Category Archives: Sexual Assault

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The controversy over the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” hasn’t stopped Albany’s Patricia Dalton Fennell from defending it—or recording it

By Stephen Leon

December 28, 2017

The phone call was from a producer for the HLN news network (a spinoff of CNN). She had tracked down Albany producer-vocalist, health consultant and chronic-illness expert Patricia Dalton Fennell, and wanted to know if she would do an interview on the subject of “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” the popular 1944 song Fennell recently recorded with jazz trumpeter Chris Pasin on a CD of the same name.

At first, Fennell was at ease with the idea, and with the producer, Virginia Moubray, who pitched it. “The setup was simple,” she says, “and the directions were good, and the producer was really easy to work with. Her questions were intelligent, and neutral.”

To do the “live” interview with HLN’s Across America host Carol Costello, Fennell met with a crew in a studio on the 14th floor of a building on Albany’s Pearl Street. There, with the lights trained on her face, cameras rolling, microphones on, and Costello’s questions coming in from L.A. through Fennell’s earpiece, suddenly Fennell felt a little less comfortable.

“I felt like I was in Germany,” she laughs, “and I had been very, very bad.”

And in fact, Fennell had been bad—that is, of you agree with many critics of the classic Christmas song, whose lyrics, they argue, describe and/or promote date rape. The annual chorus of voices condemning the song and calling for its removal from playlists grew louder this year after a cascade of sexual-harassment and assault allegations against powerful men in culture and politics. To such critics, making a new recording of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” in the year of the “silence breakers” was a very bad idea indeed—so much so that at one point in the interview, Costello asked pointedly, “Why did you do it?”

Fennell is no stranger to the issue of sexual misconduct, having provided assessment and treatment for sex offenders, victims, and families in situations involving incest, assault, and school-based sex crimes.

And she is intimately familiar with the lyrics of the song, which she does not see as offensive. But the theme of the interview, as stated in its promotional tagline, was, “‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’: Christmas classic, or sexual-assault anthem?”

Fennell immediately set the record straight on the first half of the question. “I said, it is a classic whether we want it to be or not. It’s one of the most recorded Christmas songs of all-time.”

“That said,” she continues, look at “the original intent of the tune, the context in which it was written. … In its time, the song bordered on a liberation theme. Look at the majority at the lyrics. Remember, this is 1944. The country is at war. The men are away. … This is the time of Katharine Hepburn and Bette Davis, and strong women. If you look at the lyric, she’s concerned—not about having sex with him—she’s concerned with what the neighbors will think. And she’s the one who dropped by.”

Written by Frank Loesser—who performed it for years at parties with his wife, Lynn Garland—the song is a call-and-response duet in which the “mouse” (usually sung by a woman) decides it’s time to end a date at the apartment of the “wolf” (usually a man) and go home. As she continues to protest, he piles on the excuses why she should stay: it’s cold, it’s snowing, no cabs are running, she might catch pneumonia. For her part, she never says she wouldn’t like to stay, or that the man’s advances are unwanted; her lines are mostly about society’s, and her family’s, expectations (“My father will be pacing the floor”; “My maiden aunt’s mind is vicious”; and so on).

Fennell makes it clear that she thinks rape and sexual assault are crimes and serious problems in our culture, but she disagrees with those who insist that “Baby” is, to quote a description often seen on social media, “rapey.”

“She [the mouse] dropped by. She wanted to see this person. This person now is making advances. And she is telling him she doesn’t want to stay, because, ‘What will people think of me?’ By and large, the norms of the time, informed by our ethnic and religious backgrounds, were that women were not supposed to have sex outside of marriage, women were not supposed to want sex, and they weren’t supposed to enjoy sex.”

“The mouse … may or may have come to this man’s home because she was looking for sex, but he was making his intentions known. Her responses are not that she does not want to have sexual congress; her responses are, what will the neighbors think if she does?”

“I’m not hearing her say, ‘You’re a jackass, I’m gone.’ “

One thing the mouse does say halfway through the song is the line, “Say, what’s in this drink?” For many critics, this is the point of no return; the wolf has slipped her a roofie so he can have his way with her, and how can we have that on the radio in 2017?

Fennell’s initial reaction: “I’m making the assumption that what was slipped into people’s drinks in the 1940s is not what I had to be concerned about in the ’70s and ’80s.”

For what it’s worth, the powerful sedative Rohypnol (one of the most notorious date-rape drugs) was introduced by the pharmaceutical company Roche in the early 1970s. According to Merriam Webster, the first known use of the slang term “roofie” was in 1994.

That doesn’t mean drugging someone’s drink couldn’t have happened in the ’40s, but as defenders of “Baby” periodically remind us, our language and idiomatic expressions also have evolved since then. This usage may be rare today, but in the ’40s, it was common to say something like “Say, what’s in my drink”—to feign blaming the alcohol—when the speaker was offering too much information (like a suspect blurting out evidence to a cop) or falling (like the mouse?) for a romantic seduction.

Finally, there’s the repetition—the mouse repeatedly says she has to leave, the wolf repeatedly begs her to stay (“She’s says ‘no’ like a hundred times,” says one Twitter critic), undermining the idea that “no means no.”

“It’s a conceit of the structure of the tune,” Fennell answers. “Repetition is structure. This is a story.”

During the HLN interview, host Costello played two different versions of the song. “One of them was one of the original recordings, and it was a standard, pleasant, simple read, back-and-forth. No big drama,” says Fennell. “The second one she played, it sounded like the people, the male especially, were very aggressive. It definitely was not people being nice.”

But if Costello thought she was driving home her point, Fennell was about to throw her a curveball. Costello had not listened to the Pasin-Fennell recording before the interview—and so did not know that the pair had reversed the traditional male and female roles.

Whichever gender assumes the roles of “wolf” and “mouse” (and the song has been performed every which way), Fennell maintains that the historical context of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”—with its themes of patriarchal society’s expectations, women’s reputations, and women’s sexual freedom—should not be overlooked.

“That said,” she concludes, “times have changed. Some would argue we have lost ground. I believe it’s important to take what’s available from 1944 and build on it. Make people look at the power imbalance. And not just women’s roles, but men’s roles too.”

Copyright 2017 Stephen Leon

The album Baby, It’s Cold Outside, recorded by Chris Pasin and Friends, is at No. 45 and is this week’s “biggest gainer” on the JazzWeek jazz chart.

This post also appears on the website of Albany Health Management Associates, Inc.

 

The Boys Club

trump-and-bush

Cap and Gown Club looks like it could be some wealthy family’s mansion in Westchester or Fairfield County—or perhaps a Normandy chateau, a comparison once suggested by its architect, Raleigh Gildersleeve. The stately, three-story, brick-faced clubhouse, completed in 1908, sits back from tree-lined Prospect Avenue, where you can find most of Princeton University’s famous “eating clubs.” A young man of 18, strolling down Prospect for the first time, unaccustomed to such trappings of wealth and power, might easily be dumbstruck with awe.

I was that 18-year-old once, a small-town boy who knew nothing of Westchester or Fairfield Counties, or Philadelphia’s Main Line, or prep schools, or social registers. Secretly envious of the Princeton students who came from such backgrounds, I made fun of them to my friends back home. But time and familiarity have a way of smoothing out the rough edges of social awkwardness, and by sophomore year I was liked and accepted enough to find myself welcomed into Cap and Gown, one of several “selective” clubs where admittance of new sophomores is determined by junior and senior members voting in closed sessions.

What a thrill it was to enter the club on initiation night, the heavy wooden door held open for me by an upperclassman, and to walk across to foyer to the wide staircase leading to the second floor. Up there, new members gathered for the initiation rites. I remember being led into a small candlelit room, where the president, his voice hushed and solemn, formally welcomed me into the club, wrote my name into an important-looking book, shook my hand, and sent me back out into the hallway. There I was handed a tall glass of beer, and someone dropped a shot of whisky into it. Once I had drained the entire contents of the glass, I was hoisted into the air by the junior and senior men who now filled the wide staircase, and passed down to the first floor on their hands. When I landed, a female club officer slipped an official club tie around my neck. Let the party begin.

The membership of Cap and Gown Club was mostly male in those days, but Cap was the first selective club to go coed, and at that time admitted about 30 women each year. I never gave much thought to the fact that none of the women were on that staircase passing down the new members, but then, women shouldn’t be expected to do the heavy lifting, right?

But lifting wasn’t the only thing going on that evening on that wide staircase. Before I got lost in the party, I happened to see I sophomore woman I knew (I’ll call her Mary) emerge from the candlelit room, chug her boilermaker, and begin her descent on the arms of the upperclassmen. Only they didn’t just pass her down the stairs and let her down at the bottom. When she got close to the bottom, they reversed her course and pushed her back up toward the top. This went on for a few minutes: up, down, up, down, until they finally set her down at the foot of the stairs—at which point she walked straight to the front door and left Cap and Gown, never to return.

Amid all the loud music and shouting and laughter, I didn’t quite grasp what was going on, but I later heard that Mary had been groped on her way up and down the stairs. I never learned how many men, or how few, participated in the groping. I don’t recall the incident being talked about openly, nor do I recall any statement being issued by the club president, or any apology being offered to Mary. Not that an apology would have tidied up the reality that some number of men that night decided it was perfectly okay to grope a defenseless young woman. But the silence afterward underscored the way such incidents were swept under the rug, and tacitly condoned even by the nonparticipants who chose not to speak up.

***

Who is teaching our sons to respect women, to treat them as equals and not objects, and to understand the meaning and the imperative of consent? Or maybe a better question is, who is teaching them something altogether different?

Donald Trump is more brazen and cartoonish than most, but he is hardly an anomaly, as others have pointed out since the recording of Trump’s vulgar conversation with Billy Bush surfaced on Friday. Many women will tell you that demeaning language, sexual objectification, and general lack of respect are an almost daily reality. And there are plenty of men who reject this behavior, who grew out of the adolescent urge to prove their manhood by participating in crude locker-room conversation, who now find it offensive—and who can assure you they hear it all the time.

In fact, men sometimes hear things women aren’t supposed to hear, from men who know better than to speak so coarsely in front of women, but show their true colors behind the closed doors of the boys club. I have been in countless situations in which men assume that, like Billy Bush, I’ll chuckle along with the piggish talk because it’s just us guys in the room. A few that come to mind: a former roommate’s business-school friends making crude and disparaging comments about their female classmates; the total stranger at the bus stop who confided in me what he’d like to do to the girl riding by on a bike; and the businessman, meeting with me privately in his office, belittling his female employees with the c-word.

Now, lewd talk is not the same as sexual assault, but in a society whose institutions have condoned sexist attitudes for so long, one wonders how easy that line is to cross. Some don’t wonder; many believe that generations of social and institutional acceptance of sexual assault have created a “rape culture” in which violence toward women is normalized, excused (look at how she was dressed), quieted by victims’ shame, and ignored by law enforcement. Colleges and universities have finally made some progress toward addressing the problem, but why did it take so long? And even as I write, millions of women are responding to Canadian writer Kelly Oxford’s invitation to submit their “first sexual assaults” on Twitter.

I’m pretty sure we aren’t going to elect a “Groper-in-Chief” this November. But until more men grow up and take a stand against this culture (and if I could turn back time and say something about the incident on the stairs, I would), then Trump’s pig face will still be grinning at us from the corner of the mirror.

Copyright 2016 Stephen Leon