Better not get him in trouble
The Superficial, Superfluous, Super Sexist 90s
When I see my daughter lovin’ her 90s jeans that she thrifted in her latest haul, I remind her what it was really like being a young woman then. To sum it up: it sucked. This is my early 90s teenage story. I encourage everyone to share their own, especially since so much in the past was either hidden, or not talked about (even when it was glaringly obvious).
Trigger warning: This story discusses sexual assault. While I think it’s important to talk about, you may not be at a place or time where it feels okay for you to read about. If you’ve been sexually traumatized, getting help to work through it is really important. If you don’t have a healthcare provider, help is also available here: National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) or go to rainn.org.
As a 90s teen, I was told one thing, saw another, and later learned there was even more to it. The maddening part was that even when lots of people were seeing the same thing, hardly anyone was saying it, especially beyond closed doors. The “get real” decade was anything but.
George Michael’s “Freedom! ‘90” depicted this mirage perfectly. The song matched the upbeat optimism at the start of the decade — expanding freedom for everyone. The combusting leather jacket in the video captured the shared feeling of being so done with all-things 80s.
Who could forget the video images of lip-syncing supermodel faces and bodies flashing across the screen, each displayed in raw, sexualized ways. It was hard to understand the messages through the dark, smoke-filled imagery, and maybe that was the point.
The mixed messages made it hard to figure anything out as a 90s teen: stand out, but blend in; be strong, but not bitchy; be smart, but not too smart; compete with males, but not directly; be sexy, but don’t get him in trouble.
They laughed ‘cause they were untouchable
My expectations came crashing down along with my big-80s hair. A whole generation after the sexual revolution, freedom seemed more about high status heterosexual men having as much access with as little accountability as possible.
And it wasn’t just powerful Hollywood type men that could get away with almost anything. It was males with any little bit of relative power. The guy in charge of your shift at work. A guy in a band or on a football team. A popular kid at school. The culture celebrated their “bad boy” behavior, even when they were grown men.
“Everyone can see what's going on / They laugh 'cause they know they're untouchable / Not because what I said was wrong.”
That reality created widespread fear. Because even if harassment wasn’t directed at you, or someone like you, it reminded you who was untouchable. Sinéad O'Connor sang about in “The Emperor's New Clothes”: “Everyone can see what's going on / They laugh 'cause they know they're untouchable / Not because what I said was wrong.” Then everyone saw what happened to her.
My bedroom escape from everything
I was 15 in 1990. As soon as I started looking halfway like a woman, my whole life felt turned upside down … almost overnight. An adult male commented on my transformation, calling me a “sex kitten.” Instead of freedom, I was learning that I’d be spending the 90s feeling caged.
My body became something for others to look at and judge. Like a thing, maybe an animal, but not fully a person. The random cat calls. The crude comments. Someone “bumping” into me and then having to pretend like it was an accident when I knew it wasn’t. Whether it was me, a friend, or someone I barely knew, it seemed to be constantly happening to someone.
By the time I turned 17, my acceptance for “the-way-things-were” had pretty much set in. It was the fall of Nirvana’s Nevermind in 1991. Teen spirit angst filled the air, along with an acceptance that life was stifling and stagnant.
My family just moved to an exurb, 50 miles out where I’d graduate with 50 other kids. Like the 90210 kids on the hit TV show, I repeated my junior year for a second season. Though my rerun was because I was returning after dropping out. Moving to a new school was supposed to be a fresh start.
Coming from a large, Chicago suburban high school, it was a complete culture shock. Mullets and monster trucks were cool. Going steady, getting drunk, and driving back and forth on the same stretch of highway was the Friday night fun.
After a few years of hanging out at Chicago clubs and hairband parties, a Taco Bell parking lot wasn’t gonna give my teen brain any thrill. So I usually retreated to my bedroom on Friday nights for my dopamine fixes — watching late night TV, getting “thunder thighs” from stuffing myself with Snackwells, and then counteracting the effect with my highly used Thigh Master that Suzanne Somers sold me on.
My inward escape was from more than just annoying teen culture. My stepdad was dying. His illness reached the point where he had months left … possibly, probably, who really knows? How does life go on while you’re living with someone dying? Someone you love and someone you know is loved even more by someone else you love.
Hearing the truth beyond closed doors
Getting myself to school felt harder with each day. Few days were memorable. But one October day still stands out. Our history teacher made a last minute lesson plan change so we could watch something important in DC.
I liked our 1960s-looking teacher. Sharply parted hair, slicked in place. An old guy's English Leather smell. Always dressed in suit and tie, as if it’d make the students take him more seriously. Or at least treat him as a human and not do stupid things like put “Kick me” signs on his back.
I sat, checked-out in the back of the class, next to some (no clue why) “cool” guy. The one with the monster truck and the monster-sized ego to match. When the lights turned off, I had to fight off the urge to doze off, because this guy was not someone I’d ever wanna close my eyes around. Up on the small square screen, I saw the same story I’d seen hundreds of times before, but this time with a political theme.
Anita Hill spoke openly and candidly about the kind of shit women had to put up with. “Damn,” I thought. “She’s actually saying what happened out loud to everyone.”
After marveling at her bravery, my cynicism set in. Hearing the degrading comments from the guy next to me. And the ones from old suited white guys in the hearing. The same things I’d heard many times before from guys like that. The kind of guys who thought a bitch was any female they wanted, but didn't want them back. And the kind of guys who were protected by the culture, because for whatever reason, they were so special and important.
1992 — the whole year felt like a lie
The year I graduated was declared “The Year of Woman” because a record number of women were elected. Yet, the new U.S. Senate still consisted almost entirely of white men? We’re supposed to celebrate? The whole year felt like a lie.
I kept hearing “Yesterday’s gone / Yesterday’s gone” in Bill Clinton’s campaign theme song: “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac. But it didn’t look that way. Candidate’s wives were relegated to cookie contests and mommy-war debates. Hillary Clinton was bitch-labeled and body shamed. And any woman from Bill’s past who might become a problem was labeled a “bimbo” or worse.
Yesterday felt very alive and kicking in 1992. The movie Groundhog Day was being filmed near my home that year. It was one of the last things my stepdad was excited about just before he died: a chance to meet Bill Murray, another lifelong Cubs fan. But I also remember it because that time period felt exactly like the movie. Like yesterday will never be gone.
The open truth was: women were expected to be “flattered” by an alpha male’s unwanted sexual attention (or at least pretend to be), take the blame if he got in trouble for his behavior, and risk being branded with a scarlet letter ‘S’ that stuck — aside from a Pretty Woman fairy tale.
To be clear, not all high-status males acted badly. But the problem was they could if they wanted to. Outside of their golden circle, life kind of sucked for everyone. I lived in a house filled with brothers and loads of their friends. I saw them feel pressured to mask their own version of normal. I saw their limited range of feelings they were allowed to safely express. And I saw the harmful consequences of that. In many ways, they were caged too.
In a world where some people could get away with almost anything, learning “how not to get raped” was a necessary skill.
Protecting “would-if-he-could” kind of guys
During college, young women were told, “It’s such a powerful time to be female.” But this 1993 Woman’s Day magazine cover shows what that really meant. Women were expected to have the power to magically squeeze their bodies into non-stretch jeans never meant to be their size. And to be so powerful that they could control the behavior of grown men.
I spent a few days on a college campus with a friend over spring break that year. I’ll never forget how it felt to feel totally responsible for my safety in a totally unsafe world, years before cell phones. Or the feeling of trying to survive on 1200 calories a day to make my body conform to my non-stretch jeans — two sizes too small from what they should’ve been. Here’s what I wrote in my diary when I got back:
If I lived there:
1. I would never walk anywhere alone at night.
2. I would have a boyfriend. Right now I'm really picky, cuz I don't need a boyfriend. But if I lived there, I would, just to feel safe.
In a world where some people could get away with almost anything, learning “how not to get raped” was a necessary skill. Staying safe was your burden.
I first learned about this “responsibility” when my 14-year old friends and I began being called “jail bait,” as if our still-girl bodies had the power of tricking grown men into committing crimes, really? But what it really meant is that we’d be blamed if something happened to us. It was a “yeah, she was asking for that” culture.
So when it happened to me the month I turned 15, I felt like it was my fault. But I knew I wasn't alone. Because behind closed doors, I’d heard family and friends my age and generations older talk about being raped. So much so that it seemed like a right of passage.
The truth is, going anywhere alone with a guy had always been considered consent for anything that followed, and a reason for you to deserve any rumors that spread. The culture that blamed people who were raped, while protecting certain “would-if-he-could” kind of guys, was EVERYWHERE then. So many stayed quiet – so others could be protected. Pain became frozen in time.
Other than with a few people, I never talked about being raped until my 40s, when I began processing it through writing and therapy. I never thought I could move past the feeling of shame, even though it was so misplaced. And I never imagined I would talk about it beyond closed doors.
30 years later — ‘90s lessons needed during another backlash
I’m glad it’s not the 90s anymore. But I’m not going to become complacent. Styles go away, then come back. Progress is followed by backlash. I’ve already lived through one cycle. So many lessons from the 90s are relevant today. Here are reminders that I’m using to help navigate these turbulent times, during another backlash:
Don’t dismiss young people
The point of sharing my 90s stories with my daughter isn’t to prove that she has it easier. I remember how crappy it felt when boomers said things like that to me as an always outnumbered young Gen Xer. What’s more, it’s not even true. There are new versions of the same old crap. And old versions that keep coming back. Plus, I can’t see everything my own kids see, even though I try.
I feel kind of lucky that I was able to retreat to my bedroom as a teen with my box of Snackwells. Young people today have fewer boundaries. It’s hard to imagine what it’d be like to be vulnerable to harassment through a virtual world enmeshed with the real one.
Often the best way I can support young people is by simply listening. I try to start from a place of accepting that I’ll never be able to completely understand their perspective. This helps me stay curious so I can really listen.
Focus on body neutrality
Body conformity pressure was huge in the 90s. And it was more complicated than the Dexatrim-thin 80s. There were new pressures to be sculpted, “healthy,” and surgically fixed. The fat-free hype and food labels only contributed to disordered eating. Even older women in positions of power weren’t immune from the pressures.
I’ll never forget when I (temporarily) reached the “ideal” weight the culture said I should be. I felt so tricked. It was like when I spent a bunch of time playing Nintendo’s Super Mario with my brothers in junior high and finally got to the end of the game. Nothing magically happened. As my body ages, I don’t want to be tricked into fighting an anti-aging battle I’m guaranteed to lose and wouldn’t magically make my life better.
Body neutrality is becoming my get-real goal for a growing-old body that’s going to change in some ways I won’t like. That’s what feels right for me. But other people’s bodies are their own business … and nobody else’s.
A blame culture hurts (almost) everyone
The 90s culture wars had fingers pointing in every direction. They’d blame the clothes, the music, a family’s “broken home.” Were there really horrible messages in 90s MTV pop culture? Absolutely. But I’d heard the stories from women a generation or two older and knew it was always “me too.”
A big reason I never told any adult I was raped, was I knew that even if I was believed (and that’s a big IF), the guy who was supposed to give me a ride home (but took me to his basement) would never have been held accountable. My mom would’ve absolutely believed me, but I didn’t tell her because I knew she’d blame herself, and I’d feel even worse. It took me thirty years to tell her and I’m glad I did. We’ve worked through a lot of pain together, and the shame hidden in generational shadows.
For me, it was easier to heal from one person doing something bad to me, than lots of people believing bad things about me. Besides causing needless pain to individuals, a blame culture hurts almost everyone — while giving cover to people doing bad things. It keeps people from speaking up when it’s needed the most. And the costs of staying quiet are huge, unfairly shared, and affect every type of institution: public, private, religious, even families. I’m well aware that I paid a lower price than many people.
My takeaway
Living through the 90s taught me how important it is to speak up, at critical moments and in real time. While I work on finding my voice, I also want to do whatever I can to create space and provide support so others can too. I’ll take the ‘90s jeans, in a size meant to fit. But some things should never come back: no one should feel pressured to be a bystander in their own life.
