Maybe it’s the domestic violence trainings I’ve been going through, making me realize how many romantic “heroes” fit the classic profile of abusers. Maybe it’s the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon, and the conversations it’s been sparking about sex, literature and pornography. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve been reading a lot of great YA books that I wouldn’t let any child of mine even LOOK at until they were at least 16. But recently I’ve become much more attuned to the sexual content of the books I’ve been reading, the way it interplays with the larger story, and the message it sends the readers.
Fascinating.
For instance, I’ve been reading the Bloody Jack series by L.A. Meyer. They’re hilarious, action-packed books about a poor orphan girl who chops off her hair, dons a dead friend’s clothing, and signs on as a ship’s boy. The adventures are fantastical, and Jacky Faber, the spunky, over-the-top cockney heroine, is impossible not to love. My 10-year-old son would adore these books.
But.
They’re so loaded with sexual innuendo that I would never give them to him. At least not until he’s too old to properly enjoy them.
The content itself is not that objectionable, and the morals, though loose, aren’t horrible. But the giddy flirtations, snicker-worthy bawdiness, and especially the perpetual threats of rape (always miraculously averted–what does that tell the poor girl who CAN’T escape?) guarantee that we won’t be reading them aloud anytime soon.
And that’s a pity. Because they’re great books.
Now, probably, Jacky Faber’s adventures in infatuation are well-suited to a girl of her age and character. They don’t seem out of place in the books–at least, they’re no crazier than any of her other adventures (and that’s not saying much). But I wonder how well-suited they are to their audience? Perhaps they were written for older teens, but to me, they seem ideal for the 10-12 set.
And while I have it on good authority that my 10-year-old sometimes thinks about girls, he thinks a whole lot more about puppeteering. And playing with his dog. And his quest to become the next Billy Joel.
And I like it that way.
While I don’t want to shelter him, I don’t want to fill that innocent blond head of his with flippant, somewhat humorous mentions of failed sexual assaults, either.
Couldn’t we just leave it at innocent crushes?
Then there’s the Graceling series by Kristen Cashore. I enjoyed them, but wasn’t a huge fan of the casual sexual ethic that they pushed–a sexual ethic that had the characters in her high fantasy world behaving pretty much like modern Americans, complete with ill-conceived dalliances, domestic partnerships and birth control “herbs.” Of course, they’re her stories; she certainly doesn’t have to conform them to my sexual ideals. But there was a moralistic tone, a defensiveness of sorts, that caught my attention. The characters’ sexuality didn’t always feel like an organic part of the story. It felt like there was an authorial agenda behind their behavior. Which is totally within her rights, but it felt–well–a little odd.
A series that’s sexuality did not strike me as odd was Poison Study by Maria V. Snyder, published, ironically, by Harlequin. (???) While it does mention the main characters having sex, there were no explicit sex scenes, and the relationship felt believable. The book contained violence and sexual assault, but once again, it seemed in step with the story, and was portrayed as a horrible evil that had to be stopped. Although it is classified as YA, it was obviously written for an older audience, so it escapes the Bloody Jack problem.
As prissy as this post probably sounds, I think it’s important to think about the messages books (and movies, and music, and other media) send about sexuality, and how it fits into the larger plot not only of those books, but of our lives and society. As a writer, I don’t buy into the idea that “the media” is shaping culture any more so than the culture is shaping media. Contrary to popular opinion, novelists, journalists, musicians, artists and even political pundits aren’t just strange, fantastical creatures who rise up from out of the sea like Botticelli’s Venus, are struck by some mystical muse, and begin their work, either fiendish or holy. The ideas they present come from somewhere, and if you’re willing to listen carefully, with grace and discernment, you can learn a lot.
What do you think? What messages are the romantic and sexual relationships in your favorite books, movies, and TV shows sending? What is the mindset behind them? Are they realistic, fanciful, or flat-out deceptive? Helpful or harmful? What can we learn about ourselves and about society from them?
I don’t think this is prissy.
I think you’re dead on with your observation that the messages about sexuality that we pick up from our favorite books and movies have a direct impact on how we see our own sexuality, gender stereotypes and relationships in general. I also agree that there is a “push me-pull you” relationship between media and culture. It can be a little too easy to blame the media without taking responsibility for how we are creating and participating in our culture ourselves. With that in mind I’m finding that there are fewer movies I’m interested in seeing and fewer books I’m interested in reading because the characters sexuality is portrayed as a far greater portion of their identity than I think is realistic.
I think you speak for many women, Jenny (and probably many men, I’m just not one of them). Thanks for articulating what’s bothered me about the YA books I would (or wouldn’t) let my daughters (now 17 and 20) read. As YA books multiplied over the years, I became concerned about the ubiquitous sex, abuse, rape, incest, cutting, etc., they portrayed. Especially since my girls had been significantly traumatized themselves. Their friends seemed to gloss over these details, while my daughters’ trauma was frequently triggered, even when the books described trauma foreign to them. I realize that some of these stories are meant to shed light on experiences that have not been talked about in past generations (I’m 50–I know of what I speak), I find that the graphic details are unnecessary given the ages of children/teens supposedly targeted.
I think part of what makes it tricky is that YA really does encompass such a wide range of ages AND maturity levels. Kids frequently start reading YA at age 11 or 12, and there’s a lot in there that is appropriate for that age — but there’s not much to distinguish the stuff meant for 17-year-olds from the stuff meant for 13-year-old’s. The age of the protagonist and the covers are not always reliable guidelines, either.
My feelings are somewhat ambivalent when it comes to the portrayal of sex in YA lit. I certainly don’t object to it across the board, because sex occupies a LOT of teens’ thoughts, whether they’re male or female, and I think literature is a way that they can safely explore this huge and confusing new world. I’ve also noticed a rather disturbing trend in how male sexuality vs. female sexuality in the way a book is perceived; when reading the review journals, books with main characters who are male and obsessed with sex are regarded as “on target” and “realistic” for their audience, while books that feature girls pre-occupied with sex usually come with “words of warning” or disclaimers of some sort (a recent example is the very controversial “Various Positions” by Martha Schabas, which garnered such strong reactions, I think, because it dealth explicitly with a young teen’s sexuality.)
Sex in teen books one way or the other didn’t really used to bother me, but now that I a) work with teens and b) routinely have to defend my book-purchasing decisions, I think about it more. And I have to say that a blase attitude toward sex is what makes me the most uncomfortable — this idea that “all” or at least “most” teens are doing it, and a book that portrays anything different is “out of touch” with reality. I’d argue that most teens are thinking about it, but thinking about it and doing it aren’t the same, and I want the sex in books to give those teens who are thinking about it something to really chew on, to consider, to reflect upon — for it to matter.
So that’s sort of my defining criteria in the end: what purpose does the sex serve? Is it a needed and healthy outlet for the teen psyche and interest in the subject, or is it a trope the author’s using to prove how “cool” and “in touch” she is? Because really, sex is a big deal, to teens and to adults, and treating it like it’s not in teen literature is both dangerous and out of touch.