Anatomy of a “Beyoncé Voter”

Fox News host Jesse Watters recently declared that Hillary Clinton would need to win over the “Beyoncé voters” (aka “single ladies”) in order to win an election. While it may be true that Clinton would need to overwhelmingly win over single women at the polls if she decides to run for President in 2016, I’m confused by Watters’s definition of the “Beyoncé voter.”

Watters says that Beyoncé voters “depend on government because they’re not depending on their husbands. They need contraception, health care, and they love to talk about equal pay.” To break it down rhetorically, according to Watters, the criteria of these voters are as follows: single, need contraception, need health care, and enjoy discussing equal pay.

Watters points out that President Obama won single “ladies” (women?) by 76 percent in 2012–and he’s maybe 9 points off, but for argument’s sake, let’s say the premise is correct. This demographic almost certainly includes all female voters who are unmarried. These voters reportedly make up 25 percent of the entire electorate. So my first question is: How does Watters jump in his reasoning from “single” to “dependent on government”–all while implying that the woman has chosen to be both single and dependent on government? Not every unmarried woman is dependent on government. And even if an unmarried woman is dependent on government, how can we assume that it’s because she’s unmarried?

Let me list a few potential ways a woman could be dependent on government and single, without one influencing the other. She could have been impregnated by a man who decided to leave her and left economically unstable due to the child (this would be the man’s fault). She could have lost her job (this would be the economy’s fault). She could have divorced an abusive, unfaithful, or somehow inadequate husband (this could be either the husband’s or circumstances’ fault). She could be a widow (unless she killed her husband, this would be circumstances’ fault, again). There are many more scenarios I could list, but it basically comes down to the Census’s definition of single: never married, divorced, separated, or widowed. But in nearly all of these cases, a woman’s singleness is not necessarily correlated with her level of dependency on the government.

So if we looks at Watters’s original statement about women being economically dependent on government because they’re unmarried, we can see that poor, single women are dependent on government not because they’re single–but perhaps because they lack access to contraceptives at a higher rate than economically stable women and thus more often have children at economically inopportune times. Which brings us to the next criteria: A Beyoncé voter needs contraception.

For this criteria, my question is: What does contraception have to do with being single? Among women of child-bearing age (15-44), the number of married women on contraception outweighs the number of unmarried women on contraception by 10-35 percent (depending on rate of sexual activity disparities between married and unmarried women). So why would a “single lady” care more about contraception than a married woman? By looking at rates of contraception use, they obviously don’t. Avoiding becoming pregnant is almost entirely an economic issue–women use contraception because they and their husbands or families don’t have the means or desire to support a child (or another child).

The third criteria, needing health care, isn’t really unique to single women. In fact, I’d wager that every single human being requires reliable access to quality health care. Every voter ever “needs health care,” so that’s a useless criteria to single out (pun intended) a Beyoncé voter from any other voter.

Being single doesn’t require a person to enjoy discussing equal pay. First of all, just as a preface to this paragraph, equal pay isn’t this crazy notion that people bring up at parties from time to time. It’s something that should exist in the United States of America in the 21st century. Equal pay isn’t one of those far-left communist ideas that needy people are asking for because they don’t want to work. It’s not a political talking point. It’s an embarrassingly obvious economic state of being. Maybe some people are under the impression that pay inequality a myth, but here are other things large groups of people have also argued are myths: the Holocaust, the 1969 moon landing, 9/11, climate change–just to name a few.

Everyone with the same experience doing the same work with the same results must be paid equally–it’s not rocket science. It’s literally common sense. That’s all I’m going to say about it because nothing else really needs to be said about it. Wait, also, it has nothing to do with being single. Plenty of people (male, female, married, unmarried, old, young, President, not president) talk about equal pay. And if we want to link equal pay to being dependent on government, we can do that: Women are more likely than men to be poor and economically dependent in some way on the government. So if you have a problem with “government dependent” single women, how about we try to pay them the same as their male counterparts?

I’m a Beyoncé voter. And I am proud to be a Beyoncé voter. I’m in school, obtaining a world-class education that will eventually lead me to a well-paying job to finance my unmarried life during which I will be single, probably need contraception, definitely need health care, and (hopefully not have to) enjoy talking about equal pay so that I make as much as the guy doing the same exact job that I have. I may be a “single lady” for the foreseeable future, but my lack of husband to depend on will never be an indicator of whether I depend on government–because I’m not planning to have to depend on anyone.


I Eat Ice Cream Cones in Public

At the risk of giving a Buzzfeed listicle too much legitimacy by posting about it, here’s an article that one of my Facebook friends shared this morning. I have two cents burning a hole in my pocket and need to get it out.

This article gives off the impression that all women do take all of these precautions simultaneously and thereby approach life as if it’s a room filled with a web of laser beams. It makes it seems like women are all scared, helpless, and overprotective. And trust me, I know how insensitive it sounds when I say to this article: not all women.

The article seems to be asking for pity and sympathy. While some women may identify with some of the items listed, the notion that everyone else should feel bad for women because the world is purportedly not a safe place is misguided. I don’t feel bad for every child I see just because children have the potential to be abducted by some dude on a playground. I don’t feel bad for every elderly person I see just because old people more likely than anyone else to end up one day in the hospital by no fault of their own. I don’t feel bad for every man I see just because men are more likely than women to end up in jail and (separately) less likely to go to college. If (God forbid) I were ever assaulted, the last thing I’d want would be sympathy. I don’t want anyone to pity me just because I’m a woman.

What good does sympathy do? If anything, pitying people for features beyond their control only perpetuates the conception that women truly ought to fear for their safety and well-being at every turn. My being female does not make me more susceptible to being attacked; rather, running into a malicious and sexist individual makes me more susceptible to being attacked. If we’re going to feel sorry for anyone, let’s choose to feel sorry for that malicious and sexist person. Because that person can control his behavior much more easily than I can control my gender. And because pity should be served to the lowest character for acting low, not to the woman for being female.

If the article is simply trying to raise awareness for the everyday struggles that purportedly exclusively affect women. But again, I take issue with the idea that all women must feel this way by virtue of being women. Some women clearly struggle with the items listed because the items were actually provided by many different women based on their personal experiences. There are so many people in general who avoid things because they’re scared of them.

Now, here comes my piece on statistics, probability, and logic. First, the vast majority of women will never be assaulted or raped, meaning that taking lengthy precautions (like not getting in a subway car because there aren’t any women in it already) is, more likely than not, totally unnecessary. Second, being assaulted once does not increase a person’s likelihood of being assaulted again–because first, it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the attackers, and second, each assault is an independent event that has, statistically speaking, virtually no impact on the likelihood of future events. Therefore, even if a woman has been assaulted once, it would be illogical for her to change her behavior to lessen her chances of being assaulted again because it wasn’t her fault in the first place.

Because isn’t that what we’ve all been trying to explain to the sexist slut-shamers who maintain that female victims could’ve done something differently to avoid being attacked? It’s the attackers’ problem. Not the woman’s. Something the article does suggest is that women shouldn’t have to take such extreme precautions to avoid danger, which is exactly my point. But here’s the point that the article makes that I wholeheartedly disagree with: “These [precautions] are things that men often don’t have to think about, that men take for granted, that men simply don’t have to consider as they go about their lives. And they’re things that take up a shocking amount of time, strength, and emotional bandwidth to negotiate.” This statement is the one that asks for pity and sympathy. It asks men to think about how hard women have it. How it’s “exhausting” to constantly think of ways to avoid things that might possibly be dangerous.

The world can be dangerous. But here’s my problem: If it’s dangerous, it’s dangerous for everyone. And you’re not lessening your chance of being assaulted when you decide to stay sober when you’re out with your friends. You’re not less likely to be attacked when you forget to hold your keys out as a potential “makeshift weapon.” Your chances of being raped do not diminish when you eat ice cream out of a bowl versus out of a cone in public (really?). If it needs reiteration, the only thing that increases a woman’s chance of being attacked is if an attacker attacks her. If we, as sane people against rape, want to practice what we preach, shouldn’t we not only internalize but act on the popular notion that a woman’s behavior should not dictate whether she is raped? The moment a women chooses to change her behavior to avoid being attacked and indeed becomes “exhausted” by it, the assholes of the world win.

Now for a personal story. Here are the important details: I am a woman. I have the biology of a woman. I happen to be particularly well-endowed on top, just to give you an idea, because it’ll matter in a second. I like wearing dresses. I like wearing shorts that barely cover my thighs. I lived in a densely-populated Boston suburb for 18 years, and then I moved to Washington, DC, where I’ve lived for the past three years. I went to public school. I attend college. I have had countless jobs and internships located in both urban Boston and downtown Washington. Now I’m going to rattle off the list of 29 things women reportedly avoid–and I’m going to truthfully state that I have done almost all of them. And I will moreover say that doing the vast majority of these things has never even occurred to me.

  1. I’ve gotten drunk (sorry future employers, I’m only human). In public. With friends from school. With friends I’ve just met. With random strangers. I am 21 years old and way too young and fresh-faced to to let paranoia stop me from having fun.
  2. Granted, I’m not usually the frat party type, and I’ve only been 21 since April so I’m not a bar veteran–but I have from time to time left a drink lying around somewhere only to pick it back up later.
  3. I’m not exactly old enough to have had the experience of moving to a different area of the city (I still live in an apartment near my college). But I will say that I haven’t not traveled or visited somewhere because I was scared for my safety or that I might be harassed.
  4. Again, I haven’t lived long enough to be in a situation where I’ve had to talk to the landlord, the cable guy, or the electrician. But I’ve been the only one in my parents’ house when the plumber came. I’ve been the only one in my apartment when the building maintenance people came (many times…our apartment sucked).
  5. I’ve never had the opportunity to travel as an adult, let alone travel by myself. But I’ve taken solo road trips to unfamiliar places in the snow/in the rain/in the dark, stopped at creepy gas stations when I had to pee, and asked people for directions when I needed them. I’ve pumped my own gas on unfamiliar highways in unfamiliar towns. I’ve taken random trains to random places. I once ended up driving endless circles around Washington Heights at night on my way to New Jersey. (I’d never been so grateful to make it to New Jersey…I’m probably the only person in the world who’s thought that.)
  6. Haven’t tried couch-surfing…but because it never occurred to me, not because I’m worried that a well-meaning stranger will cause me harm.
  7. I’m not a runner, but I did run down to the White House and back once, and the sun set when I got downtown, so yeah, I’ve gone running alone at night. It didn’t even occur to me that I should make some sort of contingency plan for if the sun went down or that I shouldn’t go just because it was late in the day.
  8. I’ve never had the misfortune of being harassed on the street, so I’ve never had to talk back to harassers. I’m not sure why there’s this huge myth about how all women are street harassed every day–on the way to work or school or the grocery store or whatever. I work and go to class and go shopping just as much as anyone else, and no one’s ever said a word to me. Except when I run into a panhandler. And that time I was exiting the Metro and some guy told me I dropped something, but when I turned around to check, he grinned and informed me that I must’ve dropped my smile. I didn’t exactly feel threatened.
  9. I don’t think I’ve ever met up with a stranger but, again, I wouldn’t feel unsafe doing it…I just haven’t had any reason to yet.
  10. The idea that there are women out there who sincerely believe that holding their keys in their hand while walking home is somehow a form of protection is sadly and severely pathetic. If some creepy is intent on harming you, he’s going to do it whether or not you try to strike him with your mail key. I take out my keys when I get to the door of my building so I can get in. Because that’s what they’re for. It would never even have occurred to me to use my keys as a weapon–or to be paranoid enough to try.
  11. This one’s a little ambiguous because I’m not sure what “flimsy” means in this context. But I can say that I’ve never thought twice about what I’m wearing regardless of the time of day (or night). There’s always a chance that I’ll end up walking somewhere alone, and I wouldn’t let my outfit stop me from walking somewhere.
  12. I’m not sure that I wear loud or outrageous clothing in general, ever, but I have been known to canvass strange neighborhoods wearing campaign stickers and Obama buttons. But if I were the kind of person who wanted to dress outrageously, I wouldn’t give a crap about appeasing other people on the street.
  13. Remember when I said that the information about my well-endowed top half would prove important? Well, I could wrap myself tight as a mummy and then throw a sheet over myself, and I’d still look as though I’m wearing a pushup bra. My point is that I can’t help the way I look in that aspect, so literally everything I wear “exposes” me and “reminds men” that I’m female. But I’ve never fielded comments or harassment about it because men who “leer” do not need an invitation to say the things they say. They just need an attitude problem and too much time on their hands. I’ve fielded comments from male friends…but nothing has made me change what I wear.
  14. All right, this one is nuts. I wear ponytails all the time. To work. To the gym. To class. To the store. To bars. To parties. I have never once thought for a second that wearing a ponytail might provoke anyone to use my hair as a means to attack me. If the day ever comes that we hear about the Ponytail Killer on CNN–maybe then I would understand why someone might not want to wear a ponytail. But even then, it was 97 degrees in DC today, and I’m going to wear my hair in a ponytail if the mood strikes.
  15. Like virtually every other girl who isn’t paranoid, I’ve worn high heels. They weren’t particularly comfortable, but that’s the only reason I’d choose not to wear them–not because I’m concerned about my ability to run away. If I find myself having to run away in the first place, we’ve got bigger problems than whether I’m able to run fast enough.
  16. I’m not really one for small talk, but I don’t discriminate based on gender. If small talk is involved at all, I’m not concerned with whether it’s with a man or a woman…because I’m not worried about anyone “coming on to me in a lecherous way.”
  17. See above…but with eye contact.
  18. See #16…but with smiling. Apparently I don’t really smile very often in public. But I’m not fearful of the repercussions of smiling–I’m merely from a stuffy city in New England where we don’t smile at strangers, period.
  19. I eat in public. I like ice cream cones. I eat ice cream cones in public. Because I enjoy eating ice cream cones, and I usually don’t have waffle cones lying around my house to facilitate my private ice cream consumption habits.
  20. When I lived at home, I rode my bike all the time during the summer, especially when I couldn’t drive yet, but also when I didn’t have access to a car. I live close enough to downtown Boston that I could ride right in, and I did–many, many times, in the early morning when it was still dark outside (it was a phase…made a great college application essay). The only negative thing that ever happened involving my bike was that it was stolen one night in West Roxbury during a campaign last summer. And then I trekked through the not-so-nice parts of town to find a police station to report the bike stolen and then scouted out a T station in a really not-so-nice part of town as the sun went down. So I don’t have a bike anymore, but I’m perfectly capable of walking and taking public transportation without peeing myself.
  21. I’ve stayed out later than my friends at social events and found my own way back home, unscathed.
  22. Let me tell you a story. When I take public transportation, which is practically every day, whether it be a bus or the subway or the commuter rail, I have never considered the genders of the people already sitting in the compartment because I’m not paranoid enough to think that all the men sitting in the same subway car are conspiring against me. The end.
  23. Unless my phone is dead (which, unfortunately for me and my iPhone 4, is common), the only way I walk around at night (or ever) is with my headphones in.
  24. I live in a building with literally thousands of residents. If someone knocks on the door, I answer it because it’s rude to not answer the door. Not answering the door doesn’t make you smart or wary–it makes you rude and irrational.
  25. If I’m ever Ubering home, I Uber home. Not to the other side of the street so I can walk the rest of the way. Not around the corner. Home. In front of my building. Because that’s where I live. And chances are, if I’m desperate enough to be taking a cab home, I have a reason to need to be home, not around the corner wasting time over the statistically insignificant chance that someone might be lurking and watching me.
  26. I’ve never not walked straight home…because I have this weird thing about annoying journeys–I just want to get where I’m going without dillydallying.
  27. This one’s a little convenient for me–my first and last names are really common, so I have no problem giving them out. And honestly, I don’t flatter myself into thinking that giving my name away will prompt a person to google me, find my address, and subsequently stalk me. Also, how does someone knowing my name make me more likely to be attacked? The women in the article seem to be scared of all men, strangers or not, so what does it matter if they know my name or where I live? A random stranger watching a person eating ice cream in public can still attack even if they’re not graced with certain personal information like a last name.
  28. This one is also too old for me–I’m usually not the last one at any office I work at because I’ve always had superiors who leave after me.
  29. I have used an ATMs outside and ATMs that were isolated. Sometimes at night. If I’m going to walk around at night by myself wearing high heels and headphones without my keys in my hand, I need some money in my pocket, right?

Don’t feel bad for women because they’re women. If you’re going to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for paranoid or scared or illogical or unreasonable people. Feel sorry for the assholes who attack other people in the first place. Because that’s the real problem here.

The Night I Met FLOTUS in the Locker Room

I met Michelle Obama in the girls’ locker room when I was wearing nothing but a soggy bathing suit and a broken watch.

It was fall 2011, and I had just started school at American University. And trust me, if I had known the First Lady was going to be hanging by the changing area, I would have worn something nicer, like probably some shoes and a bra. But I digress.

I had been at college barely two months. I had just gotten out of the elevator on my floor when I caught my friend Allison skipping down the hallway shouting something about Sasha and Malia Obama. After listening for a minute I realized she was jumping around because, allegedly, the Obama girls were swimming in the swimming pool—in our swimming pool—taking lessons.

“I’m going down to the pool right now!” she cried.

“I’m coming!” I said, getting back in the elevator I’d just taken.

Allison and I sprinted down to the gym, where a giant glass wall separated the lobby from the pool below.  The glass wall was lined with parents watching their kids swim in the pool.  I then noticed something…off.  In every corner, stationed about twenty feet apart from one another, were straight-faced men in uniform, unsmiling, unfriendly, just standing.

As Allison and I tried to glance down at the pool, one of the men leaned forward, halting us with his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing,” he demanded, deadpan.

Allison and I glanced at each other.  “We—we—I mean, I—um—”

“We…just wanted to see the pool,” I said.

The man stared at us menacingly. “You can’t do that.”

“I mean, we just wanted to go down to the pool. To swim. In the pool.”

The man gave us the once-over. “All right.”

Allison and I shuffled away from the window.

“Now we’ve gotta actually go down to the pool,” I mumbled as we walked toward the gym, trying not to look behind me.

When we reached the desk, the girl asked for our IDs.  You need your ID if you’re going to use the gym. Or the pool, we learned. In the excitement back in our dorm, Allison had forgotten her ID.

“Can’t I swipe her in?” I asked.


“But—I’m a student here,” Allison objected. “Can’t you look me up on the computer or something?”

“No, sorry.”

So we sprinted back up to our building to retrieve Allison’s ID. While we were there, we decided it might be a good idea to grab our bathing suits so we could actually go in the pool. We would go for an undesired swim if necessary, just to see the Obama girls, if they were actually there, of course. And if we were allowed.

We flew back down to the gym, presented our IDs to the girl at the desk, and bounded down the stairs to the basement, where we changed into our bathing suits and tiptoed out to the pool.

From the pool area, we could see a dozen adults watching from the glass panels above.  In the main pool, a large group of middle school-aged girls dove and swam and stood in their sporty swim suits while Allison and I touched the water’s surface with our toes, contemplating getting in.

“I think we should just do it,” I said.  “Then we can say we swam in the same pool as the Obamas. How cool is that. Right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

We slid in. Did a couple lame laps, lifting our heads up every so often to get a glance of Sasha or Malia. We stopped at one end of the pool.

“I think that’s her,” I said.

“Who?” Allison looked at the girl standing on the diving platform. “Sasha?”

“Doesn’t that kind of look like her?”

“I mean, she’s black…”

Though our behavior seems, in retrospect, quite pathic, I don’t think either of us realized it. We kept pretending to swim. On the other end of the pool, Allison squinted up at the giant glass window.

“Does that look like Michelle Obama to you?”


“Up there…in gray?”

I looked. “I mean, I think so… Can you tell, though?” I asked.  “I’m not wearing my glasses.”

“Neither am I.”

“Well, awesome.”

“I think it’s her.”

Then I glanced at my watch. “Shit, shit.” I waited in vain for the second hand to jump back to life. “I knew I should’ve taken this off.  Shit.” I looked around. “We need to stop staring and get out of this pool before the Secret Service comes down here and arrests us.”

I followed Allison out of the pool and into the locker room.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that now we can say we swam in the same pool as Sasha Obama, right?”

When we got back to the bench where we’d thrown our clothes, Allison walked back toward the door. “I’m going to the water fountain.”


I began to collect my things, located my other sock, shook out my waterlogged watch in the hopes that it would begin to tick again, heard something—

“…honor to meet you…”

My ears perked up. Who was Allison talking to? I went to investigate, turning the corner of our enclave of lockers, and—

There she was. In the flesh. Tall, regal. In an elegant mix of black and gray. Her skin gleamed in the humid locker room air. Her presence was enough to render me speechless. Her smile could probably end wars.

Goosebumps everywhere, suddenly aware of every droplet of water on my skin, I stood, frozen.

“Hi,” she smiled.

I inched away from the scene, backing farther and farther into the small area of lockers where my socks were strewn next to my American University sweatshirt and my ID was somewhere on the floor. Suddenly Allison and I were leaning against the lockers on the other side of where she had been standing. And we just sobbed uncontrollably.

A few young girls appeared at lockers near ours, staring at us. They’d been swimming in the pool with Sasha.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Are you okay?”

“I think they’re crying…”

“Are you guys crying?”

I shook my head, trying to wipe my tears away and stop shaking. “Yeah, no, I’m fine,” I blubbered. “We’re fine…”

The girls gave us another concerned look and hesitantly turned back to their lockers.

Allison and I burst into tears all over again. Trembling, we got half-dressed and fled the scene. Outside the locker room, we were met with a giant crowd of students dressed for the gym, waiting to be let into the locker room. They looked at us funny; I didn’t know whether this was because we had been allowed in the locker room…or because persistent tears were still rolling down our cheeks.

We squeezed past the throng. We made it upstairs. It was a madhouse. At least a hundred students, maybe two hundred, stuffed into the lobby of the gymnasium. All hoping to meet the Obamas. All hoping to meet the Obamas. Hoping to meet the Obamas.

Later, I found out that, when Allison had gone back to the water fountain, she had run into Sasha Obama, who had dropped her water bottle, and Allison had picked it up for her. I also found out that, even though I don’t remember saying a thing, I had said a feeble “Hi” the First Lady.

When Allison and I returned to our dorm, I ran straight into the laundry room and called my mom, crying into the phone about how I should have at least had the gumption to shake her hand!

I went over everything rapidly in my head, replaying every second. Had I really worn a red bathing suit? I couldn’t’ve at least been wearing a blue one? I was a Democrat–what was wrong with me?!

After I got off the phone with my mother, I entered the lounge, only to be made fun of by everyone on our floor because they’d witnessed our crying. A friend invited me to lean on his shoulder, only to mock me about how what I’d done was really embarrassing and stupid. “Yeah, thanks,” I said, sitting up.

Later, when the tears stopped, I looked down at my broken watch. Worth it, I thought. Totally worth it.

America Is Still America

It bothers me when people talk about the “old America” as if we’re regressing as a nation. I do not believe that we are regressing. This Business Insider post argues with charts and graphics that America is not the shining land of liberty it once was. I disagree, and I would like to state that however often I complain about the United States, it is still the greatest country on earth.

The article discusses first how, in the past, “the fruits of people’s labors accrued to the whole country, not just the top.” That’s not true. Hard work and labor have always benefited white Protestant men (for example: “Irish Need Not Apply” signs in the nineteenth century, “White-Only” signs in the twentieth century, the simple fact that we had to create a Fair Pay Act in the first place). Secondly, since the seventeenth century there has existed a disparity between rich and poor (for example: industry tycoons at the turn of the century versus the plight of the working class…and slavery).

Today, all American citizens can vote, it’s unlawful to discriminate based on anything aside from experience and skill, and we’re getting closer to securing basic rights (like marriage) to the entire population. This is the best America the world has ever seen. We’re living in tough financial times, as is much of the world, but just because some people out there make billions doesn’t mean we aren’t America anymore. And it definitely doesn’t make us “un-American” as the post argues.

Certain injustices prevailed in the past just as much as they prevail today. This country has been working on its imperfections since its inception because improvement and progress have been the driving forces behind American prosperity since our Founding Fathers crafted the Constitution.

Here’s what’s un-American to me: Anyone who has become so discouraged and hopeless with today’s financial injustices that they are willing to suggest that the United States is in a steep and steady decline with no prospect of recovery. We are not great, but we are still pretty good. We are not the best we can be, but we’re much better than we’ve ever been. And, yes, right now we have a long list of things to figure out and “fix,” but America is not beyond repair.

America is still America. The way to restored greatness isn’t to look backwards but to look forward (this is why I believe in the Democratic Party platform). Because…who the hell would want to live in a country where women can’t vote, or where people of color can’t find good work, or where homosexual acts are punishable by law, in the “old America”?