Some Notes on Love, Anonymously and Writing About Love and Sex Online

by Latoya Peterson

First things first. Quite a few people reached out to me to say that they did not have enough time to get their piece in by the deadline, are in the middle of drafts, or otherwise working hard on what they want to say. Since the blog carnival idea didn’t work so well (we only got submissions to host on Racialicious, most of those anonymously), I’ve decided to make Love, Anonymously a permanent series here on Racialicious. I would still love to get some comics or videos or other ways of expressing a feeling, if anyone wanted to do something to that end.

I also wanted to talk a bit about the intent for this series, since we’re starting to see some very familiar issues in the comments section.

Love, Anonymously is intended to be a space for people to talk about the messier parts of sex. Since there is such a dearth of conversation about sex from people of color, we wanted to create a little bank of content, so for folks shooting around the internet feeling like they really are conflicted about something or want to discuss something, suddenly, it is here.

The problem is, love and sex aren’t clear cut things. And when you add race, sexuality, religion, and other things to the mix, it brings out some fairly strong emotions in people. And while it is fine to disagree with a sentiment, a belief, or other comments someone may make in a piece, what is not okay is to attack them personally for it.

Personal attacks are obnoxious, and from an editor’s standpoint, are counterproductive. Many people are reluctant to talk about sex publicly. We all know there a lot at stake and that the internet runs on cruelty. When I originally came up with this idea, I reached out to 30 solid writers and friends of Racialicious to see if they wanted to contribute. And for most people, the initial answer was no. Digging into the why of it all brought out a list of fears: fear of being judged, for one. Fear of backlash.  Fears around safety.  Fears about creating a false level of intimacy with the reader.

But the biggest was the fear that one’s personal image will be linked with sex. 

Many of us are women of color,  already people who have been uninvited from the mainstream conversation table. Since most of us fight for our right to talk about serious issues, we don’t want one or two essays to undermine all the work we have done.

I mean, look at what happened to Katha Pollitt, veteran feminist and well respected writer, who had the gall to write honestly about making bad choices and being in a bad relationship. Rebecca Traister wrote an amazing piece for Salon, describing how the mighty intellectual Pollitt was pilloried by the literati by essentially exposing her human side:

That’s probably why, a few years ago, when I read Katha Pollitt’s New Yorker essays about learning to drive and web-stalking her ex-boyfriend in the wake of a brutal breakup, I was so taken aback: humiliated for her, embarrassed to have bumped into her this way, in different clothes and an apron! Pollitt and I are now professional acquaintances, but at the time, I had not met her. I knew her only as a columnist, having long loved her work as a political and feminist critic for the Nation. But I viscerally recoiled at these tales of her abandoning her pride, wallowing miserably and defensively as she compared herself to her ex’s new girlfriend, admitting to her lack of self-sufficiency and confidence. The newspaper where I worked at the time ran pieces mocking both of her stories. I didn’t write them, but I laughed at them. [...]

Now those two essays, in which she confessed to debasements like looking the other way after finding another woman’s panties in the laundry, to not giving her boyfriend oral sex in the mornings, to the fact that he intellectually belittled her and that she — the great feminist! — stayed with him for seven years anyway, until he finally left her for someone else, are the centerpieces (and one of them the title) of “Learning to Drive,” a new collection of Pollitt’s writing.

Picking up these pieces again in book form, accompanied by other essays about Pollitt’s daughter, the Marxist reading group she joined in part to impress her scoundrel boyfriend, and friendships with the women with whom her ex cheated on her, I have a much more intricate reaction than when I first read them. Instead of simply rearing back from them, I wonder: Is there ever a point at which it is a good idea for women, especially intellectual, politically engaged women, to strip off their clothes and caper naked as jaybirds in front of a line of would-be assassins? [...]

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