The sexist ads that raised me
The ads a young woman saw during the milestones in her life
This is a narrative of my life so far, illustrated by ads published over the course of those years. Research for this article was disturbingly easy. From unabashed violence to cruel jokes on the disposability of consent these advertisements are part of a much larger continuum. Each ad’s creation is a ripple cascading into the next, where it seems women were never part of the conversation and reviews, or were never heard.
1982
Born to happy lower middle-income parents, we live in a poor neighborhood where people walk around with loud voices and louder stereos.
My mom is a homemaker and my dad works for a struggling non-profit. They met when they were both part of the burgeoning health foods movement of the 1970s. They raise me to always take care of my health and that my body deserves love and respect.
I don’t remember the ads from that time but if I did, I’d probably remember this one.
1988
My parents decide they need to get out of the bad neighborhood with the terrible schools and loud noises, so we move to a much nicer suburb by the ocean. We get a very modest but lovely apartment with wooden floors and big windows, and a lovely garden my mother tends. My dad’s job at the non-profit proves untenable, so he switches to art direction, something he always enjoyed when he studied Set Design at UT Austin.
Sometimes my parents fight about the stresses of their lives, and I have many nights where I don’t know what kind of home I will wake up to. Was there going to be a fight that ended it all? Was it something I did? Or something my dad or mom didn’t do? Maybe the dishes weren’t clean enough?
1993
A dear friend of the family has fallen ill, so my parents and I visit her in the hospital often. Sometimes I take off from school to do this. It frustrates me, as it usually happens on days we’re learning something really neat in math (my favorite subject) or trying a new sport in gym class (my least favorite class, but I’m trying). Gym is good for me because I’m starting to get chubby and I’m worried. I want to look good for when I have friends, and maybe one of them will have a truck we can hang out on in the afternoon.
I find solace in pretending my best friend is Dana Scully, who guides the blind to the light, and helps them see. Briefly every Friday night — shrimp scampi pasta night, my favorite — I fantasize I’m a forensic scientist. I was the only A grade when we dissected the sheep’s eye in science class. I loved all the little parts of it; the miracle contained in all that goop and blood and membrane, giving this creature sight all its life.
1996
My parents notice my increased moodiness and melancholy as I start 6th grade. I am angry all the time, with a terrible attitude and my friends are no good. They make fun of me all the time, for everything, even for not owning a Game Boy.
A new charter school will be opening when I’m ready for 7th grade, so my parents enroll me as soon as they can. The curricula is focused on public speaking and a holistic approach to learning. It saves my life.
My friend tells me about an art class she takes after school. It’s by the water, inexpensive and she does it every Thursday night, so one night I join her, and in some ways I never left. At Acorn School of Art, I’m told my talent will grow like a mighty oak and one day nourish others too. For the first time ever, I’m told my voice means something, and in a vocabulary of oil paints and charcoal, I learn how to speak. My life is saved a second time.
2000–2001
I pretend my aunt is Olivia Benson, who tells me stories every Wednesday about the streets of New York, and how it has fallen on her to clean them up. She’s my hero.
I am the only girl in my high school computer club. I am super proud and excited about that, but sometimes I don’t feel comfortable with some of my other club members in our small computer lab room, especially late after school.
But I love computers. My dad and I play on the Macintosh at home as much as possible. He teaches me Quark and Photoshop and we make silly pictures and he tells me to keep learning and playing because this stuff will come in handy some day.
2001
I begin Painting school at Boston University’s College of Fine Arts. Many moments in my life I doubted ever being able to go to college, but now I’m here…on full scholarship no less. My mom and I have a great time setting up my dorm room, and her laughter echoes in its corners, even in my loneliest moments.
Unfortunately, as the months turn into years, my friends tell me stories, or recount others’ stories, of assault and rape. Parties I was at and got home safely from turn out to be the same parties where someone was upstairs the whole time, fighting for the simple privilege of leaving the room.
2005
My first artist residency! It’s incredible. So peaceful and new, a small community of buildings in a valley between mountains becomes my world for the summer. I get a great little studio that gets really hot in the afternoon, but is filled with daylight and birdsong.
One night the artists play a “game” in which they admit who in the residency group they’d like to have sex with. I leave after 30 minutes or so, after I’d certainly said too much and drunk too much. The next day I’m told that after I left, the older creep no one liked said he’d love to sleep with me. Everyone encouraged him to go to my room and give it a shot. Luckily, he decides against it.
2007
I’m commuting between my folks’ place in the suburbs to work in Boston. It’s so hot in the summer as I walk from North Station to the office that I’m drenched in sweat, but I need the exercise. I’m too tired at night after a 90 minute bus ride home to go to the gym. On the bus ride home, I read CSS books so I can get a better job.
When I’m on the bus, I have to avoid weird stares from a man I often see on that same bus. One time, he sits next to me. I never make eye contact with him, but his gaze never leaves me. I move my seat, but that doesn’t keep him from staring at me. As I get off the bus, he watches where I go, which means I have to walk around the block to avoid his witness of my residence. When the bus pulls away, I see the fashion ad on its side.
2008
I have the honor of doing a residency at Cooper Union School of Art. My painting studio is vast and it echoes, but I soften its chambers with taut canvases and stretched watercolor paper, drenched in paint, ink and sweat.
The tension of humidity builds and builds each day until finally a thunderstorm bursts onto the streets, washing the frantic citizens, who do not flinch or slow down in the slightest. The women seem so strong here, so self-assured, I picture red capes on their backs. No matter what has been shoved in their faces, or lands in their way, these women seem to push aside obstacles like they were the tiniest of fruit flies. They must. They have no choice.
2011–2015
Trying to date more. How the hell do I do this? What do I look for? What will make me feel complete? I felt complete before, but the more I talk to others, it sounds like I’m supposed to have someone in my life. When I look at other women’s hands, they have rings that make rainbows across the room. My hand seems so naked in comparison. It’s missing something.
2016
During a hectic, schizophrenic election cycle where for the first time a woman is a choice on the ticket, I turn to mentors & seek champions. They are both near me and worldwide, offering guidance on how to be better at my job and a good leader, so I can someday rule the world. I have a great job, and I’m told early on that awards are our currency, our measure of success. Naturally, I seek examples of what “award-winning” means. Recently, this ad wins big at Cannes.
Although temporary, BBDO’s bronze lion nips at my heels. Must I lay down my integrity and sacrifice my dignity to win something? Is this the standard I must acknowledge? Is this the world I live in now?
No
Here and now I make a pledge to no longer narrate my life with sexist ads. I will not support them. I will not make them. I will always speak up if I see objectifying work that I can do something about.
If you want to make money off my passion and great ideas, value my mind and integrity above all else. If you look at me and do not value those things, fire me.
Then I can be your boss someday.
Christina Goodwin is the editor of Stop, Drop, & Scroll, the Digitas XD team blog. You can take a look at her paintings at christinagoodwin.com
The views expressed in this post are that of the author and may not reflect the views of the agency or company.
