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Forget the Oscars
My Oscar bubble burst the year the academy, in one fell swoop, further marginalized sex workers while simultaneously elevating their oppressors.
I grew up assuming the Oscars were the ultimate arbiter of artistic excellence. And, I think like a lot of Americans, regarded the awards as though film was the highest form of artistic expression.
Then along came a movie I won’t bother naming in which multiple vulnerable women sublimated their humanity and their autonomy for one man’s artistic aspirations. The dreamer wanted to be a rapper. Music was his destiny. And in this cruel and competitive world, the only way he could possibly afford to pursue it was by selling drugs and the sexual labor of multiple young women. It’s much faster to “buy” recording equipment by bartering for it with young women’s bodies. Even though women are such a hassle! It’s bad enough they keep getting pregnant, but it’s even worse when they aren’t as passionate about and committed to underwriting your dreams (with their bodies) as they should be. So sometimes you have to kick them and their infants out on the street. Right?
No one is saying it’s easy to create a career in the arts. But if you want something badly enough, *you* should be the one making the painful sacrifices and working multiple jobs. Not this protagonist. This hero underdog outsources degradation.
