poppatriarchy

[poppatriarchy]

Nicki Minaj: A Complicated Matriarch

“Which bitch you know made a million off a mixtape?” the Trinidadian-born Nicki Minaj demands to know, a featured rapper on Drake’s “Up All Night.” It’s a question that warrants an earnest reflection of female rap culture, as the playing field was essentially barren upon the MC’s debut. While her first mixtape, “Playtime Is Over,” garnered both critical and commercial acclaim, it was her freshman studio album, “Pink Friday,” that solidified Minaj as a formidable lyricist, with prose overflowing in metaphor and humorous jabs. The three-time platinum album catapulted her to global success, catalyzing a career that would result in 10 Grammy nominations. Although she came into the game with an awareness of female rappers of the past (e.g. Missy Elliott, Lil’ Kim, Foxy Brown, etcetera), Minaj has transcended them all, into something more than hip-hop. Artists are rarely free of precursors, but Nicki has cultivated an artistic persona of her own – one uniquely layered and malleable. She boasts a staying power that the female greats of yesteryear cannot compete with, due in part to her ability to transcend genres. She’s ubiquitous, fluid – whether it’s a feature on the contentious 6ix9ine’s ‘FeFe,’ David Guetta’s up-tempo ‘Turn Me On,’ or even Justin Bieber’s teenybopper ‘Beauty and a Beat,’ Minaj remains a natural compatriot to today’s diverse performers. Since her first foray onto the hip-hop scene in 2007, her career has been steeped in grandiose artifice, zany aesthetics (deemed campy by some, tacky by others), and … controversy. Minaj boasts a paradigm-shifting legacy, but should that legacy eclipse her attempts to silence a victim of sexual assault? 

Jennifer Hough and Minaj’s now husband, Kenneth Petty, were both just 16 when he forced himself onto her in the home of a South Jamaican neighborhood. Petty, upon pleading guilty to attempted rape, went on to serve four years in prison, and was subseqently deemed a level two sex offender in the state of New York. Unfortunately, the legal trouble doesn’t end there as, following his release from jail, he spent seven more years behind bars after being convicted of first-degree manslaughter in 2006. Lastly, after being wed to Minaj, Petty was arrested again in March of 2020 when he failed to register as a sex offender upon the couple’s relocation to California. 

His most recent jailing provoked a series of lawsuits in which Hough would go on to accuse the newlyweds of intimidation and harassment. In a bid to force her to recant her account, Petty and Minaj (allegedly) reached out to the victim and her brother, offering 500 grand in hush money. Despite accepting a plea deal in ‘94, Petty (with support from his wife and her extremist fans) has begun to claim that the encounter between the two was entirely consensual, and that they were in a relationship at the time.

Shortly after Hough’s lawsuit was made public, Minaj took to twitter to post the following (seemingly innocuous) tweet:

“… if I get vaccinated it won’t [be] for the Met. It’ll be once I feel I’ve done enough research.”

The rapper’s admission sparked a wave of controversy, as observers and public figures derided Minaj for her anti-science views. She doubled down, citing her (likely fictitious) cousin’s friend for whom the vaccine left impotent, and, consequently, wifeless. Obvious hilarity aside, to some, “BallGate” may read as just another folly of the famous, but the timing is deliberate. The MC’s tweets bear the mark of deflection. How convenient for Minaj’s cousin’s friend to be inflicted with swollen testicles right as she and her husband are accused of witness tampering. The ruse would backfire, however, as the anti-vaxx tweet-storm brought not just vitriol, but additional attention to the couple’s legal trouble. 

The storied “All these bitches is my sons!” verse is typically declared with the sort of hubris and bravado solely accompanied with a legacy like Nicki Minaj’s. The metaphor seemingly has a life of its own, appearing numerous times throughout her oeuvre, delineating Minaj as the prototype for the female MCs of today. The Trinidadian-American’s exceptionality lies in the art of personae, each with their own presence. Although many attempt to emulate (see: Iggy Azalea’s studied, skewed-Barbie aesthetic; Cardi B’s entire manufacturing; Azealia Banks’ ability to rap and sing, in addition to her ability to bend her voice  – all achieved with varying degrees of success), Minaj’s malleability, menacing in one breath, effervescently insane in the next, is at the root of her quintessence. In supplanting the male rappers who helmed the rap scene in the early 2000s, Nicki carved out a space for the female emcees of today – deeming her responsible for many sons. It wasn’t until 2014, seven years after her debut, that another female rapper would even attempt to replicate the level of success attained by the Harajuku Barbie. Without her paradigm-shifting career, we would be without powerhouses like City Girls, Cardi B, and Megan Thee Stallion, to name a few. She is a standard for this new generation, encouraging women to push creative boundaries without revoking their femininity. 

Her legacy, however, is fracturing; cracking at the seams. The conversation around separating the art from the artist is storied, recurrent in the annals of popular culture (see: R. Kelly, Woody Allen, Azealia Banks (for me, personally)). The issue is not just “Is this artist a bad person?” but rather “Is this artist’s work asking me to be complicit in their vile behavior?” In practice, this separation is murky, especially for a person like Minaj. The rapper’s personae and identity are so deeply intertwined with her art that disentangling proves fruitless. These characters function moreso as proxies, as extensions of her being. In presenting herself as a cultural product, ripe for consumption, the audience is entreated to bear a sort of personal obligation to her. Thus her allegiance to abusers (both alleged and admitted) is dismaying – a severe disservice to victims. This unconscionable lack of accountability, coupled with her want to deploy her militarized fans onto anyone she deems “anti-Nicki,” has unveiled an ugly truth. The hubris I, and other casual listeners, once adored now appears egregious in the light of Minaj’s most recent controversies. These bitches are her sons, yes, but it’s time for a new matriarch.

[poppatriarchy]

I Will Destroy You

As is the old adage, oft-recited by zany, well-meaning art professors for centuries past: Art exists as the elucidation of the human experience, to reflect that which is confined to the intellect. Whether it be birth or death, euphoria or sorrow, bloodshed or nirvana, the medium depicts the most indelible facets of humanity. And among these experiences lies the unspeakable – sexual assault. 

Peaking in popularity in the 1970s, the rape-revenge subgenre has historically been helmed by men who possess little to no regard for the women they debase and brutalize. Rarely insightful, the trope typically devolved into a vulgar exploitation of the female form, as rape was primarily used to justify gore and violence. The plot is simple: 1) A woman is besieged by shocking crimes → 2) A bloody revenge is henceforth taken, either by her or a central male figure in her life. In these films, victims possessed a sort of simplistic agency – confined to exhibiting a sociopathic, emotionless form of wrath. It’s a sleazy, unintelligent cinematic formula in which the inner life/journey of the woman is rarely (if ever) broached, and subtlety is nowhere to be found.  

Rape narratives in Hollywood have long been the purview of male writers, directors, producers – denying survivors the platform to tell their own stories:

“I would like to make a blanket ask to cis men to please stop making movies about rape, stop portraying rape,” Joey Soloway, creator of Transparent, said in a 2017 Sundance Film Festival panel. “We get it, guys. You want us to stay inside because you want us to be afraid we’re going to get raped. We get it! Stop making movies and TV shows about rape. Let women make those movies if they want to.”

When entrusted in the hands of men, the rape-revenge genre is exploitative and violent. However, left to the devices of survivors, a necessary nuance is subsequently ushered in – instigating a rebrand or revision of sorts. Enter: I May Destroy You. The quasi-autobiographical portrayal of sexual assault and healing written, directed, produced, and starred by Michael Coel. Coel plays Arabella, a millennial writer who is drugged and thereupon raped in the bathroom of a London club. Upon the end of the gripping first episode, the audience is left in a state of confusion – mirroring Arabella’s. Coel then takes the viewer by the hand, pivoting between timelines and perspectives, beckoning us to reconsider, reframe, or rewrite the narrative concurrently. The show explores not just trauma and its myriad ripple effects, but also race and racism, consent, art, rebirth, and everything in between. The heroine heals messily, honestly, and backwards – serving as a reminder that mourning and mending are not linear processes. Arabella exists as a blank slate for the viewer to project themselves onto – an individual for which one can compare their own experiences as she navigates hers. 

The brilliance in I May Destroy You lies firmly in the creative control Coel possessed over the show. The phenom incites a complete overhaul of the stereotypical rape-revenge plot – offering more than just a narrative of undeviating, vengeful pursuit. In adding nuance to a formerly male-centric/male-helmed trope, Coel encourages the audience to consider the entire spectrum of sexual politics – a feat achieved because she, herself, is a victim of assault. There is no penultimate moment of (violent) revenge, no distraction that allows the protagonist to repress what happened to her, but above all, there is no form or sense of justice or absolution. While, unfortunately, this is the reality of most sexual assault cases, Coel has achieved what no male writer/director could. She does not present her rape as a mere plot device, but as a trauma that lives, breathes, and morphs with her. It’s omnipotent, varying in intensities, unable to be wholly annihilated, but subject to management. 

Arabella is far from the perfect protagonist – in fact, we’re meant to criticize her, to understand that while she is a victim, she is also a perpetrator; to realize that we are all capable of abuse in some way, shape, or form; to grasp that sexual assault is indiscriminative. Unfortunately, these conceptions are sorely missing from art like: I Spit On Your Grave, The Virgin Spring, The Last House On the Left, etc – films that solely focused on retributive justice, and a fetishization of assault. I therefore believe I May Destroy You exists as a necessary paradigm shift – tackling the same cultural plague as the aforementioned movies, but with frankness and authenticity. Although Arabella does not get the vigilante moment she (or the audience) initially desired, we are to assume that her life goes on. It has to. Ultimately, she finds a peace that outweighs a confrontation with her rapist, a peace borne from the acceptance that closure will likely never be reached. I laughed, I cried, and I can’t wait for Michaela Coel to destroy me again.

[poppatriarchy]

America the Dystopia

Words do not often escape me. Whether it be quippy platitudes or nonsensical blather, my verbose, restless mind is always prepared to conjure up or invent something to say. But in this moment, I found myself unable to conjure. Unable to invent. Human language was incapable of penetrating the cavernous silence left by the phrase “You’re pregnant.”

Shock overcame me as the doctor’s frowning, imploring gaze bore into mine. As the brashness and impetuousness of my youth came home to roost; settling in my bones, paralyzing my body with fear and disbelief. I could hardly register the physician’s words, her probing questions, her outlining of the possible courses of action I could choose among. 

The decision, for me, was an easy one. I was going to get rid of it. There was no crisis of faith. No emotional hand-wringing or second-guessing. Even before being saddled with this burden of choice, I had always been an advocate for female bodily autonomy. For the woman’s right to choose. And while I was (and remain) firm in my resolution, I recognize the privileges afforded to me by virtue of sheer location. 

On September 1st, 2021, the state of Texas passed the most restrictive abortion law in the nation. Senate Bill 8 (SB 8) bans procedure as early as six weeks into pregnancy, before most women are even aware they’re with child. Moreover, there are no exceptions for survivors of rape or incest, and when confronted with this egregious oversight, Texas Governor Greg Abbott responded, "Well, don't worry about it, because we're going to eliminate rape as a problem." Dystopic and authoritarian, SB 8 encourages private citizens to sue anyone suspected of “aiding and abetting” the abortive process, including “providers, doctors, and even Uber drivers.” Unfortunately, the legislation is just one of many anti-abortion bills sweeping across the country at the behest of Republican officials -- Draconian measures meant to stifle Roe v. Wade. 

The policing of the feminine is a storied phenomenon, chronicled through narratives like The Handmaid’s Tale, in routines like hair removal (pubic or otherwise), tattoo regulation, dress codes, etcetera. It’s a central tenet of sexist, patriarchal ideology, deeming women to be mere subjects for state control and regulation. Femininity is under a sort of rampant surveillance within our culture, a process that serves male voyeuristic pleasures. By this, I mean the female body is delimited -- reduced to sexualization, wherein a reclamation of sexual control is punished. SB 8, and other legislation of its ilk, strip us of bodily autonomy, preventing us from exercising sovereignty or governance over our innermost selves. Although the bill’s defenders contend that their goal is to preserve life, the severity of SB 8’s authoritarian underpinnings is glaring. The “life” in question refers solely to the fetus, a clump of cells they laud as sacred until birth. This is a common truism; valuing the fetal body, but not the body of the child. A true “pro-life” advocate would rally behind gun control, strive to alleviate food insecurity and poverty, dedicate themselves to our increasingly dire climate crisis. But alas, anti-abortion advocates are wholly concerned with controlling women’s bodies. Because in removing our reproductive rights, we are forced into a cultural trope wherein masculinity predominates, where the feminine is subdued and silenced. Patriarchal regulation succeeds in ensuring women remain under male control, a concept author and sociologist Jeanne Flavin further elucidates in the following:

“By restricting some women’s access to abortion and obstetric and gynecologic care, by telling some women not to procreate and pressuring them to be sterilized, by prosecuting some women who use drugs and become pregnant, and by failing to support the efforts of incarcerated women and battered women to rear their children, the law and the criminal justice system establish what a “good woman” or a “fit mother” should look like and how conception, pregnancy, birth, and child care and socialization are regulated.”

In short, SB 8 exists as an extreme policing of femininity, a blatant ploy for male dominance in the reproductive conversation. Forcing women to carry a pregnancy to term, to become unwilling mothers, is an egregious performance of misogyny that merely succeeds in perpetuating inequality within the health sector. In depriving women of the right to make an autonomous choice, the bill offers a glimpse into a future sans Roe v. Wade. A future where our fundamental rights are ripe for expulsion. Needless to say, dystopian metaphors are fruitless when reality is bleaker than fiction.

[poppatriarchy]

To Shave, or Not to Shave?

“We’re talking about what we find attractive in girls.”

“So that’s what we’re gonna do … for you!”

Delivered with an air of self-righteousness; a smugness of conviction, social media stars Nash Grier, Cameron Dallas, and JC Caylen launched into a 9-minute long conversation detailing what girls should do to “earn” their interest. To be attractive, according to Grier, girls must rid themselves of any and all hair that isn’t deemed aesthetically pleasing. Whether it be underarm, leg, or even ARM hair, all of it, apparently, must go in order to situate oneself within the upper echelon of beauty.

“When you have a little peach fuzz and we’re making out? Ugh, no,” he laments. “The natural look is great, but the hair… take the hair off.” 

The YouTube video, merely up for a few days, garnered millions of views -- inspiring embittered and enraged think-pieces, slam poetry, and other public outcry before its eventual deletion. However, the Internet is forever, and a scant Google search would yield a plethora of duplicate copies uploaded for posterity. 

On one such copy, YouTube user India Buxton comments: “So many girls look up to these guys and have probably changed themselves just to be in a category of their preference.”

Whilst decidedly gauche, the infamous “What Guys Look For In Girls” video is not a unique premise, as there’s an entire market of men telling women how they should mold themselves specifically for male (read: their) attention. Frequently tailored to fit the fluid demands of society and modernity, the concept of the “perfect woman” has persisted for years. At its core, ideal womanhood is increasingly demanding, degrading, and above all, unattainable. Our consumerist culture is geared towards profit; a commercial beast working to sell perfection. Girls are meant to aspire to it, and boys learn to expect it. As it stands, there exists a standard of hairlessness that predominates our current beauty framework. It is a norm, however, that only applies to women. 

I remember the first time I shaved. How I clutched the cheaply made, pink razor with a white-knuckled grip. How I navigated the blade down my legs (sans shaving cream, a foreign concept to me at the time) with an uncertainty that yielded numerous cuts that scabbed over and left lifelong scars. My narrative is one that mirrors a myriad of other girls, patriarchal pawns who were equally entranced by the shaving-industrial complex.

Since the early 1900s, the relationship between consumerism and misogyny has promoted the removal of hair as a social qualification for femininity. This, in turn, established the “hairless body” as the core standard for women. The beauty practice has become something girls have to do; it is not a suggestion. The mere act of shaving, however, isn’t inherently sexist. It is allowing men to exist in all their hairy glory whilst expecting women to remove their “unsightly” follicles that is. This pressure for girls to be hair-free, to be ashamed of our corporeal functions, is borne from a patriarchal routine of policing women and our bodies. In not shaving, the media and overarching society devalue our femininity, arousing disgust and shame. One egregious example can be found in a (since pulled) 2014 Veet ad in which the brand implied women who don’t remove their hair are manly. The misogynistic advert demonstrates gender policing at an almost  rudimentary level -- comply, be pretty and quiet, or else you’re not a woman. “Real women” go above and beyond to obscure their bodily functions. They’re impossibly ethereal, abstract -- existing as a blank slate for the projection of misogyny. 

To be a woman is to be exploited. To be limited by a misogynistic hierarchy. To be dehumanized -- your vulnerabilities and insecurities used as fodder for consumerism and the parasitic cosmetic industry. Thus, at its core, ‘ideal femininity’ is a sham; a rigid, compulsory performance in which any deviance yields “othering” and exclusion. We exist as scapegoats for society’s entrenched sexism, as pawns in the quest for reproductive and social control. And although recent generations have rallied against this culture of absolutes, we have miles to go before unshaved armpits or legs are deemed “radical.” These days, “progressive” or “woke” adverts around shaving merely exist to cash in on idealism and social justice. It’s an egregious appropriation of activism and progressivism as a means of exploitation and profit. In short, capitalism is adapting, and the pseudo-social-consciousness it begets is worth being wary of.

So, to shave, or not to shave? The decision is fully yours.

[poppatriarchy]

Hell is a Teenage Girl

It was 2006 when Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series changed the trajectory of my life. My babysitter gifted me New Moon (the second installment of the trilogy) for my tenth birthday, and despite reading the books out of order, I tore through them as if my life depended on it. I had always been a voracious reader, but the intensity to which I consumed Meyer’s prose was frightening. I was obsessed; brandishing my “Team Jacob” shirt with a bravado typically reserved for MMA fighters or roided up frat guys. My manic fixation, however, was not unique to me, as the vampiric saga attained a cult following of similarly vociferous preteen girls. Alas, despite being universally revered by our tween demographic, Twilight’s 2008 theatrical debut was met with an incendiary backlash -- a vitriol indicative of society’s hatred for young girls. From think-pieces to videos to memes aimed to denigrate/parody, the franchise has borne the brunt of widespread public condemnation at a level not even attained by hyper-mediatized cultural figures. In a 2012 interview with ‘Women and Hollywood,’ Melissa Rosenberg, the franchise’s screenwriter, addresses the distinctive backlash, suggesting that there exists a double standard in the film industry:

“When you start to read the criticism of Twilight it's just vitriol, it's intense, the contempt. From critics both men and women. And it's interesting, you know, there's a Harvard professor, who wrote an article after Breaking Dawn called "The Bigotry of Hating Twilight," and it was very interesting to me. We've seen more than our fair share of bad action movies, bad movies geared toward men or 13-year old boys. And you know, the reviews are like okay that was crappy, but a fun ride. But no one says "Oh my god. If you go to see this movie you're a complete fucking idiot." And that's the tone, that is the tone with which people attack Twilight.”

The act of existing as a teenage girl is a hellish ordeal in itself; an angst-filled experience often defined by first love (requited or not), bodily discovery, codependent friendships, and an all-consuming crisis of identity. It’s a period of fragmentation; of turmoil and change. And, as is the case with most (if not all) gendered experiences, women of color have it worse. We are trivialized and minimized to a degree unfathomable to our white counterparts -- presenting an even deeper hell to the female lived experience. Fundamentally, to be a teenage girl is to be vilified; not just from our male peers, not just from other women, but above all, from the media we consume. More often than not, pop-cultural entities primarily consumed by girls are inundated with rampant devaluation and mockery. Whether it be jokes surrounding the Pumpkin Spice Latte or the vitriol directed towards boy bands, vocal fry, and benign TikTok dances, society deems anything that boasts a female audience to be both trivial and second-rate. I believe this revulsion can be attributed to society’s inherent dislike of or contempt for anything in the realm of femininity, as the patriarchy deifies the masculine. Our interests are undermined, belittled, and maligned by the overarching population -- a gendered occurrence that encourages women to distance themselves from “girly” pursuits. This dissociation of femininity subsequently results in the internalization of misogyny (e.g. “I’m Not Like Other Girls” phenomenon) discussed in an earlier blog post -- “an insidious, socio-cultural phenomenon in which girls subconsciously project archaic ideals of sexism onto their own gender and even onto themselves.” 

Put simply, teenage girls and their interests are devalued because their demographic does not hold cultural capital in our society. A sociological concept introduced by Pierre Bourdieu, cultural capital is defined as an individual’s social assets (e.g. mannerisms, level of education, speech, etcetera), and the ability to advance within society on the basis of said assets. Interestingly, despite being harbingers of trends, despite their undeniable influence on the culture (see: Beatlemania, the meteroic rise of One Direction, or even hair parts (justice for the side part)), teenage girls face incessant ridicule and belittling. Yet, without them existing as the arbiters of coolness, both the music and fashion industry would lack the driving forces of popularization. This presents an interesting paradox wherein young women are catered to and simultaneously reviled for their tastes in popular culture -- prompting the following tweet from Twitter user @saltkath: “anyways funny how teenage girl fans are the most criticized and derided when theyre some of the most powerful trendsetters when it comes to pop culture. you lock down a strong fanbase of young women and youre pretty much guaranteed years of loyal support.” Despite the fervent passion of this maligned group, however, their “power” is regarded as having an expiration date. Credibility, praise, respect, etcetera are bestowed upon popular musicians only when they cease to appeal to the teen girl demographic and subsequently gain an audience of adults, men. 

Whether online or offline, the validity of teenage girls’ interests are constantly called into question. The experience of navigating young womanhood is hellish enough, and this added layer of minimization and trivialization at the behest of the media is, frankly, unconscionable. I firmly believe it is inexcusable to further victimize a demographic who already exists within a culture deeply mired in sexism. A demographic who will remain the subject of dismissal and unfounded critique well into adulthood (this is especially true for young women of color). Therefore now, more than ever, it is imperative for us to reckon with how popular culture functions as an entity that protects and amplifies the patriarchy. 

[poppatriarchy]

I'm Not Like Other Girls, I'm Worse.

“Cool Girl. Men always use that, don’t they? As their defining compliment. She’s a cool girl. Cool Girl is hot. Cool Girl is game. Cool Girl is fun. Cool Girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrin, loving manner, and then presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes, so, evidently he’s a vinyl hipster who loves fetish manga. If he likes “Girls Gone Wild,” she’s a mall babe who talks football and endures buffalo wings at Hooters...”

Delivered with an almost pathological ease, Rosamund Pike’s monologue in Gone Girl has provided fodder for discourse surrounding both surface and latent sexism since its 2014 theatrical release. The film is steeped in misogyny -- coloring the characters’ actions; defining their social interactions, relationships, and identities. It’s an insidious theme that presents itself most notably through “Amazing” Amy Dunne, our sharp-bobbed, sociopathic antiheroine whose disappearance acts as the catalyst for the plot. 

“Nick loved a girl I was pretending to be.”

Amy is a self-professed “Cool Girl,” or rather, she was. She came to abhor the performance; resenting the act she had to put on for her husband. Although the diatribe quoted above lambasts this persona of male fantasy, Amy remains ensnared in the web of internalized misogyny. She loathes her adulterous husband, she loathes herself for becoming that which she detests, a woman scorned, but mostly, she loathes other women. Amy damns her own gender for carrying this charade of male devotion, believing herself to have reached a self-awareness apparently unfathomable to her female peers. Thus in eclipsing the “Cool Girl” moniker, Amy assumes a new persona -- one defined by the “I’m Not Like Other Girls” mentality. 

“God, I’m so sick of other women! All they do is talk about drama, makeup, and boys. Why can’t I find any girls like me, who love chicken nuggets and getting dirty? Ugh, this is why I only hang out with guys -- they’re the only ones who understand me!” This is the manifesto of the girl who’s … different. She prides herself on never wearing makeup (and looks down on women who do). She prefers the company of men, because her own gender is just too dramatic. She doesn’t wear mini skirts, heels, or concern herself with stereotypically frivolous or overtly feminine contrivances… because that’s for Other Girls! This “Other Girl” is, you guessed it, a caricature -- a nameless/faceless entity to which people can ascribe their misogynistic narratives. 

The plight of the modern woman exemplifies the ruinous effects of patriarchy -- a societal paradigm of male supremacy. In navigating this system, women are encouraged to despise the “Other Girl,” to avoid the “trappings” of femininity she emulates. We are meant to exist as monuments to the patriarch; condemning those who operate outside the realm of masculinity. This sexist ethos manifests as an internalisation of misogyny -- an insidious, socio-cultural phenomenon in which girls subconsciously project archaic ideals of sexism onto their own gender and even onto themselves. It’s inescapable, pervasive and, unfortunately, all women have fallen prey to its machinations. I, for one, would be remiss not to mention my own “I’m Not Like Other Girls” stage, as my 2014 Tumblr era was defined by a painfully exaggerated sense of self worth. I lauded myself for eschewing popular trends -- indulging only in the obscure and pretentious. I derided those who did not share my niche interests; judging girls who preferred The Last Song over Ruby Sparks; whose Taylor Swift was my Lorde. Looking back, I’ll readily admit that I was a pompous bitch. But can you blame me? Or the multitude of women who also underwent this embarrassing phase of “othering” ourselves? Since infancy, we’ve been inundated with rhetoric that dictates performances of femininity -- propaganda that was proliferated through television, classrooms, magazine covers, etcetera. Feminine pursuits were (and are) denigrated, and in renouncing girliness, our “reward” was male attention or approval. 

Unfortunately, a scant scroll through TikTok exemplifies how internalized misogyny is prevalent even throughout the younger generations. A trend recently overtook the app in which girls introduced themselves as why other women supposedly hated them. The “reasons” varied, but almost always dealt with being conventionally attractive, having multiple guy friends, or simply being confident. This is merely a repackaging of the “I’m Not Like Other Girls” mentality, where, now, girls believe themselves to be envied and resented by their “bitter” female peers. Unlearning this manifestation of misogyny is no easy feat -- it’s an active, conscious process requiring awareness, introspection, and a willingness to go against the grain of societal norms. A continued reflection on how we uphold and preserve these misogynistic, curated conceptions of womanhood is thusly paramount for eradicating patriarchy from society. I, for one, am elated to proclaim that I’m exactly like other girls, and I truly would not have it any other way.

[poppatriarchy]

Welcome to: Pop Patriarchy

Women are born dead. An indefatigable truth of a chauvinistic patriarchy -- a truth I am reminded of day after day, with each passing moment. A truth I, like many other women, have come to learn, understand, and consequently cope with. Little by little, bit by bit; we are whittled away at the behest of a society that seeks to subjugate, deny, and diminish the Feminine. We are undermined until mere shells of ourselves are left; relegated to functioning solely as vessels for procreation and male pleasure. 

The female form has been subjected to a sort of institutional consumption, an insidious occurence that has aided and abetted in the rampant commodification and objectification of women in society. By this, I mean mass media proliferates a rhetoric of anti-femininity that furthers or encourages our degradation even despite advancements in the feminist agenda. We have oft been caricatured; stripped of depth, complexity, and reduced to hackneyed stereotypes.

Through an unflinching analysis of pop culture (e.g. films, tv shows, social media, etcetera), I aim to investigate the fingerprint of patriarchy; exploring how it manifests itself in our cultural texts. In examining the media we consume with a vigilant eye, I will elucidate and encourage an examination of one’s own complicity in the upholding of patriarchal imperialism. This blog will: reference foundational moments of pop culture, peruse microblogging platforms, and analyze the media’s portrayal of women as a means of exploring the longevity and omnipotence of misogyny. 

I have always taken up space. Standing at a daunting 5’10”, my life has been defined by the incessant need to diminish my stature, to temper my personality, and to inhibit any inkling of self-assurance. Looking back, I can attribute my bashfulness to patriarchal propaganda, as mainstream entertainment was (and remains) rife with negative depictions or caricatures of femininity. Women aren’t allowed to: be assertive, exercise autonomy, or occupy any niche outside of the realm of domesticity, as these are traits typically reserved for men. Those were the messages fed to myself and other impressionable young girls, sowing in us a contempt for our own sex that appears, at times, to be inalienable. I therefore owe it to my adolescent self, and to others like me, to unravel the insidious, tangled web woven between popular culture and patriarchy. 

Pervasive and pernicious, misogyny remains a mainstay of the cultural zeitgeist despite multigenerational efforts to upend the patriarchy. We have become indolent in this fight; distracted by diluted feminism and “girl boss” ideologies meant to satiate or appease. Recent “victories” aside, such as: Kamala Harris’ historic role as Vice President of the United States, Chloé Zhao’s momentus win as the first woman of color to procure a Best Director Oscar, and Simone Biles’ unprecedented triumphs in the field of gymnastics, amongst other paradigm shifting events, the proverbial glass ceiling has merely been cracked. These milestones, whilst decidedly notable, have inspired a sort of complacency with the social order. What persists now is a diluted form of activism that has been co-opted, giving way to the proliferation of empty platitudes like: “Peg the Patriarchy (I’m looking at you, Cara Delevigne.),” “This Pussy Grabs Back,” and etcetera. We are at a standstill in terms of equality; bleakly resigned to settling for merely fracturing the barrier between society and progress. Therefore, now, it is more important than ever to exercise vigilance in the resistance to the patriarch, and the lazy, palatable feminism that is curated as a response. An awareness of misogyny’s barbed tendrils is the first feat, as it is able to mutate and retain different forms. It masquerades as entertainment, presents itself as a dissociation of femininity (e.g. the “Not Like Other Girls” phenomenon), and permeates the rhetoric used to describe or refer to women in the public sphere. 

I thusly aim to remain vigilant; to present the ramifications of misogyny with an unflinching eye. I will be your dutiful guide, taking you along with me as I delve into and analyze the intrinsic relationship between the patriarch and popular culture. Due to the rampant nature of anti-femininity, it is almost impossible to avoid misogynistic sentiments, rendering condemnation fruitless. Whether you are aware of it or not, we all indulge in patriarchal ideology. Even the aforementioned figures of “female empowerment” bear the mark of said ideology in some way, shape, or form -- a sobering indictment of societal mores. Therefore, in lieu of condemnation, I will strive to encourage reflection, to illuminate the coded misogynistic language and imagery that pervade our cultural texts. Get ready, because it’s time to pop the patriarchy.