Power and Disempowerment

Ever since I discovered its ability to empower and silence people, pole dancing has

changed from an exercise to a question of ethics. Three years ago, I started learning how to pole

dance in group classes. Typically held in a fitness studio, pole dancing seemed similar to regular

exercises like yoga, pilates, and barre, but it was also an emotionally charged experience that

challenged body image issues, internalized shame, and cultural taboos. I gained an

unprecedented level of physical awareness, strength, and confidence and eventually even

co-founded an organization to promote pole dancing at Northwestern University.

While pole dancing can provide a safe space for women, nonbinary people, and queer

people to grow and heal, conversations inadequately address the institutional trauma experienced

by sex workers. As such, conversations about sex work frequently result in anger. After all, sex

work is not a concept — it is a reality. Regardless of others’ personal comfortability, sex workers

will continue to strip and sell sex. After a lifetime of trauma, anger can be healing. In the words

of Adrienne Rich, “Both the victimization and the anger experienced by women are real, and

have real sources… We can neither deny them, nor will we rest there.” 1 Anger ought to be

openly felt, for it frees us when we were previously constrained.

Often on the receiving end of this anger, non sex-working pole dancers like myself

develop a fear of saying something wrong. When the fear of misstep looms large, I am reminded

of Audre Lorde, a feminist writer who addressed issues of racism, sexism, and homophobia in

the 20th century. “My silences have not protected me,” Lorde wrote in The Cancer Journals,

“Your silence will not protect you.” 2 Avoidance of uncomfortable conversations comes from

1
Rich, A. (1972). When we dead awaken: Writing as re-vision. College English, 34(1), 18.
https://doi.org/10.2307/375215
2
Lorde, A. (2020). The cancer journals. Penguin books.
self-preservation. Through silence, we prioritize personal ease over addressing systemic issues

— a self-indulgent choice enjoyed by the privileged since time immemorial. Lorde continues,

“But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for

which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to

fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.”

We must not allow anger to be the end of the conversation. Nor should we, in reaction,

stay paralyzed by fear. Anger and fear both signal a primal need unmet, and to address these

needs, we can use such emotions as portals toward more generative conversations.

August arrived, and with it, a scorching heat that made the outdoors uninhabitable. I was

trapped at home in Evanston. For the entire summer, I told everyone I was “writing a thesis”

when I was really just stuck in bed, agonizing over my ordeal.

Misa is a stripper and pole dance instructor. She was introduced to me by Yolanda, the

owner of a popular pole dancing studio in Chicago. As my partner in hosting pole dancing

classes on campus, Yolanda had brought an instructor to teach weekly courses at my pole

dancing organization. Misa was another instructor that Yolanda employed. I was afraid of

offending Misa, for my status as a student researcher from Northwestern suggested I was an

expert on sex work — a notion I painfully knew to be wrong. For two hours before our call, I

laid in bed with my eyes closed, not wanting to be awake yet knowing I could not fall asleep.

When I logged onto Zoom, I saw Misa sitting on her couch at home. Peeking out from

behind the couch was a chrome pole, just like the one in my living room. The familiarity of the

sight soothed me. I introduced my research project on the empowerment and disempowerment in

pole dance, the one for which I had written nothing. Misa nodded, decided to trust me for now,
and jumped into how she has devoted much time towards the inequalities of the pole studio

space.

“They think if they hire a stripper, everything is okay,” Misa informed me. Studio owners

hire sex workers as a statement of solidarity, but often attempt to siphon free labor out of them

without compensation. “They’ll come to me after class and ask about how to approach the ethics

of hiring sex workers, but it’s like, I'm in a handstand right now. This is not the right time.”

She added, “Also, you should pay for that information.”

Misa told me that the salary is not dependent on an instructor’s level of experience. In

spite of her long career teaching and stripping, many of her classes would often be cut out of the

roster. As I listened to her grievances, I started to become keenly aware of the fact that I was not

compensating her for her time. I’m still learning, I reassured myself.

A pole dancer frequently encounters moves that they are unable to pull off. In my first

class, I was taught simple spin moves where my hands, arms, torso, and legs could anxiously

wrap around the pole like a vine afraid of the wind. Back then, the thought that my arms could

hold my entire body weight, that my body could flip upside down, that I could perform the splits

— was utterly unimaginable.

As I leveled up in pole, I saw Morgan every now and then at various classes, so I added

them on Instagram as a friendly way of building my pole community. Their Instagram page

included several story highlights about their preferred pronouns and a reminder to pole

instructors to use gender neutral language. They preferred to take their time with responding, so

instead of a video interview, we texted over Instagram. Our conversation lasted three hours.
 Morgan: “Looking back, I feel like I got started [with pole dancing classes] for the wrong

reasons. I had a rough self image at the time and really hated my body… The person I was dating

at the time mentioned that he had a friend who lost a lot of weight after getting into pole dance,

which was the main reason I started — that plus pole [seemed] really intriguing to me, because at

the time… I was still in the mindset that it was something ‘taboo.’”

Dani: “It sounds like your initial intentions were related to exercise and the novelty of the

sport. I get the feeling that your reason to do pole might be different now?”

On the screen, I could see her typing a response, and I knew she was carefully composing

an answer. After a few minutes, she replied.

Morgan: “Yes. My reason for doing it now is just how good it makes me feel most of the

time. On top of how fun classes are, there are also other things like: the opportunity to meet

really cool people, how my self image and self confidence have improved, how it has opened my

mind with regards to ‘taboo’ topics like sex work since learning about how pole dance as a

sport/art form originated from strippers. I knew that pole was associated with strippers, but I

didn't realize it also originated from strippers. I was one of those people who would get really

defensive if someone asked if I was going to become a stripper because I did pole.”

Morgan pointed out a fundamental problem in the community: many hobbyists love to

pole dance, but hate to be called a stripper. Hobbyists who post pole dancing videos on Instagram

popularized the #notastripper movement, which distances themselves from sex work and

alienates an already marginalized community. The urge to separate pole dance from stripping

comes from internalized misogyny, suggesting that many pole dancing hobbyists are still on a

journey to unlearn their own patriarchal biases.

 Dani: “Could this also relate to what you said earlier, where you felt like you started

doing pole for the wrong reasons?”

Morgan: “I don't think I necessarily had a negative outlook on sex work, but I didn't want

to be associated with strippers. At the same time though, I'm not sure if starting pole because I

wanted to be an ally is the right reason either?”

Over months of training, as new dancers gain strength and confidence, they learn more

advanced moves with fewer contact points. Whereas we once needed our legs to withhold some

of our body weight, we may only need our arms now. Moves that used to require two hands can

be executed with just one hand. To expect new dancers to climb two feet into the air, then invert

and while upside down, effortlessly move into three different variations of the splits, each one

harder than the last, and then gracefully gliding down onto the ground — would be an

unreasonable ask.

Morgan’s story is not unique. Many people come into pole dance ignorant about sex

worker advocacy. But to require them to be perfect advocates from the beginning ignores the

enormity of a journey in confronting and dismantling long-held beliefs and prejudices. The

privacy of this space allows people to show up regardless of where they are on this journey.

I was on the call with Raven, who first started pole dancing at a studio. Her talents were

noticed by Teresa, the owner of the pole studio, and eventually Raven was invited to become an

instructor. Then, Raven started stripping. When she told Teresa, she recalled Teresa expressing

strong disapproval and using performative gestures to express support. This experience solidified

in Raven a long-lasting disdain against pole dancers who are not sex workers.
 “Every single time I hear a conversation about pole dancers wanting to support

[strippers],” Raven began, “It's always this conversation about like, ‘Oh, we should all go on a

studio trip and go to the club and throw singles — and blah, blah, blah.’”

She leaned into the camera and continued, “That's great. I love that for us. But pole

[hobbyists] don't understand that we are not the same. We don't do the same work. Yes, I do

dance on a pole while I'm at work, but I don't get to do it just 'cause it's fun. I have to pay my

bills at the end of the night. Nobody’s asking those questions. Nobody’s having those

conversations. They're just like, ‘Oh yeah, we'll come and give you $20.’ Sure, but where does

the fundamental understanding come in about what I go through?”

I nodded and responded, “I'm hearing that people of privilege often don't understand what

it’s like to pole dance when it’s a financial necessity.”

“Yeah, they don’t get it,” Raven said.

At the time, I had finished interviewing a few pole hobbyists, and I was thinking about

how people might need to be eased into a journey towards advocacy. I pitched to Raven my

running hypothesis. “I'm thinking about pole dancers who aren’t sex workers. It's almost an act

of bravery to go into a pole studio for the first time, because there's stigma in the act of pole

dancing. A lot of what we do would make people of conservative cultures blush.” I saw her nod,

so I continued. “I'm wondering if that intimidating experience on top of the need to ally with sex

workers might enhance the tension. When we educate hobbyists, how do we alleviate the

pressure of this process while recognizing the urgency of sex worker issues?”

She sat back, gathering her thoughts, then murmured, “The fact that a lot of strippers

can't even go into a studio and feel comfortable… Just start by making it not such a weird thing
for strippers to be in a studio space. I think it's more about being comfortable in having a

conversation that isn't based on judgment around strippers and what they do for money.”

I nodded, taking down notes, but as she went on, her words grew more and more heated,

and her gestures became animated. She continued, “It's more about acknowledgement.

Recognition. There doesn't need to be this shame because… saying, ‘Oh, you're brave for pole

dancing’ [makes it look like] what we do for work is bad. Because that's the only reason that

someone would be scared or ashamed to go into a studio, right? Because you don't want to be

synonymous with a stripper.”

The rest of the interview did not go well. She kept staring at me with resentment, her

head tilted to the side with the eyes of a viper, waiting for me to say something wrong.

I thought I had grown as a listener, thinker, and advocate. I was the founding president of

a pole dancing organization. Every week, I hosted pole dancing events. I interviewed sex

workers, strippers, and pole dancers. I should be better at this by now, I thought.

After my interview with Raven, I changed my script. Before I began any interview, I

made sure to mention, “Disclaimer: I’m still in the process of learning about what cultural

responsibility and allyship mean to myself. If I say anything you disagree with, believe to be

incorrect, or think comes from a place of privilege, please let me know.”

“The irony,” Misa said, “is that I was approached about what to do about sex workers that

are struggling.”

Misa had just lost her home. She had lost all her life savings in the span of a year and a

half, and she was living out of a suitcase. During that time, she would bring her suitcase to the
studio just to teach classes. One day after class, the studio owner approached her and asked,

“What can we do to help sex workers?”

Misa desperately needed someone to support her. The studio should have been her

foremost place of support and safety. Yet, she faced blatant and violent ignorance from a pole

dancing leader who never stopped to ask whether the human in front of them needed help.

People of privilege can make the mistake of treating advocacy as intellectual

entertainment. We are willing to ask insightful questions, articulate sharp observations of daily

life happenings, and critique systemic problems in the abstract. But when we have directly

wronged someone in our life, we do not know how to address the problem in practice.

Avery called in from her garage. Her husband was working off-screen in the same room.

They both worked from home in Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and I could see she lived a

comfortable life. She started taking pole lessons at a studio and eventually worked at the front

desk in exchange for free classes. Now, she teaches private classes and offers them free of cost

for sex workers and low-income individuals.

When I asked around for teachers who are known for sex worker advocacy, I was referred

to Avery. Oftentimes, students will ask her questions about where she stands on sex work. “I

think they're sussing me out and trying to ensure they're learning from someone that isn't

whorephobic,” she reflected. “I give them my stance, and I hope that it's a stance that aligns with

them. As far as I can see, they've stuck around.”

Most of Avery’s students are aware of the need to be sex work positive, but Avery has

also taught students who make inappropriate jokes. During an open pole session, when students

can train without the supervision of an instructor, a woman joked that she gets a free show by
coming to the studio. “That’s disrespectful not only to sex work, but it’s also disrespectful to the

students,” Avery passionately said. “The students aren't there to be ogled. The students are there

to get work done. It's another thing to say that they're there for your pure entertainment.”

After swapping stories about our numerous strange experiences as pole dancers, I said,

“So far, I think we've been talking around the topic of allyship. Do you have a working definition

of allyship?”

“I don't know.” Avery admitted. She embarrassedly laughed, “I really don't know.”

Avery carefully pondered her next words. She continued, “I don't really identify myself

as an ally. I don't tend to use the term because it is vague, and I don't want to be presumptuous as

to whether I'm being helpful. I see pole dance as something that originated from sex work, and

sex work is not inherently wrong in any way. I communicate that to other people, and if someone

considers that allyship, then awesome. But I don't think it's on me to tell other people that I'm an

ally, because it completely depends on whether the subject group feels like I'm being helpful.”

She looked downwards and confessed, “A lot of the time, I don't feel like I'm being

helpful. A lot of the time, I feel really guilty about things.”

The guilt that Avery speaks of is frequently experienced by pole dancers. Subconsciously,

we wonder whether we feel safe and sexy at the expense of the historically marginalized. A pole,

which is our playground to toy with the taboo, is also the site of oppression for many people.

After falling in love with pole, we realize that it is a privilege to experience pole dance as

empowering. When empowerment comes with asterisks, is it truly empowerment?

With a humble demeanor, Avery openly grapples with her struggles about pole dance. As

the go-to expert on advocacy in her community, she honestly acknowledges the unfair power

dynamic that favors non-sex working pole dancers over sex workers. Hyper-aware of the pitfalls
that people of privilege can fall into, she assumes nothing about how effective her work as an

advocate is and always opts to listen and learn.

“Where do you think the guilt is coming from?” I asked.

“Sometimes, it looks like you're just adding to the problem as a pole dancer who doesn't

strip. Within burlesque, there is stripping involved, and I have stripped at events. Does that now

make me a sex worker? Do I count now? Can I stop feeling guilty? I think the guilt comes from

being in a position that potentially continues to harm the marginalized group, and not really

being able to do much as one individual.”

No matter how close Avery gets to stripping, she can never experience what it is like for

people who strip to survive. The gritty guitar riff of the song “Common People” by Pulp starts

playing in my mind. Jarvis Cocker sings about a wealthy college girl who approaches a poor

man, telling him she wants to live like common people. The wealthy and privileged may take up

the image of impoverishment, aligning themselves with the rhetoric of social justice, but they

still remain insulated from the actual pains of deprivation.

In her popular podcast, “Stripped by Sia,” Sia interviews strippers, sex workers, and

everyone in between. The series has been ongoing for nearly five years, touching on topics

ranging from how to advocate for both sex workers and sex trafficking survivors, to realistic

pornography tailored to the female gaze, and sex worker home ownership. She has invested the

time to learn about sex work in a personal and political way that few have.

By this point, I had more questions than answers, and it seemed like Sia might offer some

clarity. Her journey into sex work began in 2013, during the final stages of her undergraduate

studies. A friend introduced her to sugaring, which she initially did not recognize as sex work. “I
had my own whorephobia,” she recalled. “I didn’t want to carry the weight and stigma of being a

sex worker. So I treated [sugaring] like we were going on business lunches. I often got asked a

question, ‘Well, what's the difference between a sugar baby, a prostitute, and an escort?’ It's all

essentially the same thing. Very, very similar at least. But I buried that thought away.”

Near the end of her sugaring career, Sia discovered her passion for pole dancing. While

training for a pole competition, Sia was seeking ways to overcome her nervousness about

performing, and a friend suggested that she participate in amateur night. Amateur nights are

casual pole dancing competitions hosted by strip clubs for non-professionals to perform for fun.

Embracing the recommendation, Sia found unexpected joy in stripping. “Of course, me being

super naive, I didn't even realize you had to take off all your clothes… But it sparked something

in me and I was like, ‘Oh my God, I love performing, and I just love being naked.’”

“I did amateur nights for the next two years. Again, I still had that whorephobia of ‘I

don't want to become a stripper because I work an office job, because I do this, because of that.’

All these reasons… I had a couple years to process that while doing amateur nights and then

finally took the plunge in 2018 to go into the stripping industry. At that time, [I also went] into

other forms of sex work as well, such as camming, online sex work, and Only Fans.”

“That was my entry point into [stripping].” She looked off into the distance, remembering

her past self, and reflected, “Yeah, lots of denial, feelings of shame, feelings of stigma.”

Having grappled with her own whorephobia for years, Sia possessed a profound

understanding of the challenges people may encounter when untangling their own internalized

shame. She expressed compassion for pole dancers who are still struggling to understand sex

work, for she knew that this journey takes time. “For women and queer people who have never

thought about sex work,” I said, “It seems like they're unprepared for the level of responsibility
that is expected of them to be in this space. I've been having consecutive interviews with sex

workers and hobbyists, and there is a huge difference in their life experiences. The anger from

sex workers is completely valid, but at the same time, these students — they've never thought

about this. How do you educate on sex work while upholding the safety of this space for students

to grapple with their own biases and shame?”

Sia responded, “Education doesn't have to come with a scolding. It comes with a

conversation or a correction, perhaps. If I hear some [inappropriate] statement, I will use that as

an opportunity to not be reactive and educate from an empathetic point of view. [When I teach]

classes, I usually take the time to say, ‘Hey, I'm an actual stripper. You're learning from someone

who actually does these moves on stage.’ I spend 30 seconds to a minute to pay homage to the

people that were there before me because my former teachers were also strippers. It's carrying on

a lineage that ties your experience to the history of pole dance. And that deepens this craft

because you're thinking about how sacred it is that it came from strippers.”

I nodded and said, “I remember interviewing one person who has performed in burlesque

shows, which is adjacent to sex work. She asked herself, ‘Okay, I strip in burlesque. Do I count

as a sex worker now?’ I remember that because it crystallizes the self questioning that pole

dancers often experience in this space.”

“Yeah, that is really interesting [because she seemed to have had] this ‘aha!’ moment. For

me, that came in 2018, when I won amateur night at Brandy's. The agency was just begging me

to work for them. At that moment, I wanted it. I felt good. I was ready to do it. But even still, it

wasn’t until this year that I actually fully embraced myself being a stripper. I had the ‘aha!’

moment in 2018, but I still had so much learning to do.”

“What were the experiences that led to the transformation this year?”
 “Well, one, the podcast. Listening and interviewing with so many people. And then, just

doing the work. I was a baby stripper for so long. I didn't have the full exposure being in the

changing room, being with the customer. That work experience helped me a lot. Now I feel super

comfortable, talk freely, and feel proud to be a stripper.”

Hearing that prominent figures like Sia, who are well-respected in the pole community,

also experience inner conflict, reassures us that experiencing this struggle is normal. We may

require years, a decade, or even a lifetime to unlearn the preconceptions and stigma we bear.

Similarly, people we meet may be at different stages of this journey, and giving them the space to

grow can lead to richer, more meaningful conversations.

A pole is a simple apparatus. A mere thin, metal rod, it belies the complexity of the

narratives and emotions it can evoke in people. Without given any context, a passerby may

glance at a pole and, looking at its humble, unadorned appearance, draw a blank at what it could

possibly be used for. Maybe some support structure for the building?

But the imagination goes wild when thinking of a “woman” and a pole. Suddenly, the

pole becomes the epicenter of lust, violence, shame, silence, and rage. And perhaps because of

this legacy, pole can become the birthplace of love and compassion, for only by confronting our

disempowerment, both collective and personal, can we learn how to find true empowerment.