit awards. “You just don’t understand what this means to me,” the singer said.
Prizes confer status even to those who wouldn’t appear to need it. Jana Gallus, an associate professor at UCLA Anderson, points out that unlike bonuses, awards emit important public signals. To be included in the same club as Queen Elizabeth II, a past recipient of the RBG award, is important. “Even for those who win the Nobel Prize the next question is, did you share this, did you get it once or twice. It shows how much we care about where we stand and how we are seen by others; there is no end to climbing up different status hierarchies.”
