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I'm Afraid to Tell My Male Bosses I'm Pregnant


“Would you like to know the gender?” the woman who had announced the results of a first-trimester blood test asked over the phone. She had just told me my near-geriatric pregnancy looked fine so far. Gripping onto the steering wheel of my car, on my way back from an interview for a news story, I fiddled with the air conditioning, waiting for this stranger, whose name I don’t know, to give me news about my 13-week fetus.

“Congrats,” she said, clearly bored after relaying the news yet again to someone that day.

Then, she hung up.

We’re having a girl. I’m terrified. I’m 34, freelance (AKA unemployed), and facing an uphill battle as I think about how I’ll claw my way back into the workforce full-time once I deliver. But in that moment, I was so excited that I pulled over to call my husband.

I’m six months pregnant now and none of my editors know. Most of them are male. Many of them have kids. I know because they talk about them all the time in the doting, loving way only a father can. One mentions his children while working from home when I submit a 6,000-word feature; it’s a tough handoff day between him and his wife. Another apologizes when he’s delayed in responding to my edits because he has been taking care of two sick children since his return from an international vacation.

Each time I speak to one of them on the phone, I hang up in awe with the ease they speak about being fathers. I’m so envious.

I haven’t told any of them I’m pregnant. When I go on assignment with a colleague, I wear a massive button down, lifting the camera gear with my knees and hoping I can hide the burgeoning bump. The only other professional colleague I’ve told is another female freelance journalist. Over chicken wings in rural Appalachia, she told me she has worked with other female freelance journalists who’ve decided to wait to have children until after the 2020 election or until they are hired full-time somewhere. That night, after another 14-hour reporting day, I think about what she said. It terrifies me, but it also makes me feel more sane. I know I have to withhold this information. The more I reveal, the greater the risk to my career.

And about my career. Here’s what it’s like: I spent the majority of six months after Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico, investigating claims that the Puerto Rican government made in the aftermath of the crisis. When I asked for a single day off to see my Irish husband become an Irish-American citizen, my then boss waited until the day before to ask if I really had to go. I assured him, no, not at all, it was fine. When protests broke out in Charlotte, North Carolina, after a white police officer shot and killed an African-American resident, I drove with a cameraman overnight to sleep in a pay-by-the hour motel to be the first team there to cover the riots. When I worked in Afghanistan, I spent two years traveling alone across the country for work and research, dodging questions about whether I was qualified to run a team of Afghan men.

Each time I had family or friends visit during a quiet period, I’ve been called away, without fail. Once, my parents came to town, and for the first time in nearly a decade, I lived in the United States. Mom had plans to make samosas the next day and take us to Costco so I could stock up on books and food samples. Of course, at 3 a.m., my phone rang, asking me to go cover a protest somewhere. I jumped out of bed and made it onto the 5 a.m. flight. I love what I do, and this is the fealty it demands.



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A Male Barista Shamed a Pregnant Woman for Ordering a Macchiato—and People Have Thoughts


Ask any pregnant woman and she’ll likely tell you stories of unsolicited advice they’ve received from both strangers and friends about how she should behave and the choices she makes. For some reason, some people feel incredibly emboldened to offer their (often uninformed) thoughts about everything from whether or not she’s going to breastfeed to what she puts into her body.

Take this recent example from British comedian and actress Tiffany Stevenson, who says she witnessed a coffee-shaming incident recently. “Unbelievable bit of womb bothering in Starbucks,” she tweeted. “A pregnant woman got her Caramel Macchiato and the guy behind the counter said ‘Oh, it’s for you. Do you want me to make a decaf?’” After the woman said “no thanks,” the barista reportedly pressed on, according to Stevenson’s tweet: “No I should [make it decaf] because caffeine is bad for the baby.”

The woman in line informed the barista that she has one coffee a day (more on that in a minute)—not that she needed to justify her order to begin with—after he continued to question her. Stevenson, “almost spontaneously combusting,” then piped in, telling the barista to stop, she tweeted. “Then he says ‘Oh just because it’s bad for the baby so that’s why I’m saying it’…Then he continues to try and justify policing a complete stranger for 5 minutes. He was maybe 30 years old max.”

“Are they also doing Ob/Gyn training at Starbucks these days?” Stevenson wondered.

First, let’s just state the obvious and say that it’s none of this man’s business what the pregnant woman drinks. Second, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists states that moderate caffeine consumption of less than 200 mg per day—the equivalent of one to two cups of coffee—”does not appear to be a major contributing factor in miscarriage or preterm birth.”

New York-based certified childbirth educator, Fern Drillings, R.N., M.S.N. concurs, telling us that 200 mg per day (or about 12 ounces of coffee) is indeed the standard and “completely fine.” (One thing you should be mindful of, however, is caffeine in other sources like tea, chocolate, and soda, she adds. Specific caffeine levels in store-bought drinks aren’t always known, Drillings says, so when in doubt, ask or talk with your OB.)

For some pregnant women, there might actually be a benefit to a sweet, caffeinated drink like a macchiato Drillings says. “While it’s very common, especially after 36 weeks, for the baby’s movement to slow down because it’s running out of room, women can get anxious. So I tell women if you haven’t felt the baby move in a little bit, have something either cold or sweet to eat or drink. I usually say to start with a glass of cold water, then if that doesn’t work a glass of orange juice. If not, I usually say have a Frappucino because it’s got the cold, the sugar, the caffeine and that usually gets the baby going.” If that doesn’t work, talk to your doctor, she says.

This is just further evidence that we shouldn’t make assumptions about the choices women are making. Drillings also reminds us all to “consider the source” when evaluating advice about your health and rely on that of medical professionals, not baristas.

Social media users were quick to respond to Stevenson’s tweets. “SO. MANY. MEN think they know better than women….what is good for [pregnant/nursing/single/married/happy/unhappy] women. KILLS ME!!” one wrote. Another tweeted, “@Starbucks Here’s hoping this bit of #mansplaining baloney has been seriously addressed. I love that you ask me how I want my coffee but that’s where it ends.”

Stevenson tells Glamour that she is still getting replies from women saying something similar had happened to them—and from men either claiming she made up the story or telling her that the barista was just being “nice” or “concerned.” “Control of women is often framed as ‘advice or suggestion’ and I’m so bored of it,” she says. “I really thinking a proper awakening is due for know-it-all, interfering sexist men.”

Enough with trying to legislate women’s decisions about their bodies and their lives—and yes, that includes coffee intake.



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Male Bosses Are Ignoring Women Colleagues After #MeToo. This Is a Problem.


One of my first jobs out of college had me assisting a publisher who frequently shared sensitive company information with me as I drafted memos and reports, which meant we often had to close the door to his office. He’d dictate what he needed to, and we’d move on with our day. Occasionally we’d do it over lunch. I never once felt uncomfortable and I’m pretty sure he didn’t either. Because I was good at my job, the publisher eventually promoted me.

This was almost two decades ago and much has changed for women—and men—at work. The most pervasive shift, of course, has been spurred by the #MeToo movement, which not only has managed to hold power-abusing men accountable for their actions but has also changed the norms so many women have silently faced in workplaces that range from farming to fashion.

But with any movement—especially one that exists to empower women—there has been a backlash and one particular facet is the idea that #MeToo has scared some men away from interacting with junior-level female colleagues.

According to new research released today by LeanIn.Org and SurveyMonkey, 60 percent of male managers say they’re uncomfortable participating in common workplace activities with a woman—a 32 percent increase from research done last year on the topic. The data found that senior-level men are 12 times more likely to hesitate before having one-on-one meetings, nine times more likely to hesitate to travel with a junior woman for business, and six times more likely to hesitate to go to a work dinner with a junior woman. Thirty-six percent of men also say they’ve avoided mentoring or socializing with a female co-worker because they were nervous about how it might look.

The problem: Most managers are male and their fear is prohibiting women from proving themselves and moving up at work.

“I don’t know of anyone who’s been promoted who hasn’t had one-on-one conversations [with a superior]” LeanIn.org founder and Facebook chief operating officer Sheryl Sandberg told me by phone. “Women need that one-on-one time to get the mentorship and sponsorship they need to succeed.”

Sandberg knows this well. “[Facebook CEO] Mark Zuckerberg and I spend an enormous amount of time together and we spend an enormous amount of time one-on-one,” she said. “That one-on-one time has been where he’s given me the feedback that helps me do my job, [has] told me what I need to do better, [and] I’ve been able to give him feedback. That is not happening in a group setting.”

Sandberg also said her first meeting of the week Monday morning and the last meeting of the week [on] Friday afternoon is with Zuckerberg and nobody else. “That is our partnership and without that, I don’t know where we’d be.”

As far as a solution goes, LeanIn.Org is encouraging men to do more to actively support women at work, from increasing amounts of informal one-on-one time to participating in more official initiatives like sponsorships and mentoring—something Sandberg thinks will benefit men just as much as women.
“[It isn’t] just the right thing to do to mentor and sponsor women It’s actually a good thing to do for your career [as a man] because if you’re the most senior CEO or most junior person, if you can work better with half the population, you are going to outperform.”

Being more or less invisible to a male superior is better than being uncomfortable, right? In theory, sure, but considering the vast majority of managers and leaders are men across most fields, the fact that women aren’t getting the attention they need to succeed because men are afraid isn’t doing anyone any favors, “Ultimately, this is about closing the gender gap at work, from the entry-level all the way to the top,” said Rachel Thomas, president of LeanIn.Org, in a statement. “When companies employ more women, sexual harassment is less prevalent. And when women hold more leadership roles, company profits are higher and workplace policies are more generous. Supporting women makes companies stronger and safer. To get there, we need men to be part of the solution.”



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The Quiet, Impressive Way A Star Is Born Challenges Toxic Male Egos


One of the most surprising moments in A Star Is Born has nothing to do with the core storyline. It’s a small moment in which Bradley Cooper’s character, alcoholic rock star Jackson Maine, autographs the fake breasts of a drag queen named Emerald, played by RuPaul’s Drag Race vet Willam.

For context: Jackson had stumbled into the gay bar looking for his next drink, but doesn’t leave when he realizes a drag show is taking place. Instead, he sticks around and sees—and hears—Ally (Lady Gaga) for the first time. What follows is an electric conversation, made even more dynamic by Emerald and the other fabulous drag queens who surround them.

What stuck out to me was how Jackson is unfazed by the queens. He chats and bonds with them in a seemingly authentic way, which brings me back to his exchange with Emerald. It’s witty and bombastic, but also important. Rarely in pop culture do we see straight men—let alone weathered country singers—be so comfortable with queerness. Think about how the football players on Glee treated Kurt (Chris Colfer) when he showed up to school in women’s clothes, or the mocking comments Chandler (Matthew Perry) made about his drag queen father on Friends for just two examples.

PHOTO: Warner Bros.

Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper) in A Star Is Born

But his “wokeness” goes far beyond just tolerance. Jackson also isn’t afraid to indulge in a little flamboyancy himself. At the beginning of the film, for example, he’s enamored with the Edith Piaf-inspired eyebrows Ally wears to perform “La Vie En Rose.” So enamored, in fact, that Ally later tapes them onto him while they canoodle in the bathtub. (She also paints his nails, and then they have sex.) This may seem minuscule, but it’s still novel to see such a guy’s-guy be at ease wearing makeup. These scenes are incredibly liberating and say something significant about Jackson: Yes, he’s masculine, but he’s certainly not toxic.

That’s a critical distinction to make because up until this point, all the male leads in the A Star Is Born films have been. “Jackson Maine” has essentially been played three times in the past: by Kris Kristofferson in 1976, by James Mason in 1954, and by Fredric March in 1937. It’s difficult to say how these characters would have behaved in queer settings because there aren’t openly LGBTQ+ characters in the older movies. However, their toxic masculinity flares up in a completely different capacity.

In all three earlier versions of A Star Is Born, the rock-star character grows to resent the success of the woman he helps break into showbiz. That resentment is only fueled by his addictions, leading to devastating and destructive outbursts. This happens in the latest iteration of A Star Is Born too, but the source of Jackson’s resentment isn’t that Ally is eclipsing him: It’s that she’s losing her identity—or so he thinks.

As Ally’s music stardom rises, a record executive swoops in and revamps her entire image, dyeing her hair and swapping her soulful ballads for generic dance-pop. It’s a nuanced transition, though: Ally does put her foot down in some instances, proving she has some degree of autonomy over the changes in her career. But there are definitely compromises she makes, and that’s what pushes Jackson over the edge. He genuinely believes in Ally and what she has to say.

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“The difference between Jack and the other guys [from the A Star Is Born movies] is he doesn’t resent her success whatsoever,” Bill Gerber, one of the producers of the new A Star Is Born, tells Vanity Fair. “He’s upset that she’s not being true to her voice, and what he fell in love with, and the kind of music she wanted to create. It’s her pop turn that starts the rift between them, not her success.”

The other A Star Is Born men want their female partners to be successful, sure, but not at the expense of their own egos. Cooper’s Jackson Maine doesn’t have one, though. He’s comfortable, even encouraging, of Ally having the spotlight, which is a refreshing update to this age-old story. Also refreshing—albeit heartbreaking—is how Jackson only begins his downfall when he feels like Ally is selling out. All he wants to do is amplify her voice; that’s a very poignant thing to show on screen, especially now.

Too often in our current climate we see women shamed for having a voice—or worse, pressured into silence. The music industry, in its own subversive way, tries to do this to Ally, and it infuriates Jackson. She’s completely capable of standing on her own, as evidenced by the final scene, but it still feels satisfying to watch a man fight this hard for a woman to use (and keep) her voice.

A STAR IS BORN

PHOTO: Warner Bros.

Ally (Lady Gaga) and her friend Ramon (Anthony Ramos) in A Star Is Born.

Is Jackson a flawed character? Absolutely. He breaks Ally’s heart and trust multiple times in the movie, but he’s never anything but supportive of her dreams. That’s crucial. Ultimately, Jackson’s alcoholism is his downfall—not the fact that he can’t deal with Ally’s supersonic success. It’s sad, but it’s not misogynistic.

That lack of ego is why A Star Is Born is so exciting to watch, and a welcome reprieve from the adaptations that came before it. The movie is a triumph, full stop. Cooper and Gaga give powerful, skilled performances; the music is thrilling; and there’s a central narrative that captivates you from beginning to end. But interwoven between the thrills is a sharp commentary on masculinity. We can certainly learn something from Cooper’s Jackson Maine: a tragic hero with horrible vices but a warm, open heart. “Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die,” he sings at one point in the movie—and everyone, men in particular, should heed that advice.

Christopher Rosa is the staff entertainment writer for Glamour.



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Why Female Journalists Shouldn't Have to Clean Up the Messes of Their Male Co-Workers


On Monday morning, Norah O’Donnell, co-anchor of CBS This Morning opened the show with serious news: Les Moonves, her boss and the longtime head of CBS, had resigned the night before after a second New Yorker story broke with new allegations of sexual assault and harassment from six women. That’s in addition to the six women who raised sexual misconduct allegations against Moonves in Ronan Farrow’s first New Yorker story, which was published in July.

That means, for the second time in less than a year, O’Donnell was tasked with reporting on sexual misconduct allegations involving men at her own network (the first instance was her reporting of Charlie Rose’s suspension from CBS after eight women accused him of sexual harassment). The same goes for O’Donnell’s female colleague, Jericka Duncan. After opening Monday morning’s segment, O’Donnell kicked to Duncan, who was covering the fallout of the New Yorker pieces.

After Duncan’s report, O’Donnell said: “This is really hard. It is. This is hard for everybody at CBS News. The most powerful media executive in America has now resigned in the wake of this #MeToo movement, and he’s my boss. Or, he was my boss, and so that makes it really hard to comment on it.” A visibly upset O’Donnell went on to note that “there is no excuse for this alleged behavior” and “women cannot achieve equality in the workplace or society until there is a reckoning and a taking of responsibility.”

Norah O’Donnell reports the demise of her boss, Les Moonves, on CBS This Morning.

At the end of the segment, a bumbling John Dickerson (O’Donnell’s co-host) offered that he was “really proud” to hear her say that and he “couldn’t agree more” with what she said. For his part, Vladimir Duthiers (the other male co-host) had no comment except to note that Duncan would continue to report on these developments.

And that she did. Two days later, Duncan revealed that she had become the subject of her own reporting: On Sunday night, she received threatening text messages from 60 Minutes executive producer Jeff Fager after she did her job as a journalist and asked for comment on the most recent allegations about him in the New Yorker.

Why are professional women forced into the maternal role of emotional soother—the one who says: There, there, sweetie. Everything will be OK. Since when is that part of the job description of being a female journalist?

In a series of angry texts, Fager responded that she would be “held responsible” for harming him if she repeated the allegations without her own reporting on the subject. He went on to say: “Be careful. There are people who lost their jobs trying to harm me, and if you pass on these damaging claims without your own reporting to back them up, that will become a serious problem.”

That’s right, an executive threatened a colleague for trying to do her job, which is investigative reporting. On top of that, Duncan was then charged with reporting on the firing of Moonves the next morning, right after being threatened by another powerful male executive at her own company.

CBS correspondent Jericka Duncan becomes the subject of her own reporting.

Here’s my question: Why, out of all the reporters at CBS, were Duncan and O’Donnell the ones tasked with reporting the bad behavior of their male co-workers? Why weren’t co-hosts Dickerson and Duthiers assigned this particular report? In other words, why wasn’t a man given this responsibility? Why, when it comes to sexual assault and harassment allegations, are women the ones tasked with not only telling their male co-workers’ stories but also doing the emotional labor of making everyone feel fine about it?

This week’s news at CBS reminded me of a teary-eyed Savannah Guthrie reading Matt Lauer’s statement of apology on-air last year (the second day in a row that her job entailed discussing her former colleague’s alleged behavior) and Mika Brzezinski reporting the suspension of MSNBC contributor Mark Halperin and reading his statement.

Savannah Guthrie and Hoda Kotb report on Matt Lauer’s firing. Where are Al Roker and Willie Geist?

It is disturbing to me that women are always the ones charged with cleaning up the messes of their male co-workers and contextualizing it for betrayed viewers who networks fear they’ll lose—because God forbid the networks hemorrhage even more money over these scandals while potentially having to give huge payouts to the men in question.

Men screw up. Women fix it. It’s an all too familiar narrative—and I’m tired of it.

Why must women, who are still paid less than their male counterparts, be the ones to put on a sad face and express the appropriate shock and sympathy so that viewers at home feel comforted? Why are professional women forced into the maternal role of emotional soother—the one who says: There, there, sweetie. Everything will be OK. Since when is that part of the job description of being a female journalist?

Mika Brzezinski reports on the suspension of MSNBC contributor Mark Halperin.

The women in these situations keep their jobs and remain on clean-up duty while their disgraced male colleagues try to collect huge payouts and hide in their million dollar mansions to do some “soul-searching” while they wait for the dust to settle. Matt Lauer’s attorneys allegedly tried to get him $30 million (NBC didn’t pay) and Moonves could potentially receive $120 million pending an investigation. CBS agreed to allocate $20 million of Moonves’ $140 million payout for #MeToo causes.

That’s not enough.

Time’s Up has called for the board of CBS to give the money to organizations that address sexual harassment and workplace safety. In a letter to the CBS board, the organization said: “That is $120 million dollars that will either go to Mr. Moonves or back into the coffers of the company that allowed the culture created by Mr. Moonves to continue. Or that $120 million can create change by going to organizations – and there are many impactful organizations – that can help women of all kinds. The choice is yours. But the answer is obvious. We ask that you not dishonor the bravery of those who have come forward by spending that money unwisely.”

Time’s Up also called on the board to “review and remake not only the structure, but the culture, of CBS and take ongoing responsibility for issues of safety and equity” in the company. “You can cling to a status quo as it crumbles around you,” it said. “Or you can demonstrate what happens when true leadership embraces the future.”

Because the truth is, what the #MeToo movement has revealed is a systemic problem. It’s not one that can be solved by calling out a few (or even several dozen individuals. Until we have more female leadership and a culture that rewards integrity and transparency—instead of power and money—the problem will only persist.

The next time a male executive screws up, maybe put them on the air to make their own announcements about their bad behavior and subsequent firings. Don’t ask a woman to do it. We’ve done enough already.

Abigail Libers lives in Brooklyn and has written for New York and O: The Oprah Magazine.





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I'm Tired of Male Screenwriters Using Rape as a Convenient Backstory for Women


“I don’t really do films set in the modern day because the female characters nearly always get raped,” Keira Knightley told Variety earlier this week. In the interview, the actress was asked if production companies are backing more female-dominated stories, to which she declared that it’s slowly getting better. “I’m suddenly being sent scripts with present-day women who aren’t raped in the first five pages and aren’t simply there to be the loving girlfriend or wife.” It’s a somber day when one of Hollywood’s leading movie stars has sworn off making new movies because rape is such a pervasive storyline in our cultural landscape.

Good for Keira—we need more stars to speak out about the problems surrounding women’s stories—but honestly, this isn’t a new one. Whether it’s used to drive a heroine’s revenge story or provide us with an understanding of her character, rape as a backstory is a common entertainment trope. These stories are usually meant to be cathartic and powerful, but let’s count the other ways a woman can be seen as multidimensional besides surviving a trauma she didn’t ask for. To me, the constant defaulting to rape narratives feels insulting and misogynistic.

Most times, I’m sure it’s not intentional or even a conscious decision—but it’s not surprising that male screenwriters are the main purveyor of this trope. Of course, many of our most cherished female characters have been written by men. We celebrate these characters because of their valiant displays of badassery, but look deeper at their motivations. The Kill Bill movies, written and directed by Quentin Tarantino, are amongst the most famous rape-revenge films. For many, Beatrix Kiddo is one of the best woman-behaving-badly characters of all time. But when I reconcile Beatrix with similar narratives about intractable women, the unoriginality of it all is shocking.

Beatrix isn’t the only character looking for revenge: In Dick Wolf’s Law & Order: SVU, Mariska Hargitay’s Detective Olivia Benson pursues a career imprisoning sexual predators, having been a child born from her mother’s rape. Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri stars Frances McDormand on a ruthless trek for retribution against her daughter’s rapist and murderer. It was largely suggested that Furiosa, the heroine of George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road was sexually enslaved to Immortan Joe, like the other female protagonists in the film. The list drags on.

“Many male-written movies or TV shows are packed with frivolous and
careless displays of sexual assault.”

Outside of revenge, rape is often used to justify why a female character is so hardened or brawny, as if it’s impossible to imagine a woman being emboldened and traditionally masculine without having survived an assault. Michelle Dockery plays the jaded and thick-skinned Alice Fletcher in Scott Frank’s 2017 mini-series Godless. It’s not enough for her to be an independent ranch owner and strong-willed, protective mother—her chilliness had to be justified by a history of sexual abuse. See: Game of Thrones‘ Khaleesi rising to power after being raped and abused multiple times.

Aggressive and uncooperative female characters are often given the same treatment, like Thirteen’s rebellious Evie, who was raped by her uncle. As are successful women, like the merciless Claire Underwood of Beau Willimon’s House of Cards, who was raped in college. Her assault is used as a device to justify why she seeks to advance her career. Then there’s the prosperous Gabrielle Solis from Marc Cherry’s Desperate Housewives, who was raped by her stepfather.

In contrast, male heroes and protagonists who share personality traits with characters like Khaleesi or Beatrix Kiddo need less explaining to justify their behavior. Many male criminals, spies, thieves, and con artists are often driven by something as simple as love. For example, in Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven, Danny Ocean seeks revenge against a wealthy casino owner, Terry Benedict, because Benedict married Ocean’s ex-wife. A lifetime of enduring painful abuse didn’t create his affinity toward crime—love did.

The psyches of characters like James Bond, Bruce Wayne, Han Solo, John McClane, or Walter White are explained by the death of their parents. Daddy and abandonment issues are extremely common explanations for male superheroes, Superman, Thor, and Tony Stark. Sometimes, men are motivated by betrayal, like Ethan Hunt from Brian De Palma’s Mission: Impossible or the eponymous Jason Bourne. Male characters are often hard and tough, but for a woman to be illustrated the same way, unfortunately, the sexual assault explainer comes into play quite often.

“We need complicated, multitudinous, bull-headed female characters—now
more than ever.”

Keira Knightley is right. Rape is often exploited in film and television, and many male-written movies or TV shows are packed with frivolous and careless displays of sexual assault. David Fincher’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo has been criticized as making a spectacle of rape. The highly decorated Darren Aronofsky has directed three films with rape or assault scenes (Black Swan, Requiem for a Dream, and mother!), a tendency that leans heavily toward creepiness or fetish. No doubt, women write these stories too, like Melissa Rosenberg, who created Jessica Jones for Netflix. But often, female-written stories about sexual assault offer an vastly different and important perspective. In Jessica Jones, the titular hero hunts for vengeance against her sexual abuser, but the show’s innate female perspective allowed for a nuanced portrayal of sexual assault and has thus been hailed by women as helpful or “getting it right.”

Many writers do their female protagonists justice, and rape-revenge stories can be mollifying to watch, especially for survivors of assault. But film and TV characters are a reflection of real-life women, and there are an infinite amount of motivations, methodologies, and histories that produce interesting, complicated women. I know, because I know these women, and so do you. I’m not calling for an end to these types of narratives; in this post-Weinstein world, it’s important to continue having important dialogues on sexual assault. But I am requesting a larger breadth of female characters, and a variety of backstories and motivations for them. We need complicated, multitudinous, bull-headed female characters—now more than ever.



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