Upon walking into The Fillmore 
in downtown Detroit, one is 
greeted by many vestiges of the 
past. An illuminated marquee 
lined with individual light bulbs 
juts out from an ornately decorated 
facade. 
Inside, 
geometrically 
pieced archways soar over the 
grand atrium, and individually 
numbered exit signs are collages 
of stained glass. History lines 
the concert hall: Medieval-esque 
suits of armor guard columns 
teleported from Ancient Rome and 
vivid murals depict animals on the 
Earth 
uninhibited 
by the existence 
of humans as 
party 
lights 

change colors overhead.
However, the hundreds of 
people occupying this space a few 
Fridays ago were in attendance to 
bear witness to artifacts arguably 
more notable than all of the above: 
Disney and Nickelodeon musical 
TV hits from the 2000s.
The conjurer that revived these 
songs of yesteryear for the ears of 
today was Matt Bennett, the actor 
best known for playing Robbie 
Shapiro on the Nickelodeon teen 
sitcom “Victorious.” Now almost a 
decade removed from his claim to 
fame, Bennett is 30 and stays in the 
public eye through a patchwork of 
one-episode acting gigs, down-
credit film roles and posts for his 
millions of steadfast social media 
followers.
And so emerges iParty (a 
play on the Nickelodeon 
title 
iCarly, 
another 
Nickelodeon 
show 
that starred Bennett’s 
contemporaries), 
a 
coast-to-coast 
tour 
featuring millennial 
Bennett 
dancing 
around on stage to the 
sounds of his glory 
days and hoping his 
audiences will do 
the same. Recalling 
legacy touring acts 
such 
as 
Dead 
& 
Company, 
what new he 
brings 
to 
the 
table 
is largely 
the old.
My 
friend 
Kathleen 
first 
proposed 
the idea of 
attending 
the 
Detroit 
iParty 
while 
sitting in Martha 
Cook 
dormitory’s 
Red Room, sipping the 

traditional weekly tea. Our friends 
from high school, Isabel and 
Sabino, would soon be visiting Ann 
Arbor for the weekend, and the DJ 
set would serve as our Friday night 
activity.
I initially hesitated to say yes, 
thinking 
about 
my 
lackluster 
lyrical knowledge of the music 
Matt Bennett would play. Growing 
up, my family had cable television 
only intermittently: for the week 
of the Super Bowl or as a free 
trial every few years. My current 
familiarity with the content at 
hand came from Sabino’s car 
speakers, 
weaving 
our 
friend 
group through strip-mall parking 
lots, or playing “All I Want is 
Everything” 
at 
near-deafening 
volume while speeding down the 
interstate. Sabino named his car 
Ariana after the Nick-turned-pop 
star, whereas I had thought it was 
just a fun name for a vehicle.
Though I had to make up 
for lost time, I hoped that this 
newfound immersion in what 
was 
once 
commercially 
front 
and center would prove socially 
useful, and it largely has. Though 
references to specific Victorious 
episodes may go over my head, I 
understand mentions of “The Slap” 
(“Victorious”’s social network) and 
Trina Vega’s comically bad singing 
from the soundtrack of these high 
school suburban escapades.
I remained on this plane of semi-
fluency as all four of us rode in 
Ariana toward downtown Detroit. 
The sky was already dark when 
we left Ann Arbor, so we only saw 
the lights in the distance as we 
approached the city. Given that 
we were in a similar arrangement 
to that of a few years ago in high 
school, the conversations that 
emerged were inevitably about 
the past. We talked about how our 
eleventh-grade English teacher 
had recently become assistant 
principal and how Sabino’s brother 
is already a high schooler. We 
recounted recent run-ins with 

former classmates and gossip 
about romances new and old.
Where are our fellow high 
school alumni now? If they were 
to ask the same about us, would 
they guess we’re waiting for a Matt 
Bennett DJ set?
By this time, we parked Ariana 
in a surface lot near the Fillmore, 
and evening-enhancing substances 
emerged from the front row’s 
center console. “Maybe we should 
prepare,” someone said, and the 
ongoing 
pop-adjacent 
Spotify 
playlist is abruptly interrupted 
by the iCarly and Victorious 
crossover episode theme song. We 
danced in the car seats by shifting 
shoulders and overly contorting 
our faces to the lyrics, full of now-
trivial teenage drama. A few more 
songs, and it’s deemed time to go.
The line of people we added 
ourselves to after exiting the fog-
windowed car was filled with 
those that look like us: late-teens 
to early twenties, arriving in 
couples or as groups of friends. 
Some wore period garb (layered 
camis and patterned tops, colorful 
high 
top 
Converse 
sneakers), 
others dressed as Disney or Nick 
Characters 
specific 
characters 
(think “Victorious”’s Mr. Sikowitz 
or “High School Musical’”s Troy 
and Gabriella).
Isabel wishes aloud that the 
concert was 21-plus rather than 
18, before realizing that I’m 
still underage when we receive 
neon-colored wristbands: one for 
admission and one for the bar.
I’m 
not 
offended 
because 
I 
understand 
the 
sentiment. 
Acknowledging 
the 
existence 
of those younger than you is 
an unsettling feeling; hearing 
that someone was born in 2005 
rather than 2001 somehow feels 
impossible. We cope with it in 
many different ways, even while 
still being a part of Gen Z ourselves: 
We belittled those younger than us 
by calling them “cute” or acting 
dramatically disgusted by their 

presence. The sentiment partially 
carries into adulthood, though 
social rules convert loathing to 
a more muted aversion. While in 
line, we might simply smirk at an 
18-year-old with their parents, 
oblivious to our own realities a few 
years ago.
We are rescued from the cold 
autumn night by the warmth of 
The Fillmore’s atrium, and the 
vibrations within the plush red 
carpet indicate the music has 
already started. Our tickets are 
scanned by an older woman, and 
we enter.
“Have fun in there.”
Given the age of my concert 
companions, the first stop is the 
bar. We looked at the special 
drinks sign, which appeared to 
be drawn up in Microsoft Word. 
Sabino, Kathleen and Isabel each 
ordered a different $12 cocktail, 
and the cups were passed around 
in a circle to taste. Only Kathleen’s 
drink, 
the 
“Wahoo 
Punch,” 
was 
enjoyable. 
The 
alcoholic 
allusion titled “Rex Powers” and 
the generically named “iDrink” 
became unwanted weights in our 
palms.
We walked down the aisle 
toward the standing section, the 
golden wristband looped around 
my left arm serving as a visual 
reminder of the choice I made to 
be there. When I bought my ticket, 
I charged an amount to my debit 
card that made my eyes wince.
In front of us was a projection 
of the music video to whatever 
song is playing. Though frequently 
these are songs from Disney’s 
Hollywood Records or a nostalgic 
Kesha throwback, recent hits like 
Harry Styles’s “As it Was” violated 
the collective understanding that 
we were dancing in the year of 
2012.
After examining the DJ on 
stage, Kathleen and I exchanged 
comments about how Bennet’s 
appearance has changed over the 
years. His hair was longer, less 

curly, bleached blonde. He seemed 
shorter, skinnier, with sleeves of 
tattoos rising up his arm. He’s 
traded out his bold black glasses 
for clear frames, and his voice has 
burrowed further up his nose.
Perhaps it’s the quickening of 
age we feel in the room. Like an 
insect’s compound eye, what’s on 
stage is duplicated hundreds of 
times on the phone screens in front 
of us, with some faithful recorders 
posting the entire concert to 
Snapchat or Instagram Stories. 
Whereas a day was simply a unit of 
time when “Victorious” was at its 
peak, now, 24 hours is all it takes 
for these videos to be gone, and the 
distance between past and present 
will feel like an expanse.
We might examine Snapchat 
memories from four years ago 
with laughable security, now being 
on the other side of so-called glow 
ups, with new wardrobes and 
experiences to show for it. But 
finding these niches in identity 
marks maturity and therefore age. 
Are these enough of a trade off for 
exiting the vanguard of youth? 
And if Matt Bennett looks this 
old, this unrecognizable, then how 
should we interpret ourselves?
Twenty minutes into the set, 
the man who we thought to be 
Matt Bennett is actually just the 
opening act, a Los Angeles DJ 
named Jeffrey. “Who are you?” 
we shouted, confused on how our 
minds tricked us, and realizing we 
don’t quite know what we are here 
to see.
After a brief set change which 
involved 
the 
exchanging 
of 
two laptops between on-stage 
and 
off-stage, 
Matt 
Bennett 
finally arrived. He’s instantly 
recognizable; the trajectory of 
his appearance since Victorious is 
wholly believable and comforting. 
There’s not much change at all, 
and perhaps we can feel the same 
about ourselves.

Wednesday, November 2, 2022 — 9
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
S T A T E M E N T

Let’s reach beyond ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’: Women’s 
literature and the Dobbs decision

Over the summer, hometown 
boredom 
encouraged 
me 
to 
preemptively 
browse 
through 
my fall 2022 courses and their 
corresponding reading lists. Since 
I’m an English major, each of my 
classes offered an abundance of 
novels to potentially fill my time. 
However, given the political climate, 
one title stood out amongst the 
course 
descriptions: 
Margaret 
Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale.”
Earlier this summer, on June 
24, 2022, The U.S. Supreme Court 
overturned Roe v. Wade with 
its ruling in the case of Dobbs 
v. 
Jackson 
Women’s 
Health 
Organization. The Supreme Court’s 
Roe v. Wade decision — established 
in 1973 — famously granted women 
the constitutional right to abortion. 
However, 
the 
Dobbs 
decision 
reversed the laws created under Roe 
and returned the power of abortion 
regulation to each state and its 
elected representatives, declaring, 
“The Constitution does not confer a 
right to abortion.”
I focused my gaze on Atwood’s 
title. While the popular dystopian 
narrative turned Hulu adaptation 
already had reserved a spot on my 
personal reading list (even before the 
Dobbs decision), the novel quickly 
catapulted 
to 
my 
number-one 

reading slot given all the newfound 
media buzz it attracted in the latter 
part of summer 2022.
“The Handmaid’s Tale” is set in 
the dystopian Republic of Gilead — 
a future regime that has replaced 
the United States of America. In 
Gilead, the female body is not an 
element of individual autonomy 
but instead a piece of government 
property. All birth control methods 
are illegal with the consequence of 
death should the law be disobeyed. 
Women of child-bearing capabilities 
become handmaids, meaning they 
are stripped of all rights and forced 
into a life of sexual servitude for 
high-ranking members of society. 
The 
handmaids 
must 
become 
pregnant with a Commander’s child 
through a monthly ceremony of 
nonconsensual sex. If impregnated, 
they are required to carry the fetus 
to term and give the infant to the 
Commander’s family immediately 
after birth.
Due to the novel and the 
subsequent Hulu show’s popularity, 
“The Handmaid’s Tale” quickly 
became a political symbol in the 
fight for abortion access and bodily 
autonomy. In response to the Dobbs 
v. 
Jackson 
discord, 
pro-choice 
protesters 
surrounded 
Supreme 
Court Justice Amy Coney Barrett’s 
house while dressed in crimson 
robes and white bonnets — the 
standard handmaid’s uniform.
Stephen King, like many other 

public figures, compared the United 
States to Gilead in a tweet that read, 
“Welcome to THE HANDMAID’S 
TALE.” Even Margaret Atwood 
released a piece in The Atlantic 
revealing how her novel is no longer 
as “far-fetched” as she once believed.
While “The Handmaid’s Tale” 
certainly offers powerful imagery 
amid the protests and political 
movements of the Supreme Court 
decision, it remains only one 
narrative amongst a robust field 
of literature pertaining to the 
oppression of women’s reproductive 
rights.
In conversation, Professor Valerie 
Traub, Adrienne Rich Distinguished 
Professor of English and Women’s 
and Gender Studies at the University 
of Michigan, applauded the impact of 
“The Handmaid’s Tale” as a political 
statement but also acknowledged 
the need to center more voices in the 
movement.
“They 
(pro-choice 
protestors 
dressed in handmaids’ garbs) were 
taking popular culture, something 
that is relevant to today’s young 
women, and translating it into the 
political arena. Everybody knew 
who 
protesters 
were 
dressed 
as without saying anything — a 
pretty exceptional piece of political 
theater,” Traub said.
“Does ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ 
speak about all women? No. Could it 
use better race analysis? Absolutely,” 
Traub said. “However, my focus 

would not be about critiquing ‘The 
Handmaid’s Tale’ or the media for 
centering it in the discourse, but 
rather to say that we need to hear 
these other voices. We need to hear 
from women of Color.”
In the conversation of failing 
women of their basic reproductive 
rights, women of Color carry a 
particularly 
devastating 
history. 
“Forced sterilization of poor women 
of color is an American tradition,” 
writes journalist Natasha Lennard.
From the 1930s through the 1970s, 
Puerto Rican women were subjected 
to forced sterilization procedures 
under the jurisdiction of undisclosed 
birth control trials. In the Buck 
v. Bell case of 1927, the Supreme 
Court allowed the state of Virginia 
to perform sterilization procedures 
on women they considered mentally 
incompetent — disproportionally 
harming Native American women. 
Although Virginia removed its 
sterilization law in 1974, Buck v. Bell 
continues to stand with the Supreme 
Court’s original decision in 1927.
And 
with 
the 
theme 
of 
discrimination in the 20th century, 
Lennard 
writes, 
“Thirty-two 
states maintained federally funded 
eugenics 
boards, 
tasked 
with 
ordering sterilizations of women 
— and sometimes men — deemed 
‘undesirable,’” a derogatory title 
typically reserved for women of 
Color and disabled individuals.
In 
her 
essay 
“Teaching 

Reproductive 
Justice 
in 
the 
Premodern 
Classroom,” 
Professor Traub highlights the 
intersectionality 
of 
race 
and 
reproductive rights. 
“Given the way in which racial 
and class oppression intersect in 
the contemporary U.S., the risks 
of enforced pregnancy will fall 
disproportionately on Black and 
Brown women,” Traub wrote.
One 
narrative 
that 
Traub 
mentions in her essay is Toni 
Morrison’s “Beloved” — a novel 
that highlights the conditions in 
which oppressed and marginalized 
women were historically forced 
into impossible decisions about 
motherhood.
“Beloved” is a fictional narrative 
rooted in the horrific truth of 
Margaret Garner’s story. Margaret 
Garner was a Black female slave 
who escaped a Kentucky plantation 
in 1856 with her husband and 
children. Though they fled to Ohio 
for safety, Garner and her family 
were eventually caught. Rather 
than let her child return to a life of 
slavery, Garner decided to kill her 
young daughter. In the novel, the 
protagonist, Sethe, who is modeled 
after Margaret, spends the rest of 
her life as a free woman, but riddled 
with guilt and trauma because of the 
decisions she made as an enslaved 
mother. 
Although Toni Morrison does 
not directly reference abortion 

or birth control, the “Beloved” 
narrative speaks to how women of 
color in the United States occupy a 
disproportionately horrific position 
throughout 
history 
in 
which 
decisions of sex, motherhood and 
child-bearing have been viciously 
stripped from them by systems of 
power, be they government control, 
an economy built around slavery, etc.
Also in her essay, Professor 
Traub cites the work of Maria 
Sibylla Merian, a 17th century 
German-born 
naturalist, 
who 
observed enslaved Black women in 
Suriname (a small country located 
on the southeastern coast of South 
America) using herbal remedies to 
abort fetuses so that their children 
would not be subjected to a life of 
slavery.
In the presence of “Beloved,” 
“The 
Handmaid’s 
Tale” 
and 
Professor Traub’s research, it’s no 
secret that women’s literature is a 
tool that cannot be ignored in the 
conversations about abortion and 
bodily autonomy.
“Women have been advocating 
for their own liberty and freedom for 
a really long time, and that goes back 
centuries,” Traub said. “Women’s 
literature is just one way. They write 
about their experiences, either 
fictionalized or non-fictionalized, 
as a way of saying their rights will be 
respected.”

REESE MARTIN
Statement Columnist

iPartied with Matt Bennett 

OSCAR 
NOLLETTE-PATULSKI
Statement Correspondant

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

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