Good Kopp: Being A 'Pussy'

According to my friends, I’m a pussy. They’re not wrong. I use hypoallergenic laundry detergent, proudly call myself a hypochondriac, and most importantly, I am hyper cautious before approaching girls I’m interested in. And you know what? With the girls at least, I think I’m totally fine with that. How much better is it to be a pussy than to be rapey? Much better. That’s how much.

Now, in the previous paragraph, I constructed what might seem like a false binary—one that leaves all men in the position of either a “pussy” or “rapey.” But from what I’ve seen in my time here at Harvard—and really, from what I’ve seen in my time being a man in America—there isn’t actually much of an in between. In fact, for a straight guy, the seemingly magnetic pull towards either side of this spectrum is constant and strong. Bear with me…

Let’s start by defining some terms so you don’t read the rest of this piece thinking that by “pussy” I mean cat and by “rapey” I mean guilty of rape.

For the purposes of this column, I’m going to define these terms—which, for the record, I think are borderline abhorrent—as they’re defined by the people around me—the people who dictate the vernacular of college life and shape my idiolect. The people who call me a pussy. In their minds, a pussy is a term, rooted in misogyny, used to liken men who are afraid to take risks to a stereotypical woman. It refers to men who value certainty above risk-taking, who would rather not send the text than send it and have things be awkward.

By “rapey” I mean someone whose forward sexual advances make a woman feel uncomfortable or whose body language (read: decision to grind up on a girl from behind) is not only unwarranted, but remarkably presumptuous. In using the term “rapey” I am in no way mitigating the gravity of the crime of rape (although, clearly, the word “rapey” inherently creates a false equivalency). I’m just using the term as it is defined at college.

A college student who is called “rapey” is generally being accused of having what I call a Ben Roethlisberger mentality— the notion that nobody could possibly not want to have sex with an NFL quarterback. At Harvard, substitute NFL quarterback for egotistical National Science Champion, and sex for any kind of sexual advance, and you’ve got yourself a fairly solid definition of “rapey.”

I will admit that being a pussy is, in some ways, also a strategic choice, and sometimes, it gets the job done. Generally, when the strategy works, the timid, barely sensible signals I send out get interpreted correctly, or, as happens more often, girls subvert gender roles and make the first move (this is progress, Harvard!). But the truth is, more often than not, I miss chances or get “friendzoned” (a term I completely denounce), because either A) I never had a chance in the first place or B) I’m perfectly content being friends with girls and will not ever really push back on the role of the best friend.

Yes, this is partially a rationalization, and yes, much of the reason I don’t make more moves on girls in my day-to-day life undoubtedly stems from a fear of rejection. But that truly does not tell the whole story. Last week, my friend Riley laughed and said, “I always think Sammy’s wheeling, but he’s just making more and more friends.” He’s not entirely wrong. But what he didn’t fully encapsulate in his statement is that I don’t really see the distinction between those two things.

The way I want to “wheel”—the way I want to get with girls—is to be friends with them, to have long talks with them, to truly understand who they are as people. As much as I might wish that the label for my approach weren’t “pussy” (that word is just so uncomfortable, right?), I am not going to change the way I act towards women, except, you know, in trying to make sure fear doesn’t get in the way. After all, maybe it’s a need for connection, or maybe it’s just my lonely days in elementary school, but I really do like making friends, regardless of gender. I know, I’m a pussy.

Sam H. Koppelman ’18, a Crimson editorial writer, lives in Hollis Hall.