Shame and the Virgin

Last April, the New York Times posted a story about an entire generation of Christian teens who were traumatized by the "purity" movement. Watch the video. It's even better than the story. In one clip from the height of the movement, a young couple stands at the front of a church. They have vowed to abstain from sex before marriage, proclaims the young man with a hint of evangelical zeal. And, he points out, it only makes their relationship stronger.

Of course, in the clip the video shows, the young man is doing most of the talking while the young woman nods her head with a smile on her face. I pray to God she was thinking, "This is such bullshit." One can only hope they left the stage and had mind-bending sex.

It is not entirely clear why the purity ring generation feels shame, but I can only assume that many of the women still feel traumatized by the shame they felt for having sex or wanting to have sex. Or maybe it's the responsibility foisted upon them by male pastors and evangelists who argued that women could prevent men from having sex by not enticing them with revealing clothing, such as short skirts and low-cut blouses. In the video clip, one of the male speakers looks at the women knowingly implying that they all share a secret that men can easily lose their resolve around a sexually appealing woman.

This argument is one of my favorites from my church-going days. Each week, the pastor would always slip in the message that the man was the head of the household no matter the topic. My mother says I exaggerate this point, but this is how I remember it. He could be talking about the birth of Jesus or tithing, and it would always lead to that familiar theme that women should support their husbands. In other words, she should do whatever he says and never openly disagree with him. Yet, these same men, who were chosen by God to lead their wives and children, win wars and protect their countries, could be led astray by a miniskirt. At the time, the contradiction was lost on most of us.

The purity ring kids are not the only ones who were traumatized by the conflicting messages the church gave about sex and the roles of men and women. My high school boyfriend once slid his hand up my white Izod while we were "parking" behind a school. In the next church service, the pastor preached about the sins of the body. We squirmed in our seats, sliding away from each other knowing that God was using the pastor's sermon to send us a message. He knew what we were up to. We vowed never to do it again.

But it didn't keep me from secretly wanting my boyfriend to try it again. Sitting on the couch after my parents had gone to bed, I would lean my tiny breasts into him. I would stretch so the shirt would rise and his hands would be touching my bare back. It didn't work. We were together on and off for five years and nothing sexual ever really happened. Every time we got close, it seems like God got in the way.

This pattern would continue until I finally married in my mid-20s. I would date men, doing what I perceived was making myself available, giving the sexual signals. But nothing. It was as if the church's message was written on me and could only be seen by men I might want to have sex with. As if the fact that I was a virgin was code for "If you have sex with me, you will marry me." I even had one boyfriend tell me that, and I had no intention of marrying him. I just wanted to, you know, maybe have sex like other girls I knew who were in college relationships.

I often wonder what my 20s would have been like if I hadn't carried this hidden shame. If I hadn't been raised to believe in my bones that enjoying my body was a bad thing. All those good years were lost. Now that's something to be ashamed of.