Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and A World Without Rape by Friedman, Jaclyn Friedman, Jessica Valenti
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agenda?
In developing that vision, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender (LGBT) activists not only declared a form of gay pride, but also later would even co-opt the language of civil rights. We see it today in demands for same-sex marriage as a right. And while LGBT uses of civil rights language might rub some African Americans the wrong way, I would say it is time for blacks—specifically, black women—to take something back. Isn’t it time for heterosexual black women to adopt the language of queerness to free us from Mammy’s apron strings? Wouldn’t the idea of coming out of the closet as enjoying sex on our own terms make Jezebel stop in her tracks to think about getting herself off, rather than being focused on getting her man off? It is time to queer black female heterosexuality. As it stands, black women acquiesce to certain representations as if taking crumbs from the table of sexual oppression. Our butts are in vogue, we’re nastier than white women in the bedroom, we’re wilder than Asian women—all stereotypes derived in a male fantasy land of “jungle” porn and no-strings-attached personal ads. A queer black female heterosexuality isn’t about being a freak in the bedroom; it’s about being a sexual person whose wants and needs are self-defined. Easier said than done in a culture that makes us believe that someone else’s wants are our needs.
Black female sexuality is not pathology. Until 1973, homosexuality was listed in the American Psychiatric Association’s diagnostic manual as a disease. Both political agitation and studies within the field resulted in its removal. Black female sexuality is not listed, of course, in psychiatric manuals as a disease, but the way it is represented in American popular culture is sick and twisted. It is easy enough to say what we do not like, but rarely does anyone hear what we do like.
Queerness, then, is not an identity, but a position or stance. We can use “queer” as a verb instead of a noun. Queer is not someone or something to be treated. Queer is something that we can do. The black woman is the original Other, the figure against which white women’s sexuality is defined. Aren’t we already queer? To queer black female sexuality means to do what would be contrary, eccentric, strange, or unexpected. To be silent is, yes, unexpected in a world whose stereotype is of black women as loud and hypersexual. However, silence merely stifles us. Silence does not change the status quo.
Queering black female sexuality would mean straight black women need to:
1. Come out as black women who enjoy sex and find it pleasurable.
2. Protest the stereotypes of black female sexuality that do not reflect our experience.
3. Allow all black women—across class, sexual orientation, and physical ability—to express what we enjoy.
4. Know the difference between making love and fucking—and be willing to express our desires for both despite what the news, music videos, social mores, or any other source says we should want.
5. Know what it is to play with sexuality. What turns us on? Is it something taboo? Does our playfulness come from within?
6. Know that our bodies are our own—our bodies do not belong to the church, the state, our parents, our lovers, our husbands, and certainly not Black Entertainment Television (BET).
Queering black female heterosexuality goes beyond language. Black communities go ’round and ’round about the use of “nigger” with one another. Is it a revolutionary act of reclaiming an oppressive word? Or does it make us merely minstrels performing in the white man’s show? Older and younger feminists debate the merits of embracing the labels of “bitch” and “dyke” as a bid for taking the malice out of the words. There are some black women who say, “Yes, I am a black bitch” or, “Yes, I am a ho.” These claims do little to shift attitudes. If nothing else, we merely give our enemies artillery to
In developing that vision, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender (LGBT) activists not only declared a form of gay pride, but also later would even co-opt the language of civil rights. We see it today in demands for same-sex marriage as a right. And while LGBT uses of civil rights language might rub some African Americans the wrong way, I would say it is time for blacks—specifically, black women—to take something back. Isn’t it time for heterosexual black women to adopt the language of queerness to free us from Mammy’s apron strings? Wouldn’t the idea of coming out of the closet as enjoying sex on our own terms make Jezebel stop in her tracks to think about getting herself off, rather than being focused on getting her man off? It is time to queer black female heterosexuality. As it stands, black women acquiesce to certain representations as if taking crumbs from the table of sexual oppression. Our butts are in vogue, we’re nastier than white women in the bedroom, we’re wilder than Asian women—all stereotypes derived in a male fantasy land of “jungle” porn and no-strings-attached personal ads. A queer black female heterosexuality isn’t about being a freak in the bedroom; it’s about being a sexual person whose wants and needs are self-defined. Easier said than done in a culture that makes us believe that someone else’s wants are our needs.
Black female sexuality is not pathology. Until 1973, homosexuality was listed in the American Psychiatric Association’s diagnostic manual as a disease. Both political agitation and studies within the field resulted in its removal. Black female sexuality is not listed, of course, in psychiatric manuals as a disease, but the way it is represented in American popular culture is sick and twisted. It is easy enough to say what we do not like, but rarely does anyone hear what we do like.
Queerness, then, is not an identity, but a position or stance. We can use “queer” as a verb instead of a noun. Queer is not someone or something to be treated. Queer is something that we can do. The black woman is the original Other, the figure against which white women’s sexuality is defined. Aren’t we already queer? To queer black female sexuality means to do what would be contrary, eccentric, strange, or unexpected. To be silent is, yes, unexpected in a world whose stereotype is of black women as loud and hypersexual. However, silence merely stifles us. Silence does not change the status quo.
Queering black female sexuality would mean straight black women need to:
1. Come out as black women who enjoy sex and find it pleasurable.
2. Protest the stereotypes of black female sexuality that do not reflect our experience.
3. Allow all black women—across class, sexual orientation, and physical ability—to express what we enjoy.
4. Know the difference between making love and fucking—and be willing to express our desires for both despite what the news, music videos, social mores, or any other source says we should want.
5. Know what it is to play with sexuality. What turns us on? Is it something taboo? Does our playfulness come from within?
6. Know that our bodies are our own—our bodies do not belong to the church, the state, our parents, our lovers, our husbands, and certainly not Black Entertainment Television (BET).
Queering black female heterosexuality goes beyond language. Black communities go ’round and ’round about the use of “nigger” with one another. Is it a revolutionary act of reclaiming an oppressive word? Or does it make us merely minstrels performing in the white man’s show? Older and younger feminists debate the merits of embracing the labels of “bitch” and “dyke” as a bid for taking the malice out of the words. There are some black women who say, “Yes, I am a black bitch” or, “Yes, I am a ho.” These claims do little to shift attitudes. If nothing else, we merely give our enemies artillery to
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