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Feminist Frank is not Boyfriend Material

5/28/2014

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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Why is it so Hard to Start by Believing?

4/24/2014

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It is commonly known among crisis counselors that the first person one discloses to after an act of sexual violence is perhaps the most important. This first person may influence an individual’s entire path of dealing with that act of violence for years to come: if a supportive response is offered, an individual may feel believed and validated. They are more likely to seek further help, move forward in their lives quicker and easier, and find healthy ways to deal with what happened. If the response is one of disbelief or blame, an individual may be retraumatized and left feeling more alone than ever. They may never tell anyone again, never seek help, never feel recognized. This is why Starting by Believing is so important, and why I believe that even if you know very little about sexual violence, the simple act of telling someone you believe them can make a huge difference in that person’s life.

But, it’s not so simple, is it? It should be, right? If someone told you their daughter died in a car accident, you wouldn’t tell them, “Well, your daughter really shouldn’t have been out driving by herself so late in the afternoon,” or “I think she asked for it. She was driving a red car.” What makes sexual violence so different? Why are we so quick to shame and blame and not believe?

First, the fact that we normalize sexual violence in our daily lives—hear jokes about it, see rape depicted on TV and film without comment, participate in calling one another dehumanizing words for women, decide not to intervene when our pals are trying to “nail a girl” using alcohol to make her vulnerable—makes acts of sexual violence seem less, well, violent. A song like “Blurred Lines” topping the music charts around the world for several weeks offers us a social barometer for how we think about these issues—as blurry, as normal, and even fun. Seriously. Have you listened to the song? It’s catchy, and easy to find yourself jamming to in your car. And that’s really the thing: it’s easy. It is an easy choice to ignore the parts of the song that suggest anal rape, to pretend that “I know you want it” isn’t something said by rapist after rapist. It is a lot more difficult to turn off the radio if the song’s got a great beat; it is easier to dismiss the song’s critique as “rapey” because it allows us to continue living the easy life that does not involve having to think about sexual violence as a daily reality for so many individuals.

Second, though all of us would certainly agree that rape is bad, what “counts” as sexual violence in the general public seems to be dependent on a variety of factors: what someone was wearing when the act of violence occurred, what they were doing, the person’s “reputation,” or how much we like the person being accused of sexual assault. Instead of simply believing someone when they come to us and tell us something horrible happened to them, we immediately come up with all these reasons that thing just could not be true. I think one of the reasons we do this is to feel safe, like this couldn’t happen to us, that it couldn’t happen to me. If I blame someone for drinking too much, I can feel safer thinking that I would never drink that much. If I blame someone for what they were wearing, I can think I have some security because I would never wear that. See, blaming someone for what happened to them shifts responsibility for an act of sexual violence from the person who committed that act—who could commit that act against any of us—to the victim of that act. And shifting that blame allows to us deal less with the fact that rape is so prevalent and something that could happen no matter how “careful” you are, how many self-defense classes you take, or how much you trust someone. This is a difficult reality, and it is a reality we have to deal with when we choose to truly believe someone who discloses they have experienced sexual violence.

Third, choosing to believe means acknowledging that people we have trusted—people we look up to—are capable of committing rape. When Andrea McNulty reported that Steelers quarterback “Big Ben” Roethlisberger had raped her, she was told by a security guard at the casino where it happened that its president was friends with Roethlisberger and that most girls would feel lucky to have sex with someone like him. She wasn’t believed. A couple years later Big Ben faced similar allegations from another woman, but the public cheers him on like nothing happened. Though charges against Kobe Bryant were dropped because the woman he attacked did not want have to testify in court and become identified to the public, he wrote a letter admitting that he knew he raped her. He is still celebrated. Mike Tyson was actually convicted of raping Desiree Washington but his fan base grew stronger than ever at her expense. When The New York Times published Dylan Farrow’s letter describing her abuse at the hands of her stepfather, Woody Allen, she was brushed off by many as being manipulative, brainwashed by her mother, and crazy. Now I am certainly not a judge or a jury, and I was not there in these situations to know exactly what went down. But what I do know is that as a public, we are far more likely to quickly dismiss survivors who come forward than to believe them—because that would mean believing that these men we admire as athletes and cheer on at sporting events and support at the movie theater might possibly be rapists. And believing they may be rapists means we have to rethink the stereotype we have in our heads of what a rapist looks like: a stranger who jumps out of the bushes who looks and acts creepy. We can feel safer thinking we know how to identify someone who might hurt us, even though 90% of the time survivors know their attackers. It can be a difficult process to figure out how to deal with the fact that Woody Allen might be a terrible human being. Or how to negotiate loving the Steelers and recognizing Big Ben as a rapist. It is easier to just put it out of our minds and continue watching Woody Allen flicks, to “forget” Kobe admitted to rape while we cheer on the Lakers.

I watched this happen in a town I worked in several years ago. Six teenage girls came forward after being molested by their high school volleyball coach. Though they were believed by their parents, the town turned against them. Community members painted messages of support on their cars for the coach, they organized a rally in his honor. The girls were harassed and thrown into their lockers at school. They were not believed because believing this coach had done these things would mean that everyone was wrong about him, that he couldn’t be trusted—this man coaching their daughters’ sports teams. It was later learned that he was fired from his previous school district after similar allegations there. I still catch Facebook friends of mine hailing this coach in their status updates. It is far easier to continue believing that the world does not work this way. That coaches don’t touch their athletes inappropriately. That fathers don’t abuse their children. That someone we trust would never do this.

But individuals who have experienced sexual violence do not have that luxury. And if we are really honest with ourselves, and consider the statistical probability that many women and girls in our lives—as well as boys and men and transgender individuals—are affected by these issues, and if we take a moment to empathize with someone who just wants this thing to go away but instead comes to us to tell us what happened, wondering what we will say, how we will treat them—I hope we will make the choice to start by believing every time, no matter how difficult it might seem at the outset. It is a simple act with a profound effect. Just imagine how ideas about sexual violence would change in our culture if millions of people around the world simply started by believing. Not only would we create a worldwide network of support for individuals who have experienced sexual violence, we would simultaneously communicate an intolerance for sexual violence and accountability for those who commit it. So let’s start now. Let’s Start by Believing.

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Combination Lock Underwear ≠ Sexual Violence Prevention

11/12/2013

4 Comments

AR Wear is seeking your financial support to finish the development of a new product designed to deter sexual assault. It’s called “anti-rape-wear,” a product its creators believe “will give women and girls additional power to control what happens to their bodies in case they are assaulted.” These impenetrable boy-short style, cut-proof, combination lock underwear might seem innovative, but the cultural attitudes that brought them into being are nothing new. Here are twelve reasons why AR Wear won’t be getting my dollars:

Women are still held responsible for preventing rape. As if women haven’t been told enough by society what to do or not to do to feel safe from sexual assault, here’s one more thing to add to your shopping list—after the pepper spray, brass knuckles, self-defense classes, and other miscellaneous weapons we are told to keep with us at all times. Responsibility is still being placed on women to prevent sexual assault, and the stuff we’re told to do isn’t even necessarily going to stop rape from happening—not even “a clothing line offering wearable protection for when things go wrong.” After all, most assaults aren’t committed by strangers, but by people we know and trust.
All I can think is: chastity belt. Let’s be real…all one needs to do is change the name of the product to “purity panties” and these things have an entirely different function.
Feeling safe isn’t necessarily being safe. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all about doing things to feel a sense of security. I do things to feel safe all the time, like not walk alone at night if I don’t have to, keep my phone at the ready if I do, keep my car doors locked, turn on the TV if I hear weird noises in my house. But here’s the thing: I might feel a little safer by doing these things, but am I actually safer? And could one go as far as to suggest that my confidence is increased as a result? Am I more empowered, or am I just under the illusion that I am? I think we all know the answer to that. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being told what I need to do to feel safe. I don’t want to have to buy special underwear to ward away attackers. I’d like to actually feel safer because people aren’t going around raping each other.
Sexual assault involves more than penetration. Though fortified underwear may stop or slow down an attacker from committing some types of sexual assault, it doesn’t mean that someone is free from all the other ways they could be violated. Sexual assault is any nonconsensual sexual contact, and unfortunately, over-the-underwear assault can be just as traumatic as the reverse. So in actuality, this “anti-rape” product is actually quite limited. Maybe they could develop some sort of full-body mummy-style anti-rape suit—that would be interesting. Or better yet, build some kind of impenetrable bubble that would make it impossible for any potential perpetrator to even get near me. If we’re going to make women the ones responsible for stopping rape, the bubble approach seems the most practical way to go about it.
I’m not convinced that pissing off an attacker won’t increase the amount of violence perpetrated against me. The creators of AR Wear argue that they read studies that suggest “resistance increases the chance of avoiding a completed rape without making the victim more likely to be physically injured” which apparently leads them to conclude that “an item of clothing that creates an effective barrier layer can allow women and girls to passively resist an attacker, in addition to any other form of resistance they may be able to carry out at the time of an assault.” The AR Wear folks actually only cite one such study, and the conclusion they make based on it is both oversimplified and seemingly focused on stranger assaults only. This research doesn’t take into account the scores of women who comply to their attackers in hopes that the violence won’t be as severe or that they might simply survive the attack. It also doesn’t take into account what happens if a victim’s “forceful resistance” or other strategies aren’t enough for her to get away from her attacker. Think of it this way: If I try to use my pepper spray to thwart and attack and I miss, what happens next?
If this is anti-rape wear, is everything else rape wear? If I’m raped and I’m not wearing these special underwear (you know, because I wanted to take a day off from feeling constricted and hypervigilant) will I be blamed for what happens to me? Does not wearing these underwear mean I’m inviting assault, like other women who choose to walk alone at night, have a few drinks at the bar, and attempt to live their lives not paralyzed by the fear of rape? Do my regular old cheap panties shout “easy access” and “I’m asking for it”?
Women who wear this underwear will think about rape every time they get dressed. As an activist who works at a rape crisis center, sexual assault is something I think about constantly. And though I’m a huge advocate for promoting awareness about rape, I’d rather not think about it every time I get dressed. Rape awareness is about consciousness-raising, not fear mongering. And if the only way we can feel safe is to wear anti-rape underwear, we have a serious problem (duh).
This product is only marketed to white, stereotypically attractive women. The myth that only young, “attractive” women who engage in “risky” activities are raped is still pervasive, and the AR Wear ad doesn’t help. Are young, slender white women the only demographic we care about protecting? Where are the women of color? Where is the age diversity? Will they even manufacture these things in my size? And where—dare I say it—are the men?
How affordable are these, anyway? I would be interested to know how much a pair of these power panties is going cost, and whether or not most women would be able to afford them. I can tell you this: it’s not like Rape Crisis Centers across the country could afford to hand these out at Take Back the Night events. And if AR Wear is only affordable for certain folks, then we to rethink how to make everyone more safe.
It seems like peeing would be difficult. My understanding is that one would have to loosen each thigh strap and unlock the combination at the waist every time she wants to go to the bathroom. Not only would this be annoying, but there we go having to think about rape again the ten times we use the toilet throughout the day. Just thinking about having to think about that makes me feel exhausted.
Someone profits when women purchase a false sense of safety. AR Wear has already raised more than $52,000 for further development of their underwear, perhaps demonstrating both the product’s mainstream appeal and our widespread fear of being sexually assaulted. At any rate, it bothers me that the commercialization of a product like this means that someone profits from all of that collective fear. Anti-capitalism rants aside, I think we should consider where we’re putting our money—and hence, our focus. Think of all the primary prevention work (focused on prevention rather than risk reduction) that could be done with that amount of money (I work in nonprofit, and money for prevention is quite scarce). If AR Wear was to donate its profits to help fund rape prevention efforts, I might ease up a bit here. Until then, I would suggest donating your money to primary prevention efforts that don’t rely on the worn out idea that women alone should be responsible for stopping their own sexual assaults.
I refuse to lose hope. Risk reduction efforts like self-defense classes or whistle key-chains or ironclad underwear don’t function to change the culture—in many ways, they play right into it. Primary prevention strategies, in contrast, focus attention on preventing sexual assault by changing attitudes and behaviors that lead to individual violence and collective acceptance of rape. Real prevention takes time, and yes, it’s difficult work. Anti-rape undies are the easy way out because they allow us as a culture to remain passive about doing the hard work to make this place safer for all of us. For me, to buy and wear these undies means giving in to the fear I’m “just supposed to live with” as a woman. I refuse to accept this as a reality, and my hope that we can end sexual assault is stronger than any pair of underwear I could buy.

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Empathizing with Chris Brown

10/10/2013

5 Comments

Let’s talk about traditional masculinity. It expects men to be heterosexual, hypersexual, always sexual. It demands a performance of hardness and strength and leaves little room for showing or admitting vulnerability, tender emotion, or weakness. It entices boys and men to view sex with girls and women as conquests that prove their manhood, their worth.

We don’t talk about sexual violence committed against boys and men enough. If we did, we might recognize that our very rigid adherence to binary gender roles—and the maintenance of traditional masculinity as a part of this system—can make it very difficult for someone expected to perform “MAN” to tell someone they may have been abused—or to even admit that to himself.

So I’m really not surprised that Chris Brown, in a recent interview, apparently bragged about losing his virginity to a fourteen year-old girl when he was only eight. He spins what you or I might consider child sexual abuse as early practice for “being a beast at it….the best at it.” However he chooses to label his experience is not really my concern, whatever expertise I might have about these kinds of scenarios. If anything, Brown’s experience—or his telling of it—demonstrates the massive pressure men are under to perform heterosexual masculinity, whether at eight years old or twenty four.

I was surprised, however, at how one writer for Jezebel responded to Brown’s comments:

“Of all the pop stars milling about the culture [sic] landscape these days, Chris Brown has a singular talent for making it impossible to sympathize with him even if he’s recounting a vaguely traumatic incident from his childhood. You know, like that time he lost his virginity to [a] teenage girl. When he was eight.”

In a rape culture world that constantly blames and silences victims, is our hatred of Chris Brown’s abusive behavior so powerful that it prevents us from thoughtfully reflecting on his own experiences of victimization? Whatever education Brown got from his peers, pornography, or witnessing the abuse of his mother by his stepfather has undoubtedly played a major role in how he views and treats women. It does not excuse what he’s done, but it provides one window into beginning to understand his abusive behavior within the context of a patriarchal system that teaches men they need to dominate women to feel any sense of power.

I do not find it impossible to empathize with Chris Brown. I do not believe his abusive behavior should be tolerated or excused, but I refuse to hurl hatred at him because he seems to have minimized an experience of early victimization. Dismissing Brown as being “impossible to sympathize with” oversimplifies the complexities of sexual and partner violence and positions him as a scapegoat for many of us—especially white folks—to pile on layer after layer of anger we have toward men who commit violence against women. When we focus all of our attention on the individual behavior of one person, we underemphasize that gender violence is a systemic issue fueled by toxic gender expectations.

I empathize with all of us for having to deal with this screwed up system. I empathize with men who feel so powerless in their own sense of self that they feel they have to prove it through abuse and sexual violence. I empathize with men who got there because they were emotionally, physically, or sexually abused themselves. This reality is a cultural failure which we all share responsibility for changing. Perhaps we can start by investigating the complex negotiations behind each façade of masculinity.

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The Rhetoric of Rape

10/1/2013

1 Comment

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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Forward>>

i want my jacket back

Feminist Frank is not Boyfriend Material

Why is it so Hard to Start by Believing?

Combination Lock Underwear ≠ Sexual Violence Prevention

Empathizing with Chris Brown

The Rhetoric of Rape

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