Photo by Stephen Yang
(Andy’s note: What follows is the second in a series of guest posts about sex and gender discrimination, and how these issues relate to the wider punk scene. If you missed it, you can find the first part here.)
Let me start this by saying that sitting down to write this was not easy for me because not only does it make me upset to think about, but I know that when people talk about this topic, it’s mostly taken with a grain of salt. I don’t like people rolling their eyes at me; I don’t like being preachy; and I hate sounding like I’m some sort of victim—all which I think is part of the problem. I shouldn’t ever feel like I have to apologize for wanting to be treated like one of the guys or even wanting to be treated like I’m different because girls are different.
The difference wasn’t always clear to me. Before I was completely immersed in any music scene, let alone the DIY punk community I now call home, I’m ashamed to admit I was the first person to roll my eyes when the stereotypical Bikini Kill-obsessed, cut-off-shorts-clad punk girl complainedabout the way men treated her at shows. I just didn’t believe it was true, and I think it’s something that’s hard to recognize if you don’t experience it yourself, which is why I’d never fault anyone for thinking that the punk scene is immune to sexism—especially because it’s empowering and supportive in so many ways.
My slow realization started when I was about thirteen years old. My father warned me not to crowd surf because “that’s how girls get molested,” and like any 13-year-old, I wrote it off. Two years later the idea surfaced again when I attended Warped Tour with my sister. This is obviously something that’s so far removed from the actual DIY punk scene, but again, it was my first experience. I’ve always been someone to hold my own and kick any malicious boy who tried to mess with me in the pit, but that festival was the first time I didn’t feel safe.
I stood on the outskirts of the crowd for the entire show knowing I wanted absolutely nothing to do the mass of 15 to 20-year-old boys pushing each other around, but the minute the closing band struck its first chord, I was shoved right into the middle. I immediately tried to look for a way out but was completely surrounded, and no matter how much I pushed, I couldn’t move. I was getting punched, kicked, and pummeled until I eventually fell down, and all I could see was a wave of dust and sneakers kicking and stepping on me. I couldn’t get up, and I couldn’t breathe. I choked on dirt and started sobbing until one man, probably someone’s dad, heard me screaming for help. He reached underneath the crowd and threw me over his shoulder. As he was pulling me away, I heard one voice cut through the music: “That’s why you don’t bring your little girl to shows.” I was 15.
From then on, the difference became clear. It’s the male band members who don’t take you seriously, and when you get upset with how you’re treated, ask you if you’re menstruating. It’s the promoters and planners who screw you, then call you a diva when you assert yourself. It’s the kids who don’t talk to you after your set, but talk to your male bandmates because they assume you’re only there for show. It’s the people who think you’re sleeping with the guitarist, the people who assume you’re queer, or the journalists who mention your weight in reviews. It’s every single time a producer has told me I can’t play guitar on my own record because “sweetie, you’re not a studio musician” or “sing it again, but naked.”
Most importantly, it’s the baggage I have to carry that my male bandmates don’t. I have to worry about walking to the car alone to grab my guitar; I have to worry about where we are staying and if the strangers who own the floor I’m sleeping on will assault me in the middle of the night, even though it’s unlikely. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve clung to the side of my male bandmates when we’re sleeping, just to feel safe. I can’t drink too much or take a drink from a stranger at an after-party wherever we are staying, because I can’t be out of control.
Let’s face it: I’m a 22-year-old, straight, petite, overtly-feminine female who weighs just over 100lbs. I am different than the typical male in even the smallest of ways. I can’t even carry my own amp out of the van because I’m not strong enough. Still there is one thing many feminists will disagree with me on—the power women have over men because we are different, and I would be remiss if I didn’t mention it in relation to the punk scene. Anyone who thinks that being successful in music is purely based on talent is naive. While good songs are at the forefront, there’s a whole range of things that make bands successful, and a lot of it has to do with who the members are individually—their personalities, the way they carry themselves, and yes, sometimes their attractiveness both inside and outside. I’ve fallen completely in love with a band because I was enamored by their singer, and you’d be lying if you didn’t admit the same. Our bodies and our choice to have or not have sex are pretty powerful. It’s something that is ours—something that every guy who’s ever wanted to sleep with the girl in the band doesn’t have—and we can do with it whatever we want.
Mariel Loveland is a writer, blogger, and editor who lives in New Jersey. She sings and plays guitar in the band Candy Hearts, dabbles in graphic design and photography, and watches way too much reality TV. You can check out her band on http://candyheartsband.tumblr.com or some of her writing on her personal blog http://www.writing-the-ship.blogspot.com/.
