The Bowdoin Orient

In recent weeks I’ve been asking first years, sophomores, juniors, and nearly-graduates what they would tell their first-semester first-year selves about body image at Bowdoin. Some of the most poignant conversations I have had regarding this question have to do with the pressure of the “pre-game pictures.” What this means is those thirty minutes before every party where girls (and maybe guys, too) line up and do their best to look fabulous and camera ready.

While certainly we still take pictures and want to document our nights, the phenomenon of taking pictures in full make-up and outfits with your roommates appears to reach its height around winter of freshman year. Perhaps this is because you have just arrived at college and you want to prove to all your high school friends that you actually do, in fact, have friends and are, in fact, attending college just like you’re supposed to.

College House parties don’t ease this sense of appearance-based anxiety. When you are out, you are banking on appearance, just like when you are in the classroom you are banking on your ability to listen and learn. That’s a crass and probably reductive statement, but you get the point. Appearance tends to feel more important after 9 p.m. on a Friday, especially when you are headed to a party. Or, at least it did for me. And what’s more concerning is that the series of momentary choices you make on the weekends—say, what outfit you choose—become immortalized on Facebook.

Sure, you want to be able to document your time here at Bowdoin—but at what point is it too much? By some strange phenomenon, we now face the constant threat of being photographed. Your friends, at any minute, could become paparazzi. Every big event can become a red carpet affair, where we are asked to document each moment, each outfit, each group of friends together. No one is safe

And we all know that if you’ve made a new friend or have a new crush, the first instinct is to look the person up on Facebook and stalk all the pictures back to 2007 (if you’re doing it right). Social media like Facebook and Instagram do not allow us to share our experiences per se; rather, they allow us to carefully construct a public image, to decide what will or will not become a part of what people see when they do their research. While posting pictures used to be a way to show off what you’ve done, it has now become more about showing off your image—how you physically look.

Photo editing apps have undoubtedly doubled even in the past few months. It’s rare for someone to post a photo that hasn’t been edited in some way. We’re only seen through various, convenient filters. Even the selfie craze, for instance, seems to take experience out of the equation. We become more concerned with the portrayal of the self than the actual event.

Everyone thinks about how they look in some way or another. But to focus so heavily on the exterior, to make each day an opportunity to prove something about your appearance, adds a kind of anxiety that just isn’t healthy or necessary. 

As Ivies weekend fast approaches, I think it’s important to strike a balance between documenting fun and having fun. I know I will fall victim to the picture-taking to some extent, and maybe that’s okay: it’s my last Ivies and it’s something I will want to look back on. But, I don’t want to spend my weekend feeling the need to prove that it’s actually happening. A picture doesn’t tell the whole story. Take a few and then live your life. 

Last week James Jelin ’16 wrote an article about sexual assault, and some of the nuances that make statistics regarding the issue murky at best. My article is in no way meant to attack Jelin. Rather, its purpose is to discuss some of the issues he brought up, and to try and reach some kind of conclusion about the messages we get about sexual assault at Bowdoin and in the culture at large.

In his article, Jelin cites a few of his friends’ concerns that they might be falsely accused of sexual assault. He also examines a number of studies with seemingly dissonant statistics regarding sexual assault. For instance, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) found that roughly two million women experienced rape or attempted rape in 2011, while a Department of Justice Survey only reported 250,000. These discrepancies are troubling, certainly. 

Jelin mentions the oft-cited statistic that one in five college women experience sexual assault or attempted sexual assault, but notes that, “two large public universities cannot adequately represent the entire nation.” Therefore, the author posits, these statistics are of limited relevance to our conversation about sexual assault here at Bowdoin.

And I see this point. Rape is an especially complicated crime to prosecute because of the intimate nature of the act itself (and many victims know their rapist) and the frequent lack of concrete evidence, especially if a victim reports the incident many weeks or years after the assault took place. 

It’s also difficult to draw conclusions when there is significant disagreement about what constitutes sexual assault and consent. The lack of clear definitions, a victim’s potential hesitance to reveal her/his attacker, and the role alcohol plays in the entire sexual process, are only a few reasons why data about sexual assault might become convoluted.

It would be wrong, however, to conclude that these statistics are irrelevant to our discussion. Maybe we have to talk about them. It might be relevant to examine why these statistics can seem disparate, and what some of the reasons for this might be. It might be important to consider that certain studies on sexual assault are conducted through anonymous reports, whereas reporting sexual assault on a campus—especially one as small as Bowdoin—is a completely different endeavor. 

It is an unfortunate fact that when girls consider reporting rape or attempted rape, they fear accusation of a false report and therefore report nothing at all. Indeed, maybe the most important statistics to think about are those that do not and will not exist because they represent sexual violence that has gone unreported.  

These statistics lead us to something more relevant than numbers, which is the issue itself. Are men really concerned about being accused? OK, then we need to take that seriously and think about why the boundary between assault and consent has become blurred.

We also have to examine some of these concerns about false accusations. Is there a small chance a reported rape is a false report? Yes. But has it also been made abundantly clear that, more often than not, a report is true? Yes. Having spoken to several victims of sexual violence, it has become clear to me that reporting a sexual assault—much like the crime itself—is not something to be taken lightly.

The chances that a young woman would accuse someone at random are extremely low, considering how much effort, time, money and agony are put into an official trial. And yes, a sexual assault charge would injure a person’s professional and social reputation; but being sexually assaulted will also have a lasting effect. 

What does not make sense to me is the attitude that being falsely accused of rape is worse than to being raped and not receiving justice. Both are awful; but why has it become the default to privilege one narrative over the other?

We can discuss men’s worries that they might be accused of sexual assault, but we should also be thinking about why women continue to be sexually assaulted. Here at Bowdoin, we have to be careful about how we define consent. As Jelin pointed out, if you are paying attention to your partner and really listening to them for consent, it is unlikely you will be accused. (And anyway, shouldn’t refraining from possibly sexually assaulting someone be a moral choice rather than just an attempt to avoid punishment?)

Overall I think statistics do not do justice to the complexity of this problem. Liberal arts schools like Bowdoin encourage their students to come forward and report rape or attempted rape, and many people do. But the process is extremely fraught—especially when the messages we receive so often blame and shame the victim. Without a basic level of trust, without a willingness to believe a woman’s story, there can never be peace for victims of sexual assault. And that is a tragedy.

Anonymity is so hot right now. Not that it didn’t exist before, but there are now seemingly endless forums that offer the opportunity to speak in an uninhibited manner without any threat of personal identification. Anonymity allows us to speak more freely, perhaps. To say what we’ve been wanting to say without any consequence. To assign our names to something is to make us accountable for our actions, and where’s the fun in that?

Yik Yak is a great example of this phenomenon. In case you’re unfamiliar, Yik Yak is a free app in which users can write “Yaks,” brief statements of any kind, which are shared with users who fall within a ten mile radius. All users have the opportunity to contribute by composing or responding to posts, as well as by upvoting or downvoting posts. TIME aptly called it a “local, anonymous Twitter.”

Full disclosure: I’m not above Yik Yak; on the contrary, I read it a lot. Sometimes I even giggle despite myself at comments like this one: “When my friend asked me to stop acting like a flamingo I had to put my foot down.”  

But the app’s more sinister implications have convinced me that it does more harm than good.  When I’ve complained to friends about some of the upsetting Yaks, mostly I’ve been told that I’m taking it too seriously. We have no proof these are even Bowdoin students, since there are other people within a 10-mile radius of the College, and we have no proof these people are serious—they might just be trying to get a rise out of us. 

My response is usually that it’s working. Whether or not these comments are written in earnest, whether or not it would be far more judicious of me to just delete the damn app, I still think it’s important to acknowledge that these messages contribute to the social climate of this campus.

Sure, it would be better to just ignore these hateful messages altogether. If you are one of these brave and impervious people, I salute you. But this task, of course, is easier said than done. What makes it even more difficult to dismiss these messages in the case of Yik Yak is that users know these comments are composed within relative proximity to them—close to home, if you will. 

The app can be extremely problematic with regard to body dissatisfaction. Along with some other employees at the Women’s Resource Center, I am involved in the creation of campaigns, programming and focus groups surrounding healthy body image at Bowdoin. We have discussed Yik Yak’s affect on body image and noted that, more often than not, the app contributes to general distress.  

One post I read recently was from a person asking how to tell his girlfriend that she needs to lose weight. Two responses were: “that’s why you dump them once they get fat,” and, maybe more troublingly, “the fact that you’re posting this to Yik Yak and arguing with anyone who tries to offer any insight proves you deserve a fat girlfriend.”

Another Yak read, “there should be a weight limit for leggings/yoga pants.” There were a slew of comments, including, “Fatties, put down the candy bar and eat a salad,” and, “Fat chicks shouldn’t wear yoga pants. It’s nasty. Not appealing. Go hit a gym.” Those are only a few examples.

Now, those aren’t the posts that get the most upvotes, nor are they free from contemptuous responses that call them out on their blatant cruelty. However, these sorts of posts do demonstrate that anonymous forums like Yik Yak ultimately facilitate bullying and hate speech. 

Just this March, American University administrators issued a public statement denouncing racist statements made by students on Yik Yak. In February, after a female user reported how she was encouraged to commit suicide by other anonymous users, a petition asking for the app to be shut down surfaced online, and was signed by more than 78,000 people.

My point is not to say that everyone at Bowdoin—or everyone who posts on Yik Yak—is malicious. It is to say, however, that these kinds of apps have the potential to be incredibly injurious, and we as Bowdoin students are implicated in this by virtue of reading and contributing to them. The concept of Yik Yak does offer some interesting opportunities by creating a space in which people can share opinions, humor and honest communications. However, I don’t think these benefits outweigh its costs.

If you don’t have Yik Yak, don’t bother. If you do, be aware of the messages you are receiving. Be aware of what you’re writing.

We are responsible for fostering a community in which students feel safe, and apps like this, while entertaining, don’t really help anyone. A generation of people who take responsibility for their actions would be better than a generation of people who lash out from behind the anonymous comfort of a screen.

Bowdoin women took Kresge Auditorium by storm with two performances of “The Vagina Monologues” last weekend. The show is comprised of various episodes written by Eve Ensler, based on her interviews with real women from around the world. In 1998, Ensler and others launched V-Day, a global non-profit movement that works to end violence against women and girls.

As with anything covering a controversial topic or phenomenon, the play has earned some mixed reviews. Particularly, critics of the show express concern that its nearly 20-year-old content has become problematic. In fact, the Mount Holyoke women’s group that produced the play cancelled their production of “The Vagina Monologues” this year. Mount Holyoke student Yvonne Dean-Bailey explained the cancellation to the school via an email, stating, “gender is a wide and varied experience, one that cannot simply be reduced to biological or anatomical distinctions, and many of us who have participated in the show have grown increasingly uncomfortable presenting material that is inherently reductionist and exclusive.” 

The play has also been criticized in the past for being a biased depiction of feminism, covering only a white Western perspective—despite its efforts at diversity. Also, since Ensler’s name is attached to the production, colleges may only perform it given that they do not change any of the original material. Given new kinds of awareness regarding gender and sexuality—topics that continue to become more complex every year—one could see why this unalterable content might be frustrating. It is also fair to say that much has been done in the realm of political correctness—at Bowdoin certainly, but also in the world at large.

That being said, I do think there is merit to performing “The Vagina Monologues.” Yes, the show leaves things out. It doesn’t portray men quite as fairly as it should. It is written from a markedly American perspective (the assumption of certain Western conventions and even use of American slang make that apparent). Despite its shortcomings, however, the show has continued to inspire, surprise, inform and empower both men and women throughout its nearly two-decade existence. This is not to diminish those groups who are not included in its messages of empowerment; and, undeniably, those perspectives deserve a voice, too. But to write off the show entirely would be a mistake. We have to treat “The Vagina Monologues” as one of many ways to appreciate the female experience. This year, the play had one of the most diverse casts in recent history, and this was an incredibly important aspect of the show, whose core value (I tend to believe) is inclusivity of all perspectives. 

Even if the text itself can be limited, an opportunity to perform in the show offers women on this campus and throughout the world a voice; and I would cringe at any erasure of that. One hopes that more people continue to be brave enough to write about female experiences, both good and bad. That way, texts like this can continue to expand to fit the demands of the times as fraught topics like gender and sexuality continue to break through important social boundaries. Maybe it’s time to start writing new monologues. Surely no one production can capture the entirety of experience, but it can get the ball rolling in the right direction.

For better or worse, college parties are not only a source of social interaction, but also of social currency. They set a dynamic of power and of expectation. The people who throw the parties have control.

In fraternities, for instance, the guest-lists, themes (with costumes), drinks, and even the space itself is all monitored and governed by the resident brothers, not by their guests. Members of that house will often control who can and cannot enter the house, using standards such as physical attractiveness or sorority affiliation.

Now, this is not to demonize the Greek system; indeed, being a Bowdoin student, I cannot claim to know exactly what Greek life is like. However, recent studies and media attention do suggest that some of the less flattering depictions of campus life in fraternities or sororities are not always fictitious.

Currently, sororities are not allowed to host parties in their houses.

In a recent op-ed in The New York Times, “Sororities Should Throw Parties,” Juliet Lapidos wrote that allowing sororities to throw parties—and thus to have some agency over the social scene—could decrease the number of sexual assaults committed against women. She posits that parties at sororities would prevent “the worst excesses” of fraternity parties, including spiked punch, and would give female partygoers a kind of home court advantage, so to speak.

However, this idea has proved both contentious and apparently unrealistic. Julie Johnson, of the National Panhellenic Conference (which represents 25 national sororities and women’s fraternities), noted publicly that the social standards—i.e. that women do not host parties with alcohol—are old and deeply rooted.

Johnson said that many sorority members are underage, which makes serving alcohol at parties a legal risk. She added that there would be new responsibility if girls threw parties: they would subject themselves to the associated costs, risks and cleanup. It is true that with power comes responsibility and perhaps, with a little increased responsibility, there might emerge a little more power for sorority women.

When asked why sororities generally remain alcohol free, Johnson replied, “it is what it is.”  There doesn’t seem to be much compelling evidence that sororities should not be able to throw parties—it’s just tradition.

There are a lot of old standards that are not ideal. Part of making progress is not adhering to every old rule—we must acknowledge traditions, but we must also allow them elasticity over time.

I do think sororities should be able to have their own social life and throw their own parties. It would probably not be plausible to have sororities take all the social responsibility, and I’m not convinced that they necessarily should.

The way the system might work best is if both fraternities and sororities had the ability to host events, and could alternate monthly. This adjustment would also take some of the pressure off of fraternities, who now bear all the responsibility for social life in the Greek system. 

With regard to sexual assault, it remains to be seen whether or not a new system would be effective. Giving women increased control over the social scene might be an important step. But it should not be the only step.

I recently learned that an anti-feminism party, Justice for Men and Boys (And the Women Who Love Them), is standing for a few seats in the Parliament of the United Kingdom in May’s general election. Apart from being deeply annoying, its platform sparked a number of questions about how “feminism” as a movement—and even as a word—should be thought about in this day and age. It seems as though feminism-as-a-movement has become less specific as time continues. Or rather, it has become a signifier for a number of behaviors, thoughts and political ideals, many of which women are hesitant to align themselves with. And this seems fair enough—after all, no one wants to be reduced to one single attribute or to a misleading stereotype.

Yet, when we talk about feminism, it seems like everyone has a different concept of what the word actually means. Some assume feminists fit the stereotype of the man-hating woman (a concept Emma Watson addressed nicely in her speech at the UN last year), while others might eschew the movement as antiquated, or antagonistic or purely irrelevant. Indeed, some argue that we live in a post-feminist society, one which no longer needs a feminist movement for social equality.

These varying perspectives raise a number of questions. One essential question seems to be, firstly, who can call him or herself a “feminist”? Last year, the media scandal surrounding a Duke University student’s involvement in the porn industry sent this debate hurdling into the public consciousness. The student explained that her participation in pornography made her feel empowered as a woman. She identifies as a feminist. On the opposite side of the spectrum, women clad in burqas are very often chastised for participating in institutional misogyny. Women should be able to identify as feminists whether or not they are at an extreme in terms of modesty. A feminist can come in any garb from any perspective, so long as they self-identify as such. 

It would be foolish to give a definitive viewpoint of these issues here; they are far too complex and, admittedly, I’m not sure how I myself feel. What if a woman is pro-life? Can she be a feminist? Is there some universal definition to which one must adhere to be a “proper” feminist?   

I have encountered many women and men who express the follwoing sentiment: so long as I think women are equal, why do I need to call myself a feminist? I see this point. And yet, despite my slight confusion about what constitutes a “feminist,” it always concerns me when a women does not identify as one. It seems that where feminism can most firmly establish its identity is in its core political views.

Last year Salma Hayek accepted an award at Equality Now’s “Make Equality Reality” event for her work in women’s rights. In her speech she stated, “I am not a feminist. If men were going through the things women are going through today, I would be fighting for them with just as much passion. I believe in equality.” Why can’t one believe in equality and be a feminist at the same time? What is so wrong with the word?

 On a political scale, a “feminist,” it seems to me, would be an advocate of equal pay for equal work, would support justice for women regarding domestic violence and street harassment, and would be in favor of access to childcare and reproductive rights. If you believe in these things, do you have to call yourself a feminist? If you believe in the political, social and economic equality of women, I would argue that you should.  

Feminism, like any concept rooted in social ideals, brings with it political and social extremes. But aligning yourself with a word does not mean you have to burn your bra (though if you want to, do that too). To refuse to call oneself a feminist—or to chastise another for doing so—is troubling to me, since we women are standing on the shoulders of the Feminist movement! We are here today at Bowdoin because of it.

I hear a lot of arguments about how we shouldn’t be surprised when women are powerful, but rather  just think of them as people. But why can’t we see them as people deserving of equality while still acknowledging that they are members of a previously disenfranchised and oppressed social group? This isn’t a post-feminist society. Feminism isn’t dead. And it is these sorts of multifaceted debates that keep it rigorously alive. 

Three girls walk into a bar. They look around, surveying the territory when their eyes fall upon two other young women. These other ladies are wearing short dresses, five-inch pumps and a lot of makeup. “They’re such sluts,” the three girls whisper spitefully. “Put some clothes on.”

Before you roll your eyes at what has become the Feminism 101 cliché of “slut-shaming,” I want to look into what these circumstances actually suggest. Firstly, the notion of “slut-shaming” is troublingly unspecific. Are we chastising women for the actual act of sleeping with multiple partners, or for dressing like they want to be doing so? This is, of course, not to label all women mean-spirited, but to expose clothes-shaming, or the “Crop Top Effect” (patent pending), as an issue that merits equal attention.

While I want to focus on girls’ critiques of each other, I do think it’s relevant to examine some instances of clothing-shaming that have recently come to light but are in no way new phenomena. For years and years, schools have instilled strict dress codes stating that women are forbidden from wearing items like tank-tops, shirts that show their bra straps, or short skirts. I do think these early instances of clothing-shaming contribute to the way we judge women later in life.

All that should matter in a school is that students come to class ready to learn. And sure, dressing respectfully can be important in instances such as say, interviewing for a job. The reasoning behind school dress codes is that classrooms deserve an equal level of professionalism and respect. Makes sense. But what exactly does “appropriate” or “respectful” mean? 

What if a student came to school wearing a gigantic M&M costume? That’s not exactly professional, but if her bra isn’t showing, is it considered permissible? The real question is, why are the majority of these rules so quick to police the female body? Why is it so quickly assumed that someone’s wardrobe choices are intentionally sexually provocative rather than merely comfortable or convenient?  

When younger girls are sent home for wearing their skirts too short, or wearing a “skimpy” top, this only teaches girls to be ashamed of their bodies. It also dangerously implies that their education is in some way subordinate to their appearance.

Now, why are girls so hard on each other? One argument is that girls feel competitive with one another for male attention, and thus feel threatened when other women dress to impress men. 

People generally tend to make “thinking errors” in these types of situations. A “thinking error” means that we tend to invent reasons for other people’s behaviors that often have no basis in reality, but are instead the projected products of our own insecurities or beliefs. 

So, we might think, “this girl wore that sexy outfit to purposefully undermine me and my subtle beauty” instead of, “that girl looks great in those pants and I am not going to assume that the reason she wore those clothes has anything to do with my personal reaction to her!” 

Obviously I’m being a bit facetious here, but I’m sincere in my overall belief that clothing is often an unfair standard by which to judge other women. If we are to assume a girl is dressing to make it “easier” for men to see she is interested in having sex, this has serious consequences. This kind of thinking is deeply problematic, and I don’t think it would be too far of a stretch to say that it falls directly in line with the “she was asking for it” paradigm. It is just not our job to ascribe motives to another person’s way of presenting themselves to the world. To do this is presumptuous and unfair.  When will a girl’s body just be able to be her own?

What would be better than covering women up would be providing them with educational opportunities, sex education, media literacy, and the ability to make informed choices about their own bodies. And yes, the way we dress can make a statement about who we are or how we feel, but it doesn’t necessarily. To assume that it does is, at best, catty, and at worst, hazardous. We have power in setting the standards, and we can do better.  

Arguing that Bowdoin should select a female president to replace President Mills is difficult in no small part because this decision is endlessly complex—and only one facet of it deals with gender. I understand this. Yet I feel it would be wrong not to make the case for a progressive change of pace for the future leadership of Bowdoin. Fellow NESCAC schools Amherst, Bates and Wesleyan have had female presidents. So have Brown University, the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard University to name a few more examples. 

Yet these schools stand firmly in the minority. In a 2012 study, the American Counsel on Education stated that only 26 percent of institutional leaders in the United States were female. These numbers do not come close to reflecting the male-to-female student ratios of any college or university. Furthermore, only 36 percent of tenured professors are women, according to a 2009 Forbes article. In STEM (science, technology engineering and mathematics) fields, women make up less than a quarter of the workforce even though they earn 41 percent of science and engineering degrees. Only 20 percent of computer science degree recipients are women. Part of what these statistics vigorously indicate is that there is a wealth of female talent in many dimensions of education that remains untapped and underappreciated. 

It is easy enough to argue that we should elect a new president who is uniquely qualified regardless of gender. And this point is not an irrelevant one. President Faust of Harvard University herself said upon election, “I’m not the woman president of Harvard. I’m the president of Harvard.” Her statement brings up an important point. To single out women in this search is to come uncomfortably close to reinforcing the “othering” of women, or favoritism towards them. Yet Faust continued to say, “It would be wrong not to acknowledge that my has tremendous significance.” 

It is universal knowledge that the road to social justice has never been easily paved. We do not live in a world that is gender blind; sometimes, to create social change, it is necessary to stir up a little controversy in order to make way for progress. Yes, it would be silly to elect a new leader of Bowdoin just because she is a woman—or, for that matter, just because he or she is any one thing in particular. A person’s qualifications for the job are far more intricate than one genetic trait, after all. 

However, I do not think it is unreasonable to count gender as one of the most important factors in this upcoming decision. This nation has rarely changed anything by being blind to difference—it doesn’t work that way. Indeed, considering a candidate regardless of gender may even obscure the potential benefits that come with gender. A female president may have a meaningful new perspective. Surely there are several candidates who are right for the job, and I feel confident that one of these candidates will be female and will be just as qualified as her male competitor. 

Boris Groysberg of the Harvard Business School states, “There is a big difference between diversity and inclusiveness. Diversity is about counting the numbers; inclusiveness is about making the numbers count.” It is one thing to elect a woman for the purposes of—to put it crudely—symbolism. Yet, it is entirely another thing to elect a woman because she is qualified, because she has a vision and because she offers a new perspective. 

Having a female president would diversify Bowdoin’s presidential history. It would change the statistics—and this is not a bad thing. But I would hope, too, that this decision will be only the beginning of an effort to make these new numbers count. We live in a time in which men and women of all colors, nationalities, races and sexual orientations will be given opportunities to succeed as leaders, both in education and in the world at large. 

To quote Faust once more: the doors to change were not “blown outward by a faceless wind…those doors were stormed and broken down by a lot of brave and determined visionary people.” At Bowdoin, we are taught to be these visionary people. We are taught to be leaders in all walks of life. Let us lead the way.

Do we need our own Men’s Resource Center? I find this “call to action” by Daniel Mejia-Cruz and Alex Thomas in last week’s issue of the Orient somewhat under-researched and notably unspecific. What would that look like? What particular opportunities are men deprived of that this center could provide? Would men actually use it? Addressing these questions would be an important start to thinking seriously about a Men’s Resource Center on campus. Until then, I have some further thoughts.

First, let’s get some facts straight. The Women’s Resource Center is located at 24 College Street. It is part of a house that shares its space and purpose with the director of gender violence prevention and education and the Resource Center for Sexual and Gender Diversity. The latter sounds a lot like what you are asking for.

I understand your central point to be: “If we aim to fully address issues of sexual violence, gender norms and gender-based discrimination on campus, we must do a better job of engaging the entire student body.” With this, I wholeheartedly agree. But I would question whether we need a Men’s Resource Center to address these concerns. While many valid points are embedded in the article, the overall argument both misrepresents the purpose of the Women’s Resource Center and does not make a convincing enough case for a corresponding Men’s Resource Center on campus.

In writing my response, I have thought a lot about what it is like to be male: what it’s like to reconcile issues of masculinity, of sex and sexuality, of finding a place both in Western society and Bowdoin College. What irks me is that it does not appear that you have used the same considerations for women when writing your piece.

The issues we are discussing are delicate ones concerning gender identity and equality. That you are addressing this issue based on an argument that inherently places the two binary genders in opposition is ironic and, basically, antithetical to everything that the Women’s Resource Center and the proposed Men’s Resource Center should stand for. 

Stating that the “Bowdoin of today is a very different place than the Bowdoin of the 1970s” implies that women’s issues have somehow become obsolete or less deserving of attention. And while surely “today’s generations face pressures our parents did not,” things like Snapchat, Tinder and Facebook aren’t gender-specific, and so it is not entirely clear how this is relevant to your argument. 

A women’s center does not alienate half the population—it allows for a disadvantaged sector of the population to have a safe space on campus. Your phrasing is careless in that it suggests that women are somehow taking resources away from men.

Some things are just true. For one: when social inequality is a historical reality in a particular group, that group’s interests are more likely to be represented through campus resources such as the Women’s Resource Center. Is that fair? Maybe not. Is it fair that women still get paid 77 cents to every man’s dollar? Is it fair that more than 100 countries have laws on the books that restrict women’s participation in the economy? Is it fair that women make up half the world’s population and yet represent 70 percent of the world’s poor?

I don’t mean to be overly pedantic, but I do feel that these obvious discrepancies need to be acknowledged when we are thinking about any issue regarding men or women. Your point that “men deserve the chance to define their masculinity outside of the constraints of patriarchy” is a very good one, and it is true. What I am unconvinced of, however, is that a Men’s Resource Center is an appropriate or realistic way to address this issue effectively. 

As previously mentioned, the Women’s Resource Center is hardly allotted its own space on campus. So your request for a “comfy house with a kitchen” is completely impolitic. It is easy enough to say that the name of the current center would “alienate half the population” because of its mention of “women” (although the Women’s Resource Center and its counterparts are open to all genders and all sexualities). Perhaps men would feel discouraged from entering a building associated with women? But what about the other buildings on this campus? You can bet the majority of them are associated with men—in fact, the majority of them are named after men. The presidents of Bowdoin College? All men. Should I feel discouraged from going here? I’m starting to. 

As I see it, you are describing the need for a conversation that can take place in any space you choose. The Women’s Resource Center is more than just a house with a kitchen, and it takes more than comfy couches to create meaningful social change. There is undoubtedly a need to raise awareness about men’s issues and your article, obviously, has succeeded in bringing these issues to the fore. But I do not think a center is necessary to do so, and I do not think you have made a convincing case that it is. I agree that we need to have more conversations about masculinity, and all I can say is let’s make it happen. We don’t need backlash against women’s rights to make it possible. Start talking.

Vee Fyer-Morrel is a member of the Class of 2015.