Over the past few days, my Facebook feed has been consistently blanketed by two small but powerful words: “me too.” With these two words, my friends and I admitted a truth: that we have been the targets of sexual harassment or sexual assault. There should be no doubt about the prevalence of rape culture, but the sheer number of #metoo posts could help to persuade even the most diehard of skeptics.
The stories pouring out of Hollywood about Harvey Weinstein are genuinely disgusting, but they are, alas, unsurprising. They are simply the most recent in a string of news stories about men in power who abuse that power to sexually harass and assault those over whom they wield it. From Roger Ailes to Bill O’Reilly to the president’s infamous “grab them by the pussy” line, we have seen a disheartening number of these tales in recent months, and the only heartening part is that some the victims of these abusers have felt safe enough to come forward and speak their truths. That some of these abusers have finally had to face the consequences of their actions.
When reality becomes grim in 2017—and, let’s face it, reality is pretty damn grim in 2017—we often turn to comedy as a source of relief. Framing the unspeakable in humorous terms makes it a bit less horrifying; it takes the edge off and gives us a moment to breathe before we suffocate under the sheer weight of it all. I have found myself needing these moments of relief. During the early days of the Trump administration, Saturday Night Live was often just what the doctor ordered; recently, Stephen Colbert and John Oliver help me laugh so that I don’t cry. Humor can be healing. Humor can be subversive. Humor can help.
But humor is also a slippery thing, and sometimes, the intent of a piece can get lost in the joke. On the heels of the Harvey Weinstein revelations, Anne Victoria Clark posted a piece on Medium that quickly went viral: “The Rock Test: A Hack for Men Who Don’t Want to Be Accused of Sexual Harassment.” The premise of this humorous piece is simple: if men need help curbing their harassing impulses, they should simply picture the attractive woman they are inclined to harass as Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. The author helpfully opines that “this life hack will have you treating women like people in no time!” with her plucky, optimistic tone contrasting beautifully with her dripping sarcasm.
She then offers a series of “dry runs” to help any Neanderthal would-be abusers. A “pretty” friend of a friend wants to “pick your brain” over coffee? Picture her as The Rock, and you’ll think, “Wow! Karen looks pretty tough and strong and sweaty! She looks like a person who is working very hard to achieve her goals, having left behind a situation that clearly wasn’t working, headed for bigger and better things.”
I appreciate the humor of this piece and the sarcasm. I appreciate that Clark’s intent was clearly a noble one, namely, to get men to “treat women like people,” which really shouldn’t be that much to ask. That being said, something prevented me from hitting “like” on this post, and the more times I read it, the more it troubled me. When I finally put my finger on it, the trouble was this: While Clark’s intent was great, her execution, humorous though it is, fell victim to reinforcing some of the rape culture narratives that lead to the harassment she is working to discourage.
In the “dry runs” section of the piece, two problematic narratives consistently emerge for me: the straight male tendency to cry “no homo” and the notion that attractive women cannot possibly be taken seriously as professionals. The first narrative is a subtle subtext of the conceit. While The Rock is a damn fine looking man, the assumption is that any would-be abuser will instantly be turned off by his image. As we so often do in our culture, Clark’s piece sublimates any potential for homoeroticism into violence.
In the above example with Karen, she advises her audience, “Definitely don’t hit on her. It looks like she could kill you with the chair you’re sitting on.” The second narrative is more clearly displayed in a later example, in which she replaces a perfectly professional-looking and attractive group of women with a photo of The Rock and a cadre of smiling police officers. She follows the second image with the caustic comment: “Wow! Jennifer and her team look really professional and ready to take on anything!”
While I know she was going for humor here, adopting the mindset of a would-be harasser only to expose how ridiculous that mindset is, the joke has the potential to achieve the opposite of its desired effect. By replicating catcalling remarks beneath the photo of the women (she literally imagines a man saying “ME-OW”) and saying the men look “really professional,” I worry that Clark’s piece unintentionally replicates the very discourse she seeks to undermine, and the irony isn’t quite enough to save it.
I’m all for humor, but I think we need to be careful that we don’t lose sight of what we’re fighting for, all for the sake of a joke. To get us out of this hard place, it may take more than The Rock.
Becca Burnett teaches English, gender, and media studies by day and watches far too many super hero shows by night. She is the mother of two children whom she hopes to raise with the same critical, savvy, thoughtful outlook on life that she enjoys reading on The Mary Sue.
(image: JStone / Shutterstock.com)
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