This is the first installment of a series on sexual assault and comics. If you haven’t yet read the introduction, you might want to check it out for a little context.
Sexuality is not a black-and-white matter; neither, therefore, is consent. There are infinite shades of gray between consent as defined in the Antioch Policy and the legal and medical definitions of sexual assault. Although we can agree on certain terms and definitions for sexual violence, those definitions are far from universal, and they’re thick with semantic subtleties and qualifiers.
When sexual violence finds its way into comics–when writers choose to portray sexual violence in comics–that ambiguity comes into immediate conflict with the traditionally cut-and-dried morality of mainstream superheroes. In worlds where right is right and wrong is wrong and each is defined by colorful costumes, it’s hard to express the confusing and often conflicting cultural and individual factors that surround and therefore define an assault. Even after the popularization of grim ‘n gritty antiheroes and the introduction of a degree of moral ambiguity to comics, the form remains more likely than most to oversimplify both characters and their actions. Furthermore, they’re only gradually emerging from a long tradition of sexism, if not outright misogyny, and the problematic portrayal of women in comics further complicates the issue of sexual assault within the medium.
Sexual assault is almost impossible to express well or respectfully when the characters concerned are themselves simplified to the point of stereotypes. It’s an intensely personal act and experience whose nature and repercussions are heavily colored by both cultural nuances and the individuals involved. Unfortunately, it’s also become a popular shortcut for ‘developing’ female characters. In this capacity, it tends to fall into one of three plot roles: an attempt to give the character a ‘dark’ history, usually as a context or explanation for neuroses; a female hero’s primary motivation for heroism or her catalyst for becoming a hero; or a means of diminishing a strong female character by emphasizing her vulnerability.*
In the first instance, the sexual assault generally has occurred at some point in the character’s comparatively distant past, usually in conjunction with other adversity: she may have been assaulted by an unsavory parent, guardian, or relative whose behavior was symptomatic of the general moral vacuum in which she was raised; or the assault may have served as implicit punishment for her own moral delinquency (i.e. drug abuse, promiscuity, etc.). In these scenarios, the victim is usually portrayed as a complete innocent–at worst, temporarily misled but basically virtuous–and the perpetrator is totally reprehensible and inhuman, an utter rogue who appears sympathetic only when he is deliberately manipulating his victims. He is also generally in a position of power–a parent or other older relative, a pimp, etc.–and the rape usually happens in connection with other abuse.
In the second instance, the sexual assault is the female character’s motivation for becoming a superhero. In these cases, the victim is either deeply traumatized and relegated to a semi-comatose state; or she is immediately incited to a life of crime-fighting, either as a means to revenge or as a way of preventing other women from suffering a similar fate. In these cases, the assailant is almost always a stranger or, at most, an acquaintance, and the assault is usually anonymous, apparently arbitrary, and particularly brutal.
In the final instance, a female character who is already a hero is assaulted as a means of emphasizing her vulnerability and/or femininity: in effect, ‘cutting her down to size.’ This instance is particularly insidious, as it is most often used as a means of diminishing a previously powerful and confident female character. If the assault is completed, the character is generally deeply traumatized and left either catatonic or violently self-destructive to an extent that affects the character’s ability to function as a hero for an extended period of time; if it is attempted, it is generally prevented by the intercession of a male superhero. Either way, the ultimate result is the disempowerment of the character.
What all three scenarios have in common are gross overgeneralizations, sloppy storytelling which relies on crude stereotypes and clichés, and deeply misogynistic and heterosexist undertones. They buy into–and sell back–the most harmful sort of myths about sexual violence because they are too lazy or too ignorant to look beyond popular disinformation.
It is possible to write a mainstream comics story about sexual assault well and respectfully; it has been done (and in my next column, I’m going to give you some tips on how to do it). But it requires writers to abandon shallow tropes in favor of less superficial–and sometimes less marketable–stories; to reexamine–and often reject–their and the industry’s assumptions about gender, power, and sexuality.
*I’m going to go into more depth about gender and sexuality issues later this month. In this column, however, to accurately reflect the portrayal of sexual violence in comics, all three of these scenarios assume a male assailant and a female victim. This in itself is symptomatic of a tremendous problem in the ways in which many mainstream comics address–or overlook–sexual assault. It is extremely important to be aware that not all sexual violence is heterosexual; that not all aggressors are male and not all victims are female.
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