“The Handmaid’s Tale”: Did They Take it Too Far, or is My Privilege Showing? (*SPOILERS*)


Last night, I finally streamed episodes 1-3 of Hulu’s exclusive adaptation of one of my favorite works of literature, The Handmaid’s Tale. 

And all I have to say is: What. The. Hell. 

It’s not that the show was bad or poorly done…in fact, aesthetically, I felt the producers did an incredible job across the board in portraying the essence of Margaret Atwood’s vision of the theocratic dystopia Gilead: both in terms of stellar casting and ambience, which in partnership created a brilliant portrayal of the pictures that formed in my mind while reading the book for the first time.

No, my “what the hell?” reaction is not meant to reflect any type of disappointment with the technicalities or depictions of content from the novel: it’s in response to the horrific, heartbreaking, sickening, excruciating, and nasty (honestly I can’t even be bothered to form fancy words anymore) story of Ofglen, a secondary character who, while definitely important to the plot, was not terribly dynamic in the book. Not only was her depiction in Hulu’s adaptation brutal and raw, her backstory was completely and totally added in by the producers of the show. If it wasn’t, I’m not sure I would’ve tuned in to see some of these things in living color.

I know I added this in the title, but I feel like now’s the time where I need to mention it again: THERE ARE SPOILERS HERE, FOLKS. If you have yet to watch the first three episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale and wish to not have the ending spoiled for you, stop here. Go watch it, and come back. If you’re mentally ill, have any kind of history with trauma, or are just plain sensitive, maybe be careful with episode 3. That’s all I’ll give away before sending you off to your streaming endeavors.

Before I get into the nitty-gritty of my distress (I know, the suspense is killing you), I feel like I owe the readers who are not familiar with the Handmaid’s Tale plot (and who are ultimately uninterested other than reading my take on the show) a brief synopsis of what the story is actually, you know, about. Written by Margaret Atwood in 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale is written from the perspective of Offred, a handmaid in the theocratic (former United States) Republic of Gilead. On the cusp of the switch from democratic government as we know it to a pure biblically-based, cult-like dictatorship where women cannot own money or property and are assigned a ranking in society, Offred is assigned as a handmaid, chosen for her fertile ovaries to carry out the task of repopulating the republic through means of ceremoniously copulating with the Commander in which she is assigned, with the obligation to bear he and his barren wife a child before being transferred and “stationed” in the home of another needy Commander and his wife (The name Offred literally means “Of Fred,” as handmaids are stripped of their real names and given over to the ownership of their current Commander). The book is brilliant, and rather than serving as strict anti-Christian propaganda (though some will undoubtedly interpret it as such), it brings to light the many injustices faced by women around the globe and brings to the forefront the dangers of extreme fundamentalist ideologies, particularly when proposed as a means of government.

All of that is gut-wrenching enough, especially when recreated for television with a moving soundtrack and awesome actors and actually seeing it happen. 

“But wait! There’s more!” cries Hulu. Enter this girl:

https---blueprint-api-production.s3.amazonaws.com-uploads-card-image-340344-a5cedbe6-f26e-4e2c-a2cc-9099d6e2426b(image: Mashable/Take 5/Hulu) 

This girl. Ofglen (well actually it’s boss-lady Alexis Bledel, but her role here is a far cry from her Rory Gilmore days). Offred’s fellow handmaid, who goes from being a secondary character (at best) in the novel to embodying on screen, quite literally, everything that could possibly go wrong and terrible in a woman’s life EVER. (That realization actually came from my boyfriend, who sat and watched this stuff unfold right alongside me in utter disbelief).

In the book, we don’t know a whole lot about Ofglen, other than that she is Offred’s partner on shopping days (handmaid’s are only permitted to walk outside in groups of two) who is eventually revealed as an underground member of the resistance who tragically commits suicide before she could be taken away in a black van by “the Eye” (the folks in charge of policing the general population). Undoubtedly this is a tragic end for Ofglen, and NO part of me wishes that they would have shown her suicide on screen. But what the producers did decide to do with Ofglen, rather than having her meet this type of quick, simplistic (off-screen) end, is arguably worse. Much, much worse.

In short, Ofglen’s character in the series is incredibly dynamic, unlike her novel counterpart. The producers created a backstory for Ofglen of her identifying as a lesbian (obviously a serious crime in Gilead, with outed members of the LGBTQ community being labeled “gender-traitors” and sentenced to death), who, other than being a secret member of the resistance, carries on a forbidden relationship with her household’s Martha (In Gileadean society, Marthas are the cooks/housekeepers in homes of Commanders).

Somehow, this is discovered, and after a difficult scene where Offred is being tortured and questioned about her knowledge of her former shopping partner’s sexuality, the show cuts to reveal Ofglen and her partner in court, after having had their tongues cut out of their mouths, and each receiving a different sentence: Ofglen, while deserving of death, is spared because of her fertility and the need for as many handmaid’s as possible. The Martha, on the other hand, is sentenced to the mercy of the state. What follows is a gut-wrenching van ride where the two can’t speak to one another (you know, no tongues and all), but can only cry into each other’s hands. When the van stops, the back doors are opened to reveal a single noose in the distance. The Martha is ripped from Ofglen’s hands, dragged over to the noose where a guard places it over her neck, before being suspended in mid air by a crane-like contraption and suffocated to death right in front of a screaming, heartbroken Ofglen. The scene, which lasts for an excruciating 25-30 seconds, ends with the doors of the van slamming shut with Ofglen’s lover still visibly hanging and writhing to death in the background, Ofglen still screaming her devastated, tongueless head off at what she was just forced to witness.

Phew, that was hard. BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE.

The final scene of episode three opens with Ofglen waking up in a hospital bed. Having difficulty standing up, she lifts her gown to reveal a large white bandage over her nether-regions. The “Aunt” enters the scene (one of the women in charge of training and overseeing the handmaids) and informs Ofglen that “the stitches will come out in a few days. You will still be able to have children, of course, but things will be so much easier for you now. You will no longer want what you can’t have.” THEY CUT OUT HER CLITORIS. That’s right, the award for most tragic character goes to Ofglen, who, after being robbed of her ability to speak, seeing her lover being savagely murdered in front of her face, and having had her child taken away years prior (she mentions to Offred in the second episode that she had a son and a wife in the days before Gilead), and now having to undergo genital mutilation, officially can be said to have experienced, over the course of two episodes, every horrific thing that has and could ever happen to a woman.

I am writing this now after having spent a restless night of sobbing, nausea, hyperventilation, and uncontrollable shaking. This started with the van ride, was solidified by the hanging scene, and by the time we learned of Ofglen’s “surgery,” I was too numb to even take in anything else. It’s like my brain couldn’t take any more, so it shut off. I should also mention that I can scarcely recall the last time I experienced this kind of reaction as a result of a television show or movie. This was beyond tears for Marley and Me or Me Before You… this felt traumatic. Like I had just witnessed these events in real life, rather than on a screen.

I understand that there are multiple sides to the television censorship debate. I’m not here to say that if you can watch a scene like this and not be affected, that you’re somehow a desensitized psychopath. I’m also not here to be called a sensitive, over-dramatic snowflake, so please go somewhere else if that’s your intention. I can’t control how I react to things, and this content was particularly traumatizing for me. I still have no appetite, purely from this stuff. I’m writing this because I’m wanting to warn others who are aware of their own sensitivities to possibly reconsider diving into this show: a responsibility which, in my opinion, ought to have been taken up by Hulu.

Reminiscent of the Netflix book-to-series original 13 Reasons Why, we’re learning more and more how far producers are willing to push the envelope to achieve a level of shock value amongst viewers. Sure, you can throw a TV MA warning on there and assume that that will suffice for any content that may be expressed therein, but at what point does content become so traumatic that even “mature audiences” will be pushed passed their breaking point?

Shane showed me an article by Hollywood Reporter last night titled ” ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’: Rape, Mutilation, and That Shocking Death Scene Explained.” In it, Bruce Miller, one of the shows lead producers, explains why they chose to execute (sorry, definitely no pun intended) the hanging scene in the way they did:

“It was a hard decision and a big discussion. We all had trepidation about doing it because it’s incredibly harsh and brutal. But all the reasons you’re afraid of doing it are why you should do it in the first place.” -Bruce Miller, The Hollywood Reporter

Well, yes. And no.

This is where my internal conflict comes to fruition. As Miller also stated, everything that occurs in the screen rendition of The Handmaid’s Tale has ACTUALLY happened to women, somewhere, at some point in history. Ought we not to be brutally honest about these experiences to give them legitimacy? Yeah, these are serious issues that should make us all uncomfortable. Women have been and are still having their tongues cut out, both figuratively and literally. Female genital mutilation is an ongoing problem in various areas of the world. Forced sexual encounters are way too common. And slowly but surely, women are being stripped of their reproductive rights. Yet none of these depictions in the show traumatized me quite as much as Ofglen’s experiences, particularly the scene where the Martha (her lover) is hanged. Did this scene traumatize me because it’s not something that I, as a straight cis woman, have to fear on a daily basis? Is my straight, white privilege the reason that I wanted to call up Hulu and be like “No, this is too much. THAT takes it too far.” Am I being made uncomfortable in the same way that white people are uncomfortable with the black lives matter movement because it’s bringing representation to something that they themselves are not directly affected by?


After a sleepless night pondering these things, I have come to the conclusion (a hazy one, but a conclusion nonetheless), that no, this has less to do with my privilege as a straight woman (though undoubtedly that privilege exists) and more to do with the fact that this scene is BRUTAL. Most of the content in this show is highly unpleasant, as it should be. Like I said, I am all for on-screen honesty and forcing people to become fired up about relevant social issues. But if you’re going to construct a scene this way, showing every last excruciating second of a murder, rape, suicide, overdose, or what have you, particularly when it’s a veer-left from the book and completely unexpected by viewers, a trigger warning, at the very least, would be appropriate.

Again, I’m not arguing whether the producers of The Handmaid’s Tale should or should not have done the scene. Personally, my boyfriend and I feel that there were SO MANY ways that they could have gone about this that would have been significantly less traumatic to watch, and that perhaps that would have been a better choice. We don’t feel this way because we want to shy from these issues, however: we’re simply concerned, again, with the welfare of the mentally ill, LGBTQ community, and others who have experienced similar trauma that may be taken to an awful place after being blindsided by such a raw depiction. At the very least, streaming websites especially ought to be more specific with their warnings *see trigger warning at the top of this page*.

“I’m all for on-screen honesty and forcing people to become fired up about relevant social issues. But if you’re going to construct a scene this way, showing every last excruciating second of a murder, rape, suicide, overdose, or what have you, particularly when it’s a veer-left from the book and completely unexpected by viewers, a trigger warning, at the very least, would be appropriate.”

And as a side note: before this pops up in the comments, no, trigger warnings were not a thing “back in the day.” That’s true. What isn’t true, however, is the backwards assumption that people were “tough, less sensitive, able to handle it” back then. No, actually, they weren’t. It just felt that way because mental illness and trauma were kept secret, leaving the folks who could have greatly benefited from a trigger warning here and there to suffer in silence.

Honestly, as contradictory as it sounds, I most likely will continue to watch The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s a riveting depiction of a fantastic novel that isn’t afraid to reveal the problematic ideas that exist in the world today for what they are. However, I’ll definitely be more cautious, which I hope this article prompts others in potentially similar positions to do (before you end up like me: having to stand under hot water just to stop your muscles from convulsing out of pure terror).

Perhaps this article will prompt a healthy discussion about websites such as Netflix and Hulu taking their shock value too far, possibly prompting them to be more mindful of the content they choose to include. If not, I hope that it at least helps to keep someone safe.

Finally, in true Handmaid’s Tale fashion, I feel obligated to leave you with this message: ladies (and gentlemen) who have experienced oppression of any kind,

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. 

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.


*featured image: fouronesixlit.com, c.2017. http://www.fouronesixlit.com/2016/03/24/the-analysis-of-language-in-the-handmaids-tale-and-how-it-influences-writers-style/





How High School Gym (and Jocks) Almost Made Me Hate Fitness

*the following story, I’m sure, will not be unfamiliar to most. That gives me the kind of solace that I hope this post gives back to you.


If you knew me in high school, you knew I was no athlete.

My right-brained noggin found its comfort in the arts…I was highly involved in the school plays, choir, and marching band, and was totally content and happy there. Most of my physical activity took place either on the field during band camp, walking up 5 flights of stairs in the 2 minutes provided for us to transition to class (the struggle), or, horrifically, in gym class.

Before I dive into the dark underbelly of what it was like to attend a public school and NOT be involved in any kind of designated sport, it’s worth noting that I did encounter a handful of amazing, supportive, compassionate gym teachers, and yes, even some jocks. Like all of my posts, this is not to be viewed as a sweeping assumption of high school athletics in any way (can’t wait till I’m confident enough to not have to make that disclaimer).

However, it can’t be denied that 80% of those I encountered in the world of high school athletics seemed to make it a priority to make my life a little bit worse in whatever way they could. Like most public high schools, mine was dominated by sports…if you weren’t a part of improving the school’s sports status, you didn’t HAVE status. I thank the Lord every day for the music department, actually, because if it weren’t for me finding my value in the very thing that I was bullied for, I doubt my already melancholy, pre-pubescent self would have found value anywhere {shout out to everyone in there who impacted me. Y’all RULE}.

I can’t stress enough how much gym class actually ~negatively~ affected my day. I have a plethora of graphic and clear memories of high school which are slowly drifting closer and closer toward my subconscious now that I’m already working on one year out of college… but when they hit, they do so in one of two ways: warm and reminiscent, or freaking terrifying. When they hit, I experience every single feeling that raced through my body when the event actually happened, as if it had happened 6 seconds ago rather than 6 years. The one that drove me to write this post (spoiler: a bad one) happened in gym class.

If you’ve been following some of my life updates, you know that I am seriously into running. During these past few months, I’ve noticed such a change in the way that my body interacts with itself since becoming more of a health and fitness junky, and running is probably the most rewarding of all the daily exercises I do. When I run, I feel so strong, powerful, and able. There are also times when it brings me back to some significant high school trauma.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the moment, sophomore year, when we were running the mile in gym (gloat break: funny to think that I couldn’t even run a mile back then without stopping to dry heave: now I’m working toward 6.00 and feel amazing. Anyway…) and I accidentally cut a corner coming around the side of the field. Prior to this seriously heinous offense, I was feeling pretty good about my run (it was rare that I EVER felt good in gym class, being the awkward, skinny, out of shape band geek that never looked quite right in her gym shorts) and was prepared to finish strong. I honestly hadn’t even realized that my right foot landed in front of the cone set in the corner of the field, as I was so focused on finishing with as little discomfort as possible, until I heard a loud, angry voice boom in my right ear:


{and under his breath}

“goddamn lazy kid.”

This is how this gym teacher spoke to us (can you guess what his favorite word was?), and this is what we were used to hearing. Back then, it didn’t feel outrageous because it was normal. But it still felt terrible. I totally understand that plenty of teens have had MUCH worse experiences than I have. I’m not writing this to trivialize their struggles…rather, I’m making a conscientious attempt to legitimize them.

A few months back, I couldn’t cut a corner while ice-skating with my boyfriend because it just doesn’t feel like an okay thing to do now. That’s kind of silly. What isn’t quite as silly, though, is how much that second statement has affected me through the years…the one calling me lazy. The one assuming that, because my face was not familiar in the realm of high school sports, I MUST have been lazy. I wasn’t worth a warm smile or the attempt at remembering my name (many gym teachers had a tough time remembering my name) because I wasn’t involved in their circle. At the time, my 16-year-old self ceased to realize that this incident was never actually about the cone in the corner of the field. It was about a kid like me only being visible when someone was in need of a punching bag.

I’ve already stated how happy I was in the activities that I belonged to in high school. I have absolutely no regrets about the social circle in which I chose to plant myself. Nonetheless, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t moments where I wished I was one of “those” athletes. The ones who got invited to parties, who never had to worry about the jockey boy who sat in front of them in class turning around and heckling them every single day to the point where it made them physically ill to even think about showing up; the ones who got to wear sports jerseys on dress down days instead of band tee shirts that plastered them with a “make fun of me” sign…the ones who were greeted with chummy conversation by the gym teachers instead of the alternative. Being a teen in my situation, who wouldn’t occasionally lust for that life?

The reality, though, was that I wasn’t one of those kids. Fitness wasn’t something that earned me adoration, friends, and feelings of accomplishment…it was a cruel punishment with the sole purpose of humiliating me even more than that of which I was already enduring on a daily basis. This is where gym class fails kids. Scratch that…this is where high school fails kids. Through this disappointing trend, too many teenagers are being taught that fitness is a punishment, not a reward.


The pacer test, physical fitness test, and other “pass/fail” testing methods utilized in gym classes across the country teach kids that there is a normal” level of strenuousness that their body should be able to endure at their age, height, weight, etc., and that falling short of that standard indicates literal failure. When I started running longer distances and becoming more concerned with my time, I became worried about whether my pace could be considered “normal” in the world of athletics. While speaking with a coworker (who also happens to be an avid runner) I said something along the lines of:

“I’m concerned about the fact that it took me 52 minutes to run a 5-mile loop last night. Is that a normal pace?”

Her answer, while seemingly obvious, hadn’t even crossed my mind prior to this conversation. “There is no ‘normal.’” She said. “You need to listen to your body and decide what YOUR ‘normal’ is, and grow from there.” (Remember that post I wrote about listening to your body? Clearly I need to practice taking my own advice.)

These words were such a revelation to me. Without even realizing it, I had allowed myself to grow into adulthood with the same outlook on health and physical fitness that had been planted in my mind in high school. In fact, the reason that I just started taking care of myself this year is due to the fact that I had never thought of myself as an athlete, or even being worthy of the title “athletic.” That was for cool kids, to which I was not one. To be able to live up to that lifestyle, I would need to fit the mold in so many ways that I just couldn’t manage to fit. Again, this followed me until I was almost 23 years old.


While there’s little that can be done about the ever-present bullying issue that plagues our schools (I mean, we should all DEFINITELY continue to combat it, and it’s a worthy fight, but the reality is that kids will continue to bully as long as current trends keep up), the mentality and language surrounding fitness in schools could stand to endure some serious reform. Instead of pass/fail, kids should be tested on their ability to recognize their potential and embrace where they are on the spectrum of physical fitness, viewing it as an opportunity to grow rather than a disappointment. We need more gym teachers who are in it for the betterment of the health and wellness of the next generation; not to socialize, hold biases, and relive their own high school glory days.

Sometimes, I wish the guy who heckled me in class every day because I was an easy target could see how active and fit I am now. I wish the girls who dropped me from their friend group and went on to bully me once they realized I wasn’t like them in terms of mutual interests could see me when I run, lift, and crunch, and finally accept me as a real, worthy, living specimen. I wish that gym teacher could see me take three hours to meal prep after my insanely long Saturday morning run, for him to know that I do care about myself and know that I AM NOT GODDAMN LAZY. Most of the time, though, I appreciate the reality that at this point in my life, I’m doing it for me, not for anyone’s approval.

High school almost made me hate fitness, but it failed. Kind of like I failed that pacer test.

Be strong, former nerds. And embrace your normal. 


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