I like to bring up my mom when talking to 

friends about sex. No, it isn’t a product of some sub-
scription to one of Freud’s incestual talking points 
— my tendency to mention her is actually empiri-
cally grounded: she is a professor who has taught 
about the history of sex for over 20 years. And my 
personal bias aside, I’d confidently say she is an 
expert in the field. 

Telling people what she does usually garners the 

same cautious, yet intrigued reactions. People ques-
tion, “Is that a thing?”, to which I usually answer 
yes and make a half-hearted joke about take-your-
kid-to-work day. Others wonder if it’s like “Sex 
Education” on Netflix, and the answer is a little, but 
the absence of British accents makes a bigger dif-
ference than one would suspect. By far though, the 
response I get most often is some variation of: “You 
must have had an interesting childhood!” 

Without pause, I will always reply, “to say the 

least.”

Despite being Jewish, my mom loved to decorate 

our Christmas tree — but only with her beloved felt 
vaginaments (vagina ornaments). And this type of 
demonstration was no seasonal project; exposing 
her children to elements of the body and sex was 
my mom’s year-round, 24/7 hobby.

One of my fondest memories of her avocation 

in action comes from a car ride to my fourth-grade 
field trip. The destination was to a nearby retried 
mission to explore the church-like structure origi-
nally established to expand Christianity to the 
Native peoples of California. Naturally, my mom 
objected to the trip alone for socio-political reasons. 
But, in an effort to be supportive of my excitement 
to go, she decided to enlighten me on the puritani-
cal origins of the sex position Missionary and its 
anti-Indigenous roots. 

Not to mention 

the one time I 
asked her who 
Thomas Jeffer-
son was. She 
felt the most 
important 
thing 
to 

know 
about 

him was not 
his 
presidency 

but that he was a 
rapist; specifically, that 
he serially abused 
enslaved 
woman 
Sally 

Hemings. She was adamant to explain how the 
prevailing narrative of them having a beautiful 
relationship is a historical inaccuracy. From there, 
she derived an impromptu lecture about the nature 
of consent and our culture trying to rename abuse 
as love. I was 10. 

These were not isolated incidents. By nature 

of her work on sex, rape, power and race, she was 
constantly uncovering the disgraceful histories 
behind many current day, seemingly innocuous 
social functions. I was 15 when her latest book, 
“Colonial Complexions,” was published. The book 
is dedicated to me and my brother and is focused on 
characterizations of the body. It reads “For Casey, 
For Ripley, May you each continue to embrace the 
amazing bodies that house you.”

Because I had been taking my mom’s courses 

since I could speak, there was no way my unsophis-
ticated, still rapidly developing brain could take on 
the weight of such hefty subjects. So, I resorted to 
adopting an emotionless perspective in order to 
manage the overwhelming feelings that held hands 
with this devastating reality of sex. I felt it was only 
feasible to anesthetize myself in order to process 
the intimidating facts I newly became aware of. 
I sustained this perspective throughout my very 
PG high school career. So, when I arrived at college 
with this intellectualization approach, I found the 
University of Michigan’s rampant hookup culture 
to be one of the strangest, most grotesque social 
phenomenons I had ever witnessed. 

From what I could tell from my, admittedly 

subjective, cis, heterosexual advantage point, it 
seemed that most women in similar standings to 
mine were losing out in hookup culture, yet still 
choosing to participate. I watched as my friends 
compromised their boundaries, safety, health 
and sanity. They explained that their pursuits 

were mostly motivated by a need for valida-
tion and human touch, which is completely 
understandable. But rarely did it seem like 
the extent of those benefits could ever mas-
ter the sacrifices required for them to 
occur. 

The women I knew became 

jaded beings just weeks after 
agreeing to participate in this 
culture. And those 

were 

the lucky ones — 

not everyone made it 

out whole. I would seethe 

with anger thinking about 

the things that have been done 

to the women I love. I still cry for 
them. I had painfully related to 
their sentiments of wanting to be 
cared for and was saddened by the 

means they felt necessary to achieve 

that. And the worst part of it all? No 
amount of cautionary tales could satisfy 
my own morbid curiosity. 

I am my mother’s daughter. Her love for intel-

lectual inquiry is hereditary, and we are at a top-
tier research institution, after all. I couldn’t help but 
do my own experiment to see if I could stay above 
water in hookup culture, regardless of knowing 
the success rate of my peers. So, I embarked on a 
self-directed case study to investigate and critically 
assess loosely promised benefits within hookup 
culture. 

The most classic experiment to run is of course 

a college situationship. Put in less than academic 
terms, this title exists to represent the grey area of a 
relationship where both participants operate under 
the assumption that sex will be the primary focus 
of the arrangement with no promise of exclusivity. 
In theory, this is not problematic — casual sex is not 
inherently destructive or wrong. But as I observed 
through others’ participation, respect can vary 
with the lending of bodies and it can be difficult to 
reject the feelings that arrive with physical intimacy. 
Methods for my field study go as follows:

My standards for the selection of a male par-

ticipant: way too low. The set up: a man invested for 
sex and a woman, me, invested for emotional ful-
fillment. The variable that seemed to stay constant: 
abysmal communication.

The first thing I gained in my preliminary 

research rang true: these dynamics are not sustain-
able because sex cannot be the currency of a rela-
tionship. Emotional and physical intimacy run on 
completely different metrics and bodies cannot be 
traded and borrowed without any emotional toll.

One time, following my co-participant’s and I’s 

usual exchange, I wanted to see how far I could 
push this anthropological research. We sat in his 
dorm room and I asked him if he respected me. He 
replied with honesty: “Probably not as much as you 
would like me to.” When I asked why, he respond-
ed: “It is hard to respect someone who doesn’t 
respect 
themselves.”

His 
twin-XL mattress became my 
very own pyre as he finished his 
sentence. He hugged me as I start-

ed to dissipate, my head hung over his 
shoulder, facing away — he did not 

have to bear witness to the casualties of 

his words. It was a poetic injustice that he 

never saw the hollowness my face assumed, 
a disposition wiped and vacant of all intel-
lectual capacity. 
He deduced that my mere participation in 

the situationship phenomenon was permission 
to mistreat me. My poor coping skills and desper-
ate need for validation were a green light for him 
to borrow my body. In that moment, because of 
my emotional vulnerability and a little internalized 
misogyny, I had taken his conclusions as academic 
fact — man had cracked the code once again. My 
maltreatment was my own fault. 

Empirically speaking though, I suspect that 

experts in the field, specifically and especially my 
own mom, would disagree with his theory. Walk-
ing home from his place, just like a little girl, I 
needed my mom’s wisdom. I returned to the dedi-
cation she wrote in hopes it would wake me from 
my comatose state. 

May you continue to embrace the amazing bod-

ies that house you.

I speculated what message she would have for 

when I do not embrace the amazing body that 
houses me. When I deprive it. When I pinch and 
appraise it in front of a full-body mirror. When I 
forgo all intellectual thought, forcing it to accom-
pany me in subservience. It has housed me as I 
have tormented it for the majority of my 18 years 
of life. What is someone to make of such a man-
handled body? 

I hypothesize that she would argue it is okay 

to imperfectly reside in a home. She would say my 
body still holds value and should be regarded with 
inalienable respect. She would tell me I deserve to 
be handled with care. And she would adamantly 
note that neglecting your own body is never per-
mission for others to abuse it in tandem. 

But why would I speculate? Why not just ask? 

Mother knows best, and experts know even bet-
ter. Yet I chose not to tell her what happened that 
day. I did not tell my mom about any of this, actu-
ally. Honestly, I would have rather relayed every 
grueling detail to a Sweetwaters barista before 
even mentioning to my mom the surface of my 
escapades. 

And my apprehension about telling her was not 

from fear of punishment. As I’m sure you can infer, 
she is very sex-positive. Besides, I’m a legal adult, 
and she never really bought into discipline anyway. 
Instead, I refused to share what happened because 
I knew, academically speaking, what was wrong. I 
could confidently synthesize with very little mar-
gin of error what my mother’s professional opinion 
would be. I know how she would correct him and 
console me. I could hear her scream all the way 
from California how ludicrous his logic was if you 
consider bodily autonomy and the logical fallacies 
of misogyny. 

But these were not intellectual endeavors, so 

they could not be governed by intellectual answers. 
I could have known every philosophical, sociologi-
cal, historically informed argument academia had 
to offer, and I still would have returned to his dorm 
again that night like I did, even in the wake of his 
dehumanizing comments. 

I arrived to him as a lost puppy who realized a 

locked kennel is warmer than the streets. I missed 
my owner and domesticated animals do not 
bother themselves with the trivialities of critical 
thought. 

After returning from my second visit, I 

decided to tell my friends what was happening. 
That way, at least the case study would be peer-
reviewed. As we debriefed the night’s detri-
ment, it became evident that my experience was 
relatable to too many of them. We attempted to 
reach for an empirical cure — all to assuage our 
fear that this might be a universal experience for 
women. We tried to find big words to assign to 
our feelings and organize our thoughts to make 
sense of the mess. We could have written disser-
tations on these topics.

And we do. 

Hookup Culture: A case study with expert testimony

3 — Wednesday, December 8, 2021 // The Statement

BY RIPLEY NEWMAN, CTI LIASON & STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Illustration by Katherine Lee
Page Design by Sarah Chung 

& Brittany Bowman

