I tell my father I rented a copy of the video of Behind the Green Door. I say it scared me. He says why. “Rape,” I say. “They raped her.” “Raped her?” he says, with the question mark. I describe what happened. They kidnapped her. They blindfolded her. Some women fondled her. Then a man comes out and rapes her. “I didn’t think of that as rape,” he said.
There is a certain amount of craziness that comes with being a black American feminist.
I decide that pornography is not something I want to talk about with my father.