Read Online Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and A World Without Rape by Friedman, Jaclyn Friedman, Jessica Valenti - Free Book Online Page B
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restaurants, TV shows, or magazines. These people are just entertainers and entrepreneurs, after all, not politicians or public policymakers.
But the same ogling and catcalls that Hooters girls or Hawaiian Tropic Zone workers may experience at work, I endure nearly every time I walk down a busy city street—and there’s nothing empowering about it.
About twice a week I’m approached by a guy who, despite my wedding ring, tries to get my phone number with the help of some lame and often disrespectful line from a popular rap song. And while I’m a girl who loves to dance, nightclubs aren’t much fun when men come up behind you, tell you to “let me see what you got,” and then call you a bitch when you say you’re there to have fun with your friends, not to put on a show for them.
I’m not saying that listening to rap, watching wrestling, or eating at Hawaiian Tropic Zone makes you a misogynist. The world is not that black and white. And I, like most feminists, exist in the grays of life—which means that sometimes I’m going to rock out to a Pussycat Dolls song and sometimes I’m going to wear uncomfortable lingerie to turn on my husband.
But there is no gray area when it comes to rape. And portraying a woman’s body and sexuality as merchandise, as entertainment, is more than disrespectful. It’s dangerous, because it becomes much easier to demand, even force, a woman to give you her body once she’s been transformed from a person into property.
So what’s a girl to do?
I should probably stop watching wrestling (but I can’t make any promises). And even though its website casts it as an upscale hangout for young professionals, I probably won’t be stopping by Hawaiian Tropic Zone the next time I’m in New York. I stopped buying rap that degrades women a long time ago, opting for more mature and uplifting hip-hop from the likes of Lupe Fiasco and Common.
There are also groups out there working to counter the negative messages pop culture can send to women. Black Girls Rock Inc., for example, is a mentoring and outreach program for young women of color that promotes the arts and encourages dialogue about the way women are portrayed in hip-hop music and culture. The Real Hot 100 is a grassroots media project that celebrates young women who are hot because they’re trying to make a difference in the world, not because they can look cute in a magazine.
But I feel like we women need to do something more. While we work to flood society with television shows, magazines, businesses, and music that truly empower women, we need to find ways to build ourselves up individually in the meantime.
This leads me to bad feminist confession number three: When I was in college, I wanted to work at Hooters. This was before I ever found my way to a women’s studies reading list and before I had assigned the word “feminism” to my otherwise girl-power attitude.
Again, if you want to work at Hooters, go right ahead, but check your motivation. My motives were not cool. I had hips like a boy, B-cup breasts, and a boyfriend who had started to ignore me. I felt like I was the furthest thing from sexy, and I thought that landing a job at Hooters would convince me that I was hot after all. Absurd, I know, but wanting to be desired is natural, for both women and men, and, unfortunately, all types of money-making industries—from diet pill peddlers to restaurants with scantily clad waitresses—have found a way to profit from this human need.
I’m happy to report that I nixed the Hooters idea. I became an aerobics instructor instead, and something remarkable happened: I finally felt sexy. Not because my boobs got bigger (they didn’t) or because my boyfriend stopped acting like a jerk (he didn’t), but because my body felt healthy and strong. My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous.
I felt especially hot when I was
But the same ogling and catcalls that Hooters girls or Hawaiian Tropic Zone workers may experience at work, I endure nearly every time I walk down a busy city street—and there’s nothing empowering about it.
About twice a week I’m approached by a guy who, despite my wedding ring, tries to get my phone number with the help of some lame and often disrespectful line from a popular rap song. And while I’m a girl who loves to dance, nightclubs aren’t much fun when men come up behind you, tell you to “let me see what you got,” and then call you a bitch when you say you’re there to have fun with your friends, not to put on a show for them.
I’m not saying that listening to rap, watching wrestling, or eating at Hawaiian Tropic Zone makes you a misogynist. The world is not that black and white. And I, like most feminists, exist in the grays of life—which means that sometimes I’m going to rock out to a Pussycat Dolls song and sometimes I’m going to wear uncomfortable lingerie to turn on my husband.
But there is no gray area when it comes to rape. And portraying a woman’s body and sexuality as merchandise, as entertainment, is more than disrespectful. It’s dangerous, because it becomes much easier to demand, even force, a woman to give you her body once she’s been transformed from a person into property.
So what’s a girl to do?
I should probably stop watching wrestling (but I can’t make any promises). And even though its website casts it as an upscale hangout for young professionals, I probably won’t be stopping by Hawaiian Tropic Zone the next time I’m in New York. I stopped buying rap that degrades women a long time ago, opting for more mature and uplifting hip-hop from the likes of Lupe Fiasco and Common.
There are also groups out there working to counter the negative messages pop culture can send to women. Black Girls Rock Inc., for example, is a mentoring and outreach program for young women of color that promotes the arts and encourages dialogue about the way women are portrayed in hip-hop music and culture. The Real Hot 100 is a grassroots media project that celebrates young women who are hot because they’re trying to make a difference in the world, not because they can look cute in a magazine.
But I feel like we women need to do something more. While we work to flood society with television shows, magazines, businesses, and music that truly empower women, we need to find ways to build ourselves up individually in the meantime.
This leads me to bad feminist confession number three: When I was in college, I wanted to work at Hooters. This was before I ever found my way to a women’s studies reading list and before I had assigned the word “feminism” to my otherwise girl-power attitude.
Again, if you want to work at Hooters, go right ahead, but check your motivation. My motives were not cool. I had hips like a boy, B-cup breasts, and a boyfriend who had started to ignore me. I felt like I was the furthest thing from sexy, and I thought that landing a job at Hooters would convince me that I was hot after all. Absurd, I know, but wanting to be desired is natural, for both women and men, and, unfortunately, all types of money-making industries—from diet pill peddlers to restaurants with scantily clad waitresses—have found a way to profit from this human need.
I’m happy to report that I nixed the Hooters idea. I became an aerobics instructor instead, and something remarkable happened: I finally felt sexy. Not because my boobs got bigger (they didn’t) or because my boyfriend stopped acting like a jerk (he didn’t), but because my body felt healthy and strong. My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous.
I felt especially hot when I was
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