Author Archives: Moira

Freedom of E-xpression: Overt and Covert Policing of Woman-Produced Internet Content

The infinitely expanding, ultra-dynamic place that is the internet in 2015 is a fascinating and sometimes terrifying place. The anonymity, viral potential, and a sense of “unrealness” that the internet provides has led to a very “real” culture of harm that is pervasive across social media and internet forums. In particular, this culture of harm seeks to silence certain voices and amplify others. I argue that the internet is a space in which policing of expression of marginal bodies (in this article, women) is increasingly prevalent, and that abuse and harassment are increasingly common and tolerated in this same space. In particular, these women who are silenced are those who tend to defy heteropatriachal standards of “acceptable” production: for example, those that encroach upon stereotypically masculine topics (sports, video-games, etc.), that are vocally anti-mysogynist, and those displaying their body in a way that does not gratify straight masculinity. In exploring this proposal, I will draw upon several very recent instances of anti-woman internet policing and covert “hushing”.

To begin this exploration, I would like to look at overt examples of content policing and silencing. A sickening example of this can be seen in the Twitter hailstorm endured by actress Ashley Judd. Judd tweeted during a Sunday TV basketball match that the opposing team was ‘playing dirty & can kiss [her] team’s free throw making a—‘ (Alter). The response was swift and malevolent. Fans, presumably in defense of the team that was “playing dirty”, began to tweet physical and sexual threats and insults towards Judd’s intelligence, age, and body. To compound the awfulness of the situation, this onslaught was particularly triggering for Judd, who had faced sexual abuse and incest in her youth. She took down the tweet shortly thereafter. Thus, simply by speaking up about a topic on which her “expertise” is questioned (due, by no stretch of the imagination, to stereotypes about women and organized sports), Judd was abusively silenced.

This experience of abuse parallels startlingly well with the harassment that has plagued other female internet contributors that are vocal on stereotypically “male” subjects, especially in a subversive manner. One of these women is Anita Sarkeesian, the producer of the YouTube series Feminist Frequency (Sarkeesian 2012). Her series of videos focuses on the objectification and exploitation of female characters in video games, and uses apt and fairly conservative modes of analysis to do so. As such, it is by no means “radical” (in the popular sense of the word): for example, Sarkeesian may explore how female bodies are killed and maimed for no gainful purpose in games. It is hard to imagine that anyone could disagree significantly with her straightforward analyses, however, the internet does not fail to amaze. Sarkeesian has begun a page dedicated solely to the threats she receives on a daily basis. These comments range from threats of rape to threats of murder, explicit descriptions of sexual acts that (mostly) gamers would like to inflict on Sarkeesian, and detailed descriptions of her home and whereabouts posted for all to see (Sarkeesian 2015). In 2014, Sarkeesian was forced to cancel a University lecture about her works of resistance after a message was sent to the school threatening a mass shooting if she were allowed to speak. And this is the crux of the issue: Who is allowed to speak? What does “free speech” really mean – i.e. when death threats are employed regularly?

The internet speech and internet-cultural productions of women are restricted in violent and terroristic ways such as those mentioned above, as well as by more subtle and pernicious methods. For example, in the summer of 2014, Instagram user Samm Newman’s account was deleted after she posted a photo of herself in a bra and boyshorts (Rose). For users of Instagram, this outfit should raise no red flags. Women are constantly featured on Instagram wearing less than this all the time. The only difference between Samm and these women? Samm is plus sized. After a pushback from Newmann’s supporters, Instagram apologized for their “mistake”. However, the message was loud and clear: Newman’s internet expression was not adequately palatable or gratifying to the sizeist gaze, and did not meet hegemonic standards of “sexiness”. Thus, it was relegated to the black hole of “unworthy” content, and “unworthy” female bodies. Another Instagram user and artist, Rupi Kaur, was banned from the site just weeks ago for posting works of art in which a small amount of her menstrual blood was visible (Cascone). Her response was incisive, and critically exposes what “acceptable” and “unacceptable” forms of the female body/female expression look like on the internet. She states: “I will not apologize for not feeding the ego and pride of misogynist society that will have my body in underwear but no be okay with a small leak, when your pages are filled with countless photos/accounts where women…are objectified, pornified, and treated [as] less than human” (Cascone). In both of these cases, the “imperfect”, unregulated, autonomously expressive products of women were squelched and hidden away, deemed unacceptable for consumption. And another question emerges – unacceptable for whom?

In this short exploration of the internet’s treatment of woman derived content, we have come across two major questions. For whom is freedom of expression and speech a reality, and who “benefits” when this right is curtailed for certain groups? The first question is one that often raises venom and spite. Many, especially those that are part of a very central (non-marginal) group, will argue that everyone has the right to free speech – and they should expect others to as well (i.e. they should expect harassment if speech is to be free). However, I see this understanding of free speech as facile. There are far more ways that speech and expression are policed than through litigation and a charter of rights and freedoms. I argue that abuse, threats, and harassment are just as effective in silencing people as laws and regulations. Indeed, this understanding of free speech also falls flat when one considers the policing of content considered “inappropriate” or “unacceptable”: Why is it that hateful comments and abuse are “Freedom of speech” that should be expected and protected, but the mostly covered body of a plus sized woman is so out of line that it must be deleted and the internet shielded from it? This leads into the second question: who is benefiting from the double standards of free expression? When abuse is tolerated but the expression of something as simple as a large body or menstrual blood is banned, it is misogynist and anti-woman society that benefits. It is individuals and systems who only want to see women as sexy and gratifying to their gaze, or not see them at all. And this certainly does not stop with women. Being on the margin means that your freedom of expression is curtailed significantly by these same factors. LGBTQ+ individuals, racialized individuals, disabled individuals, female and feminine individuals. With the amount of work being done to silence the margins, on might draw some wry optimism from wondering how powerful our words might be if they were to go unchecked.

Works Cited

Alter, Charlotte. “Ashley Judd Speaks out about Twitter Abuse and Rape”. Time Magazine. 19 March 2015.


Cascone, Sarah. “Artist Rupu Kaur Criticizes Instagram for Censoring Photo Showing Period Blood”. Artnet News. 3 March 2015.


Rose, Rebecca. “Instagram Apologizes for Deleting Plus-Size Woman’s Account”. Jezebel. 16 July 2014.


Sarkeesian, Anita. Feminist Frequency: Conversations with Pop Culture. 2012.


Sarkeesian, Anita. “One Week of Harassment on Twitter”. Feminist Frequency. 26 January 2015.



Trending: appropriation of Indigenous emblems, symbols, and imagery in fashion and pop culture

Chelsea Vowel’s article An Open Letter to Non-Natives in Headdress is a much needed interjection into a pop-cultural environment where the appropriation of indigenous symbols and emblems is “hot”, chic, and comes as naturally as breathing. In the article, Vowel explains the significance of “restricted symbols”, of which indigenous headdresses are one. She compares the unearned wearing of a headdress to the forgery of a diploma or the fabrication of a military medal, stating that “[t]hese items cannot be legitimately possessed or reproduced by just anyone, as they represent achievements earned according to a specific criteria” (Vowel, “An Open…in Headdress”). Her argument brings into plain sight what is often ignored by those who appropriate these symbols: that indigenous culture is not merely cute, chic, or exotic – it has deep symbolic meaning and may confer rank, status, experience, and other merits – and it should be respected as thus. I believe that Vowel’s article is a fine educational script, and can also serve as a jumping off point for looking at the appropriation of indigenous symbols and imagery in a broader context.  There are many other less obvious, more subtle, systemic and pernicious ways in which indigenous material has been appropriated. In this blog, I would like to focus not only on the unsanctioned use of restricted symbols, but also on the appropriation of unrestricted imagery, the line between “appreciation” and “appropriation” of cultural products, and the significance of considering the intersection of race, power imbalances, and colonial histories.

The past months have been a truly wince-inducing period for fashion, providing examples of how even non-restricted imagery can be used in a highly problematic (and utterly embarrassing) manner. First, the fashion brand KTZ’s fall/winter collection was released, claiming to be “a tribute to the primal woman indigenous to this land, who evolves into a sexualized, empowered being” (Schilling, “On No … in Milan”). This statement is a brow-furrowing, grimace-inducing chimera of poorly employed equity buzzwords (e.g. empowered being) and pure unabashed exoticization. To make matters worse, the designer, Marjan Pejoski, “borrowed” (read: took without permission) themes and designs from the work of a Northern Cheyenne/Crow designer, Bethany Yellowtail (Schilling). Bethany’s intricate and (as she explains) deeply personal beading patterns and dress designs were lifted without her permission, and without any financial return or even acknowledgement of the original artist. More recently, the fashion company D-Squared released an indigenous “inspired” line entitled D-Squaw (Adrienne K., “New York…Bethany Yellowtail). This line, titled using a derogatory term referring to indigenous women, brought a fusion of indigenous and settler-era British garb to the runways of the Milan. As they described it, they were mixing “the enchantment of Canadian Indian tribes” with the “confident attitude of the British aristocracy” (Adrienne K.). Both of these appropriative acts, from different designers in different countries, are worryingly similar in narrowness of vision and lack of respect.

The key to examining these instances of appropriation is in finding patterns within them. In these examples, I found several. First, there is a noticeable absence of indigenous input, but obvious indigenous “output” or material. Essentially, white and non-indigenous designers have not sought the original ideas of indigenous people or involved them in their process: they have not even recognized the people from whom they have taken, referring to them generically as “Canadian Indian Tribes” (Schilling), and refusing to give credit to the indigenous designers that inspired their work. Secondly, the ways that the lines have been described are unanimously essentializing and fetishistic. Indigenous women are referred to as “primal”, affirming the status of their culture as unadvanced, primitive, and less valuable and forward thinking than hegemonic white culture. Their “tribes” are also referred to as “enchanting”, a patronizing term that conjures images of the magic of nature and the simplistic and naïve beauty of these “Indians”. D-Squaw even provides a glaring juxtaposition of their indigenous imagery against their British imagery – the white colonizer pieces are “confident”, “aristocratic”, and blended seamlessly (ignoring any historical irony) with the indigenous pieces.

Finally, building on this last point, there is willful ignorance of the historical and dynamic nature of indigenous peoples. There is an ignorance of the tension between colonial images (e.g. Old British garb) and indigenous images, and there is a utopic emphasis on a sort of “old world Indian” or “imaginary Indian” – “enchanted”, “primal”, untouched, unaltered, uncolonized, untraumatized. And I believe that this is a fundamental truth that underlies these patterns of colonial logic: colonizers want to have their fun, fashion, and profit with indigenous symbols, but they don’t want to recognize their significance and history, whether that be considering how an object is a restricted symbol, or considering a history of colonialism and inflicted trauma.

Cultural appropriation in the fashion industry and popular Western culture at large is an issue that must be not only addressed, but resolved. The author of the article that inspired this post suggests several ways in which a non-indigenous person can “appreciate” rather than “appropriate”, and I wish to share these with you (especially since her word has much more value in this subject than mine). Vowel first asks simply that restricted symbols be respected: do not wear a headdress or other restricted symbol unless you have earned it. She also suggests that individuals who want to celebrate indigenous art go out and purchase art from actual indigenous artists, rather than appropriative facsimiles. She suggests to non-indigenous artists who use indigenous emblems and imagery to create images of real first-nations people, and to cite who they are and what specific nation they belong to (Vowel). To this, in light of the recent events laid out in this blog, I would like to humbly add one more suggestion. Be wary of pop-culture productions “inspired” by indigenous cultural productions. Is someone being recognized for their “inspirational” value? How fanciful, unrealistic, or falsifying is the resulting work? Who is benefitting from the sale of this work – it is likely not its “muse”. And with these suggestions, I will now be signing off – I encourage you to read the original article from which my piece was informed, and indeed, “inspired” at

Bye for now –


Works Cited

Adrienne K.. “New York Fashion Week Designer steals from Northern Cheyenne/Crow artist Bethany Yellowtail”. Native Appropriations. WordPress. Web.7 Mar. 2015.

Chelsea Vowel, âpihtawikosisân. “An Open Letter to Non-Natives in Headdress.” Âpihtawikosisân: Law language, life: A Plains Cree speaking Metis Woman in Montreal. WordPress. Web. 6 Mar. 2015

Schilling, Vincent. “Oh No They Didn’t: Designers Show “Squaw” Fashion in Milan”. Indian Country. Today Media Network., 3 Mar. 2015. Web. 6 March 2015.

Kate Bornstein is a Queer and Pleasant Danger: Film Review (Spoiler Alert)

Kate Bornstein is a Queer and Pleasant Danger situates is star, “Auntie Kate”, as a true gender outlaw, something she is immensely proud of. As a self described “trans-dyke, reluctant polyamorist, sadomasochist, and recovering Scientologist”, Bornstein revels in rejecting binary thinking and dismantling norms of gender and sexuality. She is a dynamic and questioning individual, and her “outlaw” persona stems from this constant questioning and re-evaluation. From considering whether she truly identifies as a woman, to her reconsideration of her religion, reinvention of her sexual practices with her partner, and re-evaluation of the value of living in the face of a life threatening diagnosis, Kate is an ever-changing outlaw of expectation.

This 2014 documentary by director Sam Feder begins in Kate’s home, where the tone of the film (read: provocative) is set by Kate introducing us to her “giant, flying, gold… PENIS”. A statuette of a golden phallus is presented, on in her living room, installed after the surgery she underwent as part of her MTF transgender transition. The film alternates between excerpts from her lectures, readings, and performances on tour and personal interviews with her and friends, most of which are presented as monologues or dialogues between the subjects. We are introduced to Kate’s eclectic friends, mentors, ex-lovers and partner, and guided through her participation in and subsequent rejection of scientology. We meet her family, listen to her coming out story, and watch as she receives a live phone call from her surgeon breaking the news to her that her lung cancer has metastasized. The tone of the film oscillates naturally from outrageous and provocative to outright hilarious to heartbreakingly sad as it explores each of these subjects.

As I have alluded to, Bornstein loves to question and reimagine all aspects of herself and the world she lives in. In one scene, she explains her very complex intersectional identity: she begins by explaining that she doesn’t see herself as a woman any more, because her social circle (a group of “very intelligent lesbians”) helped her to see that she was not raised or acculturated to be one – that her positionality was different than that of a socialized woman. She thus inhabits a space “between genders”. She also inhabits a space outside of the heterosexual matrix, a matrix in which heterosexuality is the norm, performed by two “natural” opposing genders (Aulette et al. 2011). She describes herself as “trans-dyke” – the “more queer” form of lesbian in her opinion. She also refers to herself as a “tranny”, a traditionally derogatory term that she has reclaimed for the same reason – it is “more queer” than transsexual. I have a feeling that Kate will not stop here – as I have stated, she is a fantastically dynamic individual and will likely be reimaging her labeling, identity, and sexuality even as I write this film review, further cementing her position as “gender outlaw”.

Another pivotal scene sequence in the film comes toward the end, after Bornstein’s cancer diagnosis. The first scene in the sequence also involves a pivotal re-evaluation. Sitting outside on a park bench, Bornstein looks into the camera, smiling and wearing her signature (literally) rose tinted spectacles, and delivers perhaps the most candid line of the film (for an individual who is a performer at heart) – that it “wasn’t until now” that she actually realized “she wanted to live” – that not until she was face to face with death, did she truly want to remain on this earth. This scene was closely followed by a meet and greet after one of her lectures, showing her talking to several LGBTQ teens. After they leave, she remarks on how beautiful, courageous and unique they are – and the film ends with her pleading to all who question their desire to live to “do whatever it takes to make your life worth living… just don’t be mean”. The juxtaposition of Kate’s realization and this footage is effective. Suicide and depression are issues that affect transgender and other gender/sex-marginal individuals at much higher rates than the heterosexual, cis-gendered population (CMHA 2014). Though filmed and released before this event, the themes of this film are highly relevant in the wake of the transgender teen Leelah Alcorn’s suicide. These critical scenes are a combination outreach effort between Bornstein and the film-makers, all of whom are activists – personal and heart-wrenchingly genuine messages for those who feel marginalized and unable to cope or continue on.

Overall, Kate Bornstein is a Queer and Pleasant Danger is a powerful piece of art and activism. The film effectively captures the inimitable and outrageous character that is Bornstein: a provocative, ever-questioning individual who is always looking to push boundaries and re-imagine the laws of living. And sometimes, luckily for Bornstein, her audience, and her fans, this re-evaluation involves taking another look at the value of life and living, and encouraging others to do the same.

Outside of my direct experience with the film, my experience at ReelOut Queer Film Festival was positive. The staff were kind, accommodating, and understanding (I needed alternative seating due to a back injury) and there was a sense of community and support at the event. Before the film, the Kingston Trans Fam was able to discuss their work, inviting out transgender individuals and their families to talk to other Kingstonians with similar experiences. If you are interested in learning more about them, their work, their safe space, and their community, their website is

Bye for now,




Aulette, Judy Root and Wittner, Judith. Gendered Worlds. New York: Oxford U. Press,   2011. Print.

“Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Trans People and Mental Health”.             CMHA, 2014. February 9 2015.