Since I was a little girl, I thought feminism was a curse word. It could be rooted in where I grew up, or the sociopolitical climate of 2008. Maybe I was young and noticed the taboo air that hung over everyone’s head, like it was a word to be whispered. I grew, and with time, not only my curiosity, but the commonly established understanding of feminism, grew too. My farthest cognizant memory I can identify as a feminist environment was around 2017.
Suddenly, it was not a hushed word anymore. Feminism was a tweet, a post, and a market overtaking social media. With the rise of the #MeToo movement through the godforsaken but once unifying application that is (was) X (Twitter), and the rapid nature of the internet, American actress Alyssa Milano accrued millions of replies from supporters and survivors. I did not fully comprehend the topic, but I understood it was a woman-related issue, and though I was not one yet, I would someday be a woman.
My mother, grandmother, and Michelle Obama were the top three women in my life, and somehow, I knew they would support what I understood as feminism. So there I was, a feminist. Or as much of a feminist as a 12-year-old girl could be. Perhaps I was more of a secret agent, not too vocal, but with a steady awareness of the issue. Because, once again, I was a 12-year-old girl who just got her first period and was coming to terms with the fact that I must endure this occurrence until menopause (T-minus 32 years!), so my world was still reeling.
As a Journalism student, Tarana Burke’s name came up in nearly every introductory journalism course I took. Founder of the original ‘Me Too’ movement in 2006, and a longtime activist for Black women’s liberties, Burke has always been a consistent advocate for sexual violence survivors. ‘Me Too’ was initially introduced as a way for women of color to share their experiences, but since its birth, ‘Me Too’ has morphed into a global phenomenon. Women around the world have found community within those two words.
All this feminist world-building is leading up to June 11th, 2025, nearly a decade after the #MeToo movement, when Sabrina Carpenter dropped the cover for her latest album, “Man’s Best Friend.” Alright, I’ll admit: at first, the controversy and the absolute uproar it caused led me to immediately be on Carpenter’s side. I saw fans saying, “ … for those of you who may lack critical thinking skills, the cover is clearly satirical with a deeper meaning, portraying how the public views her, believing she is just for the male gaze.”
I saw a plethora of defenders inform critics that they simply did not comprehend the obvious “commentary on the way women are treated,” but something about the whole situation started to make me feel, for lack of better wording, icky.
I’m currently in a hate-hate relationship with all of my social media. I’m down to five minutes of Instagram per day, haven’t downloaded TikTok since the original ban, Snapchat was eradicated years ago — because how dare they force me to relive the best and worst times of my life daily — and Pinterest has started to wear me down too. I understand, this issue is rooted in my personal relationship with these platforms, but the division this album art generated was a breaking point. I couldn’t be on Instagram longer than 20 minutes before I felt like a bad feminist. My algorithm and my mind were stuck between two parties.
Team one: the Sabrina stans who claim the cover is satirical, and those who get it, get it (and those who don’t, well, they won’t say you hate women, but you certainly do not understand the thought process of a modern woman … ).
Team two: the opposers, like Glasgow Women’s Aid, who say it is dangerously close to the glorification of domestic violence. According to the BBC, Heather Bining of the Women’s Rights Network said violence against women should “never be used as satire.”
Every time I strayed from team one, I threatened myself with guilty thoughts and sharp realizations. “Maybe I do hate women,” flooded my brain. But how could I? I love women!
I love seeing the world through my feminine eyes, I love the heartfelt compliments I give and receive from women in the ladies bathroom, I love the cutesy sound of my and other women’s heels clicking on the pavement, I love the silent, spiritual connections I have with women in passing glances, I love the effortless beauty exuded by any and every woman I see, and I love how easy it is for me to love a woman simply because we are one and the same. We might not be cut from the same cloth, but I see her, and she sees me. Despite the misogyny deeply embedded within the roots of our society, I do love being a woman. So why can I not shake this icky feeling?
Women can take control of the inherently male-centered narrative, of course, but has Carpenter ever truly defined a new feminist narrative? Or is she only furthering the already distorted image of how a woman in 2025 expresses herself?
And to preface, I love women who love sex; there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a natural human practice. There is, however, a problem in avoiding the root of the conversation. Now, we’re approaching the concept of choice feminism. To my knowledge, choice feminism is defined as the belief that any individual woman’s actions are innately feminist. In this line of thinking, being a trad-wife (as seen on TikTok) and a Chief Executive Officer both exist on the same level of feminism, in the sense that they exhibit women exercising their free will. I am not writing this to shame any woman’s choices, as long as they were hers to make, but the trouble with this line of thinking is that it does not benefit all women; it is a primary asset to White feminists in particular.
I do not have the time or word count to indulge in the gravity of White feminism as a concept, but in short, it is a line of feminist thought that supports basic feminist ideology, but largely ignores the struggles of non-White women. When this concept was introduced, I was reminded of the first wave of feminism in the late 19th century. Amid the growing liberal atmosphere of the 1920s, the suffragette movement directly competed with Black people’s fight for racial equality. Black women were essentially forced to choose: either they fought for women or Black people. Even with the attempts to exclude Black women from the marches, icons like Ida B. Wells and Mary Church Terrell marched alongside their fellow women (who did not want them there).
In my experience, Black people are one of the first groups to assist a community in need, but one of the last to receive such aid. This is evident to me in the current wave of feminism, as White feminist ideology is more present than any other form of woman-empowerment media.
Like I previously stated, I am not here to bash on women’s joys like “Barbie,” destroy the iconic film that is “Legally Blonde,” or anything else pretty, pink, and stereotypically feminine, but when I go back to the #MeToo movement, I primarily see White women at the forefront of the conversation. Yet Burke, the creator of the movement, was hardly included in a conversation she initiated. As a Black woman, I am disappointed but never surprised by this narrative.
To put it simply, Carpenter’s album cover made me feel uncomfortable. I’ve been a steady supporter of the petite pop star and her sexual liberation, but I cannot continue to blindly follow an artist who shows no true intentions to alter her path or deviate from such a trajectory to benefit anyone other than herself. I understand that, possibly, all this discourse was the goal. It was all an attempt to drive album sales way up, but that leaves me with an immensely worse feeling. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least until the album came out. Once it was released, I tuned in, hopeful that Carpenter and her team would prove me wrong.
There is not a single song on the album that celebrates womanhood without being in a man’s shadow.
One of the most catchy tunes on the album, “Go-Go Juice,” contains the lyrics, “a girl who knows her liquor is a girl who’s been dumped.” As an underage woman, I cannot legally say that I know my liquor, but trust me, my alcohol intake would have absolutely nothing to do with any man and everything to do with me.
This portrayal profoundly saddens me because I grew up alongside pop stars such as Katy Perry, with hits like “Roar” or “Firework.” In retrospect, yeah, they were corny (and could be an example of White feminism, might I add), but they instilled a confident, independent sense of self within young girls.
I hate to use this example because it really makes me feel like a bad feminist, and just a bad human, but there are little girls out there listening to this album and consuming it. I am 20 years old physically, but mentally, I’d say I’m somewhere in my mid-30s. I can confidently say that I can listen to this album and not internalize the messages presented — whether they are conscious or subconscious. But a middle-school girl will absorb this vision of a strong woman, on all fours, her hair being pulled by the man she’s romantically involved with, and suddenly, since Sabrina Carpenter did it, she can do it too, right?
I am so tired of hearing these lovely, charming women talk about men. Okay, fine, you can mention men; no one is permanently barring them from being discussed, but I need the conversation to trace back to you.
Tell me your greatest hopes, fears, and your deepest darkest desires. What’s your favorite breakfast food? When was the last time you talked to your mom? What’s the best and worst scary movie you’ve ever seen? When was the last time you ate your favorite soup? I want more societal discourse on sisterhood and what it means to be a true girl-friend. That is feminism. Real feminism is women being the center of the conversation. I just want to hear about you, darlin’!
If there is anything that you — sweet, precious reader who’s made it to the end of this never-ending essay/think piece/whatever you’d call this — should take away from this article, it is to trust your gut. When something inside your complex and beautiful anatomy does not feel right, dive into that feeling, however uncomfortable it may make you. In order to reach clarity, one must search through the muck and the mire, and eventually, you will come out the other side all the wiser. Research feminism for yourself, understand the depth of its history, and hopefully, one day, you will enrich society’s grasp on feminism as a concept.
If little Maddie saw how many times I said ‘feminism’ in this essay (29!), she would be overcome with pride. I said the F-word, and I am not ashamed.