Stepping Into My Own “Barracuda” Moment

Let’s talk about Friday night.

I’ve been sitting on this blog post for a few days now as I process what happened at karaoke on Friday. Here’s the SparkNotes version of the events.

Basically, I was already riding high from a very successful music bingo night that I’d just hosted at a different bar. That part is important because had I not been in such a powerful mood already, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do what I did. I got to Old Dog Tavern (shout out to one of my two favorite bars in Kalamazoo!) around 10 I think and met up with one of my bandmates and best friends, Ellie. We were just outside on the deck probably sharing a joint with a few friends or something when we both headed inside for some reason. Not ten seconds after we stepped inside, some crusty short old white dude with a Colonel Sanders goatee in a green hat came up to us. He reached his shriveled hands within an inch of our titties and made a honking motion, remarking “Eh, isn’t this how you greet women?” and shyly begging “Can I?”

I saw red. It was enough that this fucko disrespected me, but also poor little Ellie, who is for all intents and purposes a little sister figure to me. I pushed back through the doors to where my wife, Crass, was sitting outside, and all I had to say was “creep,” “tried,” and “grope” and she was equally livid. We both bursted back inside, her to find the pervert and me to make a fucking statement.

I ran up to the stage and grabbed the microphone. Fuck whatever else was going on. This man had to be stopped. I screamed to stop the music, took the mic, and with all of the pent-up rage of 32 years worth of creeps thinking they can test me, I declared:

“Nobody is allowed to sexualize me and my friend without our consent.”

The bar bursted into a frenzy of confused looks and claps, save for one asshat heckler in the front who yelled “Too late!” like a goddamn Reddit troll in real life. This made me even more angry, and I lunged toward him, grabbed him by the collar to make him look me in the eye, and said “What the fuck did you say?” At that point, Crass had turned her attention to the heckler, and she literally chased the whole man out of the bar. The original pervert got tracked down and kicked out as well, and the whole time, I was shaking and crying and in shock at what I had just done.

I — the bullied little girl who had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets — finally stood up for myself.

Then, the most amazing moment happened. The whole bar rallied around me, encircling me physically with their bodies and figuratively with their love. I sunk into my friends’ arms and let out all of the emotions that had built up.

Because I was no longer scared. I felt like I had become something new. I stepped into who I was supposed to be this whole time. Like, there was something deeply spiritual about what happened that night. My good friend’s girlfriend said it’s a Leo moon thing. I keep drawing powerful feminine cards like The Empress and the Queen of Wands, the latter of which is a card that’s always resonated with me, though I couldn’t place why at first. I always thought I was more of a Cups girl — soft and emotional — not a fiery, passionate Queen of Wands.

I’ve mentioned my ridiculous admiration for Ann Wilson, frontwoman of the classic rock band Heart, on here many times, and it’s fitting that this particular night was the day after her 75th birthday. I wanted to be her so bad growing up, to the point where I’d study her singing and her performances and her fashion sense and even her personal life, as stan-ly as that sounds now (give me a break, I was an autistic child). One thing I learned when reading about her childhood was the fact that she was bullied extensively too, like me. She was overweight; I was underweight. She had a stutter; I had undiagnosed ADHD and autism. But I saw myself in her. Hell, I created a cringey wish-fulfillment OC based on her! She gave me hope that I could someday be the badass rocker chick I desperately wished to become.

That night at karaoke, that’s exactly what I did. I became that woman. The take-no-shit rock and roll queen who isn’t afraid to call a fucker out.

After the creeps were exiled from the bar and karaoke resumed as normal, the DJ (who may just be the best cishet white man this side of Steve Irwin) asked me if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. I had one request, because I knew exactly what my last song of the night would be.

Back in the 1970s, Ann and her own (actual) little sister, Nancy, were frequent victims of slimy men in music venues, especially since rock was very much considered a man’s world back then. The iconic “Barracuda” was written as a response to some guy backstage who made a creepy joke toward Ann at her sister’s expense, insinuating their relationship was incestuous. Absolutely filled with unbridled rage, she wrote the scathing lyrics that would eventually become the now-legendary song.

And that night was my “Barracuda moment.”

I got on stage to a roar of applause. It’s funny because a while ago I wrote a song half-joking about wanting to be “Kalamazoo famous” instead of actual famous. In that moment, I really did feel like a small town celebrity. With what little was left of my voice after cussing out the pervs, I sang my musical heroine’s battle cry, dedicating it to her for helping me find my voice — and to every man who ever intentionally made a woman feel unsafe in a bar.

I left the best part out. After everything was said and done, a young woman came up to me and quietly thanked me for what I did. She’d been victimized by the creep too. It made me realize how much power we have as women to lift each other up and protect one another.

I want to carry this night with me whenever I feel like I’m not strong enough to stand up for myself. Because now I know I have what it takes. I’ve seen it. My friends have seen it. The entire city of Kalamazoo has seen it.

I have more power than I thought.

Empathy is Dead

So uh, about that election.

As you could probably infer by the fact that I am a queer woman, I am not thrilled with the results. I feel betrayed by everyone who voted for the Orange Menace, and even more betrayed by the leftists who “protest voted” against Kamala for her stance on Israel. As if Trump isn’t going to level Palestine the first chance he gets. Now, we’re stuck with the consequences. The Supreme Court will be stacked with conservative judges for decades to come, and if Roe v. Wade being overturned is any indication, they’re coming for gay marriage next. It was cool having a wife while it lasted, I guess. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably only going to be able to conceive with my girlfriend, who is trans and saved some of her baby-making material, via IVF. If these clowns come for reproductive rights, I’ll probably never get to be a mom. Which is fucking heartbreaking and I might never get over it.

Those are not the things that scare me most about this election cycle. I think there’s something far more sinister going on.

We have an empathy problem.

I wrote a while back about how humanity is dead, and empathy is close behind. I’ve lost so much faith in humanity beings these past few days. People really don’t care about others. I see so much pain and heartache amongst those who will be most affected by the new regime, and these fucking insensitive maggots are gloating in their faces over it. It’s sick. Literally, I posted about my frustration with the results and the overwhelming response I received on social media was “suck it up, homo.”

And charming replies like this one from the aptly named johnpoophead.

I don’t think we’ll ever be okay again. I’ve lost so much hope. And people left and right are trying to gaslight me into thinking things will be fine, that Trump is the “most pro-LGBTQ president ever” and none of the terrible things I fear happening will come to fruition. I hope they’re right, for my sake. I’d rather hear “I told you so” than “get in the gas chambers.”

The results of this election have proven to society that bullying pays, that people who do things like, well, everything listed here, are acceptable leaders. And if Trump were to drop dead of natural causes tomorrow, none of this would disappear. The hate and ignorance are too strong now. I’ve even heard reports from folks in other countries saying their politics are turning far-right as well. Even if I could flee the country, where could I go? Nowhere is safe anymore.

My heart hurts. I didn’t want to believe people could be this terrible, but here we are. I’ll never trust anyone again, not when there’s a chance they could have voted against my right to have a family of my own. I want to believe humanity is good and that most folks are decent, but then…

It’s going to be a long four years.

An Open Letter to JustPearlyThings

I happened upon a video by one of my favorite YouTubers earlier this morning. I’ll leave it here for you to watch as well. It’ll give you some background info at least, if you’re unfamiliar with the creator Hannah Pearl Davis of JustPearlyThings.

Pearl is a vocal advocate against women’s rights, which is ironic because she is, in fact, a woman herself. Not content to, ya know, have voting privileges and her own credit card (the latter of which wasn’t possible until my own mother was an adult), she speaks about how women generally suck in comparison to men. Her sources for this are seemingly rectally sourced — “But men built modern society!” Never mind that we weren’t allowed to contribute for much of human history. I guarantee had we been viewed as equals, we would have been just as prolific. But when you’re relegated to a life of wife and mother and shooed away from public life, you’re not exactly going to be building pyramids or discovering electricity. I’m just saying if we’d had equal rights like, several hundred years ago, life would probably look a little closer to the Barbie movie.

Minus the garish pink and weird feet, hopefully.

I’m not mad at Pearl for believing what she does, as problematic as her beliefs are. Rather, I feel a deep sorrow for her. How sad must it be to believe yourself inferior simply because of the way you were made! As shown in the video, she’s admitted herself that she has low self-esteem, which no doubt contributed to her falling down the alt-right rabbit hole that’s sucked in way too many young people like her.

So my irrational womanly feelings led me to pen an open letter to her. I highly doubt she’ll read this, as she’s a creator with millions of followers and I am simply some asshole with a blog, but perhaps some girl who’s falling down the same rabbit hole will. I pray my words convince her that she’s worth more than this.

Pearl,

Your name has a meaning — you are beautiful and precious and nothing can take that away from you. I hate what this patriarchal, red pill bullshit has done to you. I’ve seen some of your older videos — the light in your eyes has gone. But it’s not too late to reclaim it.

Your gender has nothing to do with your worth. You are a woman, and that’s okay! We’ve fought like hell to get to where we are today, and that’s something to be proud of. You have a voice because your mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers decided that they’d had enough of the very life you claim to want to go back to. Today, we have the choice to be scientists, businesswomen, politicians, or even just a wife and mother, which there’s absolutely nothing wrong with! My mom was a wife and mother, and that’s all she wanted to be. But she and my dad raised me and my sister to have a choice, and I cherish the fact that they gave us that choice.

You have a choice, too. You can live quietly as a wife and mother, or you can pursue a different dream, whether that’s in business or academia or politics or something else entirely. A lot of women manage to do both, which is admirable as heck! But you have that choice, and it’s a shame you want to take that choice away from other women. Our freedom was hard-earned, and you’re still receiving benefits from it. You weren’t pawned off like chattel to be forcibly married to some rando, were you? That’s an extreme example, but it shows how far we’ve come as a society. We need feminism because without it, that’s how we’d still be living. We’d be little more than the property of our fathers or husbands.

I write this because I know you’re capable of so much more. You’re a Christian too, right? Remember the verse that says there’s no male or female in Christ (Galatians 3:28)? That means our earthly gender divisions are moot — we’re all equal in the eyes of God. What’s more is that you’re beloved by God! He loves and provides for the lowly sparrow, and you’re worth much, much more than that to Him! You’re the daughter of a King, so straighten that crown and get out of this red pill nonsense.

You. Are. Worth. More.

Love,

Jessa

No, Trans Women Are Not Threatening Womanhood

I’ve largely disconnected from Facebook because I’m trying to love myself. Still, the primal urge to check in on that hellhole creeps in every now and then. It’s like how some folks enjoy watching pimple popping. It’s often disgusting, but fascinating all the same. I don’t know, maybe I’m following the wrong people.

Anyways, this is what I opened that God-forsaken app to:

Do you know how tempted I am to NOT hide these losers’ identities?

Basically, Jess Hilarious is a comedian (you gotta be with a last name like Hilarious). Recently, she said some pretty TERF-y things, which is what the status above is referring to. Here’s the direct quote, for anyone too lazy to click on the link:

What is the difference between you and someone who has been diagnosed to be mentally insane? The only difference is you don’t have a straitjacket on. Stop talking out your (bleep). Wake up. How are you projecting your anger on real women? Because we are the gatekeepers. We are the gatekeepers for periods. We are the only one that (bleep) bleed, honey.
Jess Hilarious, being decidedly unhilarious

The tirade was in response to a TikTok video of a trans woman who claimed cis women don’t “own” womanhood or periods. The second point is decidedly true — (almost) all AFAB people of a certain age have periods, which includes some trans men and non-binary individuals. And the first point, well, that’s also true, but it’s worth noting that the two aren’t synonymous. Read that again — womanhood and periods are not synonymous. One can exist without the other. Lots of cis women don’t have periods, too, for a number of reasons.

The TERF agenda seems to revolve around the idea that womanhood is this finite resource, and if non-AFAB people get a slice of the pie, there’s less available for what they’d consider “real women.” It’s a silly argument. Someone with a penis wearing a sundress or makeup and going by she/her doesn’t make you, a cis woman, any less of a woman. She’s just out here minding her own business, and you should too. (And everyone should experience the unbridled joy of wearing a sundress on a pretty spring day, I don’t care what gender you are.)

Womanhood should not be gatekept. After all, it is a concept, above all other things. It’s a societal construct that shifts and changes depending on time and culture. 200 years ago, womanhood looked like wearing a corset; in Muslim-majority areas, it might look like wearing a hijab. Heck, pink used to be a masculine color until we decided as a culture to code it as feminine. These are all arbitrary things — we could decide as a society that women need to wear saucepans on their heads and if enough people went along with it, that would be the new normal.

My point here is that if the norms of what your culture considers “womanly” fits how you feel, then womanhood is open to you, and that’s regardless of your naughty bits. It’s the Shania Twain Principle. If you wake up in the morning thinking man, I feel like a woman, I have news for you.

Sure, pregnancy and childbirth (and periods, by extension) are traditionally associated with womanhood, but like everything that depends on societal norms, there will always be exceptions. Look at women who cannot conceive or carry a child. Do we revoke their woman-card? Absolutely not, and the very idea of doing such a thing is wildly offensive.

There’s room at the table for all of us: cis, trans, or non-binary, able to bear children or unable to bear children, sundress-lovers and pantsuit connoisseurs alike. When addressing important issues like bodily autonomy, such as abortion and birth control rights and the right to receive gender affirming care, it’s more important than ever that all women band together against our common enemy — the greedy, misogynistic old guys in power.

Like most people I don’t agree with, I don’t think Jess Hilarious is necessarily a bad person — just misguided. I hope she, too, someday comes to realize that womanhood is for anyone who dares claim it.

Think of the Children! (An Easter Manifesto)

I originally posted this on my Facebook and Instagram pages (@thejessajoyce, if you’re curious), but I wanted to share this brief little write-up here as well. It’s so important to get this message out there since more often than not, the theoretical future of society and the fight to better it is co-opted by straight, cis, white, non-disabled people in an effort to tear down people who are not like them. I want to present a counter-argument. If all lives truly matter, as many on the political right say, and we must “think of the children,” my future children should be considered as well. There is room for everyone at the table of life, and we need to remember that this Easter.

Reading this book (Feminist Queer Crip by Alison Kafer) at the suggestion of one of my favorite professors for my capstone project on autism, and it feels especially poignant in the days of #blacklivesmatter and #SaveTheChildren and #autismawarenessmonth and the recent fight against drag and transgender rights. The first chapter talks a lot about the Child — the personification of the future of society — who is often politicized and weaponized. Think of the children, people say. The image of the Child is more often than not a white cishet non-disabled child born to white cishet non-disabled parents. This Child absolutely matters. But I’m not interested in fighting for him, not because I don’t care about him, but because he already has enough people fighting for his right to exist in peace. Instead, I want to fight for my children.

In a few short years, I’ll likely have a child of my own. That child will likely have a disability of some sort, or rather, a difference that makes it harder to exist in a world that isn’t built for her. Considering my family history, she’ll likely be autistic or ADHD. Depending on our donor, she will likely be at least part black, and she’ll have queer parents who will support her should she eventually come to terms with her own queerness. And guess what? Her life will matter too. She should have a right to exist in peace alongside the theoretical Child described above. I want her to have a future too.

That’s why it’s so important to keep fighting for equality. I feel like it’s important to note that it’s Easter Sunday as I post this. I am a Christian through and through, despite the fact that I don’t “fit” the American Evangelical mold, and I firmly believe that Christ died for EVERYONE. Not just white Americans or straight people or cisgender people or able-bodied and able-minded people. We are all wonderfully made and we all should have a right to inhabit this beautiful planet. This post is a call to prayer and more importantly, a call to action. We need to be a light to this sometimes dark and scary world. We need to keep fighting the good fight.

The Glories and Pitfalls of Being the “Rocker Chick”

Last night, I posted a picture of my band, Wake Up Jamie, on our band’s Instagram page. This one, to be precise.

Almost immediately, we got an influx of picture “likes,” many from a new fan who just started following us! I was freakin’ over the moon excited. Any time someone new gives my little band a chance, it feels like the first time I ever played guitar or sang for my parents in the living room of our old house. You really like my music?! I get a taste of what it must be like to be my personal idol, Ann Wilson from the band Heart.

I have posted this exact picture on my social media and people thought it was me.

I received a message from the new fan, which I was excited to read, but didn’t quite have the metaphorical spoons to deal with at midnight on Christmas Eve Eve. So I left it for tomorrow-me to open in the morning. A little Christmas present to myself, you know? There’s no gift like waking up to see someone tell you how cool your band is.

So I open up this message and it’s…uh…I’ll just say this much-older guy wasn’t shy about confessing how he wanted to make me his sugar baby.

Not a damn thing about our music. Just that I was “beautiful” and he wanted a (presumably sexual) relationship with me in exchange for his money and attention.

Never mind the countless Saturdays at guitar lessons in my childhood and the hours teaching myself to sing in the shower and the hundreds of shows I’ve played in my lifetime. To this guy, I’m basically a singing hooker.

Which is a great business idea that hasn’t been done before, to be fair.

I have to admit my feelings of rage for being objectified were soft-serve swirled with a different, more positive feeling. Was I actually flattered this dude came onto me like that? On my band’s page, no less?

Surely Ann Wilson never had to deal with this?

Or did she?

I feel like I’ve written about the subject before, but I’m too lazy to find the exact post about it. But it’s not like Ann hasn’t dealt with being judged for her looks rather than her talent. Like how she was hidden behind layers of clothing and her skinny little sister, Nancy (who is equally talented, in all fairness), back in the MTV days because Ann was a little too thicc for the era’s liking. As if she wouldn’t have been revered at a Kardashian level had she been young today.

And the funny thing is, had she been young today, you know her Instagram inbox would be full of guys just like the one who messaged me. Even today, go to any Heart music video on YouTube and just read through all the thirsty comments from dudes (and probably a few chicks) who would kill for a ride on Dreamboat Annie. (And for the love of God, I hope Ann Wilson never reads this blog post, for that sentence alone. I feel so dirty.) They’re interspersed with comments about her voice at least, but you can’t deny that many of the “Wow, the best voice in rock and roll”-type comments are followed by “and also smokin’ hot!”

Would Heart have made it if Ann and her sister weren’t a certifiable 11 out of 10? How intertwined are music and appearance anyways? Male musicians are judged for their appearance too (see: every boyband ever), but you can’t deny that the pressure is more intense for female musicians. Even the least-attractive female musicians who have “made it” are still conventionally pretty, while guys get more of a pass to look like a foot. Bob Dylan is revered as one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century, and no one’s thirsting for him, right?

I mean, *I’d* go for it, but not everyone’s type is “dorky Jewish guy who plays guitar better than me.”

As annoying as it is to have to be a “hot girl” to make it in music, there’s a certain power in embracing your looks and sexuality to get ahead. You know the saying — “if you got it, flaunt it.” As a band with three female members, we’re going to be judged for our looks, we might as well use it to our advantage. The end goal is to get our music heard, and if it takes luring people in with our hotness, so be it.

I don’t think there’s any shame in using everything in your disposal to get to where you want to be, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else. If guys drooling over mine and my bandmates’ pictures will get them to pay attention to us and ultimately listen to our music, that’s what matters. We don’t write songs to play in our drummer’s studio every week and never see the light of day. We want to make a living doing what we love. We want to spread a message. We want to be heard.

Being objectified sucks — I can’t argue with that — but taking control of the narrative and the way you’re seen is strangely empowering. Maybe being a woman in music isn’t so bad after all.