Theorizing sex and having sex

The discussion that we had today about heterosexual sex (as context for the discussion of the relationship between sexuality, agency, and consent) implicated some questions that hit a little too close to home. Being at all compelled by this book makes it damn near impossible not to see that there are gendered power dynamics in sex (as a noun and as a verb). While that's easy to recognize in the abstract, it is harder to recognize in concrete contexts, yet the existence of concrete contexts is undeniable - I am a person who is sexual/has sex. Sex is this thing that, in the book, is gender oppression, torture, and abuse - it is not to me - but are they linked? 

Is it a question of baseness? Does the oppression of sex come in the alienation of self that it takes to have sex with strangers, on sidewalks, an for money? In the involuntariness? In other things that people see as depersonalizing sex (e.g., S & M or something like that)? Or is it more complicated than that? More pervasive? Is it, like we talked about, in the very existence of sexuality between people that are identified as men and people that are identified as women, so long as those things are unequal? Or is the locus elsewhere? What is the significance of her calling what men do to her at knifepoint "making love" rather than rape, having sex, or fucking? 

Sometimes, it is comfortable to separate objectifying sex from intimate sex, but that line suggests that the lines aren't as clean as we might want to make them. After all, if the "good" sex (purity-speaking) is the sort between people who are in love - the inherited conventional wisdom, when does that not become the "good" sex - when you do it for pure sport with someone that you love? When you do it with someone who loves you who you don't love or the other way around? What does love have to do with it? Can sex purely for entertainment be empty of oppression? Does it matter which sex people it is for? Are these relationships neat and delineable, or is it something we know when we see, or is it something that we can't know? 

A friend of mine recently suggested that I had been injured by a past including a fair amount of sex for entertainment, in that sex for entertainment treats people as things. That person's argument was that, even if I had initiated that sex, and it had been because it feels good and I like to get off instead of some lack of confidence or search for attention or something, it made me value myself less because I allowed someone to treat me like an object, regardless of whether the transaction was carried out respectfully or whether I used the person as an object as well. S/he contended that I could have been injured by that dehumanization (literal, rather than figurative) without realizing or recognizing it. My argument is that, with Andrea, I see the dehumanization in oppressive sex, in sex where there is no "I chose" in the sentence regardless of agency, in a base sense of sex that looks and feels like concrete - but that sort of sex isn't the same sort of sex as the liberating kind of sex for entertainment I have, right? 

But for there to be something to the purity of "making love" (contra Andrea's argument), doesn't there have to be a baseness to anything outside? But then, another theme in Andrea's work is the depersonification of sex, right? Where it is the darkness and the pavement and the knife? But then it moves to names and heartbeats? Like its a combination of human and inhuman and that's what is cruel about it? 

I can't help but think about Donna Haraway's work on cyborg bodies as an analogy here, where cyborgs are couplings of organism and machine, the human and the inhuman, where fractured identities of the human and the dehumanized are part of a whole instead of a clear opposition; together in oppression an together in emancipation. Perhaps it is not for us to look at the human and the inhuman, the injuring moment and the injury, but instead to look at the composite. 

The part of Chapter 2 that made me sick to my stomach was the part where it made the experience of being raped seem romantic, like the pain had with it some sense of inspiration or substance or something like that. But in reality, we always look for an upside of tragedies, a lesson to be taken from it, a way to deal with it and move on, etc. .. how is Andrea's singing not that? 

I guess that it is easy for me translate Andrea's writing into discomfort with what happened to her, and into identification with my own experience with non-consensual sex. Where it is harder, and where I still struggle, is figuring out what it means for other sexualities and experiences, or even other non-sexual gendered interactions. 

I think I fall on the side that I am not damaged goods for the positive, affirming sexual choices that I've made, but I'm not sure I could win the argument. Ultimately, though, its not clear that I'd win that argument, in an argument. I'm also not sure that matters, though - because I think one of the things I've most identified with about Andrea's writing so far is that sexuality is what our social contexts make of it. Mine is certainly gender-subordinative, but not in the same way; it certainly contains power dynamics, but doesn't relieve me of all agency. Sure, I can't know whether I actually like sex or I just think I like sex, but let's be honest, that problem is non-unique to social and political life - I also can't be sure about the genuineness (whatever that might be) of my political preferences, my food preferences, or any other desire. While I'm loathe to sign up with a "if it feels good, do it" approach (even with the caveat about it hurting other people), it does seem to me like there's a (serious, important) distinction between the sex oppression in (casual) heterosexual sex (to the extent that it exists) and the the sex oppression in violent, forced, sex. 

Back to last week's discussion, maybe the thing that gets to us about the rape victim being a ten-year-old especially is actually about agency - she didn't have the words when she was ten, she couldn't identify the men by the time she was 14, prostitution is something that just happened to her ... maybe what is really the most horrifying is that the oppression happens in the separation of a person from the ability to make these decisions? Maybe? 

Does the language matter?

would chapter 2 have affected you differently if it were about fucking and being fucked, explicit about prostitution ...if the character had the words to describe what she was doing, and those words were graphic explicitly rather than graphic about the dark and the thrusting and the concrete and the cement? Would you have been more or less bothered by it? A number of taboos are crossed in this discussion, right? Andrea crosses taboos about the rape/not rape dichotomy, about explicitness about sex, about age boundaries and sex ... what role does Andrea's choice of literary language play in it?

Darkness and Happiness

Today's discussion really had me thinking about the juxtaposition
Andrea creates between darkness and happiness. Describing her saying the
names of sexual acts like singing "the great simple music of them" and
singing their "bitter sweet lyric." Likewise, she expresses that she
felt like she could "wander on [the cement]" free." These statements
create a sense of happiness and comfort. Perhaps the mentioning of lyric
and song can relate to the comfort she finds in expressing her memories
through poetry in this chapter. Thus her description of rape and the
cement and darkness through singing foreshadows her eventual ability to
overcome such evils through her words and through a career in writing.
Likewise, I'd like to elaborate on the idea of becoming desensitized to
violence over a period of time. Though I agree that this is probable for
someone in this situation, I believe it is more of a desensitization
physically than mentally. She still describes the fear of the darkness
coming for her and the suspense it creates as she waits in anticipation
for it to come. However, she talks about the cuts on her hands and blood
on her knees repeatedly and as though she had so much scar tissue she
barely noticed. Thus there's an interesting idea that one can stop
feeling physical pain before they can let go of the emotional pain.

In Chapter Two, Dworkin raises some intricate issues as she evades the word "rape" by substituting it with darkness.  In the beginning, she uses the metaphor of darkness to demonstrate rape's omnipresence in Andrea's life and to show how rape is fundamentally embedded within her social constructs. The graphic, and frequent, personification of darkness as "ramming up from behind" (Dworkin 29) and "fell forward on your knees pushed by the dark from behind" (30) obviously classifies this entity as powerful, destructive, and inescapable. Dworkin's use of this metaphor strikes me as puzzling because darkness implies covering the truth of the rape and the identity perpetrator, as well as euphemizing the violence of this sexual violation. Rather than plainly stating rape as rape, she covers the true nature in a shroud of vagueness and disguise. Perhaps Dworkin intends to illustrate the routine nature of rape in Andrea's life, or how frequent rape leaves the victim desensitized and immune to the violence. After graphic images of "jagged bone" (30) and "giant parasite" (30) associated with darkness, Dworkin oddly characterizes darkness as "it was safe really, a playpen" (31). This abrupt shift imitates the uncertainty and instability of Andrea's emotional state as she struggles between denial, disgust, and acceptance of this seemingly inevitable event. Andrea attempts to come to terms with rape by downplaying its destructive nature and transfiguring it as paradoxically "okay" with her.

            Dworkin then indicates that writing serves as an outlet to turn this ugly darkness into something beautiful and artistic, inspired by Andrea's frequent trips to Greenwich Village. There, "they make beauty from the dark" (32); a principle Andrea employs in her out life as she "sings" (33) during the literal act of rape, rather than fights. Andrea begins to see dark as "hard but now it had a sound in it, a bittersweet lyric, music carried on the edge of a broken line" (33). These juxtaposed images of contradictions pairing violence with beauty illustrates Andrea's attempt to use rape as artistic inspiration. Since she feels helpless in changing her situation, she seems to surrender to this reality and resolve to "make the best of the situation." Since she finds no acceptance from her mother, father, or religion, she uses sex as a tool to belong within the Bohemian society, using her poetry as therapy to cope with this horrific event. Psychologically, writing allows her to escape both the figurative darkness of rape as well as the confines of her suffocating household. Her pen is the way to obtain freedom, "not locked up" (34). Although she continually confronts rapes, she shuts out the violation through her artistic "sing[ing]" (34), representative of her writing, in order to survive. In this way, Mercy as a whole can be classified as trauma literature, or the way in which victims communicate their experiences with oppression, in order to psychologically cope and come to terms with the uncontrollable series of events that dictate he/she's life. Andrea, as author and character, writes this novel and implied poetry as a means of self-preservation. As indicated in the first two chapters, her mother and father refuse to accept the reality of rape by "t[earing] up all your things" (34) or denying that "anything happened" (27), leaving her voiceless to the people who should care the most about her and to a society as a whole of gender inequity. Ultimately, her bold artistic statement defies her societally dictated role as mute as she claims her voice and her rape as a legitimate reality. 

Re: Blog Post

Just so you know, both of the blog posts that have been posted so far
have included the private precursors to the actual posts that were
included with the emails, as well as the names of the people who
submitted them. I don't really care about my name being posted, but the
girl whose post was uploaded yesterday requested anonymity and had her
name posted anyway. I just wanted to bring that to your attention in
case you hadn't noticed.

Childhood, part II

I have to say that during class I thought about this a lot. Of course,
I am always disgusted by any person who would violate someone in such a
manner, especially someone inherently vulnerable. Every time that I hear
about a rape in the press or by word of mouth it upsets me. However, I
have become somewhat desensitized to it after awhile. Yes I think it is
evil and wrong and I feel deeply sorry for the woman that has been hurt,
but I come from a family with a multi-generational law enforcement
background, have studied the field in school (I am a criminology major)
and worked for the prosecutor's office in the summers. It is something
that happens and I do what I can to deal with it. I know the steps that
I need to take to make sure that the man is convicted in court, that he
is sentenced and kept from hurting anyone again, and that the victim
gets the help she needs. I am able to feel like I am DOING something and
that makes it better.
But knowing that the perpetrator hurt a child seems more than
upsetting: it is gutwrenching. And it feels that way every time.
Nothing, no amount of productivity, dulls that feeling for me. I have
had many a case come across my desk as an intern that involved children,
and not once was the feeling of almost physical nausea absent. It just
felt more evil, wrong, horrible to see the same thing happen to someone
so young. And everyone in the office and at home agreed with me
unquestioningly.
So, I never questioned it. Not until I read that first chapter of Mercy
and even more so when we discussed the subject in class. Why is it that
we as a society feel that there are degrees of evil? Is there a sliding
scale that increases in correlation with the age of the victim? Can
there be such a thing?
I don't know that I feel the way that I do because I, or society as my
proxy, have failed in protecting a child in some way. Of course, as a
young woman, I do have some strange maternal instinct that I don't
understand. But I feel like it is so much more than that. Yes, children
are to be protected and sheltered from things like this. But so is
everyone. I guess that I am saying that I appreciate you continuing the
conversation about this, Alex, and I think that you are on the right
track with your ideas and attempt at an explanation. It makes sense to
me, but just doesn't feel right. It didn't click. I guess I will
have to find my own answer as to why it affects me so differently to
hear of a child being victimized than it does a woman. I'll let you
know if it happens any time soon.

Childhood

"I was a child and I wanted God to say why it was less bad if I wasn't
a child because I was still the same me if I was or if I wasn't. And for
the first time I didn't want to be grown up because all the adults said
it was less bad. I cried because I didn't see how it could be less bad;
and if I grew up were men going to be putting themselves on me in movies
only it wouldn't be bad because I wouldn't be a child anymore."
Contrary to what seemed to be a popular suggestion in class, I don't
think these lines (which, on a personal note, struck me more than any
other piece of the chapter) were meant to simply declare that there is
no difference between molesting a child and molesting an adult. Rather,
they're intended to beg the question of how we differentiate between the
two and why we do so, and maybe suggest that the differences are not as
profound as we might think.
From a legal perspective, it's easy enough to draw the line, and the
purpose of drawing it is sensible and logical. We can easily rationalize
why we treat those who take advantage of children differently from those
who force themselves on grown women. The separation is not only
meaningful, but clear in its purpose. While adults can give (or choose
not to give) consent, we don't think of children as having those same
faculties, and we don't believe they are entitled to a freedom of choice
because they are not operating with the knowledge and responsibility
that adults are. We differentiate between the two because we acknowledge
what we see as a very clear, important difference in our rational
approach to people exerting their will on one another.
But from a moral perspective, things are much murkier. I do think,
intuitively, we feel an ethical differentiation deserves to be made.
Most people are *not* of the opinion that the man who coerces a woman
into sex should be punished the same way a man who coerces a child into
sex should be. I don't believe they should be subjected to the same
treatment, and I don't think there are many who believe they should be,
Andrea Dworkin included. But it *is* worth assessing why we draw such a
line that goes beyond our rational, law-based justifications.
On one hand, there's a profound difference between children and adults
that drives the very narrative of the first chapter. That is, children
do not have the ability to understand (in part, or perhaps just in its
entirety) the situation they may find themselves forced into. It's not
necessarily a lack of emotional or intellectual development, but rather,
it's the result of fewer experiences and less specific knowledge. They
do not know as much about the topic, and so are not equipped to
understand it or its ramifications. This is not a petty or unimportant
distinction to make between children and adults. It *is* meaningful and
it's the very conflict that lies at the crux of the first chapter of
Mercy.
But there is more at work, and there are forces and ideas worth
questioning. Because the disparity in knowledge is just not the only
reason we feel compelled to differentiate between children in such a
situation and adults in a similar one. There is, I believe, some
stronger intuitive feeling that tends to guide us, and it's a byproduct
of the society we inhabit. Quite simply, the biggest reason we feel this
deep-rooted disgust when faced with the sexual exploitation of children
- a disgust that generally does not fully surface when faced with the
same exploitation of grown adults - is that we so strive to *protect*
our children. They cannot fend for themselves, and we see it as our
responsibility, as adults, to offer them that safety and security that
they would not otherwise have. When someone tries to break that
connection and take advantage of a child, we not only are forced to face
our failures to protect them, but we see the perpetrator as having
destroyed a sacred vow.
And yet, we don't feel that way about adults. Disgust and disapproval
and very strong negative feelings go hand-in-hand with the sexual
exploitation of women, to be sure. But it's not at the same level, and
certainly not of the same type, as those that accompany the exploitation
of children. And what these lines from Mercy prod us to ask is why that
is the case. Why do we not feel as if it's our duty to protect adult
women just as we protect our children? Are adult women really fully
socially equipped to fight off the unwanted advances of men, both as
individuals and as elements of a patricarchal society? Surely they're
not, not with the imperfections in our gender-conscious society, so why
do we not feel that urge to protect them and shield them, why do we not
feel that same disgust? Maybe we should.
That, I believe, is the driving purpose of those lines. And it's not a
question with a clear answer, nor is it a point of thought and
consideration with a clear resolution.