BITCHfest: Ten Years of Cultural Criticism from the Pages of Bitch Magazine by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

started to reconcile my identity and beliefs with my love for metal, but it was hard to leave my ambivalence behind. If saying that I’m a metalhead and a feminist sounds like a contradiction, then saying that I’m a feminist because of heavy metal probably sounds even more so. But metal did empower me. Because the music was so far away from my experience, it didn’t place definitions on who I was or could be as a black female. When I listened to Metallica or Corrosion of Conformity, I wasn’t a “bitch,” a “ho,” or some anonymous jiggling booty in a rap video; I wasn’t a woman who needed rescuing by some dream-date pop star. I was someone who felt weird in high school, who wanted a place to belong.
    Bands like Living Colour and Sepultura took things a step further by bringing a strong antiracist and political tone to their headbanging. Such bands helped me adapt my fandom to my personal ideals, and in turn I examined songs with a critical ear; refused to support bands with racist, sexist,
or homophobic lyrics; and wrote angry letters to metal fanzines when they made racist comments. Most important, having the music as an emotional outlet made me feel safe to eventually explore my identity as a black woman and as a feminist, and to find strength in that as well.
    Heavy-metal fandom doesn’t hold the same place in my life that it did when I was thirteen; I try to keep up with the music, but I’m not deeply immersed in the fan culture. Maybe it’s because now that I’m older, I have a greater understanding of my own identity and I don’t need the music to help express my feelings or provide a sense of community.
    In some ways, music fandom seems a lot more diverse than it was when I was a teen. Thanks at least in part to MTV, kids of different races and ethnicities have more music in common than even a decade ago. It’s not uncommon to see a black or brown kid giddily requesting Papa Roach on Total Request Live, and hip hop has replaced rock as the soundtrack of adolescent rebellion for kids of every color. Black rockers like Living Colour and Fishbone and newer bands with multiracial lineups like Sevendust and the now-defunct Rage Against the Machine have made strides in crossing rock’s color line.
    But MTV and radio (including black stations) still don’t know what to do with artists who don’t fit any preexisting molds, like Me‘Shell NdegéOcello or the black-female-fronted rock band Skunk Anansie. So instead of taking on the challenge of exploring black rock, mainstream media largely ignores it. Even now, we sistas who rock don’t have a high-profile role model to identify with or emulate. The act of participation in rock music as musicians and as fans is still pretty subversive for black women—for black folks in general, really. I hope at some point the music industry will have the guts and good sense to support black rock, and young black women who want a harder sound than Tracy Chapman will be able to find the emotional connection I did, plus something more—a sense of being represented musically, culturally, and politically. But right now I’ll settle for those rare but cherished moments when I spot a girl walking down the street sporting a ’fro and a Korn T-shirt. I’m reminded that we’re still out there, challenging the racism and sexism in the industry and in fandom through writing fanzines, making websites, supporting black rock bands—and, if nothing else, messing with images of who the “average” metal fan is supposed to be.
    Bloodletting
    Female Adolescence in Modern Horror Films
    Tammy Oler / SUMMER 2003
     
     
     
    AH, MENARCHE. ANY GIRL WHO READ ANYTHING AS A PRETEEN can testify that young-adult novels, teen magazines, and other media specifically directed at teenage girls never fail to depict menstruation as an event that girls anxiously anticipate and celebrate. Yet the most memorable visual representation of a girl’s first period tells a very different story. Brian