The best books for understanding how gender impacts U.S. foreign relations

“Where are the women?” So goes this 1989 classic’s opening gambit.

We think politics is the domain of men, Enloe points out, but women have long been out there doing vital and often invisible work, whether as diplomats’ wives, sex workers recruited around US army bases, farmers, or labor leaders.

Bringing this gendered labor to the forefront of international relations is Enloe’s strength. She discusses how images of women “work,” as in the Chiquita Banana ads that introduced American housewives to this unusual fruit and helped expand United Fruit’s bloody empire, but also studies women’s transnational labor organizing.

Reading this book in graduate school guaranteed I would never think of those little stickers on bananas in the same way. Like many other historians of US foreign policy, I still assign sections from Enloe regularly, particularly in my “Transnational America” class. 

What makes this book so exceptional and ground-breaking decades after its publication is embedded in the subtitle: Kristin Hoganson argues that gender politics “provoked” the Spanish-American and Philippine-American Wars, through which the United States acquired most of its overseas colonies.

Hoganson connects domestic and foreign policy, analyzing correspondence, political speeches, and newspaper articles. When jingoes – people we would know now call hawks – depicted Cuba as a beautiful damsel in distress or accused the war-averse president McKinley of having “no more backbone than a chocolate eclair,” they were counting on associations of manhood with militarism. Ultimately, they were successful in pushing the United States to war with Spain over Cuba and locking the country in a bloody quagmire in the Philippines.

I love this book because it never flinches from its focus on gender, intersecting with race and class. Transcending its temporal and geographic focus, it works as a sobering reminder that what we now call toxic masculinity can have real, deadly consequences in international relations.

Naoko Shibusawa’s modern classic addresses a historical puzzle with huge repercussions: how did Americans go from viewing Japanese people as irredeemable enemies, to the point of justifying nuclear warfare and internment camps during World War II, to constructing them as vulnerable, willing, and dependable allies soon after Japan’s surrender?

Theories about “maturity” at the intersection of race and gender provide the answer. Despite its title, this book says little about the historical figure of the geisha – except in its use in postwar American cartoons that reimagined Japan as a compliant ward.

This monograph remains a huge inspiration for my work—I just love how deftly Shibusawa connects culture and politics. 

In the opening salvo of the second wave feminist movement in the West, philosopher Simone de Beauvoir memorably argued that men's gender often goes unnoticed, as if manhood were simply the neutral human condition.

Dean's book counters this common blind spot by demonstrating how the supposedly neutral categories of manhood, class privilege, and whiteness have significantly shaped US foreign policy. Specifically, he examines how a homogeneous group of upper-class white men led to disastrous US policy decisions in Vietnam.

These policymakers, raised in exclusive boarding schools, men's clubs, and military hierarchies that excluded women and people of color, used gendered and sexualized metaphors to justify policies that contradicted their claims to rational pragmatism. They also orchestrated the "lavender scare"—purging non-heterosexual Americans from government during McCarthyism.

This book reminds me that every analysis of US foreign policy should pay attention to who is making the decisions. Positionality matters.

I’ll probably still be citing this book when they drag me into professorial retirement, yelling, “Did you know that popular representations of Israel as a hypermasculine superman helped justify the U.S.-Israeli alliance, particularly after 1967?!” “Obviously,” my colleagues will yell back, “that’s only one of the reasons why we are still assigning this book, even during the great 2051 AI-Robot rebellion!”

McAlister’s Epic Encounters came out around 2001 as many Americans were wondering, “Why do they hate us?” The ones that did not grab the Qur’an (wrong era, peeps!) or rightwing polemics, grabbed this excellent history of U.S. interests in the Middle East. McAlister interprets that word, “interests,” broadly, offering a holistic account of how Americans – not just diplomats – have imagined Southwest Asia and North Africa throughout the twentieth century and into the twenty-first.

This book contains significant touchpoints, from 1950s Biblical Epics to Black Power’s connections with Arab nationalism to the ubiquitous post-9/11 image of Afghan women in burqas. As McAlister tells us, gendered and raced discourses about the Middle East tell us more about the diverse U.S. perceptions of these “foreign” peoples and lands than the complex reality of life and politics in the region.

But then again, that is exactly how gender often functions in US foreign policy – gendered language naturalizes and universalizes political history, making hierarchies seem inevitable and even the most avaricious policies seem justifiable on civilizational grounds.