456 College & Research Libraries May 2021 whether she’s invested in an inherited rhetorical mode or if she is just another underling, not unlike this reviewer, performing mimicry to gain admittance. The Play in the System is divided into two parts: Redistribution and Imposition. Of primary interest to librarians will be part 1, which explores how technology corporations like Amazon, Facebook, and Google have appropriated openness and used the logic of neutral protocols to eschew political responsibility and avoid regulation all while co-opting the commons and defining the terms of access and engagement. Parasitical projects explored in this section include the digital hactivist works of the Robinhood Cooperative, which “weaponizes the tools of private capital” for redistributive ends (73), and a project by the aforementioned Ubermorgan to buy Kickstarter using Kickstarter. Fisher illustrates here that it’s possible to carve a window into the wall of a monolith if you can get inside, even if you know that it’ll get boarded up pretty quickly. These projects often fail as real retaliatory and redistributive acts—or in the case of the Robinhood Cooperative, resemble strategic capital investment proj- ects more than subversive artworks—but they can be read as successful provocations with mostly legible political meanings. Did I mention this book is about performance art? Or rather, performed art. Performa- tive acquiescence and mimicry are some of the notable parasitic strategies enacted across the projects examined here. Fisher also finds common “immunity strategies” used by host entities to either recuperate or deflect parasitic intrusion. These strategies—privacy and privatiza- tion—are ones that librarians and academics will find familiar (19). As Fisher narrows the frame to focus on increasingly personal works like Chris Kraus’ I Love Dick—a performance in the form of fictional love letters written to a real person, the well-known cultural theorist Dick Hebdige, that hyperbolizes the subservient femme hanger-on and recuperates Dick’s indignant response that the project violates his privacy (which it does)—the cultural reading becomes more ambiguous. Is Kraus wrong for exposing Dick? Does the cultural capital she’s gained through the project render her feminist critique more or less effective? Do parasitical works, which operate less as disruptive gestures than performances of the impossibility of disruption, change the systems or people that absorb them or spit them out (34)? Ultimately, this book doesn’t have answers to the questions it poses. Its aims, like the artwork it explores, are about provocation and the subtle reverberations of the provoker and the provoked, who need each other to exist. However ambiguous the ethical dimensions of the parasite, Fisher’s book reminds us unequivocally that insidious structures of racist, pa- triarchal, and exploitive neoliberal and corporate systems in which we are enmeshed (and even now, are laboring to uphold to survive within them) are porous and also potentially indestructible—if not in their original form, then in replication.—Nora Almeida, New York City College of Technology (CUNY) Caroline Criado Perez. Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World Designed for Men. New York, NY: Abrams Press, 2019. 411p. Paper, $27.00 (ISBN 978-1-4197-2907-2). LC 2018-59561. Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World Designed for Men illustrates how we continue to natural- ize sex and gender discrimination by failing to collect data on women. As a society we have accepted and normalized the ways in which, as Simone de Beauvoir put it, the “representa- tion in the world, like the world itself, is the work of men; they describe it from their point of view, which they confuse with the absolute truth.” The default is male. Caroline Criado Perez refers to this “tradition” as the gender data gap. Book Reviews 457 Drawing from expert research, interviews, and case studies, Criado Perez illuminates the underrepresentation of women in data and details the fallout of this phenomenon by employing three ubiq- uitous themes that define women’s relationships with the world: the invisibility of the female body, male sexual violence against women, and unpaid care work. In an attempt to account for the breadth and depth of this ignorant imbalance, the book is divided into six parts. Each part delves deeper into the consequences of the gender data gap in relation to daily life, the workplace, product design, medicine and healthcare, public life, and disaster. The gender data gap presents itself in silences: the human history of an entire group of people being unaccounted for. Criado Perez does not credit the gender data gap to malice or an intentional erasure; instead, she views it as the result of “a way of thinking that has been around for millennia and is therefore a kind of not thinking. A double not thinking, even: men go without saying, and women don’t get said at all.” Male is the default, always. As a woman, a social scientist, and a librarian, I would be remiss to ignore how the gender data gap affects my work. Like many academic librarians, I spend a lot of time in the classroom providing students with information literacy and data literacy skills, battling fake news and misinformation during a time when the truth is challenged by political agendas and ideologies, and, as Barack Obama told us at the 2005 ALA Annual Conference, information is used not to illuminate but to obfuscate. It has become increasingly important to learn how to conduct feminist-centered socially just research, recognize the systems of oppression in research and academia, and develop new research skills that help to dismantle those systems. What does it mean for data to be biased? What effects has the perpetual thinking that the male body is synonymous with the human body had on medical education and medi- cal research? Why are women’s bodies not taken into consideration when designing safety equipment even though we know they differ from men at a cellular level? Why do women continue to be unaccounted for even in the time of fourth-wave feminism? How do we ac- count for the statistical warp and data inaccuracies caused by the systemic gender data gap? Criado Perez’s Invisible Women provides the evidence to interrogate the imbalance ingrained in supposed authoritative scholarship, to ask questions about the consequences of not count- ing women, and to change the trajectory of data collection policies and practices to minimize the gender data gap. As librarians we can educate students on the gender data gap, what it means to sex-disaggregate data, and how to start accounting for the themes that define the ways women move through the world. Invisible Women reads more like a call to arms than a dry nonfiction academic monograph. Criticisms of Invisible Women have suggested that it is too theoretical. Such critiques are more representative of a public hungry for change and actionable guidance than critiques of valid- ity or merit of her arguments. Criado Perez plans to address these requests in Now You See Us: How to Close the Data Gap and Design a World for Everyone; expected publication is 2022 by Chatto and Windus. Now You See Us, says the publisher, will be “the shorter, practical, more hopeful sister to Invisible Women. It will give her many readers a plan, a toolkit, for rebuilding the world,” the publisher said. Additionally, her emphasis on biological factors can read as exclusions of the wide range of ways to be a woman. Criado Perez’s work could more clearly 458 College & Research Libraries May 2021 address the idea of sex and gender as societal constructs. Still, Criado Perez brings us one step closer to closing the female representation gap. Arguably we have a long way to go, but Invisible Women provides us a tool to continue the fight.—Melissa Chomintra, Tulane University Kevin M. Gannon. Radical Hope: A Teaching Manifesto. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 2020. 166p. Paper, $19.99 (ISBN 978-1-9491-9951-2). Radical Hope: A Teaching Manifesto by Kevin Gannon is a small, moving book that demonstrates the power of praxis by synthesizing theories within the scholarship of teaching and learning into concise, frank, easy-to-read, practice-focused chapters. The intended audience is teachers: folks in higher education who are face-to-face with students every day while simultaneously navigating administrative structures. Librarians who teach, whether primarily one-shot instruction ses- sions or credit-bearing courses, will be reinvigorated by discussions of meaningful reasons to teach, recognize familiar challenges, reflect on thought-provoking big-picture questions, and identify immediately applicable practices. The pedagogical praxis the book is named for, radical hope, is defined as “one that fosters openness and inclusivity, critical reflec- tion, dialogue and conversation, and a commitment to making higher education accessible and meaningful for all our students” (6). Each chapter opens with a story that demonstrates praxis in the current context of higher education, forcing readers to consider what their ac- tions would be in similar circumstances. Gannon then moves into explicitly discussing the importance of more inclusive practice, identifying barriers or challenges practitioners might face, and closes with short reflective prompts for readers. The first three chapters are slightly more theory-focused than the following seven, but Gannon’s conversationally direct tone and authentic enthusiasm make an excellent case for reading theory. He summarizes N.F.S. Grundtvig’s critiques of Danish folk schools in the 1800s as “revolutionary hot takes that he is here for all day” (10), synthesizes those with the work of Freire and hooks, then directly connects them to current events, debates, and contemporary calls for access and inclusion. As a demonstration of praxis, reality is never far away from the theory, and librarians will quickly recognize recurring areas of discussion our profession grapples with. For example, “is it possible for a learner to both successfully move through the academic and intellectual spaces of a college or university and march in support of violent white nationalism? And if it’s possible, should it be?” (14) This question is typical of the no-nonsense approach to discussing operationalized hope throughout the book, and readers will find themselves interrogating their own beliefs and practices. Statements of pedagogical purpose throughout the text are useful at the individual level for librarians who teach, but they are also applicable for librar- ies at the institutional policy-making level. Librarian readers can decide to make compassion their default pedagogical stance and treat students as allies rather than adversaries in the classroom. That commitment can be demonstrated in other ways throughout the library. We can communicate through our policies that we trust all students, that we recognize them as fully human, and that we know they belong in our spaces. Part of the strength of this text as a tool is that it directly names realities of higher edu- cation rather than dwelling in hypothetical scenarios. Facing a discomforting statement like