Black Womanhood in the Media

The Black Media Market: The Fine Line between Empowering and Stereotyping Black Womanhood

(Case Study of Diary of a Mad Black Woman and Think Like a Man) 

by K. Ablorh and M. Fraling

          In the mass media, the black female perspective is often neglected, misinterpreted, or completely ignored. The black media market, an industry comprised of predominantly black actors, constitutes one of the main mediums for black female portrayal (Gooding 36). Despite its connection to the black community, the black media market depicts a false image of black womanhood. In films like the Diary of A Mad Black Woman, black media incorporates the “crazed” stereotype of Madea or black “mammies.” By doing so, the images depict black womanhood as aggressive, unattractive and masculine. Moreover, in Think Like A Man, the sexy Jezebel character perpetuates the false notion of black women as overly sexual. By using these gendered roles, black media constructs a version of femininity/masculinity that adheres to the false stereotypes. Additionally, black media depicts black female beauty through an Anglo-Saxon lens. As a result, black media constructs a false “notion of normality” that hinders the agency of black women (McDougall 1). Nevertheless, as the black female audience consumes media images, the false portrayals affect the perception of self. Through the character analysis of black female roles and results from survey data, we explore the ways in which the U.S. black media market perpetuates black female stereotypes, how the images cripple the understanding of black womanhood, and the potential effects on the black female identity.

In media, there are certain perceived realities of black women. The ongoing portrayal of these stereotypes further stigmatizes the false ideologies, thereby allowing these ideologies to become the reality that people expect. One of these false personalities is called “Madea” who is a “male mammy” portrayed by Tyler Perry in his series of films and plays. In Ain’t I a Woman, feminist scholar bell hooks explores the historical construction of the Madea character. She explains that during reconstruction, white society depicted the black female as “the opposite image” of white womanhood (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 84). By doing so, white elites hoped to maintain patriarchy and ensure their own hierarchical position. During this process, white women used the image of the mammy to subvert black beauty. For example, the mammy wears unflattering clothing, is preferably obese and has a “bestial cow-like quality” (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 84). She is defined by her “grossly overweight, large-breasted [personhood,] who is desexualized, maternal, and nonthreatening to white people but who may be aggressive toward [black] men” (Chen 116). Moreover, by fiercely protecting the children, the mammy becomes a “nurturer” who poses no threat to the white patriarchy. Interestingly, black media has adopted this “white vision” of the black female and incorporated the mammy stereotype in current films (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 84).

                  With this in mind, as we examine the character of Madea in the film Diary of A Mad Black Woman, we see that she is portrayed as a humorous matriarchal figure that is both strong and independent. Despite her portrayal, the character of Madea only further appropriates the offensive notion that black women are vengeful, violent, and abrasive. For instance, during a particular scene in Diary of A Mad Black Woman, Madea accompanies her granddaughter Helen to her former estate. Just days ago, Helen’s husband forcefully moved her out of the mansion and demanded that she accept his divorce request. While dragging her, the husband told Helen that he planned to marry another woman who was the mother of his children. When Madea and Helen arrive at the estate, the two decide to raid the mistress’ wardrobe. After destroying the mistress’ clothes, Helen searches the house for money. Helen’s estranged husband then finds her searching for money in his study and promptly threatens her. As the scene progresses, Madea is still in the closet, laughing to herself about the destruction she and her granddaughter have caused. The self-righteous mistress then walks into the closet and confronts Madea about the clothing. Madea, not remorseful but confrontational, threatens to “beat the hell out of” the mistress who previously threatened to call the police. As both confrontations simultaneously escalate, Madea hears Helen’s husband abusing Helen and swiftly makes her way to come to her granddaughter’s defense. Madea bursts into the study space and wielding her gun yells, “PLEASE do it, PLEASE hit her, I want to SEE you do it!”—Insinuating that if she sees him hit Helen she will shoot him. Positively, Madea is portrayed as the heroine of this scene by rescuing her granddaughter from harm. After Helen instructs Madea to refrain from killing her husband, Madea leaves the study only to find a chainsaw. Then, she proceeds to manically saw a coach in half, seeing as how half of everything in the house legally belongs to Helen.

By including images of Madea swinging a gun recklessly and manically sawing a couch in half, the media portrays Madea as unpredictable, crazy, and pugnacious. The impact of stereotyping black women as “aggressive Madeas” translates into the fear, caution, and hostility black men and other races approach black women. We see this in the film through the frightened reactions of Helen’s husband and the mistress. Black women are perceived as “frighten[ing] to people” because society has a certain expectation that they are “kind of bitter” (Reid 34). This jaded portrayal in current black media potentially damages the perceived identity of black women because it “create[s] the feared Other” (Reid 67). The “feared Other” is the unpredictable, barbaric nature that blacks and other ethnicities have been perceived as by whites. This “feared Other” provides justification for members of society to dissociate black women and place them in aggressive roles like Madea (Reid 67). Characters similar to Madea provide unenlightened individuals the conviction that black women and blacks in general are animalistic, which then serves to detract the minimal femininity and reputation that black women have in media and reality. For instance, the subsequent ending of this scene is Madea laughing angrily to herself as she furiously attempts to saw away at the couch, only to have herself and her granddaughter, Helen, jailed for her misconduct. Scene depictions similar to this justify thoughts that black women are dangerously animalistic, and that the best way to subvert them is imprisonment. The current U.S. black media market enhances the perceived “crazy” of black women, which in turn affects how black women are perceived in society.

In addition to the mammy stereotype, society created a second image of black womanhood. During slavery, white society described the black woman as “sexually permissive” and deserving of exploitation (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 52). To legitimize their own actions, bell hooks argues that white slave-owners constructed the Jezebel stereotype. The slave-owners would insist that black females were “sexual savages” and as a result, the “animals” could not be raped (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 52). Ironically, white women would also blame their female counterparts and insist “they [black enslaved women] were the initiators of sexual relationships with men” (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 52). From such thinking, society adopted a Jezebel stereotype that portrayed black women as “sex objects and prostitutes” (bell hooks, Ain't I a Woman 58).

            Accordingly, the media adopted this image and further stigmatized the black female. For example, in the film Think Like A Man, there is a scene where Maya, played by Meagan Good, awakens from having a one-night-stand with a young man named Alex. After offering him coffee, Maya proceeds to the bedroom to “freshen up.” Before she exits, Maya runs back to kiss Alex one more time and warns him “don’t leave” to which he responds, “don’t worry, I won’t.” Once she closes the bathroom door, Alex rushes to escape. While posing for Alex, Maya comes out of the bathroom and discovers a note stating, “Michelle It was fun.” Once again, the sexy Jezebel character is used and abused. Although they had slept together, Alex not only forgot Maya’s name, but also made no attempt to call her by her actual name in later scenes. As a result, this fortifies the argument that although black women are sexy and attractive, they are neither given respect, nor do they have respect for themselves. In spite of this falsity, the lack of agency stereotype is only reinforced in films and the sexy Jezebel character hinders the progression of black women in media. This is an issue creating a double standard in the current U.S. black media market where black women are constantly pigeonholed into certain stigmatized identities, which then affect the perception of black women in real life.

Black women’s identities are constructed in two ways, by others and by themselves. Oftentimes, the identities that black women are confined to are the aggressor, as we see in the character Madea and the sexy Jezebel character that Meagan Good portrays. As a result, the conflicting identifications further these cultural stereotypes and cause people to construct their own identity with regard to what they view in the media. These perceptions of identity are firmly rooted in the idea that people become what they consume, meaning that these perceived identities are constructed. According to T.W. Volscho, racism is defined as highly organized system of race-based group privilege that operates at every level of society and is held together by the sophisticated ideology of color/race supremacy (675-676). Thus, we argue that cultural stereotypes are a form of systemic racism. These exaggerations sustain white supremacy/privilege and ultimately legitimize “the feared Other” (Reid 67). Altogether, these portrayals reinforce the notion that black women are not only objects, in the case of the Jezebel stereotype, but also adhere to the “male mammy” persona of a crazed and aggressive identity. Our main concern is that these portrayals then influence how society and the black female audience interpret black womanhood.

Increasingly, black films portray beauty through an Anglo-Saxon lens. As a result, there is a disconnect between the representation of beauty and the black female audience. For example, black women with Anglo-Saxon features, such as long flowing hair and a lighter skin tone, typically portray the “beautiful” woman. In Think Like a Man, for instance, the actresses who portray the “beautiful woman” have relaxed hair and are fairly light-skinned for black women. Using their Anglo-Saxon beauty, the women command the attention of their male counterparts. In one particular scene, Lauren exits her penthouse apartment building and walks towards Michael Ealy’s character Dominique. While doing so, Dominique’s eyes widen with hungry lust as he watches Lauren’s beautiful hair blow in the imaginary wind. Although this version of beauty empowers the Lauren character, it potentially harms the black female audience.

According to Lindy McDougall, the media creates a “notion of normality” that contradicts the reality (McDougall 1). She argues that because media images are consistently consumed, individuals perceive these portrayals as the “norm.” As people interpret these images, they begin to understand their natural selves through the portrayals. As a result, this potentially challenges those who do not fit the “norm.” For instance, in McDougall’s “Towards a clean slit“ she references the field of genital construction. She argues that the media creates an unrealistic “norm” of vaginal aesthetics by consistently portraying the female genitalia as “minimalist” and “symmetric” (McDougall 7). As women consume these images, they come to believe that their vaginas should look this way (McDougall 7). Accordingly, if their vaginas do not match these portrayals, women then alter themselves through reconstructive surgeries. As a result, McDougall contends that the media normalizes body modification and encourages people to alter themselves.

Drawing upon this theory, we argue that the black media market poses a similar threat to identity. By using a specific type of woman, black films portray a particular version of beauty. In Think Like a Man, this beauty includes the long flowing hair ideal of Anglo-Saxon women and an overall light-skin complexion. For black women who do not fit this mold, the dissonance forces them to realize that society considers their natural beauty as “abnormal” (McDougall 7). If these women try to obtain the “norm,” they essentially subvert their identities and subscribe to the unrealistic portrayals. As a result, media harms the black female’s perception of self and ultimately persuades her to comply with Anglo-Saxon standards.

Likewise, due to media portrayals of beauty, black women forfeit their agency by “embracing, taking pleasure in, and even feeling empowered by the cultural objectification” of the black female body (Baehr and Gray 46). Because actresses are representing an ideal that does not fully encompass the range of beauty in the black community, they ultimately portray these prejudiced conceptions of Anglo-Saxon perfection (Baehr and Gray 46). As a result, the black media market produces a mimicry of Anglo-Saxon features. Praising the Anglo-Saxon identity through the embodiment of Anglo-Saxon features gives black women their own perceived “beauty” agency. In reality, the embodiment of Anglo-Saxon features yields a false sense of agency. For example, because black women are confined to certain “beauty” stereotypes and appearances, they forfeit the opportunity to play roles outside of these constructed characters. This conformity to the overwhelming patriarchal and racist view of beauty only furthers the stereotyping of black women in U.S. media, despite black women feeling empowered by these stereotypes and their overall Anglo-Saxon appearance. A possible reason why black women feel empowered is that there is positive feedback in the midst of the negativity. The positive feedback demonstrates to what extent black women are recognized as beautiful which ultimately is attributed to how much they resemble white feminine ideals. The U.S. black media market provides an outlet of expression and an avenue of recognition for black women and that in of itself is a form of power.

Oftentimes, when the media portrays black womanhood, the black female character embodies masculinity. In the Diary of a Mad Black Woman, Tyler Perry portrays the character of Madea. As a black man, Perry incorporates his own masculinity when representing Madea. According to the feminist scholarly source, Turning It On there is an “effacement of postmodern culture” where these stereotypes of black women are not “merely embodied” but “explicitly thematized and celebrated” (Baehr and Gray 45). Because society celebrates these stereotypes, black male actors are encouraged to be exceedingly outrageous and offensive to black women (Baehr and Gray 45). This dramatization of black womanhood in roles like Madea deface the credibility of black women as actors, primarily because black men play these characters, and “[inaugurate] new constructions of the self” that are not an accurate or favorable depiction of the majority of black women (Baehr and Gray 45). The portrayal of black female characters by men demonstrates the extent to which being a black woman is perceived to be constructed and an act of men. The fact that men play these “mammy” roles accentuates the false notion that black women lack femininity. For instance, it is difficult to look at Madea and think “woman.” Though the character is herself a woman, the common knowledge that she is a man discredits any credibility that Madea has feminine-like qualities. She has a form of womanliness, but her bad make-up, sagging breasts, and oversized fashion make her a laughable character. As a result, this engenders the perception that black women have a form of womanliness but are also laughable and are pretending to be feminine when they are actually not.

            By portraying black women as men, black media enforces the notion that the black female lacks agency. For instance, according to David Valentine, society creates a form of representational violence. In “The Calculus of Pain” he argues that politicians, activists and feminist scholars use the term “transgender” to categorize an identity. To this point however, Valentine insists that the actors misinterpret the layers of “transgender” by trying to represent an identity in an encompassing category. For instance, he argues that groups like Genderpac, use narratives of transgender individuals to mobilize legislative reform. Because these stories cannot define the meaning of transgender, they present a false identity. As a result, Valentine contends that these actors limit the agency of “transgender” individuals and grossly misinterpret their stories (Valentine 48). Drawing upon this framework, we argue that the black media market creates a similar crisis of identity. In roles like Madea, black men portray black women from an “outside” perspective. By assuming the roles of black womanhood, black men limit the agency of their female counterparts and adopt a feigned identity. As a result, black media misconstrues the black female identity, takes away her choice of representation and ultimately limits her agency.

Moreover, when black women are given the opportunity to portray black womanhood, their characters still embody masculinity. For example, in Think Like A Man, Taraji P. Henson’s character Lauren represents the strong and independent black woman stereotype. As a C.O.O. of a Fortune 500 company, Lauren asserts her power and maintains an aggressive persona. Because of her accomplishments, Lauren challenges her male counterparts and finds it difficult to maintain a relationship. Candace, played by Regina Hall, insists that Lauren adopt a more docile approach. For instance, Candace explains to Lauren that she should submit to the wishes of her male companion and stop “being a man.” During one particular scene, Lauren and Candace discuss their current relationships. When Candace advises Lauren to read the new book Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, Lauren refuses to adopt “that sexist crap.” Instead, she asserts “there is no such thing as too strong” and insists that she continue to challenge men both intellectually and professionally. Disturbed by this idea, Candace then recalls Lauren’s previous relationship. She insists that Lauren’s previous boyfriend ended the date when “you trumped his wine choice.” She finally reminds Lauren of her boyfriend’s last words: “you don’t need a man Lauren, you are a man.” Using this experience to warn her best friend, Candace implores Lauren to be less masculine. Following her friend’s advice, Lauren adopts the traditional feminine ideals of empathy and sensitivity (Wollstonecraft 171). For instance, when speaking about her new boyfriend Dominique, Lauren insists that she “believes in his dreams.” Moreover, Lauren tells Candace that she will continue to help Dominique achieve his goals and provide him the support necessary to become a five-star chef.

Nevertheless, during this transformation, the film continues to portray Lauren as masculine. For instance, after the two break-up, Lauren discovers that Dominique has started his own business. Impressed by Dominique’s decision, Lauren tries to rekindle their relationship by going to the grand opening. Through a romantic gesture, Lauren describes her true feelings about Dominique and implores him “to take me back.” Despite her vulnerability, the film still portrays Lauren as masculine. For instance, while begging for the attention of Dominique, Lauren storms up the stairs and verbally assaults the neighboring customers. During the commotion, Lauren’s overly aggressive nature disturbs Dominique and ultimately forces him to listen to her demands. When the media portrays black women, there is always a masculine undercoat. As a result, this creates a false image of black womanhood in society. As the images “dominate the consciousness of Americans” people begin conform to notions of the black female as “tough domineering, and strong” (bell hooks, Ain’t I A Woman 83). Although these images empower the black female and strengthen her image in society, it also detracts from her feminine qualities. Thus, black women are described as “powerful” rather than “weak” and are considered masculine rather than feminine.

Figure 1

Results from Questions 5-10: How would you describe the actress?

Although there are many studies that explore the connection between media and identity, few analyze the black female perspective. To explore the effects of the black media market, we conducted a survey about the movie Think Like a Man. Through our survey, we tried to determine how the images of black womanhood affect the black female’s perception of self. We began our research by first targeting African American females. Using the Cornell community, we sent out an email to various African American organizations. We framed the survey as a “Personality Test” that would examine the effects of media and representation. Ultimately, we were able to include 41 participants in our survey sample.

Our survey included nine questions about the effects of movie identification. We asked our respondents to first choose the actress that they most identified with in the movie. Their options included: La La Anthony, Meagan Good, Regina Hall, Taraji P. Henson, Gabrielle Union and Jenifer Lewis. Next, the respondents described the actresses as either powerful, strong, confident, sexy/seductive or weak. We used the adjective “powerful” to reflect the masculine stereotyping of black women. To determine whether the media could destroy or possibly limit this particular stereotype, we included the adjective “weak.” We also used the adjective “angry” to reflect the cultural stereotype of a crazed Madea. Moreover, the term “sexy/seductive” refers to the Jezebel stereotype of black women as overly promiscuous. Finally, we included the adjective “confident” to explore the ways in which the black media could foster a sense of pride in the black female. After describing the actresses, respondents then used the same adjectives to describe themselves.

            Based on our results, there was a link between the adjectives that respondents used to describe the actresses and the type of stereotypes the actresses embodied. For instance, respondents described Taraji P. Henson as either “powerful” or “confident” but never “weak.” Recognizing the masculine-like qualities of the character Lauren, respondents described Henson with non-feminine adjectives. Thus, Think Like a Man reinforced the image of a masculine black woman. Moreover, when describing Meagan Good, respondents either used the terms “weak” or “sexy/seductive” to label Good’s performance. Based on the construction of Jezebel, Good’s character fit the portrayal of a sexy seductress that men used for entertainment. Her ability to attract Alex’s attention demonstrated to the black female audience her overall “seductive” nature. Nevertheless, because Alex used Maya, Good’s character, for his own sexual pleasure, the audience perceived Good’s portrayal as “weak.” Altogether, the respondents used adjectives that adhered to the cultural stereotypes described by scholars and ultimately portrayed by the actresses. As a result, we conclude that the black female audience not only acknowledges cultural stereotypes but also identifies with them.

Based on our results, we determined that there is a connection between identification and media images. For example, of those who identified with a particular actress, 70% of respondents used the same adjective to describe themselves and their favored actress. By consuming the media images, respondents identified themselves through the portrayals of various female actors. Our main concern is that the black media images not only encourage black females to adopt media portrayals but also adhere to cultural stereotypes. Although our survey does not explore this particular outcome, we acknowledge bell hooks concern that mass media images “impress a negative image of black womanhood” that is then acted “upon all our psyches,” including the black female (bell hooks, Ain’t I A Woman 84). Accordingly, when black women interpret these negative images, they begin to understand themselves through these portrayals and adopt them in society.

Since the “second wave,” feminist scholars have made an effort to understand the complexity of minority identification. Adding to their work, we have analyzed the particular construction of black female identity in the U.S. black media market. Based on our role analysis, we have determined that black films, specifically Diary of a Mad Black Woman and Think Like a Man, adhere to the cultural stereotypes of sexy Jezebel and black mammy. Moreover, their depiction of Anglo-Saxon beauty yields an unrealistic “norm” for black women that result in the portrayal of black womanhood as overly masculine and a “feared Other.” Based on our survey results, we have also determined that black females recognize media stereotypes, view themselves through these portrayals and in some cases act upon them. Thus, our main concern is that the black media market enables the devaluation of black womanhood. As a medium geared towards black people, we believe that the black media market should aim to destroy these stereotypes and instead use images that reflect the reality rather than the construction of black womanhood (bell hooks, Reel to Real 131).

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Porn for a Feminist World?

Queer Porn: Savior of Pornography for a Feminist World

by A.W.

Porn has a problem. In the same way that minority individuals feel invisible when there are no representatives of their race, class, or gender expression in mainstream television or film, minority viewers feel ignored, misrepresented, and obscured in the production process of mainstream pornography. Specifically in regards to gender trends, popular porn has done little to stray from the age-old script of masculine superiority and pleasure gained from conquering even the slightly feminine. These trends have been instrumental in polarizing my feminist thought and my developing ideas of sexuality, which are in part inspired by porn consumption. I have heard the arguments of many feminist voices who have ultimately condemned pornography as a hopelessly sexist medium. Even so, the goal of my research is to find American porn's salvation; determine what ways, if any, porn can be reappropriated--assuming that porn has a strict definition and singular function--and beneficial to a post-modern society. I aim to pull the voices of theorists who argue for or against pornography from a distance, the voices of scholars who directly examine pornographic works, and the voices of active-in-the-biz directors and performers into discussion here. While I am probing the medium with feminist tools, I believe that there are distinctions to be made within visual pornography, and (in spare terms) the primary distinction that I will examine is between mainstream pornography made solely for profit and independent porn made for sexuality's sake. Based on a cocktail of my own experience and the findings of interested scholars, the subgenre that I propose as an anti-sexist and anti-homogeneous solution is independent feminist queer porn. Before I delve into this possible solution to porn's complex problem let me first present the problem and the arguments surrounding it.

Here and now, in an era that some scholars call the digital age, video porn is accessible on any device with an internet connection. Porn sites are being optimized for visits on mobile phones, and even with restrictions, people of any age can be exposed to explicit images. What has often come under scrutiny is the power of these images to forcefully gender viewers, particularly within the context of heterosexuality, and support historical inequities through the repetition of practices and reproduction of symbols. Judith Butler describes gender as "performative" and only real as long as it is indeed performed (Butler, 1988, 527). Since gender is dependent upon a set of repeatedly performed acts, it is easy to see how it can be constructed by the sexual acts in porn. For example, in mainstream heterosexual porn the woman is passive and penetrated while the man is active and does the penetrating; this dichotomy of acting/acted upon serves to gender the performers as well as the audience, and limit their expression to discourage action outside of the boundaries set for their performance. As for how this affects our sexual expression within the two-gendered hetero framework, each viewer is assigned one traditional gender role based heavily on their sex, and are subsequently taught to find sexy the traits of the complementary role in the binary system.

Mainstream porn transfers not only an expectation of behaviors to its wide audience but of presentation as well. Feona Attwood says that, in the case of women, porn pushes "conventional forms of representation (the safe,  the thin, and the asexual)" as ideal, and they must live up to this in order to be desirable (Attwood, 2004, 13). What we get are most often images of the augmented, shaved, and petite white female, and this representation of the body has been instrumental in leading women to go as far as to undergo surgery. In her report, "Towards a clean slit: how medicine and notions of normality are shaping female genital aesthetics", Lindy McDougall investigates the growing popularity of genital cosmetic surgeries like labiaplasty, which is the surgical reduction of the labia minora in order to produce a simple and contained genital appearance. She argues that the "altered images" of porn have left the realm of fantasy and infiltrated our views of how a real and normal woman should look (McDougall, 2013, 5). Organic parts are too complex and variable and masculine, while the "clean slit is a marker of appropriate and acceptable femininity." (McDougall, 2013, 4) The efforts to simplify and make interchangeable the bodies of women are aligned with the ideal that females should be asexual, which accounts for the lack of a display of feminine desire and sexuality in porn, an issue that many of the scholars we will look at dissect.

I have been a consumer of internet video pornography for over a decade now and most of my surfing was done as a teenager. My experience can be described as this: at first it was exciting, I was finally learning about sex and seeing things that my parents would never explain to me. Then I noticed the ideals that I couldn't measure up to or ignore, as they were consistently on every page, in every image. Soon after I felt an attack on my femininity unfold; the existence of my desire was contradictory to the singular and rigid femaleness each image dictated to me, and this fact, coupled with the unmistakably male point of view of every video I saw, constructed a masculine site of enjoyment inside my head. I consumed porn from this "male" perspective, deriving my pleasure from the ever-central locus of male orgasm, participating in its fetishization but not able to completely relate. This worked internally uncontested for a while, until I found myself searching for authenticity and a desire that I could fully relate to, as what I now see as my implanted masculine proxy began to fail. I was now an adult very interested in sexuality studies; combing through mainstream content available for female perspectives, but I found every attempt to showcase feminine sexuality to collide with industry constraint, and unfortunately fall short. To me, major studios seemed to keep a cap on the options for women performers in order to hold male desire as the focus and driving force of every scene. I was going to have to give up on heterosexual porn if I wanted a fresh script or to really learn about variant bodies and expression.

Pornography as a form has plenty of critics, and these critics speak of pornography as if it is a monolithic genre, which it for the most part is. While some of the opposition to porn has come from conservative forces rallying against obscenity, much of the battle against porn has been fought by a group of feminists identified as anti-porn feminists. These women held a position "organized around the claim that sexually explicit representation is a form of sexual violence that depends on the objectification of women for its charge." (Attwood,2004 , 7) Clearly these feminists were concerned with the rampant sexism of pornography and the possibility for it to actively combat the social progress made by women up through the 1980s (Schorn, 2012). Major voices of the early anti-pornography movement connected pornography to America's rape culture, saying that "pornography is the theory, and rape the practice." (qtd. in Atwood, 2004, 8). These activists confronted all pornography similarly, leaving no room for the medium to be considered beneficial. This issue was picked up by feminists arguing for pornography, sometimes called anti-antiporn feminists (Kohlehmeinen, 2010) but mostly referred to as sex-positive feminists. Sex positive thinkers examine and accuse the cultural contexts that influence porn rather than the medium itself (Schorn 2012), and discourage the restriction of practices in favor of reforming them to be safe and totally consensual (Schorn 2012). Out of sex positivity has come feminist porn, porn claiming to be made for a feminist world by feminist producers and performers. If porn as a whole is a tainted medium, used to gain profits from the demeaned and subjugated bodies of women, does the idea of feminist pornography become oxymoronic?

Feona Attwood takes steps in her work "Pornography and Objectification" that can help answer this question. She confronts the claims of anti-porn thought by examining the writings of famous anti-porn activist Andrea Dworkin, historian Walter Kendrick, and theorist Laura Kipnis. Attwood boils each writers' work down to one over-reaching claim about pornography. According to her, Dworkin believed that "all pornography objectifies women and everything that objectifies women is pornography." (Attwood, 2004, 10) This is part of what distances me from the movement. While pornography situated in the cultural context of the American industry has been decidedly stubborn about what it showcases and for whom, this definition shows a failure to consider porn that features other genders and porn made to empower women. Dworkin fought for strict federal regulation of all pornography, bringing us to Kendrick who looked specifically at the causes and effects of such regulation. Attwood summarizes Kendrick's findings as "all sexual representations which are subject to regulation become pornography, and all attempts to regulate pornography are an exercise of power over powerless groups, including women." (Attwood 10) Kendrick seems to support sex positivity here, pointing out that it is possible that the censorship of pornographic works can further oppress silenced groups. Whereas Dworkin held to generalizations of groups and media, Kendrick enlightens us that women may not be single-mindedly against pornography, and that regulation will deny pro-porn women exposure to positive porn while aiding in the control of what women can consume. The final view that Attwood discusses is that of Kipnis, whose argument can be summarized as "pornography always transgresses dominant norms of sexuality and gender, and whatever is sexual and transgressive is pornography." (Attwood 10) I would say that this view is correct within the context of an early period in the U.S. as progress in porn has created and informed these "dominant norms", removing mainstream porn as a transgressive medium and exposing it as essentialist and didactic. Attwood recognizes this didactic quality in some sense when she engages Lynne Segal and writes that porn "has become “overburdened with significance” as a culturally established way for speaking about sex, power, and regulation...as an emblem of misogyny and as a symbol of the power of the image." (3) Trends in pornography have permeated our understanding of sexuality and the medium is recognized for its ability to be an agent of culture and instill ideals in a mass audience. In the end, Attwood leaves us with an attractive idea that sexual display might just be a source of power for the under-represented, supporting the reappropriation of the sexual image as potentially powerful (14-15).

It has been said that "today sexual pleasure is far too important a commodity for women not to seek their own desire and agency in it." (Williams, 1993, 130) Johanna Schorn has examined well this idea of reappropriation, or margin-dwellers making a porn of their own. Schorn examines feminist women in major production positions as they display power by taking the established system, flipping the script or flat-out destroying it to create a better one. She intently argues for the use of pornography to change damaging cultural systems:

"While it is undeniably true that we live in a heteronormative patriarchal society that mandates certain ways of sexual expressions and does not generally place much of a focus on consent or equality, it should also be possible for individuals to experience their sexuality and pleasure in the way that feels most intuitive to them...in the specific example of pornography [one of the ways to ensure a safe and healthy context] is through breaking apart the hegemonically phallocentric structure of the porn industry and through producing and distributing material that gives a “realistic” and more inclusive view of human sexuality in general and female sexual agency in particular." (Schorn, 2012, 1-2)

Schorn looks at the work of feminist porn director Tristan Taormino and feminist genderqueer performer Jiz Lee for examples of the realistic and female empowerment. Taormino is seen as one of the most prolific directors of feminist porn, with an emphasis on educating viewers and giving performers a stage to express themselves and experiment on (Schorn 4). While Schorn describes one of Taormino's erotic sex education titles in her article, I'd like to describe one of her films that I saw a few years ago, which was revolutionary to me. The 2009 film Rough Sex starts off with interviews of two pretty successful performers in the mainstream industry. These interviews are not the usual set of leading questions ending with descriptions of how the woman will end up pleasing the man, but actual inquiries into the real interests and dislikes of both the female and male performer. The interviews were filmed individually and edited together, switching between the performers' answers to the same questions. What struck me the most about this film was, after the interview segment ended and the scene was beginning, there was an on-camera negotiation between the performers of what they wanted and what would not take place. It was a very real construction of a safe and consensual context, with the individuals' idea of proper boundaries set up. To me this was extremely educational and encouraging, showing that women, just as much as men, should be aware of their bodies and boundaries and should clearly express those boundaries to their partners before physical intimacy. I had not seen that before in any of the porn videos I'd come across online. Schorn explains the vast majority of porn that I had been exposed to as "the kind of mainstream pornography that is overwhelmingly  heterosexist, that is focused on phallocentric power and pleasure,  that perpetuates “unhealthy” ideas about women and sexuality and that supports the image of the ideal woman as surgically  altered and sexually subservient." (6)

The other feminist that Schorn features in her article is Jiz Lee, a genderqueer pornographer with a "sex-positive activist agenda." (Schorn 5) Lee is a part of the independent and queer porn production company Pink and White Productions, which produces both the online Crash Pad series that Schorn examines, and Queerporn.tv that I will examine later. The Crash Pad, Schorn explains, is set up as a single and secret location where couples or groups of queer-identified people go to have sex that "breaks with the heteronormative and often sexist traditions of [pornography]." (5) The series is a prime example of a more inclusive and powerful brand of porn that, not always featuring cisgendered women, does not deny the existence nor expression of female sexuality in favor of another. What, though, is queer porn exactly, and what power of image does it hold compared to that of mainstream porn?

Before we explore queer porn, let's first examine what queer means. Queer has a long history in the U.S. of being used as a pejorative term against gay or lesbian individuals, targeting them for being different or against the norm. Reclaimed and re-signified by a gender variant and sexually variant group, queer has come to mean something more than sexual identity--it denotes having a political stance against heteronormativity and what Butler calls the compulsory heterosexuality that is dominant in a binary system such as ours (Butler 1988). Queer theory has inspired a global movement against social hegemonies and norms, and Scott Gunther looks at queerness and its history through American and French contexts. According to Gunther, though queer has taken a variety of situational meanings within other cultures, "it refers to a flexible identity that's constantly in motion,  constantly becoming, constantly transgressing...First, to be "queer" is to be against assimilationism." (Gunther, 2005, 1) Jiz Lee may be one of the contemporary American queers that Gunther describes as opening a new theoretical space (Gunther 2). This space is a space in which "desire is not only  considered primary, but autonomous. As an autonomous force," he explains, "desire cannot be understood as socially or historically  determined." (Gunther 2) Desire is therefore individual to every person and cannot be constructed. However, forces like patriarchy and heteronormativity can function to alter or suppress desires. Queerness is then set up as a political contender to the dominant script of porn, and activists live very aware of this potential. Regarding the power of queer imagery to invoke change, Jiz Lee has expressed that they "think explicit queer sexuality on film will permeate the adult industry by opening dialogues about gender, sexuality, and sexual acts." (qtd. in Schorn, 2012, 4)

Queer porn is small and independent--not nearly the billion-dollar industry that the mainstream porn of California's San Fernando Valley boasts (Whisnant 2009)--and seems to thoroughly be its antithesis based on who makes it and for whom. "The sexual subject in porn can be seen as representative of the national subject of the United States; the position and power of the white male subject is reinforced through performances of domination over people of marginalized gender, sexual and race identities." (Seise, 2010, 22) Queer production companies, like Queerporn.tv, strive to focus on a more inclusive idea of the subject through the performers involved. According to the website's Manifesto, QPTV vows to "showcase sex that people want to perform as opposed to the sex that we expect audiences [sic] want to see." (queerporn.tv) Their definition of queer porn is "porn that is directed and produced by queer people, depicting queer performers engaged in queer sex acts. Associated with, political consciousness, authenticity and artful independent production." (queerporn.tv) Upon entering the website one can see performers from a wide range of race groups, with an even wider range of gender identities. Each performer has a bio page, listing their preffered pronouns, gender identities (showing that an individual can possess more than one!), and what makes them queer. This lends to each performer being presented as a real person whose sexual journies they've shared for us to follow. One aspect of the company that encouraged me the most is the equal presence of trans identified men and women, who are unfortunately marginalized even within the already marginalized LGBTQ community in America. Allowing all these queer individuals a space and stage to express their sexualities is empowering for them, as they are underrepresented in commercial porn, but also for viewers who are like me and were at any point "fed up with mainstream pornography and the way it has hijacked sexuality." (Schorn, 2012, 6) QPTV is a pay to view and download porn site, which isn't accessible to everyone, depending on economic status or even their access to the internet. However, for those with internet access, the clips, bios, and video blogs are enough to inspire and encourage those downtrodden and made invisible by the dominant porn narratives.

Now, how can we apply this queer subgenre to the concerns of contemporary anti-porn feminists? An article came out recently by an anti-porn feminist by the name of Maya Shlayen bringing up the economic privilege of those who can produce porn, and the general privilege of voyeurs who consume what I would call unethical porn. She relays the story of a retired performer named Vanessa Belmond who was abused within the industry and has become a strong anti-porn activist. Shlayen sees feminist porn as a problematic conundrum because, due to stories like Belmond's, the industry is seen as uniformly and dangerously misogynist. We must note with Shlayen that many women begin sex work because they have limited options due to their race or class (Shlayen 2013). Thus the feminist and queer performers that can afford to use pornography as an outlet for expression and a political tool cannot be compared to the performers who get on camera to make a living and may not have the opportunity to avoid strictly exploitative and harmful sets. This being said, there are two major flaws in Shlayen's views that I found. First is her rejection of all pornography while simultaneously acknowledging the potential of queer independent porn to be positive porn. She posits that, "If “feminist porn” only meant small, independent studios making queer pornography, it still wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of mitigating the harms of a $100 billion a year misogynist  industry." (Shlayen 2013) I seriously disagree with her here in a way that relates to my problem with the second flaw in her work: she describes the Feminist Porn Book, written by previously discussed director Tristan Taormino, as a text that "makes clear that: 'Feminist porn is also produced within the mainstream adult industry by feminists whose work is funded and distributed by large companies such as Vivid Entertainment, Adam and Eve, and Evil Angel Productions'," adding, "so-called “feminist pornographers” partnering with the mainstream industry shows what this is all about: money. " First off, commercial pornography is in fact all about money. I am not inclined to believe that Taormino and others work through larger companies to gain profit, as it is most likely the other way around. The market for feminist porn is growing and large companies will no doubt want a hand in the financial gains. Consumers can therefor exercise power in purse/wallet by buying and viewing feminist porn over sexist titles. The permeation of feminist interests and ideals into mainstream pornography is a wonderful thing; partnered with activism that aims to reform and not demolish the industry (keeping in mind performers who enjoy and need sex work), it can do away with abusive male control of the sets and achieve safer work environments for performers.

Shlayen asks, "why do we need pornography in the first place?" Pornography is a human-made form of art, a body genre that can excite, inspire, and teach. With the right messages of inclusion, health, and consensuality, porn can have a progressive effect on culture. As a developing teen with little honest education available to me in school or at home, pornography was a vehicle for knowledge, which ended up teaching me that what I wanted for my body, as a woman, wasn't wrong. It also helped me discover that I am attracted to trans men as well as cisgender men, aiding me in building my personal definition of heterosexuality. Mainstream media, whether pornographic or not, incessantly dictates to viewers what is appropriate gender and sexual expression, under "certain sanctions and proscriptions". (Butler 525) This regulated gendering is a long-standing tradition in western civilization: early voices like 18th century British feminist Mary Wollstonecraft wrote that women are taught being an "alluring object of desire" for men is central to their worth. (Wollstonecraft 170) Women today are still encouraged to follow trends to alter and tame their bodies--as we've seen with McDougall's piece on cosmetic labiaplasty--and their desires are unrepresented and suppressed. Women are hidden from their own physical truths in order to "preserve their innocence". (Wollstonecraft 170) Commercial porn created and maintains a feedback loop between its trends and fantasies and normal society: trends are born of age-old power dynamics feeding on feminine vulnerability, porn then distributes expansions on those hierarchies, and finally receives affirmation via viewer response affected by the power of reproduced images. All feminists, sex-positive or not, can appreciate independent porn made by consenting adults, and that's what companies like Pink and White Productions and Tristan Taormino's Pucker Up productions exist to offer us. Voyeurs can easily change the industry by supporting (and importantly enjoying) positive porn that hold to the strong political tenets of queer and feminist theory. Feminist filmmaker Marielle Nitoslawska once said, in an interview regarding her 2001 documentary Bad Girl about autonomous women active in pornography: "women must begin to vocalize, to assert who they are or think they are, and to reinvent themselves in their own image. This is not something that will happen in a span of ten or twenty years." (qtd. in West & West, 2002, 13) Well, it's been over 10 years since that interview and feminist porn has already started helping queer and female-identified individuals create powerful images for themselves.

Works Cited

Attwood, Feona. (2004). PORNOGRAPHY AND  
OBJECTIFICATION: Re-reading

“the picture that divided Britain”. Feminist Media Studies. 4:1, 7-19. Retrieved from http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/14680770410001674617#.UqnrHvRDvm8

Butler, Judith. (1988). Performative Acts and Gender 
Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and  
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Kolehmainen, Marjo. (2010). Normalizing and  
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10:2, 179-194. Published online.

Gunther, Scott. (2005). Alors, Are We 'Queer' Yet? The 
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McDougall, Lindy Joan. (2013). Towards a clean slit: 
how medicine and notions of normality are 
shaping female genital aesthetics. Culture, Health 
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Research, Intervention and Care. Published online.

Queerporn.tv. Glossary. http://queerporn.tv/wp/glossary. Accessed 12/10/13.

Queerporn.tv. Manifesto. http://queerporn.tv/wp/manifesto. Accessed 12/10/13.

Schorn, Johanna. (2012). Subverting Pornormativity:  
Feminist and Queer Interventions.

Gender Forum. 37. Retrieved from http://www.genderforum.org/issues/sexposed/subverting/

Seise, Cherie. (2010) Fucking Utopia: Queer Porn and 
Queer Liberation. Sprinkle: A

Journal of Sexual Diversity Studies. 3, 19-29. Published online.

Shlayen, Maya. (2013). Whose Porn, Whose Feminism?    Retrieved from http://www.fairobserver.com/
article/whose-porn-whose-femnism

West, D., West, J.M., & Nitoslawska, Marielle. (2002) 
Women Making Porno: Feminism's

Final Frontier? An Interview with Marielle Nitoslawska. Cinéaste. 27:3, 9-13. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/41690153

Whisnant, Rebecca. (2009) Pornography, 
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Gender and Society. Ed. Jodi O'Brien. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, Inc.. 647-51. Published online.

Williams, Linda. (1993). A Provoking Agent: The 
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Annie Sprinkle. Social Text. 37, 117-133. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/466263.

Wollstonecraft, Mary. (2002). Excerpt from “A 
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Introduction to Women’s Studies: Gender in a Transnational World. I. Grewal and C. Kaplan, Eds. McGraw Hill. 170-172