Category: Language

"Tiny Hands" is not an Equality Anthem

1/19/2017

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.

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?

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

6/24/2015

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Halloween 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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Feminism is Not a Game of Thrones

5/27/2015

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*No spoilers here, GOT fans! Read on!

I love engaging in feminist critique of popular culture. It’s actually one of my favorite pastimes, because I love feminism and I find pop culture fascinating and fun and entertaining and maddening and disturbing and impossible to ignore. The world of pop culture is accessible to many, it often reflects where we’re at on social issues, and it also suggests where mainstream culture may be changing when it comes to stuff like gender roles and sexual violence. There are so many angles and perspectives and theories and questions that people can bring to a dialogue about any given film or TV show or music video, and this should make for incredibly interesting, complicated, and nuanced discussion. Except when it doesn’t.

I read feminist blogs that make awesome contributions to how we think about pop culture, but do it in a way that suggests that if you and I don’t agree wholeheartedly, we might be stripped of our feminist namesake and cast out of the community without a second thought. I watch my friends shy away from making bold, intelligent critiques in public forums like Facebook because, in their view, they are not on the “feminist bandwagon” and will get bludgeoned by the more popular feminist critiques if they speak up. I witness my significant other crafting careful responses to critiques of video games in the Twitterverse only to be viciously attacked in the name of feminism. People, we can do better than this.

I refuse to engage in a simplistic debate about whether Game of Thrones is good or bad and if choosing to watch it means you are no longer a feminist. I refuse to name-call when someone makes a critique I disagree with, and I most definitely refuse to claim that my feminist view is the only one worth considering. I refuse to hurl insults at people who continue to watch a show even if I personally condemn its violence, and I refuse to make snap judgments that assume I know people’s motivations for remaining committed to consuming a particular art form despite its sexism. Yes, GOT has some pretty horrendous depictions of rape. Yes, it may be triggering for many folks, and no, rape is never, ever ok and yes, I’m sick of its omnipresence in our lives. But I’m not sure that omitting all forms of sexual violence from the script is the best solution. Sometimes its representation—however difficult to witness—can offer audiences opportunities for engagement and reflection that they might never otherwise encounter. I also think every individual should have the right to choose how they want to respond to the sexual violence in GOT. I respect folks who decide they are done and take a public stand based on this position. I respect folks who decide not to watch because it would threaten their emotional health. And I respect those who continue to watch and witness and remain deep within its throes, because they may be the ones offering the feminist arguments that those of us who have opted out cannot.

I’m not saying we should tone down our critiques or sacrifice whatever feminist values we subscribe to. What I am suggesting is that we reconsider the ways we engage in feminist critique, because right now an awful lot of us are pitted against one another. When we hate on each other, we silence one another, and that ain’t what feminism ought to be about. We should be challenging easy arguments and struggling through the complexities and caveats that make discussions about pop culture interesting. We should talk about this stuff without creating casualties, and we should recognize that our antagonism doesn’t exactly make feminism appealing to folks who don’t share our passion for the cause. Cercei Lannister dropped this truth: “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.” Let’s stop swinging our swords at each other. Feminist engagement shouldn’t be a game of thrones.

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Feminist Frank is not Boyfriend Material

5/28/2014

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I’m not out to ruin everyone’s fun. Honest. It just seems that in the midst of the mainstream feminist movement’s love affair with Feminist Frank, we worship him much too easily. I mean, this meme has been posted with glorious admiration by many of the feminist and critical blogs and sites I follow (like Feministing and PolicyMic) as well as some of the more sort of feminist stuff I read (like HuffPost Women or Buzzfeed). And aside from PolicyMic’s actual discussion of how the meme may function, each of these sites wholeheartedly embraces Feminist Frank without any critical interrogation. Buzzfeed even suggests that Feminist Frank would be the perfect boyfriend. Hmm. Though I don’t think that’s what folks are really thinking when they encounter the meme, I do think we owe it to ourselves—as feminists—to take a closer look beyond the initial chuckle of enjoyment we get from these incredibly misogynist phrases being subverted by an Abercrombie-looking presumably straight white dude we don’t expect to have feminist sensibilities.

But does Frank have feminist sensibilities? And does he, as Elizabeth Plank suggests, really allow “women to imagine a world where even the douchiest douche has the potential to be an ally. Maybe women can have it all?” Is this our fantasy scenario? Because if so, I think we’re setting the bar quite low. And as much as I wish all the entitled cis white straight men would wake up and realize how ridiculous and harmful misogyny and gender stereotypes and traditional masculinity really are and join the movement to end gender violence, I’m really not thrilled about posers like Feminist Frank being touted as the new representatives of the feminist movement.

Here’s why. First of all, we wouldn’t actually like Feminist Frank in the flesh. Just imagine him as a real guy. If I was at a party and this preppy dude walked up to me with an opening line like, “You can’t rape the willing…” and then quickly followed it up with “which is why getting your consent before we make out is super important to me” I would still think he is a misogynist jackass despite his attempt to “save” the first part of his sentence. If Frank was truly a feminist, he wouldn’t try to woo me with rapey pickup lines. He’d be doing real feminist work instead of co-opting the language of feminism to try and impress women. Rebecca Vipond Brink makes a similar argument about Feminist Frank, suggesting that

“These are men on the left who say that they’re feminists but who never act like it; who speak over women in discussions about women’s rights instead of listening to us. They’re guys who are sexist, but who cloak themselves in the language of leftist and feminist politics in order
to claim that they’re not.”

Second, Feminist Frank relies on the rhetoric of sexism and rape to set the foundation for his redeemability. Though each of these phrases

That chick totally blew me
Dang gurl that ass
I’d hit that
I got 99 problems and a bitch ain’t one
Watch me smack that ass
That bitch sure is a prize

is followed by a clause intended to subvert their misogyny, Feminist Frank’s statements only work as humor or entertainment because they are misogynistic. The meme is enjoyable because it defies our expectations. I can get on board with that to a certain degree, but I think we need to ask what it means that our humor and entertainment is based upon a foundation of violence against women and girls. I get that Feminist Frank’s intended audience is already informed feminist-minded folks, but are we making a joke of sexism and rape in a way that will minimize their seriousness? Is the risk worth our enjoyment?

Third, though I’m obviously a proponent of the idea that anyone—everyone—can be feminist (I subscribe to bell hooks’s definition of feminism as a movement to end sexism, sexist oppression, and exploitation), is Feminist Frank really the epitome of feminist success? Are cisgender white straight middle and upper class men really the last frontier of feminism? This is a far more complicated question than can be teased out here, given that these are the folks who get away with committing the most violence against women and who arguably pose the greatest threat to the liberation of women—and all people, inclusive of differences in gender identity, sexual orientation, race, class, nationality, ability, etc. So what if instead of situating Feminist Frank as our feminist man idol we instead frame the meme as a sad and ironic example of how screwed up the world is: that this is what feminist looks like? Feminist Frank as dark feminist humor—instead of lighthearted feminist fantasy—is something I could really get behind.

I pose all of these thoughts as questions more than as a definitive argument. Certainly there are some variations of the Feminist Frank meme that are not as overtly violent or do not rely as wholly on sexually violent language to make their point. In fact, the presumably first Feminist Frank image used the phrase, “Women who dress provocatively deserve…to be treated with respect and decency, just like everyone else.” Love it. And “I’m gonna get loud…at the demonstration this evening – Take Back the Night!” is certainly fun and devoid of violence. It’s also important to note that Feminist Frank functions very similarly to sexual violence prevention efforts like the Make Your Move campaign that subvert creepy phrases to encourage bystander intervention: “I could tell she was asking for it…to stop. So I stepped in and told my buddy that was no way to treat a lady. And he backed off.” I applaud the creativity because we certainly need it when it comes to prevention. But a lot of the questions I have about Feminist Frank are also questions I have of these campaigns.

Perhaps Feminist Frank is a first step, as some have suggested, for more men to actively take part in feminist conversations—though it’s impossible to know how many men are actually reproducing the meme, or what motivates them to participate in the discussion, be it an excuse to participate in misogyny disguised in a feminist mask or actual interest in eradicating sexism. And I have yet to read any commentary on Feminist Frank written by men. This is why I’m skeptical.

So, I invite you into a dialogue about feminism, social change, and men’s engagement with, or performance of, feminism. Thank you, (Faux) Feminist Frank, for being a catalyst for this discussion. I would never date you, but you do bring up important stuff we need to think about as we strive to end sexism and gender violence.

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The Rhetoric of Rape

10/1/2013

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I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of talking about rape.

And I mean RAPE in all its disgusting heaviness—like bricks weighing down a chest and pressing against a throat, or, the kind of choking fog that pulls you into a deep abyss.

Rape is depressing. I’ve worked in the sexual violence prevention and response field for the past ten years--
I know. I’ve also been sexually assaulted more than once and been lucky enough to have enough support to bust out of the confines of what the word “rape” alone can do to a body, to a soul. Not everyone is so lucky, and this reality makes me ache.

I think this is part of the reason that positivity and hope are central to my approach to ending sexual violence. Not happy-go-lucky ignorant hope, but a kind of hope rooted in creativity, faith in people, and the power of critical dialogue: the stuff activists like Paulo Freire and Augusto Boal were all about. It’s not the “kumbaya” we associate with naïve optimism or hypocrisy; it’s the “kumbaya” of connection and spiritual unity, “Come by here,” a genuine longing for compassion, for change.

Augusto Boal used to invite his workshop participants to “Come closer.” I too, invite audiences to engage in hopeful dialogue with me through the use of humor and music. And though there is pain underlining the very reason why I perform about gender violence issues in the first place, I use optimist humor to attempt to disarm the idea of “rape” as something that swallows everything. Rapists may have taken, but they don’t get it all. They don’t get control over how we name and frame and re-claim our experiences.

Our rhetoric of rape does not need to be hopeless. It does not need to be dark or dank, our language stuck in a cycle of revictimization. Our rhetoric of rape can also move beyond survival into celebration, fierce wit, and self-reflective humor. In other words, if we’re going to try to end rape, why not put some positive force behind it?

I’m tired of talking about rape in ways that make me depressed. We are complicated beings capable of recognizing both the horribleness of rape and the potential of our talk about it to transform the world around us. We need a fierce optimism to inspire us to continue answering hotline calls, to prevent us from burnout, to engage us in radical acts of self-care. We need a kind of profound hope that inspires audience members in our prevention programs into lively, multi-dimensional dialogues about ending sexual violence.

This is not to suggest that “rape” should lose its nastiness. On the contrary, our anger about rape is integral to a desire for the transformation of our rape culture world. Coupled with creative, critically clever activism, our frustration and anger at rape culture can be channeled into self-sustaining movement that helps us to heal, refuel, and remain inspired.

No, rapists. You don’t win.

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i want my jacket back

"Tiny Hands" is not an Equality Anthem

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

Feminism is Not a Game of Thrones

Feminist Frank is not Boyfriend Material

The Rhetoric of Rape

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