How Sassy Changed My Life (11 page)

Parallel to all that was happening at
Sassy
was a resurgence of feminist political activism. In 1991, bands that bridged the divide between independent and mainstream culture—like L7, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Hole—teamed up with the Feminist Majority Foundation to present Rock for Choice, a series of benefit concerts intended to give a stalwart issue some cool clout and raise awareness among a younger audience, who had perhaps grown complacent under the protection of
Roe v. Wade
. And in 1992, thousands of people marched for choice in Washington. It was the first major activist event for many women in their late teens and twenties, one that is still popularly understood as marking the inception of feminism's Third Wave. While the Second Wave focused on gender parity, Third Wave feminism sought to expand the feminist debate about gender and sexuality.
Bad press to the contrary, feminism has never been a one-issue crusade, and the Third Wave's feminist impulse was part of a larger pro–gay rights, anti-racist, multicultural, Democratic political agenda. It was a mandate that
Sassy
pushed at every turn. By 1992, the magazine had become increasingly radical and more overtly political. A reviewer gives a record a single star if she'd “rather work for Clarence Thomas” than listen to it. Bush-bashing becomes omnipresent: Kim slams the then president in a story on America's drug war, and Christina rips him to shreds in a piece on the Gulf War (an article which, incidentally, received more reader mail than any article in the magazine's history). It was as if the
Sassy
staff had forgotten that Women Aglow was watching: the October issue makes no fewer than four pro-choice references. And
Sassy
's increasingly radical left-leaning political and social agenda wasn't relegated to the “serious” articles—it permeated the entire magazine. Why is there a beauty story on the best cheap makeup? Because “even though a certain president with the initials G.B. says the recession's over, we know better.”
But
Sassy
made it seem like identifying as a feminist was a must for any self-respecting teenage girl: “These days you may as well eat dirt as admit to being a feminist … We're not embarrassed
to admit in print that we all be feminists,” proclaimed one staff-written story.
But feminism was not entirely overlooked at
Seventeen
. The magazine even went so far as to run some openly activist pieces, like a profile of National Organization for Women president Molly Yard. Pulitzer Prize–nominated journalist Linda Ellerbee wrote a piece instructing girls to “practice saying these words: ‘I am a feminist,' and this time, try to understand what the word means. Feminism means you believe in equality between men and women. Justice. Equal justice for all. And that's all it means.” And
Seventeen
's don't-beat-'em-join-'em brand of feminism realistically mirrored America's shifting middle-class social mores. The magazine had to appeal to 50 percent of the teenage population—girls who were rich and girls who were poor, girls who lived in suburbs and small towns they never wanted to leave. It was one thing for the magazine to advocate equal pay for equal work, and quite another to question the nature of work itself—or, for that matter, the social hierarchy of high school or the intrinsic elitism of sororities.
“Do you need armpit hair to be a feminist?” asked
Sassy
on its June 1992 cover. Mary Kaye didn't think so. “I've never thought twice about whether I was a feminist,” she says in the article. “My beef is with really rigid types who have a lot of criteria for what is or isn't a true feminist—you know, shaves her pits? Not. Wears a miniskirt? Not.” She also questions “that women-can-have-it-all concept—which sprang up in the late seventies along with the feminist movement … It was probably dreamed up by some male advertiser so women would feel inadequate if they didn't do it all.” The F-word itself had long been a lightning rod. “People … assume you're talking about a humorless, intolerant, rage-filled woman. That's such a stereotype,” railed Margie. But she also conceded, “It's true that some of the original feminists from the sixties and seventies were pretty radical and angry—they had more of a reason to be.” But by the early 1990s, the staff felt that enough inroads had been made that they could interrogate the movement's ideals in a public forum.
Sassy
incited political action in some readers: Constance Hwong declared herself pro-choice in 1992, when she was in eighth grade and learning about the issues surrounding the upcoming election. “I brought an issue of
Sassy
into my social studies class to show my teacher, who seemed impressed at its coverage. I've considered myself a pretty diligent feminist since then, and went on to attend an all-women's college.” Fan Amy Schroeder says that the magazine “helped shape my ideas that women are equal to men and that we have the same amount of power—or we should.” She went on to major in women's studies in college, and later founded
Venus Zine
, a feminist magazine about women in the arts.
Sassy
was “totally responsible” for all the hours a sixteen-year-old Lara Zeises volunteered for Bill Clinton's presidential campaign.
Sassy
“influenced my politics. I considered myself a feminist from a young age, thanks to an activist grandma,” says Caitlin
Kuleci. She “knew that boys were considered better than girls, that racism existed, and that people who were poor had it worse than anybody else. But I lacked a framework with which to understand these things.” For her,
Sassy
“was the fertilizer that helped me bloom into my current status as a full-blown dissenter.” Rebecca Walker, daughter of author Alice Walker and the cofounder of the Third Wave Foundation, called reading
Sassy
“a political act.”
The “Sassy” Ethos
Ian Svenonius was a philosophy-spouting, pomade-wearing singer in the D. C.-based punk band Nation of Ulysses. Not a vapid jock, or even a sensitive poetic type, he had been a fan of
Sassy
since his friend the singer Lois Maffeo showed him an issue. “I was immediately taken by the writing and the way it didn't condescend to the mythical hoi polloi the way modern journalism condescends to the status quo,” he says in his trademark crypto-intellectual rhetoric.
Ian applied for 1990's Sassiest Boy in America Contest (SBIA), a follow-up to the successful Sassiest Girl in America Contest (SGIA)—and won. The impetus behind the competition was one of the staff's truly unifying interests: cute boys.
“I wish I could have applied, but I was too old,” laments Calvin Johnson, a longtime fan of teen culture who, in his late twenties at the time, was several years over the cutoff age. But Ian didn't worry about such trifles; he simply lied about his age. (Something he still won't exactly cop to—he said that his band had a policy of being eighteen forever, and therefore
when he said he was twenty years old, he was lying older, not younger.) But instead of winning a cash prize and corporate sponsorship, like the Sassiest Girl in America, the SBIA merely got a trip to New York City, a Magic 8 Ball, and “they could go through our collection of CDs that were sent to us that we didn't want,” says Christina.
Ian's two days in the city were “like a hothouse forty-eight-hour experiment, like a biodome.” They sent him to see the band Mindfunk (which Ian dismissed as “not the revolution”), and he went dancing, got his palm read, and had a photo shoot on the Staten Island Ferry. His impression of the
Sassy
office was that magazine people were just like band people. “All of the office talk was about other magazines, just like how bands are obsessed with other bands.”
Even though the SBIA contest lacked the hoopla of the SGIA contest, something interesting happened: for at least some indie-obsessed readers, it was far more memorable than its sister contest. Don Smith grew up in the Washington, D.C., area with Ian, and he places a great amount of importance on the ensuing piece. “It was hands down the greatest article in any magazine in the 1990s. They really found the sassiest boy in America—that's the part that was so weird about it—they weren't lying. Normally you say, ‘I know people sassier than that.' With Ian it was like the Emmy went to Susan Lucci.” He was not only cute and fond of wearing suits, but, as the magazine
Eye
once put it, “probably the only Marxist to be named Sassiest Boy in America.” Ian had all of the cool trappings of a hipster, but without the off-putting attitude.
He also came with a pedigree, having grown up in the 1980s Washington, D.C., punk-rock scene. Ian introduced Christina to the punk scenes in D.C. and Olympia, Washington, and to his indie labelmates on K Records and Dischord. “I was at a party with Calvin Johnson and I said, ‘Don't you think it would be cool to have a band named Chia Pet?'” she remembers. “And he was like, ‘You guys should start a band named Chia Pet,' and I was like, ‘No, I don't have any musical talents,' and he was like, ‘Well, that never stopped me.'” The next week Johnson called to say Chia Pet had a show at Bard College, opening up for his band Beat Happening and Ian's Nation of Ulysses—and that they had better start practicing.
Christina's announcement that Chia Pet was about to make their live debut didn't exactly receive the most enthusiastic reception. “I was like, ‘Christina, what are you talking about? We don't play instruments. We don't have instruments. We don't have songs. This is just a game we're playing,'” Jessica recalls. “And Christina, being who she is, was determined not to take no for an answer. ‘We're doing this and you're going to play bass. You're the bass player.'” She got Karen to share vocal duties with her, and Jane to play the violin. Mary Ann played drums, and Christina's boyfriend Bobby Weeks played guitar. At Chia Pet's first rehearsal, Christina brought in Bobby's brother Eric to teach Jessica bass. (She ended up moving in with him three days later and marrying
him a year and a half after that, making Jessica and Christina not only coworkers and bandmates, but sisters-in-law.)
“The Chia Pet shows were so strange,” Don Smith remembers. “They were like a
Sex and the City
band—far too sophisticated to be onstage at CBGB's. The standing joke, of course, was ‘Don't quit your day job.' But really, no one wanted them to quit their day jobs!” In fact, the band's status as
Sassy
staffers was a bonus. When Johnson booked the Bard show, he just told the promoters that it was a band from New York City. Says Johnson, “When we got there, the two women putting on the show from Bard were like, ‘Hey you never told us it was Jane and Christina from
Sassy
!'”
They never played a show outside of New York, but they did record a handful of songs (some produced by legendary indie scenester Kramer), including “Hey Baby,” about street harassment (its sarcastic chorus goes “Hey Baby, Hey Baby, You look so good”); a cover of the Human League's “Don't You Want Me Baby”; and “Blind Date,” which documents actual blind dates the staff went on. The chorus is “Blind date/don't pick up the phone/pretend you're not home/it's more fun,” and the song is set to a bass line lifted directly from Deep Purple's “Smoke on the Water.” At one show, Spike Jonze could be found snapping pictures; at another, Ian drew tattoos on everyone with a Sharpie.
The fickle and boy-dominated indie-rock press gave the band a reception ranging from lukewarm (“I thought they were mediocre at best,” sniffs one fanzine) to affectionate (“While there is some hype surrounding this
Sassy
magazine–associated band, I am not ashamed of loving the catchy violin and guitar riffs,” says zine
Browbeat
.)
Ian also introduced Christina to brother-and-sister duo Don and Erin Smith, who lived in Bethesda, Maryland. Their zine,
Teenage Gang Debs
, was a black-and-white photocopied love letter to sixties and seventies pop culture. They would do things like find Eve Plumb (who played Jan Brady on
The Brady Bunch
) and interview her.
Short for “fanzines,” zines are handmade self-published magazines with limited distribution. They became important in the punk scene of the 1970s as a vehicle for writers and were untouched by editors, corporations, advertisers, and censors. Zines have long been a part of underground culture, but
Sassy
was one of the first magazines to give zines mainstream exposure.
Zines were, in keeping with the punk ethos, completely DIY—do-it-yourself. They gave voice to those who were too young, too radical, or too weird to be published elsewhere, and their confessional, stream-of-consciousness style bore a resemblance to
Sassy
's. Even though zines had been around for twenty years, along with so many aspects of punk culture, the early nineties were a boom time in their popularity.
In the January 1991 installment of “What Now,” Christina launched her “Zine Corner.” It started after she began receiving zines in the mail (she was the recipient of the greatest amount of
random mail of anyone at the magazine, perhaps at least partially because she was seen as the staff member most in touch with underground culture and often featured miscellany that people sent her in the pages of “What Now”). “Zine Corner” soon became “Zine of the Month.” (Even
Seventeen
eventually had its own zine column, though it—predictably—sounded like your parents discussing something they heard is cool. Their first “new zine on the block” featured
Cockroach
, which wasn't published by a disaffected teen, but by the daughter of the founder of The Body Shop.)
Christina bought a copy of
Teenage Gang Debs
at the now defunct zine shop See Hear in New York City. Erin Smith was a freshman in college when her publication was featured in “What Now” and, for the next four years, she would go home to her parents' house every weekend and fulfill orders.
Another “Zine of the Month” was
Super Hate Jr
. It was a conceptual zine published by future staff boy Charles Aaron while he was in college. The format was fifty pages of one thing per page that he hated. The reaction to its appearance in “What Now” was immediate. “It was completely insane because I got an avalanche of mail. It was all from teenage girls and gay boys. There were hundreds of them,” he says. “The letters were the most incredible thing; they were all so enthusiastic and passionate, and they must have sent these letters out to all the zines they saw in ‘What Now.'”
Getting into “Zine of the Month” was both a blessing and a curse. It was, on the one hand, a ringing endorsement of your zine from Christina Kelly, one of the country's arbiters of cool. On the other hand, it might also signal your zine's demise. “People would almost get mad at me because they would get overwhelmed by the orders they got and couldn't do their zine anymore,” says Christina. Aaron's zine, for example, sold for two dollars but actually cost about three dollars to make. After sending out so many copies he ran out of money and ended up having to send out cards saying that he couldn't afford to keep it going. They read: “The next time I do a conceptual zine about hatred, I'll keep you in the loop.”
Christina hired Erin Smith as an intern at
Sassy
in 1991 after reading her zine. “Erin consistently wrote smart, witty articles about underground, independent music, and she turned a lot of girls on to fanzines and the idea of DIY culture,” recalls D.C. scene veteran Sharon Cheslow, who had discovered punk as a teen girl in the mid-seventies, after reading an article about the Sex Pistols in
Seventeen
. Besides copublishing
Teenage Gang Debs
, Erin Smith was also a key figure, as the guitarist for Bratmobile, in the burgeoning punk/feminist riot grrrl movement. Riot grrrl began that summer, when a group of women from the punk scenes in Washington, D.C., and Olympia, Washington, started to hold meetings—loosely modeled after the consciousness-raising groups of the 1970s—to discuss how to address sexism they had experienced. There had recently
been race riots in D.C.'s Mount Pleasant neighborhood. In response, there was a call to start a “girl riot” against a music scene—and society—that didn't give voice to or validate their experiences. The
grrrl
part was a combination of an angry growl and a desire to align themselves with the strong self-esteem of the preadolescent years.
The riot grrrls' frequently heard manifestoes, like “revolution girl style now,” found a perfect platform in their zines, like
Girl Germs
,
Riot Grrrl
,
Bikini Kill
,
Jigsaw
, and
Gunk
, which also dealt with seldom-discussed subjects like rape, incest, eating disorders, and sexual harassment. Many of the girls behind these riot grrrl zines were also members of all-girl (or mostly girl) bands whose lyrics echoed the same confessional, confrontational subject matter and who sounded a bit like punkified versions of the women's liberation bands of the 1970s. Zines and bands were a way for girls across the country to meet and share experiences. Besides riot grrrl's overt feminism, perhaps most important was its egalitarian message that you don't have to be special—talented, rich, connected—to be in a band.
When
Sassy
started covering riot grrrl, this relatively obscure punk-rock movement suddenly had an audience of three million impressionable girls who had been reared watching fearless and feisty—but not necessarily self-proclaimed feminist—singers like Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, and Tina Turner on MTV in the 1980s.
“What Now”'s pictures of girls in bands with SLUT and RAPE scrawled across their stomachs (intended to draw attention to women's sexual oppression), interviews with band members, and coverage of riot grrrl zines seduced girls across the country. “I would have never known about riot grrrl were it not for
Sassy
,” says Julianne Shepherd, who grew up in the isolated town of Cheyenne, Wyoming, in a Mexican Catholic family. She was neither a cowboy nor the class slut she was rumored to be. Inspired by “Zine of the Month,” Julianne started her own fanzine called
Lick
that covered music, skateboarding, and “my lady experience.” She says, “It wasn't just about fanzines and Bikini Kill. It was bigger than that—it was Third Wave feminism. I clocked time in a cultural island, pre-Internet. If I'd stayed on the path ignorant of feminism, I would probably still be living in Wyoming right now, freebasing something.”
The phenomenon of riot grrrl was not ignored by the rest of the media. Soon, sensationalistic articles appeared in
Newsweek
(where it was called “feminism with a loud happy face dotting the ‘i'”),
USA Today
(“From hundreds of once pink, frilly bedrooms comes the young feminist revolution. And it's not pretty. But it doesn't wanna be. So there!”), and
Melody Maker
, the British music tabloid (“The best thing that any Riot Grrrl could do is to go away and do some reading, and I don't mean a grubby little fanzine”), all claiming that the movement was juvenile and unimportant.
In the fall of 1992, in reaction to all the negative publicity the women of riot grrrl declared a media blackout. This extended to all corporate-owned TV shows, newspapers, and magazines—
except
Sassy
. In solidarity, a February 1993 “Diary” features a list of things the staff loves and hates, with “riot grrrl media overkill” under “hate.” Roni Shapira was interning at
Sassy
at the time. “There was a real sensitivity in the office. The grown women on staff were still very cautious about what younger women in the rest of America were trying to do, and they didn't want to betray that,” she says. The first mainstream publication to cover riot grrrls, and to do so positively,
Sassy
had a certain amount of credibility with them and clearly felt a sense of responsibility as well.
But despite
Sassy
's unconditional support, the riot grrrls hardly embraced their more mainstream sisters. “We weren't punk enough; we were co-opting the scene; we were basically evil,” Christina says. “I was like, ‘Wait a minute, I met you before you even had a band.'” Even some
Sassy
readers began to take sides, sending Christina hate mail for exposing their counterculture, which angered her further. “‘You found out about it from us, and now all of a sudden you're cooler than me?' I'd get so annoyed.”
The sad truth is that despite riot grrrls' agitations for equality, the doyennes of the larger underground culture had an elitist attitude toward the kids who learned about indie music, zines, and activism through
Sassy
. “There are some people in the zine community to this day who look down at the kids who were introduced to zines by
Sassy
,” says Sarah Maitland, who was one of those teen girls who discovered zines through the pages of “What Now.” She started a zine-distribution business at nineteen, and put out her first zine at twenty. “They don't seem to understand that not everyone lives in a city with a punk scene or a hip coffee shop, or has an older friend or sibling who introduces them to cool new things.”
But some of underground culture's biggest enthusiasts were also
Sassy
fans. Guys in their late twenties were psyched to see their indie taste reflected in a magazine where geeks who collected records and wore Jack Purcells were the coolest guys in school.
“The indie-rock world was very interested in youth and the idea of youth,” says Ann Powers. This stemmed partly from the fact that many of the up-and-coming cultural creators—whether they were musicians, artists, intellectuals, or magazine editors—were only in their twenties or early thirties themselves. Notoriously awkward in their youth, they were still trying to make sense of their high-school years.
The general obsession with youth culture at the time was part of the reason so many adults read
Sassy
. “Subscribing to a teen magazine totally wasn't embarrassing or weird or a funny fetish. It was part of a general hipness,” says Powers. Since so many of the cultural creators were addressing youth in their creations, Powers says, reading
Sassy
“became a tool for a lot of us trying to figure out how to talk to kids in our own work.” Powers felt that the existential dilemma of creating and maintaining a pure and idealistic cultural milieu plagued everyone making or commenting on culture in that era. “I can't overemphasize how constant the sense of ‘Are we betraying our culture?'
was to the indie generation.” The question became how much to popularize it without ruining it.
Christina was painfully aware of this dilemma. The February 1993 issue self-consciously mentions “co-opting” in every “What Now” blurb, like “monthly zine co-opt” and “punk-rock idol co-opting.” The staff was savvy enough to know that giving underground media mainstream attention could be viewed as exploitative, but they also knew that they couldn't cover only mainstream culture without alienating their readers, who now looked to them as a guide to the indie scene. Erin Smith, finished with her internship but on the masthead as Washington Bureau chief, guest wrote “Co-opting DC Scene Gossip for Our Own Profit”; the magazine details the riot grrrl scene in that same issue.
It's true that
Sassy
's indie coverage had a transformative effect on the American underground. The small college town of Olympia, Washington, even felt different because of the attention it received in
Sassy
. In the pages of “What Now,” Olympia seemed like the coolest place on Earth. “I have lived here my entire life,” Nomy Lamm, a self-proclaimed “fatass, badass jew dyke amputee” activist and writer who published the Olympia-based riot grrrl zine
I'm So Fucking Beautiful
, wrote. “And it never seemed cool to me until I read about it in
Sassy
.”
In a way, Calvin Johnson concedes,
Sassy
changed Olympia because in the very early nineties, even though it boasted of being home to many important bands (including Nirvana, who moved there from nearby Aberdeen), none had been taken seriously yet by a glossy magazine. But Johnson thinks the changes were bigger for
Sassy
than for his hometown: “When
Sassy
discovered this other world and started writing about it, it changed their point of view.” He, like many members of the indie world, pinpoints Ian Svenonius as a presence that helped propel
Sassy
's cultural coverage. “I don't know if Ian knew what he started.”
Ian suspects that his introduction to
Sassy
caused some unexpected side effects: he felt like the magazine—particularly the music coverage—became knowing and more self-referential about what it was. “In some ways I feel a little bit of guilt, like I destroyed
Sassy
magazine,” he says. “Instead of talking to thirteen-year-old girls,
Sassy
became so conscious of its older audience. I think that made it a little bit harder for them to focus on the real mission of helping girls through the horror of American adolescence.”
In a way, Ian is both right and wrong.
Sassy
was certainly guilty of occasionally appearing to be in love with its indie cred. In May 1991's “What Now,” Christina even says, “If you read
Sassy
primarily for the zine reviews, check this out.” And the spine line of the December 1992 issue reads: “Corporate Zine.” It felt like an insular reciprocal world where, for example,
Sassy
would cover L.A.-based zine
Ben Is Dead
in “What Now,” and
Ben Is Dead
would frequently name-check
Sassy
, even devoting an issue to a
Sassy
parody.
But for every time an article was about how Halifax, Nova Scotia, would be the next Olympia, there would be an article to counter it, like Christina's story on conquering her fear of escalators,
the ever-popular “It Happened to Me” column, and countless features tackling subjects like abortion and how to cope when your best friend commits suicide. Despite its indie cred,
Sassy
never lost focus of the day-to-day travails of teenage life.
According to fan Rita Hao, part of what made
Sassy
so appealing to all of its fans was that, “You could read zines for underground stuff, or you could read
Seventeen
for totally mainstream stuff, but it was really kind of weird to read something that had both, which I think was what made it such a seductive read both for people who love zines (‘Wow! I can like
90210
!') and for people who were primarily
Seventeen
readers (like me, you know, ‘Wow, what's this crazy super-8 shit?').”

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