Today, I read this diary by Jen Hayden about the work of social researcher Jackson Katz. His TED talk about violence against women has garnered millions of views on YouTube. I encourage you to read the whole diary, but here are some highlights of what Katz says.
- The language we use to discuss violence and sexual assault puts the focus on women instead of men. We talk about how many women were raped, not how many men raped women.
- We put the burden of safety on women, too, and spend little time teaching boys and men not to harm women.
- The use of passive language sidelines men, who are responsible for the overwhelming majority of violence against women and the overwhelming majority of sexual assaults against both men AND women.
These are important points. When I first saw his TED talk a few years ago, they resonated with me deeply. I’m a woman and yet I’ve used that same language. I’ve defaulted to putting the focus on women instead of asking why, as a society, we ignore the fact that these crimes have perpetrators as well as victims.
The past few weeks have brought the issue of sexual assault into the spotlight. But it’s been a lifelong issue for me.
At a young age, I was sexually assaulted by my grandfather. I don’t remember many of the details. I couldn’t tell you when the abuse started, although I know when it ended. I couldn’t tell you the specifics of what he did to me on every occasion or tell you how many occasions there were. I can’t explain why certain things trigger me or why my brain has locked those memories away.
What I can tell you is that my first introduction to sex was a sexual assault. Those acts of violence have, in many ways, defined my life. They have certainly – at least until recently – defined my relationships with men.
When you’re sexually assaulted as a child, you learn that your body is not your own. It is something that can be taken, used, and discarded. Because I grew up in the ‘70s, the responses to my abuse were less than optimal.
My mother believed me and my sister. My father did not.
My aunt – my father’s sister – was dismissive. “Oh, he did that to me until I was 14 and I told him I was too old.” Let that sink in for a minute.
I got some perfunctory therapy from a family therapist who clearly had no experience dealing with trauma or childhood sex abuse. It didn’t last, and I think I can safely say it didn’t do any good.
I buried it. But, I also hid myself. I ate too much. I gained weight and hoped it would protect me. I avoided boys and dating. In high school, I didn’t date at all.
Then I got to college. I dated a little, but I still avoided sex. The truth is I was terrified.
I started writing this because I read a comment on the diary I mentioned above. It was from a man – I won’t call him out here. I think he had good intentions, but he seemed genuinely baffled by the idea that he might not know if one of his partners had a less-than-fantastic time in bed. I started to write a response there and realized it was a diary, not a comment.
His comment – and some of the responses to it – reminded me of an article I read a few months ago. It’s written by Lily Loofbourow and it first appeared in The Week. It’s called The Female Price of Male Pleasure. It was written in response to a comment by Andrew Sullivan about the allegations against Aziz Ansari. He implied that women are ignoring men’s biological reality. Loofbourow says:
The real problem isn't that we — as a culture — don't sufficiently consider men's biological reality. The problem is rather that theirs is literally the only biological reality we ever bother to consider.
When I read that, it hit me hard. She goes on to cite a study that found that 30% of women experience pain during vaginal sex, 72% experience it during anal sex, and “large proportions” said nothing to their partners about their pain or discomfort.
Men described pain, too (the study looked at both men and women), but women were more likely than men to report “moderate to severe pain.”
The article also talks about how men and women define “good sex” and “bad sex.” There aren’t a lot of studies into this topic, but the research done by the author reveals that men describe sex as bad if their partner is passive or the sex is routine. When women talk about bad sex, they might be referring to emotional distress, or even physical pain.
Flip that around and it’s just as enlightening. For a woman, good sex might mean sex that doesn’t hurt. For a man, it means he had an orgasm. Why? Here’s one explanation from the same article:
This tendency for men and women to use the same term — bad sex — to describe experiences an objective observer would characterize as vastly different is the flip side of a known psychological phenomenon called "relative deprivation," by which disenfranchised groups, having been trained to expect little, tend paradoxically to report the same levels of satisfaction as their better-treated, more privileged peers.
I strongly encourage you to read the whole article, which you can find here. It’s an enlightening and sometimes provocative look at the way we view sex.
My personal experiences with sex as a consenting adult have been mixed. For a long time, the sex I had was far from great. I never said a word to any of my partners. Now, you might say that’s my fault and that I should have spoken up. But, again, women are not granted the same permission to experience and expect pleasure that men are.
Here’s another example. The documentary This Film is Not Yet Rated explores the (admittedly weird) MPAA standards for sex. The film Blue Valentine received the dreaded NC-17 rating because of a scene in which the Ryan Gosling character performs oral sex on the Michelle Williams character.
It’s not explicit, but her pleasure is. And the filmmaker goes on to talk about how movies that depict female pleasure are more likely to be considered inappropriate than those that depict women as victims or passive participants in sex. (The film was eventually given an R rating after the Weinstein Company (Irony alert!) appealed the decision. No changes were made to the film.)
HBO’s been at the receiving end of a lot of criticism for its casual (and incessant) depictions of rape in Game of Thrones. HBO can air whatever it wants, but I can think of literally dozens of films where acts of violence against women have been brutally depicted without any risk of being slapped with the NC-17 rating. The Accused comes to mind.
The point is that women are socialized, from an early age, to be people pleasers. We’re taught that it’s more important to please others than to please ourselves. We receive that message in a million different ways. Even something as innocuous as pockets can play a role.
Recently, I wrote a post for the Facebook page for a TV show I created. The show was inspired by an image I saw that indicated women in the Victorian era could be institutionalized for the dubious crime of “Novel Reading.” My writing partner and I regularly share content that celebrates women.
The post I wrote was inspired by a poem by Sharon Owens. It’s called Dangerous Coats:
Someone clever once said
Women were not allowed pockets
In case they carried leaflets
To spread sedition
Which means unrest
To you and me
A grandiose word
For commonsense
Fairness
Kindness
Equality
So ladies, start sewing
Dangerous coats
Made of pockets & sedition
I did some research. I couldn’t find any evidence that pockets were ever forbidden, but it certainly is true that they have been (and often still are) scarce in women’s clothing. I found an article that referenced a NY Times piece from 1910 with the headline, “Plenty of Pockets in Suffragette Suit.” As if pockets were something dangerous. Men’s clothing is utilitarian; women’s clothing is decorative. Of course, there are exceptions – but talk to any woman about pockets, and the chances are good she’ll have something to say about them.
What am I getting at with all of this? It’s actually pretty simple. For centuries, women have been taught that the appearance of contentment is more important than actual contentment. That looking good is better than feeling good. And that male pleasure is more important than anything else.
The next time you’re out, or watching television, or reading a newspaper, pay attention to how the media portrays women. How people talk about women. How people dismiss us and belittle us. Trump’s press conference today is a perfect example. He openly mocked a female reporter and the cabal of enablers behind him snickered along with him.
And maybe, while you’re at it, initiate a conversation with your partner about sex. If you’re a man, make it safe for her to talk to you about how she feels. Let her know that she can tell you if she’s not satisfied and that you’re committed to ensuring that sex is pleasurable for her, too. And if you’re a woman? Make yourself a priority. Realize you have the right to speak up and voice your pain (or lack of pleasure) if you experience it. It’s the only way anything will ever change.
