Feminist Book Club: Sex Object, by Jessica Valenti

Sex Object is a memoir detailing Valenti’s transition from childhood through adolescence and adulthood and the concurrent changes in the ways in which she experienced the world. We see how, as early as age 10, Valenti has absorbed enough toxic cultural standards of beauty to hate her nose and to constantly compare herself to her sister. Valenti learns, as so many young girls do, that happiness is often seemingly correlated with how much we meet or do not meet these arbitrary standards, and acts accordingly. As she hits an early puberty, Valenti is plunged into another horrifying reality: that young girls are often the sexual targets of adult men. She’s in eighth grade when, after exiting a crowded subway on a beautiful sunny day, Valenti realizes someone has ejaculated onto her pants. Shortly thereafter, a man exposes himself to her on a subway platform, and not long after that, another man tries to pull her into his car after asking her for directions, all the while brandishing his penis.

These terrifying incidents are the first in a never-ending parade of dehumanizing experiences in Valenti’s story—many of which will be all too familiar to female readers, especially those living in major cities. Valenti asks a question here that is central to the feminist conversation about objectification: what is the “right” way to deal with it? She discloses that her weapon of choice has often been humor—and she’s honest about the ways in which this strategy can fall short. It can feel empowering to mock one’s oppressor; to laugh in the face of those who seek to dominate. But, as Margaret Atwood famously said, “Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.” Humor can take us only so far in the struggle for equality. It is undoubtedly useful in some measure, even if only as a coping mechanism. However, it can begin to feel hollow when our emotional and physical safety hangs in the balance. For many of us, laughing works for awhile. But all too often, it dissolves into despair without solving anything.

In one of the most harrowing—and timely—accounts in Sex Object, Valenti discloses that she was raped by someone she trusted while blacked out and very likely unconscious. She frankly describes the ways in which she second-guessed herself, avoiding acceptance of what had occurred and minimizing the entire incident. Of course, her reaction to such a violation is not unique—it is the default. Our culture teaches that rape is only rape when the attacker is a stranger and the victim screams and fights with all her might. Any other type of assault is minimized, questioned, invalidated, outright denied. Messages to this effect are so pervasive they become internalized within victims—which is precisely why so many rapes go unreported. In light of the recent Stanford rape case and the gut-wrenching letter the victim read in court to her attacker, it seems reasonable to hope the national conversation about consent may finally be getting the groundswell of attention it needs in order for the tide to turn. Of course, it’s likely the Stanford rape only made it to a court of law because there were two eyewitnesses, and the convicted offender received a paltry six-month sentence. It’s enough to make a reasonable person laugh—or cry.

Valenti has lauded the Stanford victim’s courage on several social media platforms. Valenti’s memoir, however, is primarily concerned not with individual acts of objectification and assault—although these are treated with the gravity they demand. The larger question Valenti poses is, what happens to us over the course of a lifetime of such treatment? What are the cumulative effects of never being able to take mass transit, or walk down the street, or inhabit public (and sometimes private) spaces at all without fearing for our safety? How do we take care of ourselves in the midst of what can feel like a war zone? One thing is for certain—whether we do it with an unflinching letter read aloud in a courtroom, a vulnerable yet fierce memoir, or simply the refusal to blame ourselves for choices others may make to objectify us, nothing changes unless we continue to protest the status quo.
Next month’s selection: Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman, by Lindy West.