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.

The week the pandemic shut down all the schools, I went to the gynecologist. Over the past six months, I had been plagued by non-stop yeast infections, and I had tried every home remedy under the sun to cure myself. Then the gynecologist told me I actually had chlamydia.

The diagnosis started me on a path to recovery that would span years. The chlamydia itself cleared up within a week, but the psychological damage of enduring painful sex for so long remained. My partner at the time was abusive, and did not care about my pleasure, or my pain. Sex had been painful, every single time, for six months straight. 

I was ashamed, firstly, when I realized I couldn’t use so much as a menstrual cup without experiencing immense, lasting pain, like a cold, persistent ache.

Recalling my lessons from Family Life courses in middle school that taught me to seek out a doctor if I experienced pain using menstrual products, I booked several more appointments with gynecologists, hoping that the next one would find something wrong with me, or tell me some way forward. Each one only had a vague answer, finding nothing and asking for a followup if the pain continued (it always did). I was sure something was wrong down there, to the point where I asked the gynecologist doing my pap smear to look for scarring. There wasn’t any, and she reassured me that any past trauma I had was unlikely to do permanent damage—after all, vaginas are built to push out babies and heal from them. 

My paranoia began to eat me alive. Despite the placations, I was still experiencing pain. To top it off, every time I felt an itch I feared it was a yeast infection, or that I had somehow re-infected myself. I asked the nurse to test me for every STI, just in case they had missed it before. They told me it wasn’t necessary to test again if I had no symptoms, but still, I needed to know for sure that I was in the clear.

I was. But the pain continued.

Over and over I had been dismissed, largely because I didn’t have a sexual partner. It seemed as though the nurses and doctors that attended me didn’t see an issue with my pain because they saw my vagina as a sexual vehicle through which sex or birth is performed. Since neither was happening, I was relegated to the margins, told to come back if the pain persisted with a partner. So, the next time I saw a doctor, I lied.

This time she listened to my concerns, and asked me more specific questions: Did the pain persist in all positions, or were some easier than others? Had I tried using pillows to prop my hips up in a comfortable position? Was I using lube? Maybe my cervix was closer to the entrance than most cervixes (the cervix, she informed me, changes positions throughout the menstrual cycle, and canal length varies between bodies). She did a full exam, providing the kind of care I was used to receiving from a doctor when I came in with an issue.

But at the end of the exam, she came up empty. The best advice she had for me was to experiment with positions and keep trying. 

The last doctor visit was both the most helpful and simultaneously the least encouraging. I tried a different tactic with this doctor, being extremely honest and upfront about why I was there. I relayed to her all my past experiences and told her the immense pain that had brought me there. After deciding for me that an internal exam wasn’t in my best interest, she leaned forward and whispered, “Do you need to speak to someone?”

Looking back, I am almost certain she asked with good intentions, but at the time, it felt condescending. It felt like she was invalidating my pain, insinuating it was all psychological. Despite having had years of therapy under my belt, I instantly declined the offer, insisting I would just like to figure out what was wrong with me. I was certain it was physical.

The doctor, who was really a nurse practitioner, offered to go and get the head doctor of the practice. She said he could examine me and, with his decades of experience, hopefully give me an idea of what was going on. “But,” she added hesitantly, “he is male. Is that alright?”

It wasn’t alright. I didn’t want a man anywhere near me, especially not when I was so vulnerable. But more than that, I wanted this over. So I agreed. And I waited. And waited.

The head doctor never came. He was busy and wouldn’t be able to make time. It had taken over an hour for them to relay this to me. The nurse practitioner came back in with the printed resources they always gave me, and on the back she had written down a URL for a local pelvic floor physical therapist. The therapist was out of network, but the website provided me with validating information: this pain was not just in my head. Other people experienced it, too; it was called vaginismus. And it could get better.

Sex was not better the next day—it took a lot longer than that. I had to tackle a number of various issues, starting first with getting to know my own body. Finding the right positions is tricky, too, and it can change throughout the month with your hormone cycle or just the way your body is feeling that day. Medications and mental illness also got in the way, lowering my sex drive to null at times. Talk therapy helped a lot, and I am lucky enough to have a therapist that enrolled in additional courses to find a better treatment plan for me. My partner was patient with me, and understood that sex will be painful at times, but we can switch positions, use pillows or lube, and get intimate in other ways to make me more comfortable. Memories of a time when sex had been good kept me going when it seemed impossible to continue.

It was difficult to admit, but sex was painful for a long time for me, both emotionally and physically. I felt like something was wrong with me, that I was doing something wrong somehow. It took countless doctor visits to learn that I needed to first understand my own body, and then to learn how to trust myself. I had to learn to stop saying, “Thank you so much,” and start saying, “Actually, I don’t understand the results. Can you go over them again with me?” I learned that the sex ed I had been taught was severely lacking, because it didn’t go over what to do when sex isn’t fun anymore. I learned to be prepared for when sex becomes difficult, whether due to injury, sex drive, or disability.

When Michel Foucault wrote, “Tomorrow sex will be good again,” he didn’t mean it to be hopeful. Tomorrow does not guarantee a better day; sex is a constant negotiation of power and embodiment. Still, sex can be good again. But tomorrow’s progress does not come without today’s work. If you’re in a similar position, keep trying—learn more about your body, be open and honest about your pain, and don’t stop advocating for the care and comfort you deserve.