What Takes Up More Room in My Closet: Me, or My Shoes?

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Week 4: "How do you spell sex? N-O!"

As I was reading the introduction of Phoebe Robinson's You Can't Touch My Hair, I already noticed something specifically different about her writing than that of Fey, Poehler, and Kaling. She loves to talk about SEX. There, I said it. I will admit I feel a little "tinge of cringe" every time I say the word. Perhaps it is because I have been conditioned to, as the "good girl," or maybe it is because my parents do not show affection beyond a scandalous handholding (Barreca). When I read "lady boner" in literally the first sentence of the introduction, I knew this text was going to be different (Robinson xv). Different can sometimes carry a negative connotation, and contrary to what I know my parents would like me to say, I believe this different is a good different. Although the previous readings from our lovely triad of comediennes included sexual references, like Fey's joke about the telescopic penis, they certainly did not begin with sex (Fey 164). As I continued reading You Can't Touch My Hair, Robinson did not shy away from sexual topics and included them often. It was incredibly refreshing to witness a woman embracing sex so freely and without fear of judgement. I can only hope that one day I will be able to express my sexuality, perhaps not as openly as Robinson, but in a way that makes me feel free and completely me. In this post, I plan to further discuss this concept of being afraid of our sexuality and how we can look to women like Robinson for guidance in this different topic. 

I did not know exactly what sex was until halfway through high school. This was mostly the doing of my parents, who sheltered me (as if we were in an apocalypse) and fostered my need to please and be the perfect, pure "angel child." Fondly, I remember crying when I heard my parents first say "sex" (which was surprisingly in middle school) and was mortified for a few months following that ordeal. It is almost concerning how much of an effect that “dirty” word had on me as a child. That cringe I briefly described earlier eventually replaced the utter trauma I experienced, and I have been trying diligently to relieve myself of this distress as I have gotten older. When I think about this discomfort toward “sex,” I find it very silly and ridiculous, considering that sex is a natural part of life and is something I am more familiar with now. (Please don't sound the sex trumpets and alert my parents.) This uncomfortable feeling we have toward our sexuality as women is something that is almost innate, as it is instilled in us early and is forced into some more than others. Even if a woman grew up with accepting and relaxed parents, there is still a stigma surrounding women's sexuality in society that prevents us from truly being free. Like some of my classmates have said in discussion or in their posts, us "good girls" are not expected to understand the sexual innuendoes and jokes of our male counterparts (Barreca). If we do, we are bad and unwanted girls. 

Robinson is, however, fighting this dichotomy of "good girl" and "bad girl" with her incorporations of sex in her writing. She chooses to discount this idea completely by admitting that she had a "lady boner" at the ripe age of 14 (Robinson xv). By ignoring the expectation of being a good girl altogether, she discounts its relevance and uses sex to do so. If we could all be more like Robinson, daring and embracing our sexuality, maybe we could start to chip away at this harmful good girl/bad girl trope. Of course, that idea is easier said than done, but I think not caring as much is a characteristic we should all strive for as women. Let's face it; all women, whether they "appear" to be good or bad, have sex and think sexual thoughts (unless they identify as asexual). Just like we cannot help our gender, we cannot help our sexuality, and that is perfectly okay. 

"How do you spell sex? N-O!" is a little joke I came up with as I was talking to my boyfriend about how averse to sex my parents are. I am not exactly sure how it came about, but every once in a while, we will chant that when we are frustrated about how we still have to act like holy, little virgins around our parents. It gets tiring pretending to be oblivious to something that is so natural and a part of life, so this joke pokes fun at that ridiculousness. If only I were more like Robinson, I could spell sex like Y-E-S and be proud of it. 

Works Cited 

Barreca, Regina. They Used to Call Me Snow White… But I Drifted. Lebanon: University Press of New England, 2013. 

Fey, Tina. “Dear Internet.” Bossypants, Little, Brown and Company, 2013, p. 164. 

Robinson, Phoebe. “Introduction.” You Can't Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain, Plume, 2016, p. xv.