By: Margot Anthony | WGEC Student Staff Member | Social Work Student

This is going to be a continuation from my last blog post “Beginning Again.” Since creating that post I have worked to become more comfortable in my identity as a survivor of gender-based harm, specifically sexual assault. 

Writing my first blog post in November and December was both emotional and cathartic. It was very emotional for me because it was a story that I had not told many people before, and definitely had not shared publicly. Writing the post was also cathartic. The feelings that I shared in the post and experience had been weighing on me heavily, and it was a relief to share it, especially being able to share it on my own terms. 

After sharing my blog post I felt more calm and at peace than I had in a while. I felt like I had reclaimed something I didn’t even know I had lost. Everything  that had happened to me, I had survived. And in making the post, I now realized that I had reclaimed my story. 

It was after writing my blog post last semester that I decided I wanted to speak at Take Back the Night. While preparing what I was going to say during Take Back the Night I was practicing over and over. 

Writing. 

Re-writing. 

Over and over again.

On the day of Take Back the Night, when I got up to the microphone, I was so nervous. I hadn’t realized how different it would be verbally telling my story as opposed to writing it out and sharing it. I felt like I was shaking and I wanted to floor to just swallow me whole. 

I got through it. I felt like I blacked out the whole time and don’t remember most of what happened or really what I said, but I did it. What I do remember is feeling supported by those around me when I had finished speaking. Sharing my story was an amazing experience and very freeing for me. 

What impacted me the most at Take Back the Night, were the people that shared after me. Not just the people who were planning to share their stories. The people who got up and shared when they were just planning to observe. Their bravery, strength,  and willingness to be vulnerable inspired me. 

I planned what I was going to say for months and still almost didn’t say anything. What I never considered in sharing my story, is that it would help other people share their stories as well. 

What I want people to take away from this blog post and my previous post, is that there are people who will support and believe you wholeheartedly and you do not have to go through everything alone. You are stronger than you think and you have more support than you know. 

I will finish off this post with the quote that I read out during Take Back the Night: 

Everyone loves a survivor once [they’re] quiet. Once [they’re] soft, polite, healed. But bring up what actually happened? Talk about the abuse, the manipulation, the betrayal? Suddenly you’re too much. Bitter. Angry. Suddenly you’re the problem. The truth is – they don’t want survivors. They want silence with a pretty filter. They want your pain digestible. Not loud. Not real. So when I speak? I do it loudly. Clearly. Unapologetically. Because I wasn’t put back together just to keep everyone else comfortable. – Zenda-Lee Williams. 

By Ashwathi Menon, Bioinformatics & Public Health Major, Student Staff Member

The first thing that comes into play is performance.

The jewelry. The eyeliner so sharp that it can be seen from the last row. The well-rehearsed smile remains unshaken under the lights of the stage. My South Asian heritage comes into our lives through performance—through the vibrancy and color of the thematic films, through dance, and through the celebrated aesthetics.

However, for us, in the South Asian diaspora, culture goes beyond performance.

It is memory. It is an inheritance. It is a translation. It is survival.

During APIDA Heritage Month, there is one question that loops me more than others: how often does culture become something to consume before it is even understood as something normative to society? How can people be impressed by the beauty of South Asian culture without understanding much of the life, struggle, and history that lies beneath it?

Sometimes, being a South Asian woman raised in a Western society means negotiating these two things every day.

Bharatanatyam is a classical dance from Southern India, characterized by storytelling using the language of dance, rhythm, and expression. The hand gestures, called mudras, form an entire language on their own. A single movement can symbolize a flower, rain, heartbreak, prayer, or power. The eyes shift deliberately. The posture remains grounded and strong through aramandi, the half-seated position that forms the foundation of the dance. The face carries emotion just as much as the body does.

In Bharatanatyam, you do not simply dance. You communicate.

The drishti bhedas, the controlled eye movements, require directness. The mudras ask your hands to speak confidently before your voice ever does. The entire form teaches you to take up space physically and emotionally without apologizing for it.

I think that mattered to me long before I had the words to explain why.

The nature of diasporic communities is inherently complex. You were raised with a profound understanding of your homeland, knowing that it exists and yet feeling distant from it. Your traditions have been taught to you secondhand, filtered through generations of parents, language, culture, and customs.

Some days, I feel deeply rooted in my culture. Other days, I feel like I am constantly trying to prove my authenticity, not only to others but also to myself.

Too American in some spaces. Too Indian in others.

I imagine many APIDA students understand this feeling all too well: the struggle of protecting your culture while constantly adapting- the exhaustion of translating yourself so others can comprehend better. It’s a feeling that’s familiar in your day-to-day environments, from classes to leadership positions to informal social gatherings.

Growing up, I’ve repeatedly seen people perceive South Asian women as their projections until they actually get to know us, the studious model minority. The accomplishments are noticed before we are. But life, and especially identity, is far more complicated than this.

Dancing was one of the few things where I ceased to feel pressure. Not because it solved all the conflicts inside me, but because it let me exist amidst them. Bharatanatyam made me realize that strength and grace did not negate each other, that rigor and emotion could coexist, that being visible could be both vulnerable and invigorating.

And perhaps that is why dancing holds such personal significance for me.

Not because of the act of performance itself, but for everything else it represents: continuation, preservation, the refusal to silently vanish.

Especially now, in APIDA Heritage Month, I consider how many children of immigrants go through life translating themselves for everyone else. Softening names. Bringing light to cultural practices. Adapting oneself to be easy to comprehend, bringing centuries’ worth of history into spaces never designed to accommodate it.

But with dance, there is no need for translation. My body just gets it.

Under vivid stage lights, my hands move instinctively through mudras, reflections of the younger version of myself who practiced relentlessly for years. My eyes meet the audience with confidence.

I am finally whole.

By Claudia Gerry Social Work & Gender, Women’s and Sexuality Studies Major, Student Staff Member

Forward

This literature review was my final paper for Dr. Maria Celleri’s Methodologies in Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies (GWST 300) course. I feel that this topic heavily applies to the work the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center does. As a student staff member, I see how Title IX fails survivors, I see how it hurts survivors, and I see how it makes survivors’ lives just that much harder. I plan to continue this research and present it at URCAD 2027 in order to advocate for change not only on our UMBC campus but across the United States. So… here is a sneak peek!

Introduction

Sexual misconduct is a major problem everywhere, but specifically on college campuses. Sexual assault is defined as any form of unconsensual and unwanted sexual contact, which can include physical contact or sexual coercion (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Sexual harassment within education is defined as behaviors sexual in nature that are “sufficiently severe, persistent, or pervasive to limit a student’s ability to participate in or benefit from the education program, or to create a hostile or abusive educational environment” (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Women and LGBTQ+ undergraduate students face the greatest risk of enduring sexual misconduct (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Those who experience sexual assault often endure many mental health challenges and harms to their education (Holland & Cipriano, 2021), especially if they do not utilize support resources. The campus climate can foster barriers for survivors using these resources. Many survivors feel a minimization of sexual assault, fear of negative treatment, and have social-emotional concerns (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Awareness of sexual violence is rooted in the second-wave feminist movement. But, this awareness mostly focused on the voices of white, well-educated women. There is a persistent struggle to understand the intersectionality of sexual assault (Jessup-Anger et al., 2018), even though this issue can affect every identity. This Literature review addresses how the implementation of Title IX policies affects survivors of sexual violence within higher education systems in the United States. To begin to understand this, we must know what Title IX is and how it has been implemented through time.

What is Title IX?

Title IX was passed in 1973 as part of the education amendments and is a civil rights law (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). The main focus of this law is to prohibit sex-based discrimination in educational settings funded by the federal government (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Originally, the focus was set on inequality in admissions and educational opportunities, but the scope has widened since then (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Title IX has been used to increase access to women’s sports and require educational institutions to address sexual harassment and violence (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). At the surface level, this law seems to help survivors of sexual assault, but in reality, it often harms the survivor more than it helps. 

Every institution’s Title IX policies vary due to different levels of staffing, budget, and number of support and advocacy services. One uniform requirement across all institutions is the requirement of at least one Title IX coordinator, no matter the institution’s size (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). The Title IX coordinator is located within the Title IX office, which at most universities is housed under the institution’s Equity and Civil Rights department. 

The applications of Title IX have changed numerous times through new legislation, Office of Civil Rights (OCR) guidance, and presidential letters called Dear Colleague Letters (DCL). In 1980, Alexander v. Yale argued that sexual harassment in educational institutions constitutes sex-based discrimination under Title IX (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026) and is still the precedent today. The main acts passed that affect Title IX are: 1990 Clery Act, 1992 Campus Sexual Assault Victim’s Bill of Rights, 1994 Violence Against Women Act, and 2013 Campus SaVE Act. These acts mainly attempt to address funding for survivor services, requirements for prevention training, and public disclosure of crime rates. 

What really affects Title IX implementation the most are DCLs. In 2011, the Obama-era DCL was released. The Obama DCL called attention to the issue of sexual violence on college campuses, reminded Higher Education Institutions (HEIs) of Title IX guidelines, and added additional recommendations. This letter classified sexual violence under the umbrella of sex discrimination under Title IX, lowered investigatory standards of proof,  and made it legal to withhold funds from HEIs for not complying (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). In 2017, the  Donald Trump era DCL was released and focused heavily on concerns for the (rights of the) accused (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). The Trump DCL withdrew the Obama DCL and announced new regulations. The main changes were changes in definitions of sexual violence, limited the scope of what HEIs are required to address, added more requirements for formal adjudication, and emphasized the rights of respondents over the well-being of survivors (Webermann et al., 2023). In 2024, the Title IX regulations were changed once again by Joe Biden’s administration. These regulations expanded the scope of conduct covered under the policy and for the most part were similar to 2020 but gave HEIs more discretion (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Today, we are under the 2025 DCL. This DCL edits the 2024 regulations to include that HEIs “must continue to comply with the 2020 Title IX regulations and operate under the presumption of (inaccurate) binary, biological sex” (Holland & Howard Valdivia, 2026). Overall, Title IX policies have been said to be a political football being passed around and changed with every administration. This makes Title IX regulations hard to understand for the average person. So, not everyone understands their rights and what is expected of their institutions.

Title IX in Action

A theoretical framework to understand the importance of survivors’ interactions with the Title IX Office is the theory of institutional betrayal. Both Webermann et al. (2023) and Holland and Cipriano (2021) use this framework to understand the effects of Title IX on survivors. Institutional betrayal shows the unique ways institutions can harm marginalized groups and “conceptualizes wrongdoings perpetrated by an institution when people are dependent upon the institution and can expect that it will protect its members from harm and will respond appropriately if harm is endured” (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Students expect their institutions to take steps to restore their access to education, but when the institution fails to do so, there can be negative consequences that can include erosion of trust and belonging at the institution (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Failures of the institution can be: failure to prevent abuse, normalizing of abusive contexts, difficult reporting procedures, inadequate responses to reports, cover-ups, misinformation, and punishing survivors (Webermann et al., 2023). Survivors who experience institutional betrayal report increased levels of psychological harm (Holland & Cipriano, 2021).Title IX overall affects survivors negatively. 

First, Title IX cases are supposed to take up to 60 days to be resolved, but the average length of cases in Webermann’s study is 175.36 days (Webermann et al., 2023).  Many institutions elect to have the minimum number of coordinators- one. Staffing levels in the Title IX office affect how long cases may take (Kaufman & Nelson, 2025), so many institutions’ Title IX offices are not staffed enough for every case to be resolved within the 60-day timeframe. Many survivors see major variability in the transparency of their case. Some survivors receive multiple updates and reassurances about their case, while others get little to none (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). According to Holland and Cipriano (2021), “Recent research has found that the majority of sexual assault reports to Title IX Offices do not result in formal investigations and, of those that are investigated, there is rarely a finding of ‘responsibility’”.  Many survivors believe that the length of their case affected the outcomes. For example, witnesses may forget parts of their story over time or the respondent might leave the institution before disciplinary action is taken (Webermann et al., 2023). 

Second, many survivors report negative treatment from the Title IX office. This negative treatment can include victim-blaming, name-calling, stalling of cases, and being told the institution can do nothing about the case. Holland and Cortina (2017a) found that of the three main support systems they examined (Title IX office, sexual assault center, and housing staff), the Title IX office was not utilized by survivors because of  “negative emotions, consequences, contextual characteristics, minimization of behaviors, and alternative coping strategies”. According to Holland and Cipriano (2021), negative reactions to sexual assault disclosures can cause significant psychological harm for survivors.

Third, many survivors experience barriers in receiving support. Kaufman and Nelson (2025) found that “Too often, survivors of sexual assault do not know where to turn and do not receive the support they need despite the seemingly ‘robust’ federal legislation that seeks to address campus sexual violence”. Many survivors deliberately avoid the Title IX office due to fears of poor treatment (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Within Webermann et al.’s (2023) study, many participants felt unclear about the Title IX reporting process and their options. 

Survivors are expected to retell the worst moments of their lives numerous times, reliving it every. single. time. According to Webermann et al. (2023), the survivors in their study had to tell their stories to 2.88 different offices/individuals, not including formal grievance procedures or court procedures. If a survivor wants to make a report and seek justice, they are put in more harm. To help themselves, they have to harm themselves. “It was not just the outcome of their case that caused harm but also the process itself”(Webermann et al., 2023).

Future Steps

Due to all these reasons listed above, survivors are discouraged from standing up for themselves. Working at the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center (WGEC) has shown me how Title IX  actually operates in real life. In my personal experience, the system has failed survivors. Many survivors seek support from the WGEC, as we are a confidential space, and they do not want to bother with reporting to the UMBC Title IX office. The reasons I have heard are: knowing how the office treats other survivors, knowing how many times they will have to relive what they have gone through, concerns over social circumstances, minimization of what happened to them, and many more. With the perpetual changing of guidelines, many survivors do not understand what their institution can do for them anymore, making them give up and move on. At many institutions, there are requirements for mandatory reporting, where staff and faculty are required to report sexual misconduct disclosures to the Title IX office. Many staff and faculty are in the same boat of confusion about what the guidelines are, leading individual reporters to either report too much or too little. In my experience, professors are not trained on what is to be reported and what happens to the student after a report is filed. This leaves students cautious about talking about their experiences in fear of being non-consensually reported.

Many changes need to be made in order to ensure the success of survivors. First, there needs to be an implementation of an oversight committee to ensure the Title IX office acts swiftly, equitably and with accountability (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). This committee could also oversee trauma-informed training for Title IX Office staff and mandated reporters. “Using formal supports that are trauma-informed and survivor-centered can promote psychological well-being for survivors” (Holland & Cipriano, 2021). Second, there needs to be an effort to address the root cause of sexual violence instead of focusing on the aftereffects. “Although most universities comply with Title IX, many side-step confronting the root causes of normalized sexual violence and avoid teaching the realities of campus sexual violence, leaving students confused, isolated, and unsure of how to address the trauma that they or their friends experience”(Kaufman & Nelson, 2025). Third, to address institutional betrayal, we must flip it to institutional support. This can include “supportive responses from individuals within institutions to survivors, such as believing them, apologizing for their experiences, connecting them with resources, and providing autonomy in what happens after reporting”(Webermann et al., 2023). Lastly, frontline workers within the survivor support services need more say in the implementation of Title IX. “Oftentimes, frontline workers, such as victim advocates, are absent from the policy table, yet this article underscores the importance of their positionality and experiences for addressing vulnerabilities in the campus sexual violence intervention system”(Wies, 2015). 

 Conclusion

Ultimately, under the system we have set in place, Title IX is failing survivors of sexual violence in HEIs in the United States. Survivors are expected to advocate for themselves when their words have been ignored in the past. The Title IX office worries too much about getting sued by the respondent to bring justice for the survivor. Survivors experience major mental health and educational challenges even though Title IX is supposed to ensure equal access to education. If a survivor reports their institution for violation of Title IX policy, the report can take years to process, so Title IX offices are not held accountable. This is why we need to change the policy ONE last time. Modifying Title IX every few years only causes more confusion. We need to support survivors. Survivors need to feel supported, seen, and heard by their institutions.

References

Brubaker, S. J., Keegan, B., Guadalupe-Diaz, X. L., & Beasley, B. (2017). Measuring and reporting campus sexual assault: Privilege and exclusion in what we know and what we do. Sociology Compass, 11(12), e12543. https://doi.org/10.1111/soc4.12543

Holland, K. J., & Cipriano, A. E. (2021). Does a report = support? A qualitative analysis of college sexual assault survivors’ Title IX Office knowledge, perceptions, and experiences. Analyses of Social Issues and Public Policy, 21(1), 1054–1081. https://doi.org/10.1111/asap.12271

Holland, K. J., & Cortina, L. M. (2017a). “It Happens to Girls All the Time”: Examining Sexual Assault Survivors’ Reasons for Not Using Campus Supports. American Journal of Community Psychology, 59(1-2), 50–64. https://doi.org/10.1002/ajcp.12126

Holland, K. J., & Cortina, L. M. (2017b). The evolving landscape of Title IX: Predicting mandatory reporters’ responses to sexual assault disclosures. Law and Human Behavior, 41(5), 429–439. https://doi.org/10.1037/lhb0000253

Holland, K. J., & Howard Valdivia, R. L. (2026). Title IX and Sexual Violence in Higher Education: A Mapping Review and Assessment of Policy Implementation and Effectiveness. The Journal of Sex Research, 1–19. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224499.2026.2623649

Jessup-Anger, J., Lopez, E., & Koss, M. P. (2018). History of Sexual Violence in Higher Education. New Directions for Student Services, 2018(161), 9–19. https://doi.org/10.1002/ss.20249

Kaufman, S. B.-S., & Nelson, L. (2025). Interpreting title IX: A feminist legal geography of sexual assault prevention on U.S. college campuses. Political Geography, 116(5), 103252. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2024.103252

Webermann, A. R., Holland, K. J., & Murphy, C. M. (2023). Student Experiences Reporting Sexual and Gender-Based Misconduct to the Title IX Office at a Public State University. Violence against Women, 30(6-7), 107780122211502. https://doi.org/10.1177/10778012221150274

Wies, J. R. (2015). Title IX and the State of Campus Sexual Violence in the United States: Power, Policy, and Local Bodies. Human Organization, 74(3), 276–286. https://doi.org/10.17730/0018-7259-74.3.276

By: Margot Anthony, WGEC Student Staff Member and Social Work Student

Main theme: Letting yourself be vulnerable again in a relationship after gender-based harm. 

Trauma from gender-based harm and healing from that trauma is a topic that is discussed a lot at the Women’s, Gender, and Equity Center (WGEC); we even have a weekly discussion group about it called “We Believe You.” It is through this group that I have been thinking about the healing process, and how in all of the books that I have read about healing from gender-based harm it is never discussed how to navigate beginning a new relationship and letting yourself be vulnerable again. 

Since I had experienced my trauma, when I was 17 and 19, I had never been in a relationship after that. I am 23 years old now. The thought of letting myself become that vulnerable again was terrifying, and right now it still is. I had a decision to make, I could live in a world of fear and what if’s or I could take small steps into letting myself fully live my life again, on my own terms. 

That’s what I decided to do. I began slowly. I was hanging out with some of my friends and we had the great idea to make an account for me on a dating app. Let’s just say there were some highs and many lows. It took me almost three years to even be comfortable with the idea of seeing if I wanted to go out on dates with people. It took me almost four years to actually go on a date with someone. It took 13 first dates going wrong in some way to find someone that seemed like they understood and respected boundaries. 

After some self-care and some journaling I decided that it was time to try again, and that I would give this person a chance; and so far I am really glad that I did. The fear is still there, and will continue to be there for a long time, but he seems to understand that. He encourages me to assert my own boundaries and does not take silence as a yes. Will this last forever? I don’t know and right now that is okay for me. Through this I am learning that there are people who do understand that setting boundaries isn’t presenting a challenge or saying ask me again. There are people that will understand some of your boundaries and limits without you having to say anything and without you having to explain anything to them. 

This was a difficult step for me to take because I was putting myself into a situation where I did not know what the outcome would be. I still don’t know what the outcome will be, and I’m beginning to realize that that is okay. 

Healing and starting to trust people and be vulnerable again is not a linear process, there are ups and downs. I wish that I could say that there were concrete steps that I took to get to this point.  I wish I could say that I’m not scared anymore, but that would be a complete lie. I’m still scared. That is something I don’t think will change. What I am learning is that fear does not have to control everything. 

Making sure fear does not control your life and keep you from experiencing new things is easier said than done. Some steps that I take include: 

1. Sharing my location when I go on dates. 
2. Giving trusted people the name of the person that I am going on a date with and a picture. 
3. Meeting someone at a location for a date and not being picked up by them. 
4. Telling people what the plan for the date is, and informing them if anything changes.
   1. What time and where we are meeting. 
   2. What time the date is likely to end. 
   3. Places we may be going other than the place that we meet. 
5. Being clear about boundaries when needed.
   1. This is one of the hardest things to do. It’s scary. But it’s important. If you get invited to do something you don’t want to do or don’t feel comfortable doing, SAY NO. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF! NO IS A COMPLETE SENTENCE! 
6. Trust your gut! – If you feel uncomfortable, leave. Even if it is something small. 

Your journey is yours and yours alone. There is no specific timeline. Dating is hard and scary. One thing that I have learned is that while first dates are scary, the dates after can be even more nerve wracking. The important thing to remember is to make decisions that are good for you, and be willing to communicate your needs with people. The biggest thing that I have learned and that I will leave you all with is the fact that you do not have to be perfect to be in a relationship you just have to be trying. 

By: Ashwathi Menon, Bioinformatics & Public Health Major

When I first entered the world of neuroscience lab work, science seemed to be all about being objective: clean lines, sharp corners, and no emotion involved whatsoever. It all seemed to point to the notion that too much emotion clouds one’s vision; you didn’t want emotion near your microscope. But as I stood at my lab bench operating my RT-PCRs on rat hypothalamus samples, it hit me just how much emotion was already infused into everything we did. It takes patience to accurately pipette one perfect microliter of liquid. It takes collaboration to run repeated tests. It takes the knowledge and obligation to know your own scientific pursuits may one day impact an individual’s life; the entire point being care is not the opposite of science but its pulse instead.

This is not something one can read in books or lectures. It is something my grandmother taught me: my Achamma. She suffered from a stroke just over a year ago, and since then, I have been assisting my family with her care. Watching her relearn to move her arm or to pronounce a few words sparked my own interest in the same paths inside her mind because these paths looked just like what we discussed and viewed in class, but instead of graphs or PowerPoint presentations, they were hers.

In science, we’re expected to measure everything: voltage, pH levels, and reaction time. But there is no measuring the act of holding someone’s hand while they forget your name, or the strength required to continue to come back to them anyway. This is the kind of labor women have always done. Unacknowledged labor, uncounted labor, but vital labor nonetheless. It is this kind of labor, the kind of labor devalued by society as care, that fuels scientific progress itself. This is one thing feminism helped me recognize.

As someone who works in scientific research, I have been struck by how often science attempts to polarize emotion and intellect. You’re legitimate if you’re logical, but weak if you’re empathetic. But beyond just hurting women in science, this kind of false dichotomy also hurts science itself. The questions we ask in scientific research come from who we are. When more women, and especially women of color, enter science, we bring questions that have never before been asked.

One thing feminist theory often addresses is “ethics of care,” because care is not something to be scorned but rather something to do with moral and intellectual power. This is what I think of every time I go to lab work. This is what I do every time I label a vial of cells or give a presentation or stand up to talk about my findings: practice care for my field and help to transform it from something that once made me feel small to something that contains care.

When I first embarked on my research internship at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research, I noticed that I was among the youngest individuals in the lab setting. And yes, I recall wondering whether my voice would really carry any weight or whether anyone would take me seriously at all. But every time I decided to speak out or share my thoughts on whether to use this or that approach, I realized that confidence didn’t lie in being loud but in being anchored to my values instead. And this is something feminism showed me before science did.

It is to walk a high wire between precision and patience, between brains and intuition, and between being strong and being soft. But it seems to me now that these things are no longer on one side or the other of any kind of divide. The most excellent scientific minds happen to approach things whole-brained or whole-hearted, asking “who” questions. Who is helped? Who is hurt? Who is not being allowed to participate in this conversation?

At times, I wonder what my Achamma would have thought if she were to witness me now in my lab setting, my gloved hands steady and strong around my work involving data and fluorescence. But she would smile and remark matter-of-factly, “You’re still taking care of people.” And she would be right because science is nothing but another expression of “caring for others” or our “world” around us.

Perhaps care itself is not what serves as a distraction from science but is rather what makes science human. Perhaps future generations of women pursuing science can forget having to choose between being kind and being smart because we have always been both.

By Claudia Gerry, Social Work Major, Critical Sexuality Studies Minor

It was sixth grade, I was in health class, we were in the family life unit. All my classmates could not stop laughing. My teacher had enough of the shenanigans, she made us all stand up and scream, “PENIS” then, “VAGINA” then, “BOOBIES”. I did not understand why it was so funny. Growing up, my mom, a family practice doctor, would read me her medical textbooks to sleep. I was learning biological male anatomy to sleep. I learned how babies were made when I was 5, I simply asked my mom, and she told me, without innuendos, without slang terms, but with her medical textbook. I was always taught medically accurate sex education at home. This luxury is not given to everyone. In my middle school, there was no LGBTQIA+ representation built into our curriculum. Once again, I learned about it at home. I was raised to believe that sex is just a natural part of life, but I must also know how to have safe sex. Not everyone’s parents are as open as mine were, sex education is needed for the safety of everyone. 

The Netherlands and America differ greatly in how they address teenage sexuality, which is very obvious when looking at statistics. American teens, in the industrialized world, have some of the highest rates of STDs. American teen girls are twice more likely to carry a pregnancy to term than they are to receive an abortion. This is most likely due to the stigma surrounding abortion in the US and the lack of factual education about it. Compared to American girls, Dutch girls are less likely to get pregnant and also more likely to have an abortion if pregnant. American teen girls are 4 times as likely to get pregnant, and twice as likely to have an abortion compared to their Dutch counterparts, even though their age of sexual initiation is similar. This is likely due to a lack of education on contraception methods in American schools and homes. Americans heavily stigmatize sexuality, especially for adolescents; they are less likely to educate their children about safe sex practices in the home. This is why sex education in schools is so important.  Dutch youth birth rates are 8 times lower than American youth. Dutch abortion rates are two times lower than the American abortion rates. While the age of sexual initiation for Dutch teens got younger, their birth rate also steeply dropped between the 1970s-1996, it is one of the lowest in the world. Dutch Teens have much lower rates of pregnancy, birth, abortion, and HIV among youth than American teens. 

The book “Not Under My Roof: Parents, Teens, and the Culture of Sex” by Amy T. Schalet is about the comparison of attitudes of adolescent sexuality in the United States and the Netherlands. I read this book for my CSST 332 Sex and Society class. Schalet is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Schalet’s findings are based on interviews and knowledge about each country’s government and laws. She interviews 130 Dutch and American parents and adolescents (mostly 10th graders) between early 1990 and 2000 who are all similar in education level, religion, class and race, and asks them a series of questions. The main question asked is, as a parent, “would you allow your adolescent child to have a sleepover with the opposite [gender**]?”, or as an adolescent, “would your parent allow you to have a sleepover with the opposite [gender**].?” We find that the answers vary depending on the country, but why? The book explores and explains teenage sexuality in the United States and the Netherlands, mostly in relation to family.  

In the Netherlands, teenage sexuality is seen as normal. Dutch culture normalizes sexuality through three cultural frames: normal sexuality, relationship based sexuality, and self regulated sexuality. Normal sexuality refers to the fact that sexuality can be talked about in an open, unproblematic, and matter of fact manner. Relationship based sexuality refers to the idea that sexual desire and sexual acts grow out of a teen’s feelings for and relationship with another person. Finally, Self-regulated sexuality refers to the belief that readiness for sex is a moment when emotional and physical desires are united, and sensible preventative measures are taken. Sex is talked about in the home like any other topic. There is also an emphasis on safe sex coming from social institutions as well, so Dutch teens are getting the same message from multiple sources. Independent individualism is the dominant cultural norm in the Netherlands. Schalet uses the examples of alcohol, adulthood, and authority when explaining types of individualism. In the Netherlands, alcohol is socially embedded, which leads to teens developing internal control. To be an adult, they need to be able to financially and emotionally self regulate, and authority means to reach mutual agreements. Dutch parents use a form of control over their children called control through connection. Dutch parents tend to use mutual agreements instead of American overt displays of power, making many Dutch adolescents agree to the restrictions placed on them. But, sometimes Dutch teens still feel like their parents are being too restrictive, so they will do things in stiekem (secret). The Dutch societal system has much more room for error compared to America, they have second chances to finish high school, easy access to abortion and emergency contraception, less risk of drunk driving due to the fact that they bike everywhere, and there are fewer legal sanctions surrounding alcohol and drugs. This extra room for error allows Dutch parents to not have to worry as much as their American peers if their children veer off the normalized course of life.

In the United States, teenage sexuality is dramatized. There are 3 frames that support the dramatization of teenage sexuality in the United States, Hormone-based sexuality, the battle between the sexes, and parent-regulated adolescent sexuality. Hormone-based sexuality, also referred to as raging hormones, refers to the idea that hormones are an overpowering force that teens cannot control, leaving parents to think there is a disjunction between the onset of hormones and the cognitive/emotional development needed to control them. The battle between the sexes refers to the fact that sex at adolescence is conceptualized as a battle with winners and losers, and costs and benefits. Lastly, parent-regulated adolescent sexuality refers to the fact that parents think it is their job to monitor and control their teen’s raging hormones because they cannot control themselves, they regulate whatever is in their control, for example, the not under my roof sentiment. American parents avoid the topic of sexuality in the home, leaving it to the school to teach, but the sex education legislation fails its students. Every state has different standards for sex education, some states do not even require the information being taught to be medically accurate. Some parents want to avoid the topic of sexuality in their children’s lives so much that they opt out of the school sex education provided. Adversarial individualism is the dominant cultural norm in the United States. In this form of individualism, teens need external control in relation to alcohol, to be an adult they need to be financially and emotionally self-sufficient, and authority means to win the important battles and let go of the small things. American parents use a form of control over their children called connection through control. American adolescents try to maintain a good kid image for their parents, yet they break the stricter rules to create separation between themselves and their families.

Overall, through reading this book, I learned that the American view of teenage sexuality is not the norm for the rest of the world, specifically the Netherlands.  I think the main ideas of the book are things all parents should know. We see that Dutch unintended pregnancy and STI rates are lower than their US counterparts, and that the Dutch tend to get married and stay married instead of getting multiple divorces like many Americans. I believe that parents should try their best to use the parenting style the Dutch use. Not only for a closer family dynamic, but for the safety and success of their children. 

I always knew that I was raised differently than my peers, but just because I was educated in this way doesn’t mean that the culture I live in had no effect on me. I was raised to ask questions and be open about sexuality, but around the age of 12, I began to keep things secret from my family and close myself off. Even though I was raised similarly to Dutch youth, I still act similarly to my American peers. This shows how important culture is. My parents raised me to be open, but I closed myself off because that was what everyone else my age was doing and was what I would see on TV. I experienced sexual trauma when I was a tween and went through it alone because that’s what my culture made me think was normal. My sex education in school did not emphasize enthusiastic consent and did not give us resources for help. Sex education is now one of my passions. I think every person should know their bodies and understand consent completely. I believe that if we as a society can open up about the human experience of sexuality, people would feel safer talking about their stories, have better sexual experiences, and overall be happier.

**This book was really eye-opening, but my main critique is the use of gendered language and the disregard of nonbinary/gender-nonconforming individuals. I tried my best to use the most inclusive language possible, but that cannot make up for the lack of data given, most likely due to this work being published in 2011 and there not being much research done on that community.

Citation

Schalet, A. T. (2011). Not under my roof : parents, teens, and the culture of sex. University Of Chicago Press.

Because femininity is a concept, it can be constantly reshaped, redefined, and distorted based on the beliefs of the society it exists within, and social media works to heighten and mirror that. As a young, Black queer woman navigating both the virtual and physical world, I am able to notice and reflect on instances where social media becomes a space of healing for certain groups, but not others. Across numerous social media platforms, we’ve seen a rise in “girlhood” related trends. From girl dinner to girl math, a curated glimpse into what it means to be a “girl” is flooding our senses and our timelines. While the inherent satirical nature of the trend can be harmless and even beneficial from the surface, as someone who identifies as a woman and sometimes even a girl I am able to see and experience how the trend works to support and promote undertones of exclusivity apparent in Western society. 

I want to make an important distinction between how the trend looks and what it communicates. I’ve always been a “girly girl” at heart, it’s a way of embracing femininity that feels comfortable for me, so visually I should relate to a trend built on a hyperfeminine, pink-clad life, right? But I don’t, and that is what compelled me to think more critically and write about this topic. I didn’t see myself reflected in this trend and I feel like I’m not the only one. When I look through videos of girlhood on social media, I am often fed a very idealized image. White, heterosexual, cis-gendered, and able-bodied. This perception of femininity being promoted is one that speaks and appeals to a very specific and very Westernized idea of beauty. For women like me, who were once girls like me, this representation can be jarring. It not only feels like our unique experiences don’t belong in public view but that we should try to conform or assimilate to the experiences being shown to us. For girls like me, social media doesn’t always offer room to express our girlhood in a way that feels right, especially not in a widespread or public manner. Instead, there’s an unspoken pressure to conform to this widely celebrated form of femininity and for those who don’t fit in that box, their experiences are erased. Also, girlhood, like most other trends and phenomena on social media, is heavily commodified, and it always has been. So not only am I being sold a hyperspecific, hyperbolized version of femininity, but it’s one I don’t even identify or relate to. I completely understand the positive aspects of the trend but I also can’t help but approach it with apprehension because of the disappointing tendency the media has of generalizing or erasing my experiences as a Black woman. Because of that, I can’t be surprised that I’m seeing the same thing happen here, but instead of my current experiences as a Black woman, it’s my past experiences as a Black girl.

In my AFST 460 course, Black Hair and Body Politics (highly recommended!) we talk about the concept of the “other”. The other is determined because they are different from what is considered the hegemonic norm. In girlhood and femininity, the norm is white Eurocentric experiences of girlhood, and as a result, all WOC and what we experience are labeled as the other. When you’re the other, there is something inherently wrong with you, how you live, and what you experience. I can’t help but feel as though these trends think there is something wrong with my Blackness and my Black girlhood. There is so much to my girlhood that I value and cherish, like the memories of sitting in my mom’s lap for hours while she braided my hair, visiting my family in the UK, early RnB and funk music, and so much more. I haven’t seen this trend celebrate common aspects of the Black girlhood experience unless it is a Black woman herself making space for it. To me, that isn’t fair. If we’re celebrating girlhood, shouldn’t we celebrate all types of girlhood? My girlhood is shaped by my culture and heritage and that doesn’t always align with the trends that dominate my timeline, and I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. 

In the eyes of this trend, there is only one way to be feminine and only one way to heal your inner girl, and if you’re not doing it that way you’re doing it wrong. I urge anyone who relates to this post to appreciate the uniqueness of your girlhood and how it has been impacted by your identity and surroundings. Reclaiming your girlhood doesn’t automatically mean completely conforming to or rejecting mainstream trends, but embracing the beauty of difference. For me, reclaiming my girlhood means doing my hair myself, it reminds me of the bonds I made with my mom when she did it for me. For me, it means listening to the same ’80s and ’90s RnB and funk music my mom used to blast every Saturday morning. These experiences define my girlhood and it wouldn’t be fair to try and apply them to every other woman in the world. That’s my primary issue with this trend, it had so much potential to celebrate the inherent diversity in upbringing. We all have different backgrounds and our girlhoods looked different because of that, regardless we are connected in that we were all girls. Instead, this trend chooses to uplift one version of girlhood and completely exclude all others. There is inherent value in all forms of girlhood, even the ones that aren’t popularized or commodified.

While it is upsetting that yet again women of color are forced to carve out spaces for ourselves within popular media trends, there is still power in reclaiming your girlhood, whatever that means for you. The trend shouldn’t be about commodification or fitting into aesthetic boxes, but celebrating your roots and healing your inner child. There is no one way to be a girl. Girlhood and womanhood are messy, hectic, and beautifully diverse and that is what the trend should be celebrating. Girlhood, like all trends, is fun and fleeting. Despite this, it’s important to recognize how they can be used to perpetuate exclusion and marginalization. For those who fit inside the box this trend has popularized, think critically about the media you’re consuming, and how it might be impacting those who look different from you. For those of us on the outside of mainstream definitions of “girlhood”, it is important to remember our stories, our youth, and our identities are just as valuable –because at our core, we are all just a girl.

Positionality Statement:

This blog post expresses my perception of activism as a queer woman of color. I implore readers to keep a sense of humanity and activity with them throughout daily life, not just when convenient or absolutely necessary.

Using Education for Liberation

When I first embarked on my undergraduate journey I was eager to learn, but unsure what knowledge I would value the most. I knew there was so much about the world that was kept hidden from me, and I was more than willing to find it. As a queer Black woman, I have always been intimately aware of the injustices that intersect with my identity, however, it was college (not the institution itself but my peers within it) that pushed my mental boundaries and expanded my worldview to understand and acknowledge the blatant human rights violations and social justice disasters occurring worldwide. As individuals with access to higher education, we have been given a wealth of knowledge, and with that, a mountain of responsibility. It is up to us to advocate for and protect individuals who aren’t able to do so for themselves. They say college students are rarely on the wrong side of history, and I truly believe that is because of our ability to fully embody the humanity that seems to be lost within the organizations that surround us. Moreover, our ability to access individuals and their stories from across the globe instantaneously only heightens the moral obligation to act.

The Radical and The Routine

Activism is intrinsic, it is something you feel and enact constantly, whether it is obvious or not. Throughout my academic journey, it became increasingly clear that to be silent is to be complicit, there is a responsibility that is only growing as time goes on. A moral obligation to not just know and sympathize, but to act. Awareness is the first step we are equipped with through education. However, there is always a need for not just an activist perspective, but an activist lifestyle, ingraining these values so deeply that they become second nature. There is a question that I had to answer for myself: what does it mean to live as an activist?

There is so much more to activism in addition to the marches, protests, and sit-ins. While those are increasingly valuable and celebrated forms of resistance, activism can be quiet but just as strong. In my experience, there is a necessity for both forms of activism. It is necessary to be aware, to be angry and horrified with everything you see, because what we are witnessing, what we have been witnessing for so long, is not normal, and shouldn’t be treated as such. But with all the global catastrophes occurring in the world right now, there is simply not enough time in the day to attend every protest and sit-in. With that, I want to implore my fellow students to find value in daily forms of activism. Activism is in who you associate with, what you buy, who you support, what you learn, and how you speak, the power within that is unprecedented. When you look at activism as living your values in any way possible, it is clear that it is the most accessible activity in the world, truly anyone can do it.

A Call to Action

What I want everyone reading to take with them, is that we can never be passive participants in conversations about the future, we need to be active and fight for it. Since the creation of the internet, we have been able to witness and access injustice from our fingertips. There is responsibility within that, it is crucial that we keep our sense of humanity close to our hearts, and continue to fight for what is just. Throughout my time as an undergraduate student, my understanding of this responsibility has only intensified and I’m sure the same can be said for all of my fellow students. It is understandable and healthy to acknowledge the burnout that comes with being an activist, but understanding that activism can be adapted based on what you are able to give, makes it so much more accessible.

You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world. And you have to do it all the time

– Angela Davis