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"Tiny Hands" is not an Equality Anthem

1/19/2017

10 Comments

 
Much of my work as an educator, researcher, and activist centers on gender equality. I have organized marches, protested outside of courthouses, and directed The Vagina Monologues. I have trained crisis volunteers and facilitated discussions about sexual objectification in “Blurred Lines.” I teach courses on ending gender violence and talk to audiences about rape culture. I am obsessed with Wonder Woman. But friends, let me clear: “Tiny Hands” is not my anthem. And it shouldn’t be yours.
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​I support art and protest as an avenue for social change, and I believe in the freedom of expression. So it follows that Fiona Apple (whose Extraordinary Machine album is brilliant, by the way) has a right to create politically-motivated music that reflects her views on the fact that our new president has said downright awful things about women. Things that suggest it is ok to grab women inappropriately or at least talk about doing it if one is trying to reinforce their manliness. It’s not just locker room talk. It’s disgusting, and we have a right to be angry.


But when you march down the street this weekend, rally at your state capital next month, or Take Back the Night this April, I hope you strongly reconsider “Tiny Hands” as your rallying cry. Though “we don’t need your tiny hands anywhere near our underpants” is catchy, it actually undermines the very principles of women’s movement and gender equality. Here’s why.

First, attacking Donald Trump for his alleged penis size is not only cheap, lazy, and completely unrelated to real criticisms that one might bring against him—it actually reinforces the kind of rigid gender roles many of us in this movement try to deconstruct. One of the underlying assumptions of gender inequality is that, as a society, we have unrealistic expectations for who a man or woman should be. And when we fail to live up to them, we get a pushback. Women get called bitches for being too assertive. Men get called bitches and pussies and slew of gay slurs for crying at movies, not drinking enough beer, or not being tough enough. 

This system can work great for you if you follow the rules, stay within the boundaries of your society-deemed gender, and do whatever you can to maintain your womanly-woman or manly-man image. And the pressure to stay in these rigid gender boxes means that people—especially men—often take defensive and offensive measures to maintain these images at all costs. We’ve seen how this played out in the presidential primary. In response to Donald Trump’s diminutive nickname for Marco Rubio, Rubio’s response was to attack Trump’s hand (ahem, penis) size. It was a battle of masculinity, and may the best display of manliness win. Right?
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​Though I appreciate the doubly-layered consent and reproductive rights message of not wanting “hands anywhere near our underpants,” the penis size attack seems hypocritical as a rallying cry if we really believe that loosening up rigid gender roles is central to achieving gender equality. Hypocritical, and low. Literally below the belt low.
 
Second, an attack on penis size is a form of body-shaming I just cannot get behind. It wasn’t cool when New Girl did that terrible episode that mocked what the gang referred to as a guy’s “micropenis,” it wasn’t funny when naked Trump statues perpetuated discrimination based on body and genital size, and it isn’t at all ok to mock the bodies of people who identify across the transgender spectrum. So what makes it different now?
 
A central focus of social movements focused on equality is undoing harmful power dynamics that keep the dude with the tiny hands down and the dude with the big hands up. It’s not about switching the power dynamics so that tiny dude walks all over big dude, but about changing the conditions of the arrangement so that little dude can enjoy the same freedoms and privileges as big dude. It’s about equal opportunity, freedom from discrimination, and a better quality of life.
 
When we make attacks based on penis size, we’re using an assumption of perceived lack of masculinity to make ourselves seem superior. And we’re doing it through body-shaming. It’s like telling a fat joke to make yourself feel skinnier and more powerful. Would we incorporate a fat joke into our march chant? I don’t think so.
 
Third and finally, making “Tiny Hands” our feminist anthem only functions to re-position Donald Trump at the center of our efforts. Though his comments have certainly been a catalyst for renewed activist energy, making him the focus of women’s rights by chanting about his penis over and over seems misguided. Change those lyrics to grabby hands and I’m more on board. Start a round of “I am woman, hear me roar” and I’ll even join you.
 
All I am saying is that, fellow activists, we can do better this. We can do better than penis size attacks and body-shaming and insults to make ourselves feel temporarily superior. We can be angry and clever and effective without being hypocritical. We can march to an anthem that is consistent with our goals of genuine equality. We can rise, but not at the expense of our integrity.
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10 Comments

Castrating an Ohio Rapist

9/11/2016

2 Comments

 
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​As an Ohioan who lives a matter of minutes from Brock Turner, I wanted to throw up when I heard he had been released from his joke of a prison sentence and had returned to the area. My area.
 
So when I heard that there was a very disgruntled welcome party surrounding his parent’s house, I wasn’t surprised. When a high profile case hits home, our safety can feel threatened and our anger more fueled because this horrible thing that someone did impacts our own community. Our friends and families. Our college students. Our kids. The illusion of our safe little suburb is broken when we realize a rapist lives down the block or around the corner. That he might do here what he did to a woman in California. It’s terrifying.

​Our anger about this case—and about sexual violence more broadly—is absolutely justified. But I must admit I'm uncomfortable with the messages armed protesters communicated to Turner and arguably, potential rapists in our region with their signs: things like “Castrate rapists” and “If you try this again, we will shoot you.” These statements advocate a powerful, bold stance against sexual violence, but they also reflect societal perceptions about rape that aren’t necessarily productive for actual, effective prevention and response.

I applaud the fact that people are mad and willing to do something to let other people know that. The outrage of these protestors draws more needed attention to the issue of rape, which is something I believe all of us as a culture should be much angrier about. I also support free speech and acknowledge that it is completely within the rights of these individuals to open-carry and express their perspectives. And yes, Turner should have been held more accountable for his despicable actions. 

But I also wonder whose interests are best supported with a protest like this. One might argue that justice has already been served (though poorly) because Turner did the time for his crime. Realistically speaking, his case actually represents somewhat of a success of our legal system. Hard to stomach, I know. Our criminal justice system is so incredibly messed up that he is part of the mere 3% of rapists who serve prison time—primarily because so few people report sexual violence, reports aren’t always taken seriously by police, investigations aren’t always thorough, charges don’t often lead to convictions, and convictions may not even result in prison sentences. In this case, the major issues involved loopholes in the law and a judge who did not understand the dynamics of sexual violence. But Turner still served time. It’s not enough, but it is something. Turner benefits from our crappy criminal justice system, but it is not his fault the system sucks. It’s ours.
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​What would it mean if all of the time and energy spent protesting Turner was redirected into demanding better laws, mandatory education about rape for judges and elected officials, more training for police officers, and forums for discussing the impact of gender violence in our communities and what we can do about it? What if it meant seeking support to create rape crisis centers that can respond to the needs of those impacted by sexual violence and spearhead crucial prevention efforts in our schools and on our college campuses? Dayton does not have a rape crisis center, by the way. Don’t tell Brock. 


Unfortunately, we can’t control whether or not this guy rapes again. He probably will: research shows that most dudes who rape do it repeatedly, and Turner fits the bill. 

Is castration the answer? No. Another Debbie Downer fact for you: even when castration has been used to treat sex offenders, there has been no evidence that it actually cures anything. This is probably because rape isn’t causes by a disease, the people who commit it aren’t necessarily “sick,” and penises are not the epicenter of some kind of gender violence gene scientists have discovered in people who commit rape. In actuality, our culture produces rapists in the ways that we cling to traditional gender roles that, in their extremes, lead to dangerous expressions of masculinity at the expense of others’ rights to bodily agency and safety. We support rapists when we normalize sexual violence in various forms of media, minimize the daily reality of rape or the threat of it for a huge proportion of our population, victim-blame and slut-shame people who have experienced sexual violence, and refuse to believe that rape is as pervasive and widespread as it is. 

For every Turner, there are thousands more rapists out there. I know: I worked at a crisis center for several years and struggled with carrying the detailed knowledge of so many situations—including the names of rapists and who they had attacked and where these things had happened—that I could not share with anyone because of necessary and important confidentiality laws. These things happen everywhere whether we are aware of it or not, and they happen much more often than we realize. Every community does not need a Brock Turner to get enraged about that. But we do need to back up our anger with the time, energy, and resources crucial for transforming our cultural acceptance of rape and supporting individuals who have experienced sexual violence. 

The threat of vigilante justice might feel cathartic in the short term, but real change requires a deep investment in comprehensive gender violence prevention and victim-centered services. Forget castrating Brock Turner. Let’s cut out the disgusting parts of our culture that minimize, normalize, and encourage sexual violence. That’s the kind of castration I can get behind.

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To demand better rape prevention and response efforts in Dayton, OH, contact:
Mayor Nan Whalen
Senator Rob Portman
Senator Sherrod Brown
Representative Michael Turner
2 Comments

Who's that Girl Stalking her Ex? It's Jess

5/6/2016

5 Comments

 
​*Spoilers here unless you’re all caught up, New Girl fans!
 
As far as television sitcoms go, New Girl is one of my favorites. I think about it as the millennial version of Friends with understated feminist themes, progressive takes on modern masculinity, and moments that make me laugh so hard I almost pee my pants. Watching Schmidt freak out when he realizes Jess made out with his dad? Pure bliss. I replayed that scene about ten times until there were tears streaming down my cheeks and my partner had to check on me from the other room because I was making such a ruckus. It was a beautiful moment between me and the Hulu I shall never forget. 
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New Girl Season 5 Episode 12 “D-Day”
But the show is not perfect. Just two episodes after being so impressed at the writing and directing that resulted in Schmidt’s drive heave meltdown, Elizabeth Meriwether and company really disappointed me in their portrayal of stalking. As someone who has counseled countless students, hotline callers, and friends who have experienced stalking, the whole storyline of Jess harassing, following, and relentlessly pursuing her ex was a big turnoff.
 
The stalking begins in the first few minutes of the show. We are reminded of Jess’s role in the breakup between her ex, Sam, and his new girlfriend. His last words to Jess? “Get out of my life.” Much to the outwardly expressed disapproval of her friends, Jess has continued to text and call Sam. Next thing we know, she is served a restraining order requiring she keep her distance. She is surprised, but she refuses to take the situation seriously. Her friends tell her to leave Sam alone.
 
In protest, Jess visits the police station to request the order be dropped, where Winston attempts to convince Jess to obey it and talks her out of writing Sam a letter. Next scene: Jess goes to Sam’s place of employment to leave a letter on his car. In the parking lot, she spots Sam and to hide, quickly throws herself in the back of a random truck—the truck, of course, turns out to be Sam’s. He gets in and starts driving while Jess makes a panicked phone call to Winston for advice. When the truck finally stops, Jess realizes Sam is driving through an automatic car wash. After being pummeled by the water sprays and rotating scrubbers, Jess throws herself onto the hood of Sam’s car, scaring the bejesus out of him. 
 
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New Girl Season 5 Episode 14 “300 Feet”
Outside the car wash, Jess and Sam have a short conversation in which Sam reiterates the presence of the restraining order. Jess makes a fool of herself, runs into a pole, and Sam reluctantly offers to give her a ride home out of pity. When Sam gets fed up with Jess a few minutes later, he pulls the vehicle over and orders her out. Jess says some romantic-esque line about how Sam was right to take out a restraining order on her because ever since she saw him again, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The music shifts, and all of a sudden Sam grabs Jess and starts making out with her.
 
When they return to her apartment, Winston yells at Jess to get legally mandated 300 feet away from Sam, but Jess insists they’ve “figured it out.” Sam tells Winston he is dropping the restraining order, and Winston attempts to get them both to consider whether or not getting back together is a good idea. Jess tries to explain that both she and Sam have matured. Winston, the voice of reason, responds, “Jess, nobody takes out a restraining order unless they think that they’re in danger.” Sam agrees, but the twist is that he felt Jess was “dangerous” because he didn’t trust himself not to contact her because he, like Jess, couldn’t stop thinking about her. Cue soft music. They say goodbye. Winston is relieved the situation is finally over.

Then Jess runs down Sam's truck as he is driving away, she jumps into the cab, and they start making out again. Happy music. End of episode. 

“I’m not a restraining order person.” –Jess, in response to being served a restraining order


The first thing worth noting about the portrayal of stalking in this episode is the way it plays into the myth of who a stalker can be. When most people think of a stalker, a popular stereotype comes to mind: a creepy dude wearing a ski mask and hiding in the bushes, not a thirty-something adorkable white girl who’s obsessed with her ex. But the reality is that stalkers can be any age, gender, or race, and since most people know the people they are being stalked by, they can be coworkers, colleagues, classmates, and current significant others in addition to exes. They could be anyone. Stalking isn’t defined by who a person is or isn’t, but what behavior is involved.

 
“I just don’t get why Sam would do this. I’m not dangerous.” –Jess, about the restraining order

​This brings to me next point: Jess—along with most of the rest of mainstream society—rarely takes stalking very seriously, especially if the stalker does not meet the stalker stereotype. In reality, stalking situations are serious and involve a pattern of conduct that causes a person fear or distress. Though all 50 states in the U.S. have stalking laws, they vary a bit in what is considered fear or whether distress or discomfort is part of that definition. But however progressive or limiting a particular stalking law is written, it does not matter whether or not Jess views her behavior as dangerous. If a person feels uncomfortable, unsafe, anxious, or afraid because of someone else’s repetitive actions, that meets the definition of stalking.
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​“I’m not crazy” –Jess, after throwing herself on the hood of Sam’s truck 

Another myth about stalkers is that they are mentally ill. This idea is harmful in multiple ways. First, it is simply not true. Sure, there may be a small portion of stalkers who have mental illnesses, but people who stalk others—and commit other forms of gender violence—are not people incapable of knowing what they are doing. Stalking doesn’t happen by accident; it is calculated, manipulative, and all about power and control. It’s about ignoring someone else’s boundaries, and it’s a violation of consent. Second, the idea that stalkers are “crazy” give people who are mentally ill a bad rap. When it comes to gender violence, we tend to blame people with mental illness because it can be difficult to imagine that people we think “have it together” or appear “normal” could be capable of such things. This is unfair, ableist, and inaccurate. 

 
“I’m not dangerous and you don’t need to be afraid of me” –Jess to Sam, outside the car wash

​We still have a long way to go when it comes to recognizing stalking as a legit problem. Jess’s stalking of Sam is meant to be laughable, and sadly, this is the mainstream response to women stalking men. Gender stereotypes make it difficult for us to view women as aggressive or criminal and men as victims. Even if a dude is believed when he reports stalking or discloses to someone close to him, his situation may be dismissed with the popular adage, “Bitches be crazy.” This is meant to suggest that women may be 
crazy, but they’re certainly not dangerous
. Not only does this contribute to the idea that stalking is a joke, but it minimizes men’s experiences of stalking that may result in massive amounts of stress, life disruption, and many psychological, physical, and emotional responses just like any other victim of stalking.
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“Yeah I get it…it’s too sad to watch.” –Jess to Sam after running into pole outside the car wash

I couldn’t have said it better myself. This episode was sad to watch because of its seemingly innocent yet harmful misrepresentation of stalking. The worst part of all of it is that Jess’s stalking—as well as Sam’s act of getting the restraining order—get spun as romantic actions that result in bringing them together by the end of the episode. Though I am thankful for Winston’s earnest commitment to the value and importance of the restraining order throughout the episode, the only suggestion of the potential gravity of the situation is overruled by lovey-dovey music and heavy snogging. That’s ok, we’re told, because the restraining order was never something “serious” anyway. And, everything worked out ok in the end, so we needn’t give it another thought. Six episodes later, Jess and Sam’s relationship is still going strong despite the hilarious foundation it was built upon. Also: it is disappointing to me that Jess is portrayed as simultaneously immature, obsessive, cunning, pitiful, and innocent in this episode. Not only does this characterization let woman stalkers off the hook, but it really undermines the whimsy, generosity, and other centeredness I thought were cornerstones of who Jess is. Maybe that’s why the writers tried to redeem her in Episode 20 when Jess selflessly invites a woman in love with Sam to express her feelings to him. Strangely, Jess is super calm and reasonable about the whole thing even though her relationship with Sam might be over. Or perhaps this is just the real Jess emerging from whatever dark tunnel we were just in. 


Yes, I’m still watching the show. No one can get it right all of the time. But stalking is a form of gender violence we have yet to take seriously as a culture, and it’s time we change that. We shouldn’t laugh it off—this show is too awesome for that.  
 
Why is stalking a serious issue to you? Join the conversation at #stalkingisaseriousissue.

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What to Know About Jon Krakauer’s "Missoula: Rape and the Justice System in a College Town"

8/25/2015

3 Comments

 
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This summer I got caught up on some reading. I’d like to say that this involved a sandy beach, tropical drinks, and a stack of smutty novels, but alas, the kind of reading I was intent on catching up on was much less fun. Case in point: John Krakauer’s Missoula. I had been putting off purchasing the book after I first saw it at a feminist bookstore in Madison back in April right after its release because of its almost 400 pages of content. I knew that what I would find in its pages would most likely bear a striking resemblance to my own work with crisis centers, campus officials, and community sexual assault response teams when the systems set up to help victims seek justice and safety utterly fail. And I wasn’t wrong. The book is real, really tough to read, and may send you reeling. So, this post is for folks who are on the fence about reading the book. Or for those of you who know it’s not for you but want to know more about it. Or for anyone processing your own experience reading the book. So, here are my thoughts.
  1. Krakauer provides detailed, comprehensive accounts of a few sexual assault cases. We’re talking everything from victims’ narratives to what rapists said in court to what prosecutors did or didn’t do in each case to what got said behind (and in front of) closed doors. You really get the big picture of how cases can go down, why few rapists get punished (whether through the criminal justice system or campus judicial process), how personal and political connections in a community can mean victims aren’t believed, and the impact of almost everyone at every stage of the process embracing super damaging myths about rape. To be honest, it’s a lot to take in, and this is coming from someone who has been involved in crisis response work full and part-time for almost a decade. It’s super informative and real, but dang, it’s a tough read. If you’re someone who has experienced sexual violence or you’re a crisis worker in major burnout mode, proceed with caution. This brings me to next point:
  2. Reading this book necessitates accompanying self-care. At least that’s my take. It took me much longer to get through a book this size than I would normally need because I had to take breaks. I came to dread reading it and longed for it to be over, though my determination to finish it helped me plow through. It was drudgery. In its attempt to give an outsider a look into how these things play out, those of us in the know read on with negatively cynical “Yep-seen-this-before-let-me-guess-what’s-next-no-surprise-here-we-go-again-everything-sucks” kind of mentality. I even realized, as I was reading, that I was more short-tempered and angsty then usual, which gave me even more motivation to just keep reading so my time with the book would be finished. So if you are going to read this book, I recommend hot baths, intense cardio, and whatever things you do to keep yourself sane and not intensely angry or sad all of the time. Seriously. Because this book made me want to yell at everyone about how messed up the world is (which I was mostly successful at not doing), and cry at how helpless I feel to change the system this book documents (which I did more than once, followed by unhealthy eating and/or long napping). But, should you get through the book, I’m guessing you might agree that:
  3. The cases in this book are not unique to Missoula. So the criticism you might have heard Krakauer receiving for his focus on this specific college town in Montana is moot. The thing is—and he makes this clear in the book—Missoula is not unlike most other campuses and communities responding (badly) to criminal and campus judiciary cases involving sexual assault, whether you’re talking statistics or specific details. The stuff he documents happens everywhere, including the crummy ways prosecutors can treat victims and the incapacity of community members to believe that someone they worship (an athlete, for example) could commit sexual violence. It got me thinking a lot about an Illinois county prosecutor—in a county I lived and worked in—who not only refused to charge a woman’s rapist with sexual assault but charged her with felony false reporting instead. Or the high school athletics coach in rural Missouri who was so adored by our community that folks organized rallies and painted their cars in support of him even after six high school girls came forward with allegations of sexual abuse and harassment. I’m sure you’ll make your own connections to the accounts in this book, and that itself is disturbing: far too many of us know the realities involved in sexual assault cases. What is different about this book, at least for me, is that:
  4. Krakauer offers a compelling parallel between sports and courtroom culture. In addition to its thoroughness, the thing I appreciate most about Missoula is the parallel Krakauer draws between sports culture and what’s happening in courtrooms—and this is that they’re both centered on winning. Just as athletes duke it out on the field with the goal of dominating the other team, prosecutors’ main goal is to win cases, not necessarily to fight for what is “good” or “just,” even when it comes to sexual violence. I’ve seen this play out so many times: police will do a competent investigation and gather solid evidence and testimony only for the prosecutor to refuse charging the accused rapist because they might not win the case. Usually, this is because of rape myths: if the victim was drinking, made decisions to go to a guy’s place, or does not resemble a “credible” (read: believable or likeable) victim (this is where factors of race, social class, population, reputation, etc. get figured in), they know that this will impact the findings of a case. So instead of taking on the responsibility to educate judges, jurors, and the public about these myths (which is indeed a challenging task), they often opt to not take on these cases so that they can have amazing-looking records that show how many cases they have won so they can get re-elected. Not only is this a major issue at community and institutional levels, this is a systemic issue that exposes a majorly messed up criminal justice system ill-equipped to respond to sexual violence in any meaningful way, at least most of the time. This being so, my opinion is that:
  5. The folks who really need to read this book are ones with power and influence on campuses and in communities. For those of us who work in the movement to end gender violence, this book offers little more than validation of the kinds of things we are witnessing in our own communities across the United States. For folks without the inside knowledge, I could see this book as a productive introduction, and imagine it being read in college-level criminal justice classes. Where I think it holds the most promise, however, is in the hands of people with power and influence to make change on the institutional level—I’m talking prosecutors and judges and university presidents and stakeholders and government officials and legislators and you get the point. The challenge is convincing any of these folks to read a 400-page report about it. Perhaps that it was written by a famous white male mountaineer will help us in this endeavor. I don’t mean this flippantly: as a guy who has climbed Mt. Everest amidst harrowing circumstances and published a ton of award-winning narrative non-fiction, you’d think the fact that he’s writing about sexual assault response would raise some eyebrows. It is, for Krakauer, a new kind of mountain to take on, one that many of us have been climbing for years, and many folks decades before us. And we need all the help we can get.
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Feminist Resistance & Humor in Janelle Monáe’s “Yoga”

8/11/2015

4 Comments

 
I first witnessed the music video when I was on the treadmill at the gym. I have to admit I was a bit skeptical: I do lots of yoga and for me it’s a physical and spiritual practice that gets my head right and prevents my neck and back from causing me major problems. It’s not something I ever feel sexy doing. I’m way too worried about my spandex inching down my ass and my boobs falling out while I’m in downward dog, not to mention the loud Ujjayi sounds I make with my breath to distract myself from comparing my body to the skinnier and leaner ones next to me adorned in Lululemon. I also fart a lot. See? Not very sexy.

But Janelle Monáe reminds me that in addition to all of the things I express through my body, like my awkward attempts at asanas, the occasional yoga breakthrough (like that one time I did full-on wheel pose ALL MY MYSELF in my living room), and my commitment to groundedness, my body is also a sexual body, even while doing yoga. I know, I know, Janelle is singing about getting down at the club, but there’s something about the song that gets me thinking about how yoga has helped me to be more comfortable in my body, especially since experiencing sexual assault. It has helped me to be more confident, healthy, and self-aware, more focused on my body’s (physical, emotional, and sexual) needs, and more flexible (mentally as well as physically). It hasn’t drastically changed my physical appearance, but I have certainly developed more of an existence of being in myself, if that makes any sense. Yep, yoga has been life-changing for me.

So, back to the song. If you haven’t heard it, you must. It’s super catchy and fun and sexy and even better because it’s written by a six-time Grammy nominee on her own record label. The video is great because I can dance along to the chorus (seriously—the moves are super follow-able for us the common folk who wish we could dance and actually feel like we can kind of dance with moves like this) and feel all empowered while I do it with lines like: “I ain’t got no worries, I’m my own private dancer” and “Crown on my head but the world on my shoulder / I’m too much a rebel, never do what I’m supposed ta.” Not to mention that I love how Janelle takes yoga out of the context of studios filled with upper white class women and owns it by her own terms. 

And then there’s the last part of the second verse: “You cannot police me so get off my areola, get off my areola.”

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So this is the point as you’re reading this that if you haven’t seen the video, I recommend you watch it now. I’m serious. You have to watch Janelle’s face when she sings, “areola.” It’s this amazingly awesome moment in which she achieves a balance of resistance, boldness, self-awareness, and humor. Whether she is speaking to the truths of black women or all women, she’s saying something about the policing of bodies and sexuality and sexual expression and self-expression. And the way she does it is brilliant, because it is inviting rather than alienating. Some folks have suggested that she’s making a nod to #freethenipple, and that may be true, but I think the line is about so much more than that.

It’s a reminder about how women’s bodies are still objectified, commodified, trivialized, and controlled. It makes it seem ironic, then, that “areola” was censor-worthy when Janelle performed “Yoga” on The Tonight Show back in May. If you listen closely, she actually sings something that sounds like “little ola.” The performance is still great, but come on. I didn’t even know “areola” was considered profane, let alone not suitable for late-night programming. Still, Janelle reminds us that “Sometimes I’m peachy, and sometimes I’m vulgar / Even when I’m sleeping I got one eye open.” She may have self-censored, but she’s aware of it and she will find other ways to express resistance. At least this is what I like to think about her performance.

At any rate, I’m still in love with the song and the way Janelle creates space for bodily agency and empowerment. Though some arguments can be made for “Yoga” catering somewhat to a hetero male audience—and such points made stronger by some of Jidenna’s lyrics—Janelle has made it clear in the past that she’s a feminist and that she is “not for male consumption.” In a culture in which we are still struggling against slut-shaming, abstinence-only education, rampant sexual violence, and victim-blaming, “Yoga” offers an affirming path for self-loving sexuality.

I think the key, as Janelle models, is to not take ourselves too seriously. Some of my favorite yoga instructors offer the same mantra: work hard, but do it with a sense of humor. This kind of feminist resistance is fierce and focused, but invitational. Feminism, like yoga, should be flexible and self-aware and strong, but it can also be fun, sexy, humble, and willing to laugh at itself. And if this is the kind of feminism we engage in, maybe more folks will join us. After all, no one wants to join a yoga class full of uppity snobs only concerned with appearances and showing off. Let’s flex our humor-filled feminist muscles with Janelle. We might even achieve a kind of feminist nirvana.
 
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    Jenn Freitag, Ph.D. is an educator, activist, scholar, and performance artist committed to ending gender violence. 

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