What Does it Mean To Stay Sexy and Not Get Murdered?
Why My Favorite Murder is Killing it with Women
Every Thursday, I open my podcast app on my iPhone. I wait in anticipation for My Favorite Murder to appear in my feed. When it does, I walk to the bus, I sit down, and I stop everything I’m doing to listen.
I don’t read. I don’t look out the bus window. I don’t try to knock out a work assignment. For a little over an hour, Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff, lovingly known as KillHard by my fellow Murderinos, have my undivided attention.
Karen and Georgia start the show off with some banter; their comedy is often dark, but not cruel. Vocal fries dapple the soundscape, along with warm laughter and sarcastic reactions. I am home. I am safe. I am among friends. My Favorite Murder fills a need I didn’t even know I had.
Since January of this year, Karen and Georgia have given me sustainably hilarious comedy and feel-good vibes. It is one of more enjoyable variations of the surge in true crime entertainment, a phenomenon that is currently boiling over. Television is flush with fantastic, horrifying programming, such as The People Vs. OJ Simpson, Making a Murderer, The Jinx, and The Night Of. The trend is so popular that even MTV is jumping on the bandwagon. Everyone from preteens to hipster 30-somethings are demanding more murder.
What is it about true crime, the grisly, unspeakable torture and killing of human beings, that makes a compelling story?
On My Favorite Murder, Karen and Georgia muse that it is partially about prevention. By studying these cases, women can know what to do to not get murdered. Awareness is also a key takeaway — every true crime story has a lesson to be learned (“Don’t fucking be polite,” “Lock your fucking door,” and “Here’s the thing — Fuck everyone.”). And while Karen and Georgia have a cornucopia of one-liners that sum up our human response to murder, they’re onto something here. There is something about true crime that uniquely appeals to women.
It’s not hard to figure out why, though. 1 in 3 women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. If they do get murdered, there is an 85% chance that their murderer is someone close to them, someone they trusted. 65% of women report experiencing street harassment, such as “Fuck you, bitch” when refusing to smile for men. Nearly 30% of women have experienced rape or physical violence. Women of color experience these acts of violence a rate 35% higher than white women. 2 out of 3 WOC will experience rape or physical violence in their lifetime.
2 out of 3.
The mountain of evidence that suggests the degradation, abuse and harassment of women is normal grows in volume every day. It is disturbingly common. Yet, women gravitate to true crime stories. In 2008, Jean Murley estimated that 60% of true crime readers were women. Michael Boudet, the host of Sword and Scale, reports that 70% of his listeners are female.
In 2011, R.T. Jewell suggested that the appeal of watching violent sports among men is rooted in catharsis and dominance over a rival. Men release aggression when they watch UFC and football. They are able to mirror the experiences of their favorite players, whether it is conscious or unconscious. When a team wins, the spectators win too.
In a similar way, women seek out true crime to release their fears of vulnerability and assert control over their own fate. After reviewing every detail of the OJ Simpson case, you can clearly see the red flags of domestic abuse. When reading The Stranger Beside Me, you can trace the ways Ted Bundy tricked his victims.
If you know the game well enough, you are more likely to control the outcome.
—
Recent studies and articles have detailed the rise of narcissism. Now more than ever, women are more likely to be labeled as a narcissistic. No longer the “softer,” “fairer” sex, women are becoming more and more comfortable with not empathizing, with not giving a fuck.
And this can be dangerous. In The Selfishness of Others, Kristin Drombek covers the roots of our current understanding of narcissism. Conventional, albeit dated, psychology suggests that:
“Violence comes from imitation, from too much sameness, rather than too much difference. If we make ourselves out of one another, we also hide this at all costs. Our mimetic desires expose the mask, and when it tears…violence is born.”
We live in an era where women are empowered to strive for the sameness in power as men. Though we have not reached that fully, we are at a tipping point. The DNC presidential nominee is a woman. Women can be drafted into war and are not restricted to desk duty or “safe zones.” Some women even bleed in public without shame.
We are taught that when we reach too much sameness with men, danger occurs. We are told that female narcissism will beget more violence. But, I think when women immerse themselves in true crime, we are in a way provoking that violence and correcting it, over and over. True crime is a way for women to push back — a way to even the score.
The true crime narrative supports this. Situational danger and the escalation to violence is unique to female victims. Women are rarely just murdered, they are usually lured in by false pretenses or guilt: I knew something wasn’t right about him. He made me feel bad about turning him down. He told me if I did what he said, he wouldn’t hurt me. Getting into a dangerous situation has a lot to do with how women “should” behave.
But unlike previous generations of women, we are more likely to openly express anger and violence during and after the trauma — we are more likely to say who the fuck do you think you are? Saying “no” is starting to mean what it’s supposed to mean.
The appeal of consuming true crime is a form of mirroring, a narcissism, a fascination with the moment where we have everything and nothing in common with a violent criminal. Women can uniquely connect with being both the narcissistic who gives zero fucks and the victim who needs to survive.
—
Women and people of color have experienced this kaleidoscope of consciousness for a long time. Double consciousness is birthed from oppression, from having to cleave one’s self to survive. In the case of the contemporary woman, this cleaving is centered in her reproductive organs. Her body is no longer her own.
And isn’t that what is at stake in true crime? To be murdered is to have your body stolen from you, to have no control over what is done with it. Your story is only able to be told when a hiker stumbles upon your remains.
Within a true crime narrative, women are acutely aware of their corporeality. You know to scratch your attacker’s face, so they can scrape DNA from your fingernails. You know not to take a shower or wash your clothes. Every cell of your body is evidence.
On episode 18 of My Favorite Murder, we hear the story of Mary Vincent, who was violently dismembered while she was trying to escape her attacker. He would have finished the job, but she chose to stop fighting. She had to make sure her attacker thought he had killed her.
This is a common survival strategy that we hear on the podcast: a woman is more likely to survive a violent attack if she pretends she is dead. She must remain absolutely still, barely breathing. Her living body must be concealed. She is only safe when she is secretly alive.
—
In a recent episode of My Favorite Murder, Karen tells Georgia that sometimes, late at night, she slips out the back, puts her feet in her pool and smokes a hand-rolled cigarette. Georgia is shocked and thrilled. Just like that, she find out something about her friend she never knew before. A secret that makes Karen that much cooler.
The rhetoric of secrecy permeates the podcast often. In many ways, secrecy is a mode of female communication. We disclose private moments, thoughts, and experiences to other women to reinforce trust. We write in diaries. We pass notes in class. We play truth or dare. Every woman’s hair is like Gretchen Wiener’s — full of secrets.
It is also secrecy that binds the fans of My Favorite Murder together. We have a private Facebook group, where we share our own true crime experiences. We exchange information about new cases and ongoing shows. Almost all of us share the same feeling: I thought I was the only one. Over 38,000 of us have been harboring a secret(ish) obsession with murder.
And that secrecy is part of the evolving mythology of femininity. If there is anything to be said about women throughout history (when written by men), it is that we are mysterious. Often, this trait manifests as deviousness and scandal. It is a power play, the woman deceives the man through obscuring the truth. What true crime illustrates is that this withholding, while it may be a mode of manipulation, is also self-preservation. How much information a woman shares with others can put her in danger. Women are mysterious because it is dangerous for them to be their full, uninhibited selves.
__
While crime is lower than it has been in 20 years, violence — targeted violence — is still a reality. In a recent speech, Trump called America a “divided crime scene” that only he can fix. Yet, a crime scene is not the same thing as a problem. It does not require a solution. It requires careful observation and scientific testing. It requires detailed interviews of witnesses to the crime.
Women are those witnesses. Women live in a world where ever-expanding agency is supposed to feel safe, but at the same time, older notions of gender roles are making it feel dangerous. Women are murdered for attempting to leave their abusive husbands and harassed online for daring to be themselves. These stories are not cautionary tales. They are the reality of women who claim their lives, speak out, and choose their own path.
When I’m waiting for the train, I untangle my earbuds and nestle them in. I press play. An acoustic guitar echoes into my morning and a voice sings somewhat eerily My Favorite Murder. And then we start. The construction workers — the courthouse employees — and everyone else making the daily slog to elevators and offices have no idea what I’m listening to. They have no idea I’m laughing at a podcast about murder. It’s my secret. And I am safe. I am among friends. I’m staying sexy and I’m not getting murdered.
