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"Tiny Hands" is not an Equality Anthem

1/19/2017

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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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Battlebots, Women, and Taking Up Space

7/14/2015

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Recently, my significant other and I have made a Sunday evening tradition of Battlebots. We settle on the couch with a pizza, make predictions about which bots will last the round, and yell out in playful glee as these big chunks of metal shred each other apart in each three-minute match. It’s pretty awesome. 
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There aren’t many ladies on the show, but there are a few standout women engineers in the championship quarter finals like Andrea Suarez (Witch Doctor) and Wendy Maxham (Stinger the Killer Bee) who have built some pretty fantastic bots. 

There are also two women announcers. Though I’m not sure they have as much fun as ring announcer Faruq Tauheed does when he introduces the competitors (which seriously must be the best job on the show), Alison Haislip provides enthusiastic sideline reporting dressed in stylish nerd fashion. She’s cool, and she seems to connect well with the engineers she interviews. And then there’s Molly McGrath.

Though McGrath is the first cast member listed on the Battlebots website and she holds the general title of host (Chris Rose and Kenny Florian are play-by-play and color commentary announcers), her role seems to deviate the most from the super nerdtastic amazingness that is this show about remote-controlled machines battling it out in a combat elimination tournament. I’m not just talking about how she is clothed, though her short, tight dresses and heels seem to be meant for dudes who apparently need a stereotypically-presented female figure to reinforce the masculinity they risk losing by watching a show about robot battles. It’s not Sunday night football. Clothing choices aside, McGrath is presented as the eye candy intermediary between all of the other commentators on the show. Perhaps more significant than the lack of airtime or substance she is able to present as host, however, is the way McGrath stands as she interacts with Rose and Florian in the studio. 

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Instead of standing strongly on two feet, McGrath often stands on her right foot, crosses her left foot out in front of her right leg, and points her left toe. It must take a lot of work to stand that way – she’s rocking fabulous stilettos as she does it – but I question what the directors and producers of this show are going for with this ultra-meek, deferential, and supposedly sexy posture. As someone who teaches public speaking, I am especially concerned that a professional sports reporter like Molly McGrath is modeling a stage presence predicated on her ability to make herself appear smaller. If you watch closely, you’ll notice that her transitions to actually standing on two feet (a grounded, empowered speaking position that is Public Speaking 101) are clunky and awkward. And if you really think about it, watching McGrath do the cross-legged standing thing just seems weird in a context in which badass women engineers are dominating the Battlebot arena with heavy metal flippers and flame spitting partner bots. I mean really. It’s distracting, and it makes me mildly furious because I’d rather not have to get all feminist critic on a show about battling robots.

I’m not suggesting that Molly McGrath is anything short of capable and empowered. She is an engaging host with the small segments she is given. But I do wish the producers would give her the literal space she deserves to do her job, look hot, and seem strong and grounded as she does it. After all, Molly McGrath is not a robot herself, nor should she be made to act like one.

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 I am Not Madonna:   Sexual Entitlement in "Bitch I'm Madonna"

6/24/2015

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PictureHalloween 2011
There is a lot to almost love about Madonna’s new music video. You’ve got cute little white girls at the beginning dressed up all 90s Madonna-style, cameos from a handful of superstars, and the Queen of Pop herself. “Bitch I’m Madonna” has the potential to be the next hashtag movement that embraces self-love, glitter, fame, and power. Sounds fun, right? After all, I too am Madonna. Really. I rocked my Madonna self at Halloween a few years ago, lace gloves and all. I’m a fan.

So when I watched the music video to find Madonna stumbling around at a party, appropriating other cultures, and teaming up with Nicki Minaj to make sure “these hoes know” that “Bitch I’m Madonna,” I was surprised and frankly, profoundly disappointed. I think of Madonna as a feminist  
icon, an image of sex-positive empowerment, a goddess. When I watch the video I do not witness a Madonna of fierce, sexy independence; instead, I watch someone on a power trip attempting to retain her legendary image at the expense of others, and at the expense of what has made her so fabulous in the first place.



In “Bitch I’m Madonna,” Madonna models the kind of sexual entitlement many of us are sickened by in predictably sexist music videos like “Blurred Lines.” Case in point: about two minutes into the video, Madonna walks up behind a guy seated at a bar, pulls him backward by the hair, pours a drink in his mouth, then pelvic thrusts him from behind. The guy is caught off guard, and the directors of the video don’t even make an attempt to make it look like this he enjoys any of what Madonna has just done to him. Though I appreciate the attempt to queer up this moment a bit with the woman who simultaneously pelvic thrusts Madonna from behind as Madonna thrusts into guy at bar, this moment falls very, very, short of being consensual. If a dude did this to a woman we as a public would be super angry. Being a woman, or being Madonna, does not make it ok.

Second case in point: about a minute later when Madonna grabs a woman at the top of the stairs, pushes her briskly against the wall, and kisses her. In this instance, the woman is smiling as Madonna grabs her, so it is unclear if what happens is consensual. But the message here is that it’s super sexy to act upon other people’s bodies as long as you own it, and have the social capital to do so. Sadly, I have witnessed women at parties who have done just this to my friends, especially when said friends have had a few drinks and can be caught off guard enough for the instigator to think they can get by with it. And they have. But let’s be clear: this is sexual assault. And being a woman does not make this kind of behavior acceptable, however famous you are.

We need to look past gender stereotypes enough to realize that the “Bitch I’m Madonna” kind of Madonna is one predicated on sexual entitlement and power at the expense of other people’s bodies. There are so many other ways Madonna could embrace power, queer sexuality, and sex positivity without treating men like animals and women like passive recipients of her prowess in this video. It seems like the “bitch” to which she is referring could be anyone she feels entitled to act upon, or anyone who might disagree with her behavior because, after all, she’s Madonna. But this is not the kind of Madonna, or the kind of “bad bitch,” I want to be.

If I am going to reclaim the word bitch at all, it is with abandon. It’s in a Lady Gaga “Bad Romance” kind of way—a reclamation that is fun and powerful and, most importantly, not at anyone else’s expense. The big difference here is that when Gaga tells us, “I’m a free bitch, baby,” and when I sing along and claim this for myself, it’s about choice. It’s about bucking the system, being labeled a bitch, and then co-opting that label in powerful reclamation. “Bitch I’m Madonna” takes on a controlling, dehumanizing kind of power, and there’s nothing sexy, liberating, or fabulous about that. 

#iamnotmadonna
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The Love Monster

6/8/2015

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“He ate my heart...he a-a-ate my heart” --Lady Gaga

When I was a full-time prevention educator at a crisis center in the rural Midwest, I used to facilitate this “monster” activity with kids in early elementary school classrooms. After a few visits in which I talked about healthy relationships, body boundaries, and respect with the kids, I’d introduce this activity to get them thinking about how to express what makes them scared, how to speak back to what makes them upset, and where they can go for help if they need it. I love the activity because it involves creativity, crayons, and healthy coping skills; they love to color and share their masterpieces.

It goes like this: I ask the kids to think about something that makes them scared, angry, upset, or sad. I hand out coloring sheets with an outline of a monster that they can color however they want based on how they feel. It’s awesome watching them go to work, and even more fun to ask them what they would name their monster, and what sound it would make. They get super into it, and I adore watching them express themselves. When they are finished, I help them talk back to their monsters (they repeat phrases like, “You don’t win, monster!” which is, of course, empowering and fun for them) and we talk about how it’s ok to feel lots of different emotions, how to deal with them in a healthy way, and what to do if someone is hurting them.

A girl in a kindergarten class I visited last year named her picture, “The Love Monster.” Unlike many of the other children who had colored scary or angry monsters, her monster was cute and covered with red and pink hearts. When I asked her why it was called the love monster, she explained that a boy at school was “in love” with her and would not leave her alone. This made her frustrated and angry. I was so struck by the picture that I don’t recall the exact details of this situation, though I know we talked about how if a boy wouldn’t leave her alone it was not ok and that she needed to tell (and keep telling) teachers and other adults about what was happening if he didn’t stop.

The Love Monster stuck with me because I think it suggests some realities about how girls are taught to deal with sexual harassment, abuse, and assault. We are often taught to politely decline or ignore advances, smile through our anger, and minimize potentially violent actions because “boys will be boys.” Many of us, regardless of gender, may grow up mistaking attention for love, and sometimes it becomes difficult for us to differentiate love and respect from abuse and control. When Lady Gaga sings, “That boy is a monster,” I think one thing she’s capturing is the complicated sort of way many of us have become used to being consumed and disrespected by people in our lives. We may even love these individuals, even though we know they are “wolves in disguise.” Even though we may know we deserve more than that.

We need to teach kids (across a continuum of gender) what real care and respect—and love—looks like. We need to teach them what it means to care for and respect and love themselves as well as others. And we all need to learn how to deal with “Love Monsters” in both polite and impolite ways. It is not always easy. I know I am still learning. Perhaps that is why I love that Lady Gaga song so much.


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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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