Ready or Not

Ready or Not . . . ?
Teen Sexuality and the Troubling

Discourse of Readiness
CATHERINE ASHCRAFT
University of Colorado, Boulder
In this article, I explore how talk about being “ready” or “not ready” for sex shapes teen and
adult understandings of sexuality. I argue that this “discourse of readiness” poses serious
threats to teens’ identity development, sexual decision making, and educators efforts to help
them through these processes. To illustrate, I draw from my nine-month ethnography, exam-
ining how participants used readiness discourses to make sense of their sexualities. I suggest
implications for educators, policy makers, and researchers in anthropology and education.
[sexuality, virginity, schooling, youth identity, equity]
And I think definitely don’t have sex until you’re ready, I know everybody says that, but
don’t have sex until you know when you don’t have to ask yourself, oh, am I ready to have
sex? Where you’re just like, yeah, I’m ready to have sex, you know?
—Peer educator, ESPERANZA sex-education program
When it comes to sexuality, adults and youth alike frequently talk about being
“ready” or “not ready” for sex. As the above peer educator notes, “everybody says it.”
And everyone else pretends to know what it means. I suggest, however, that this
unexamined discourse of “readiness” hinders teens’ abilities to make sense of their
sexual experiences and prevents adolescents and adults from having meaningful
conversations about sexuality. In unfolding this argument, this article extends previ-
ous research in anthropology and cultural studies that illustrates how other domi-
nant discourses of sexuality (e.g., romance or virginity) shape youth identities in
ways that reinforce social inequities.1 Taken together, this research has illustrated
how sexuality influences students’ schooling, economic choices, and social relation-
ships, often in nuanced ways that differently marginalize youth of color, working-
class youth, and female youth. These are not seamless processes of reproduction nor
are teens merely unwitting dupes of these dominant discourses. Indeed, youth fre-
quently resist or challenge these forces, producing revised cultural expressions.
Because schooling is one arena that significantly shapes and is shaped by sexual-
ity, it also possesses powerful potential for intervening in the production of teen sex-
ualities. As such, a number of recent scholars urge schools to help adolescents
interrogate these discourses and to develop their sexualities in more liberating ways
(e.g., Connell 1996; Epstein and Johnson 1998; Trudell 1993). Indeed, the need to
address these issues with adolescents grows more urgent in an era of increased anx-
iety over teen pregnancy, sexually transmitted diseases, and HIV/AIDS.
Anthropology and Education Quarterly, Vol. 37, No. 4, pp. 328–346, ISSN 0161-7761, online ISSN 1548-1492.
© 2006 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. Direct all requests for permission
to photocopy or reproduce article content through the University of California Press’s Rights and
Permissions website, www.ucpress.edu/journals/rights.htm.
328
Ashcraft Ready or Not . . . ? 329
This article, then, enhances this research illustrating how the unexamined dis-
course of “readiness” hampers educators’ efforts to help teens negotiate more liber-
ating sexualities. I argue that it does so in at least three ways. First, it can shut down
educators’ well-intentioned attempts to address the relational dynamics that shape
teens’ sexual identities and decision making. Although it appears to respect individ-
ual decision making, the taken-for-granted notion that “only you can decide when
you are ready” silences conversations about these aspects of sexuality, maintaining a
focus on the biological. Second, this discourse fosters unrealistic expectations for sex-
ual encounters and prevents teens from asking important questions when these
expectations are not met—questions that might lead them to interrogate patterns of
inequity. Finally, although these problems can affect male and female teens, the readi-
ness discourse intersects with romance and virginity discourses in ways that produce
nuanced challenges for white female teens and female teens of color. To make this
argument, I first situate this study within previous research in sexuality, schooling,
and youth identity.
Sexuality and Youth Identity

Scholars in anthropology have long recognized how individual subjects draw
from cultural and linguistic resources to construct their identities and how these
identities contribute to the reproduction or transformation of the social order (e.g.,
Holland and Eisenhart 1990; McRobbie 1978; Willis 1977). In particular, recent femi-
nist, critical race, and cultural studies scholars argue that sexuality plays a pivotal
role in structuring these inequitable social relations (e.g., Epstein and Johnson 1998;
Fine 1992; Hurtado 2003; Valenzuela 1999). For example, many of these studies have
documented the pervasive silences around female desire. Although girls are given
frequent instructions on how to say “no,” the information is rather sparse when it
comes to what to do if they wish to say “yes” (Fine 1992). This lack of information
reinforces dichotomies between “bad” girls who want “it” and “good” girls who do
not. With little positive acknowledgment of the ways in which they might enjoy sex
or their sexuality, girls are left to decipher these feelings on their own, wondering if
they are the only ones who have them.
Discourses of romance and virginity further bolster these dichotomies between
“good” and “bad” girls. Girls who allow intimacy without receiving “good treatment”
are labeled “bad” girls (Holland and Eisenhart 1990). Likewise, virginity discourses
promise sexual and emotional safety to “good” girls who wait to “give it up” until
they find “true love” or at least a “special someone” who cares about them. These
dominant narratives also position males and females as adversaries in a sexual game,
in which boys endlessly pursue “it” while girls fight to keep from giving “it” away
(Sapon-Shevin and Goodman 1992). Faced with these complex social scripts, girls
“spend enormous amounts of time trying to ‘save it,’ ‘lose it,’ convince others that they
have lost or saved it, or trying to be ‘discreet’ instead of focusing their energies in ways
that are sexually autonomous, responsible and pleasurable” (Fine 1992:39).
The dilemmas these scripts create are also complicated by discourses of race and
class.2 For example, researchers have shown how the “goodness” of white women
has historically rested on the equation of sexuality with black women or other
women of color (Collins 1991; Tolman 1996). This dichotomy simultaneously erases
white women’s desire and positions women of color as immoral or promiscuous.
330 Anthropology & Education Quarterly Volume 37, 2006
Along these lines, Rolon-Dow (2004) illustrates how teachers and other authority fig-
ures are more likely to perceive the behaviors of Puerto Rican girls as “oozing with
sexuality” even though white girls often engage in similar behavior. Other researchers
have documented additional negative perceptions when other girls of color do not
conform to white images of “appropriate” femininities (Fisherkeller 1997; Lei 2003;
White 1999). Similarly, societal discourses about the “urban girl” construct her as a
promiscuous girl of color who “bears the brunt of society’s collective anxiety” regard-
ing adolescent sexuality (Tolman 1996:260). These “controlling images” (Collins 1991)
place pressures on “real” urban girls who feel they have to distance themselves from
such images or “vigilantly watch” how others perceive them (Taylor 1996; Tolman
1996). Such pressures significantly complicate these girls’ ability to make sexual
choices or to express sexual desire.
Girls of color also face other cultural and familial pressures that shape their sexu-
ality in unique ways. For example, researchers have illustrated how some Latinas
face religious and cultural discourses that stress—in ways both similar to and differ-
ent from white discourses—idealized versions of womanhood, the importance of vir-
ginity, Madonna-whore dichotomies, and culturally specific versions of traditional
gender roles (e.g., Gonzalez-Lopez 2004; Hurtado 2003; Zavella 2003). Other researchers
also note how some Latinas (particularly recent immigrants) encounter familial dis-
courses that encourage them to distance themselves from more “Americanized”
Latinas or white girls who are characterized as more sexually “loose” (Hurtado 2003;
Valenzuela 1999). These girls then face unique tensions between expressing sexual
desire and maintaining their cultural identities and familial networks. While recog-
nizing these influences is important, it is equally important to recognize that an
“overemphasis on these categories of analysis may promote inaccurate images of
Latinas and Latinos” (Gonzalez-Lopez 2004:1128). Indeed, these narratives operate as
permeable “cultural templates” that are subject to revision as women see both the
regressive elements and the places for resistance (e.g., Hurtado 2003; Zavella 2003).
In addition to these dynamics, many researchers have noted how romance dis-
courses also function to make some girls content with lower academic or career
achievement in the hopes of finding fulfillment in marriage or relationships (e.g.,
Holland and Eisenhart 1990; McRobbie 1978). In contrast, Valenzuela (1999) docu-
ments how romantic relationships often increase some Latinas proschool orientation.
Indeed, these relationships sometimes provide a sense of support or solidarity, mak-
ing an otherwise alienating school environment somewhat palatable. In doing so,
these relationships sometimes increase girls’ interest and attention to academics;
however, this usually happens in ways that benefit their boyfriends’ academic
achievement at the expense of their own. In other studies, some girls of color and
working-class girls recognize inconsistencies between the discourse of romance and
their life expectations (Cowie and Lees 1981; White 1999). Although they hope for
love in their relationships, they do not expect that marriage guarantees this. In con-
trast to many middle-class white girls, then, romance does not lead them into mar-
riage; rather, they turn to romance when the financial difficulties they face make
marriage necessary (Cowie and Lees 1981; Lichenstein 2000; Stone and McKee 2000).
Interestingly, discourses of virginity have taken what appears to be a more “gen-
der equitable” turn since the early 1990s. The advent of HIV/AIDS has sparked a
frenzy of public rhetoric around a renewed “cult of virginity” that frames chastity as
a health virtue for both males and females (Lichtenstein 2000). Although some still
promote this “new” virginity primarily on religious or moral grounds, health profes-
sionals promote it as a matter of health and safety. In addition to framing virginity as
desirable for both genders, this revised virginity discourse stresses self-control and per-
sonal choice. In exercising these choices, the newer virgin is seen as strong and assertive
in matters of sexuality as opposed to the more passive, naive virgins of old. Although this
version of virginity might be more equitable in some ways, it ignores how socioeconomic
conditions and discourses of race, class, or gender shape one’s “choices,” as well as the
ability to be “assertive” in exercising such choices (Lichtenstein 2000; White 1999).
Sexuality and Schooling

These complicated discourses of sexuality profoundly shape teens’ developing iden-
tities, as well as their experiences with and performance in schools. At the same time,
schooling significantly shapes adolescent sexualities, drawing from and reproducing
the above discourses of sexuality (e.g., Connell 1996; Epstein and Johnson 1998). As
such, schooling can also intervene in the production of oppressive sexualities (Connell
1996). Currently, however, schools and educators see sexuality as a distraction to student
learning—a distraction that is best ignored or relegated to peripheral sex-education
programs (Rolon-Dow 2004; Trudell 1993). These programs focus almost exclusively on
biological, clinical information in an effort to accomplish utilitarian goals, such as
reducing teen pregnancy, STDs, and HIV/AIDS (Luttrell 2003; Trudell 1993). Such a
focus frames teen sexuality only as a “problem” to be solved. And to “solve” it, teens
are offered universal rules about how to say no, how to have safe sex, when to have sex,
and when not to have sex (Morris 1997; Trudell 1993). These sorts of rigid rules ignore
teens’ inner experiences and do not account for how these experiences are shaped by a
subject’s location among intersecting discourses of gender, race, class, sexual orientation,
and youth (Ward and Taylor 1992).
To remedy this state of affairs, educators and other adults need to develop cur-
riculum and practices that incorporate these missing conversations about the rela-
tional and power-laden dynamics that shape sexuality (Fine 1992; Rolon-Dow 2004;
Trudell 1993). Although some sites have attempted to do so, to date, these sites are
rare. As such, we know little about what happens when adults and teens attempt to
navigate these complex issues of sexuality. The purpose of the larger study from
which this analysis is drawn was to extend our understanding in this area, exploring
how one such site, ESPERANZA, attempted to challenge traditional ways of talking
about teen sexuality. Indeed, in many ways, ESPERANZA offered a rare and rich
resource for investigating how we might work toward these possibilities.3 First, it
consciously attempted to address some of the problems identified in existing sex-
education programs. Second, as a peer-education program, it employed youth cul-
ture to make its messages more relevant. Third, it targeted Latino/a youth and other
youth of color and involved them in efforts to promote social justice. In conducting
the larger study, then, I was interested in the following questions: (1) In what ways
do the participants in ESPERANZA disrupt dominant sexuality discourses or tradi-
tional ways of talking about sexuality with teens? (2) In what ways are these chal-
lenges limited or involved in reproducing other discourses? (3) How do teens make
sense of these challenges and what are the implications for their sexual identities?
(4) What are the implications for developing more transformative schooling practices
to address teen sexuality?
Elsewhere, I explore how ESPERANZA often succeeded in engaging teens in pow-
erful conversations that challenged traditional ways of talking about sexuality with
teens (Ashcraft 2006). During this study, however, I became interested in the par-
ticipants’ use of talk about being “ready for sex” and how this talk often seemed to
limit the transformative potential of these conversations. In what follows, then, I
focus on the second and third research questions as I look at how the “discourse of
readiness” sometimes derailed complex discussions of sexuality.
Methods: Research Context and Participants and Data Sources and Analysis
Research Context and Participants
Located in a large western city, ESPERANZA is an STD, HIV/AIDS, and teen preg-
nancy prevention program that employs teen educators who provide workshops, pre-
vention theater, and street outreach to urban youth. Founded in 1987, ESPERANZA is
one of several programs offered by a nonprofit organization that aims to “advance
self-sufficiency for primarily low-income Latinas and youth” (organization’s literature).
The larger organization was founded by eight Latina mothers who “sought a
supportive place” where women could complete their education . . . and where their
children could get help in school. ESPERANZA is one of two programs that are run by
and for youth (with the help of adult facilitators). Although ESPERANZA retains a
focus on Latino/a teens, it also aims to include a range of diverse urban teens.
The program participants during the course of my study included a Latino pro-
gram director, a Latino project specialist, a white female project specialist, and 14 Peer
Educators (PEs) ages 16–21. The PEs comprised five Latinos, five Latinas, two African
American females, one white male, and one white female. The teens came from a
range of class backgrounds, a majority of them from lower-income households. Two
of the peer educators identified as gay. Approximately one-third of the PEs reported
receiving above-average grades while in school. Another third described themselves
as being average or as having some difficulties with school. The final third experi-
enced one or more criteria that would place them in traditionally labeled “at-risk”
categories (e.g., significantly below grade level in literacy, spent time in detention
centers, or first in family to finish high school). Many of the PEs had also experienced
other circumstances that complicate chances for future academic or economic success
(e.g., teen pregnancy or first in family to attend college).
Interestingly, these PEs described themselves as relatively apathetic about sexuality
education when first arriving at ESPERANZA. In fact, exactly half of the PEs I inter-
viewed did not even know the program was about sex before signing up to audition.
Instead, they describe finding out about the program in haphazard ways (e.g., riding
home with a friend who was auditioning, hearing there was a theater component, or
looking for a job). Only three of the PEs reported joining because of a personal or
familial experience with sex, pregnancy, or STDs.
To become peer educators, teens audition in small groups with a team of current
PEs and an adult facilitator. The group is asked to respond to a few open-ended ques-
tions regarding a wide range of general topics (e.g., who is your favorite hero and
why). This is followed by a “take a stand” activity where candidates discuss whether
they agree or disagree with a few statements more specifically about sexuality (e.g., a
mother should not be able to get an abortion if the father objects). The interview con-
cludes with candidates being assigned a scenario that they are to improvise or role
play. During these interviews, the team makes it clear that they are not looking for
“correct” answers but rather the ability to justify one’s view and an ability to listen to
others’ views. Indeed, they explicitly tell candidates that it is acceptable to hold dif-
ferent opinions on abortion, for example, as long as they do not allow this to limit the
factual information, referrals, or other services they offer to students (see Ashcraft
n.d. for more detail).
Once hired, the PEs receive approximately 20 hours of training in anatomy and
reproduction, STDs and HIV/AIDS, prevention methods, pregnancy, self-esteem,
and healthy relationships. The training is similar to the presentations that the PEs
ultimately will be asked to deliver.
Data Sources and Analysis

I collected the ethnographic data for this study from August 2001–May 2002, during
which time, I spent 160 hours in observations and interviews. I observed presenta-
tions and performances given in local public schools and other community organiza-
tions, weekly PE meetings, trainings, and more informal occasions such as rehearsals,
script revisions, and social events. I also collected the curriculum and other docu-
ments distributed by ESPERANZA. In addition, I interviewed the two adult facilita-
tors, the program director, and the 14 PEs. Interviews lasted from 60–90 minutes and
were audio-taped and transcribed.
Data were then analyzed using a combination of ethnographic and discourse ana-
lytic methods (Mechling and Mechling 1999; Spradley 1980). Field notes and other
documents were read and initial codes were determined to identify common categories
or themes (e.g., “representations of femininity,” “talk about readiness” (Spradley 1980;
Strauss 1987). Interview transcripts were also analyzed, categorizing segments of talk
according to the identified codes. I then more closely analyzed specific segments of talk
to better understand how speakers drew on broader societal discourses. In doing so, I
looked for the following elements common in discourse analysis (Mechling and
Mechling 1999): (1) how speakers draw on “common sense” understandings from the
wider sociocultural context; (2) speakers’ language choices and how these construct
particular meanings, excluding others; (3) how speakers link certain meanings; (4) which
meanings speakers challenge, how they do so, and to what effects; and (5) what is left
unsaid. This was followed by a period of collecting contrast data to test and refine
initial codes and assertions. I then used a variety of componential analyses (Spradley
1980) to juxtapose different codes and the contexts in which they occurred (e.g., “talk
about readiness” in formal presentations, informal interviews).
Representational Concerns
Many critical and poststructuralist scholars have drawn attention to important
concerns about the representation of participants in ethnographic research (e.g., Code
1993; Roman 1992). The primary concern is that in attempting to tell participants’ sto-
ries, researchers appropriate these voices and unwittingly reproduce power imbal-
ances. As such, it is important to consider my own subject position and how this
influenced my relationships with participants and the process of data collection and
analysis. As a former public school teacher, I became interested in studying teen
sexuality as I witnessed its pervasive influence in teens’ lives. This seemed an impor-
tant topic to address, but I often felt ill-prepared to do so. To better understand these
issues, I went to work for a battered women’s shelter and began implementing dating-
violence programs in local urban schools. This experience and my earlier teaching
experience served me well in building relationships with the teens in this study.
Likewise, the PEs were accustomed to interacting with adults. Our past experiences
with talking about sexuality probably made all of us more at ease discussing such
topics. The semistructured nature of many of the program’s events also allowed time
for bantering and informal conversation. As a result, all of the participants seemed
relatively comfortable with me by the time I conducted individual interviews.
Still, as a white, middle-class woman in her mid-thirties, I differed from a major-
ity of the participants, especially in terms of race and class. This certainly made me
an “outsider” to their life experiences. At the same time, there were also some points
of intersection with participants in terms of gender and class. Likewise, I grew up in
a conservative religious culture that often paralleled the influence of Catholicism in
some of the participants’ lives, particularly in terms of views on sex, virginity, and
women’s roles (Hurtado 2003). These points of difference and intersection certainly
predispose me to understand some experiences more than others and prevent me
from fully understanding the lived experiences of any of the participants.
In offering the following analyses, then, I first present the conversations as they
occurred, followed by my analysis using the tools of critical discourse analysis. I have
chosen this approach because uncritically privileging participants’ voices can over-
look the material conditions in which these voices emerge and the ways they may be
complicit with oppressive practices (e.g., Roman 1992). However, maintaining a deep
respect for participants’ intellectual and political capacities is also important (Roman
1992). I actively maintain this dual perspective, exploring how teens creatively navi-
gate sexuality in complex ways. To do so, I also conducted “member checks,” shar-
ing my analysis with participants and receiving feedback. Even so, I do not claim that
this is the only interpretation of these conversations. Neither do I claim that this
study is representative of teen perspectives on readiness. Indeed, I would encourage
future research to explore a wider array of teens’ understandings of readiness.
Ready or Not? Examining the Discourse

Shutting Down the Conversation
Roughly 20 high school students file into the public school health classroom. Amid
the bustle, three ESPERANZA PEs and an adult facilitator quickly finish some last-
minute preparations for the Prevention Methods Presentation. After a few moments,
they begin the presentation, introducing themselves casually to the curious audience.
One of the PEs explains the purpose of the presentation as follows:
I mean, we’re not here to tell you to have sex . . . but we’re not here to tell you not to. And
we’re just here to let you make sure that when you do have sex and when you’re ready to have
sex—no matter when that is—that you’re safe and that you know what’s out there. [empha-
sis mine]
In these remarks, the PE reassures the audience that it is up to them to decide when
they are ready for sex and that ESPERANZA is simply there to help them when they
decide—”no matter when that is.” On the one hand, this initial disclaimer, frequently
offered at the beginning of ESPERANZA presentations, functions to value teen deci-

sion making and to assure the audience that the presenters are not going to prescribe
appropriate behaviors. On the other hand, acknowledging “no matter when that is”
begs the rather crucial question, “And exactly when is that?” How can one tell when
he or she is ready? What does being ready mean?
Brief comments made by PEs and adults during the remainder of the presentations
provide some guidance on this matter—at least in terms of what readiness is not. For
example, adult facilitators and PEs frequently make quick observations such as “just
because you start becoming a sexual being doesn’t mean you’re ready” or “simply
having a condom doesn’t mean you’re ready to have sex.” Likewise, in interviews,
when I explicitly asked PEs to elaborate on readiness, a general sense of what it is not
also dominated the explanations. One PE’s comments succinctly summarized these
explanations: “I think that people mean like, don’t let other people define it for you,
or don’t let your boyfriend say, ‘oh yeah, we’re ready, duh,’ or ‘it’s not because it’s
been six months,’ like it’s not a time period.”
Although helpful, the emphasis on what readiness is not still leaves open the ques-
tion of what it is. This was never discussed in detail in the presentations I observed.
Interestingly, one PE’s interview comments offered a potential explanation for this
lack of discussion:
Peer I think that people trying to figure out . . . when they’re ready and who they’re
Educator: going to be ready with and is that person ready and I mean like there’s just so
many things to consider that like being able to offer them just a little bit of help
is really important . . .
Author: So how do you help with that kind of, all that stuff that you just mentioned, all
those complicated things?
PE: Well, I mean, they kind of have to decide that on their own, and I think that once
they make those decisions . . . then there’s a whole other group of more techni-
cal things they have to consider . . . like getting tested, using a condom, using
birth control. . . . And I think those are like the more technical, kind of more tangi-
ble things that they have to deal with once they make the decisions that only they can
make themselves. [emphasis mine]
Although she also does not elaborate on what “readiness” is, she certainly cap-
tures the complexity of deciding whether or not one is “ready,” noting that people
have to figure out “when they’re ready, who they’re going to be ready with” and so on.
Arguably, one might conclude that teens could benefit from assistance in navigating
such complex decisions. Instead, however, the conclusion is that, because this deci-
sion is so complicated, no one else can help; everyone must simply decide for them-
selves. As she notes, ESPERANZA can help with “the more technical, kind of more
tangible things” that teens need to know “once they make the decisions that only they
can make themselves.” In this case, then, the assumption—that “only you can deter-
mine readiness” ironically shuts down exploration of what being ready means, mak-
ing one of the most difficult decisions of all virtually undiscussable. As such, invoking
the readiness discourse in this manner can effectively silence talk about the more rela-
tional aspects of sexuality.
Certainly a number of other sociopolitical barriers (e.g., funding or time con-
straints, parental objections) also contribute to the lack of such discussion. Although
addressing these barriers is beyond the scope of this article, it is certainly important
to do so if educators are to attend to the more relational aspects of sexuality (for more
discussion of these barriers, see Ashcraft in press; Epstein and Johnson 1998; Trudell
1993). My point here, however, is that by relegating the relational dynamics of sexual-
ity to the realm of private, individual decision making, the discourse of readiness actu-
ally provides a rationale for not even attempting to address these larger sociopolitical
barriers. In other words, the insidious assumption that individuals must decide
“readiness” on their own can make it seem only natural—even preferable—that edu-
cators focus on the “technical and tangible” aspects, letting individuals “decide for
themselves” when it comes to the relational realm of sexuality. Although it appears to
respect individual decision making, then, this taken-for-granted assumption but-
tresses the disturbing but dominant societal notion that “teens’ genitals are a matter of
public concern but their souls are none of our business” (Bernstein and Kirby 1995:47).
Expecting the Unattainable

I am not suggesting, however, that discussing or defining “readiness” would
necessarily be the appropriate remedy. In fact, a second, more fundamental problem
arises in the assumption that it is even possible to know whether one is “ready” or
not. Suggesting that this is possible can foster unrealistic expectations for sex and
reproduce social inequities by limiting the ways one makes sense of their sexual
experiences. Consider the following comments made by a white male PE during an
interview, “The second you have sex with them, if you’re not ready, it’s going to
send all kinds of shit through your head. . . . I was like, ‘Did I do it right?’ ‘Am I not
good enough?’ And I think definitely don’t have sex until you’re ready.” Of course,
one might argue that even if you are “ready,” “all kinds of shit” will still go
“through your head.” Other PEs also offer similar warnings during presentations
noting, “Sex is not just physical; there can be mental consequences if you are not
ready.” But certainly, there can “be mental consequences” even if you are “ready”
or, perhaps more accurately, there are always mental consequences. By implying
otherwise, however, this discourse presumes a formula that fosters unrealistic
expectations for sexual encounters.
In addition, rather than helping people before they have sex, this formula encour-
ages people to retroactively “diagnose” their readiness. Consider the following
exchange in my interview with a Latina PE as she explains why she is glad she did
not have sex:
PE: I think it would have been a really bad decision on my part because I would have felt
like I gave him something that I couldn’t take back . . . like I almost consider virginity
as one of the few things you have that’s yours . . . so I think that it’s really important
to be able to decide for yourself when you’re ready . . .
A: And so what, what would it look like then in your imagination if you were to have sex
and it not be a mistake . . . ?
PE: It not being a mistake would be where you really cared about that person and they
really cared about you . . . and it wasn’t just them getting laid, it wasn’t something that
they could tell their friends and be like, “hell yeah, man.” You know, like it’s some-
thing that they really appreciated [emphasis added]
In these remarks, this PE comes closer to clarifying what one example of readiness
might be—waiting to have sex with “someone who really cared about you,” If, however,
he ends up telling his friends and being “like, hell yeah, man,” then you have made a
mistake—you were not ready. Unfortunately, if this is the definition of “readiness” or

“mistake” then determining your “readiness” is actually based on someone else’s
actions after the fact. In practice, then, “readiness” turns out to have little to do with
you, your state of mind, or your desires and everything to do with the other person’s
behavior—something you can not possibly know ahead of time. Furthermore, the
“natural” remedy becomes “trying harder” next time to figure out if “you are ready.”
This, however, precludes one from considering that, perhaps, he or she is attempting
to do something that is, in fact, impossible.
Finally, this formula can prevent one from considering other explanations for why
a particular encounter might have gone awry. Without easy access to the explanation
“I was not ready,” individuals might entertain other explanations. For example, per-
haps it went awry because of problematic ideas about gender roles, sex, or relation-
ships. As such, defaulting to the readiness formula can prevent people from asking
important questions about how scripts of masculinity, femininity, race, class, and sex-
ual orientation might contribute to these interactions—questions that might ulti-
mately challenge these reproductive processes.
Exploring complexities: At the Intersection of Readiness,

Romance, and Virginity Discourses
Certainly both females and males may confront the above problems, particularly
in light of the newer “cult of virginity” that encourages both sexes to wait until they
are “ready.” As the above PE comments suggest, however, “readiness” is complicated
by virginity and romance discourses, and by the ways these discourses differ in terms
of race and class. These intersections pose a range of nuanced difficulties for white
female teens and for female teens of color. Some of these difficulties poignantly man-
ifested in an interview with another Latina PE as she recalled some of the questions
she considered after her first sexual experience. Although it is important not to over-
generalize from her experience, many recent Chicana scholars have also highlighted
the importance of learning from young Latinas’ creativity and cultural intuition in
negotiating these competing cultural scripts (Delgado-Bernal 2002, Hurtado 2003;
Zavella 2003). This PE’s account, then, demonstrates how one Latina artfully negoti-
ates these complex and contradictory experiences. She began with the following rec-
ollection of the first time she had sex:
PE: It was how I planned it. I knew it was with somebody very, very special. We’re not
together anymore and that’s been something really, really hard for me to accept, but
now I also understand the emotional side of doing something like that.
A: So you plan now to wait? (she had mentioned this earlier)
PE: Yeah, it was, I go back to my original plan, you know? People learn the hard way.
A: Is that because of your experience?
PE: Yeah, it was, see I don’t regret that I did it. I don’t regret that, I just regret the situation
I’m in now, which is that we’re not together and I always thought that the person who
I would share that with or give to . . . I knew they’d appreciate it every second and I’m
not so sure he does appreciate it. . . . I mean, I think at the moment and at the time I did
[think he appreciated it], but I might have been blinded by feelings . . . but now I . . . I
can’t really consider it a mistake because it was with somebody that I really, really
loved . . . and it was what I wanted . . .
Because the relationship did not end well, the readiness formula encourages her to
interpret her decision as a mistake—as an example of what happens when you are
not ready. Dominant virginity and romance discourses reinforce this interpretation,
promising “true love” to those who wait for someone special. She draws on these dis-
courses when she notes that maybe this was a mistake she had to “learn the hard
way.” At the same time, however, she attempts to forge an alternative explanation,
noting “but I can’t really consider it a mistake.” Interestingly, she justifies this deci-
sion as “not a mistake” in two ways. First, she notes that it was with someone “really,
really special,” which at least partially fulfills virginity discourses. However, she goes
on to assert “and it was what I wanted,” highlighting her desire. In so doing, she chal-
lenges the readiness formula by evaluating the worth of this encounter in terms of
what she wanted, rather than in terms of his behavior after the fact. She goes on to
explain her conflicted feelings in more depth:
PE: . . . like the girl in me wants to be like, “Oh a typical guy.” But then the real me wants to
be like, “You understand how he feels and you shouldn’t listen to anything else because you
know.” . . . We got to that level. I would have to say he’s the only boyfriend I ever had that
actually knew me . . . like everything could be going wrong and I’ll have a smile on my face
and he’d be like, “What’s wrong?”. . . My best friends wouldn’t know and he would . . . so
part of me just wants to be like, “You know he appreciated it, maybe he just wasn’t ready.
You know how much it meant for him,” but another sense of me just needs to know, like I
need to hear that.
In these poignant reflections, the readiness discourse is bolstered by dominant

representations of male sexuality as predatory and female sexuality as naive. On
the one hand, she feels pulled toward this interpretation when she notes “the girl
in me wants to be like, ‘Oh, a typical guy.’ “ On the other hand, she resists this
reading insisting “the real me wants to be like, ‘You understood how he feels and
you shouldn’t listen to anything else.’ “ The readiness discourse, however, in tan-
dem with romance and virginity discourses, make it difficult for this alternative
interpretation to “stick”—even in her own mind. In the end, she admits that
although she knows “how much it meant to him, another sense of me just needs to
know.” If she knew that it meant something to him she could validate her experi-
ence within these discourses rather than facing the ominous task of inventing new
language. Without these discourses, however, these would not even be necessary
questions to ask.
That these discourses shake her faith in the validity of this relationship may also
have consequences in terms of her cultural experiences in school. In her study of
Latino/a youth experiences with schooling, Valenzuela (1999) notes how romantic
relationships often provide Latinas important social support in an otherwise alien-
ating school environment. And, indeed, this PE often expressed feeling culturally
isolated and misunderstood at school. In addition, in the above remarks, she notes
that, unlike even her best friends, her boyfriend “actually knew” her and could tell
when “everything could be going wrong.” This then may be another factor driv-
ing her “need to know.” To the extent that readiness discourses shake her faith
regarding the validity of the relationship, they may also increase her sense of alien-
ation in school.
And these excruciating questions become more complicated as other people hold
her accountable to these discourses. She went on to describe her friends’ reactions:
PE: So it’s kind of like I’ve lost something, and I also think a lot, it’s like you interchange it
for a lot more things and stuff they [her friends] wouldn’t understand. . . . Yeah, some of
my friends . . . [one] he’s like, “You lost a lot of things. You lost your virginity and what
do you have to show for it?” I was all, “Shut up. I was like I have a lot to show for it.”
A: Did you tell him specific things that you have to show for it?
PE: No. . . . I can’t really pinpoint it. It’s like you think, I have knowledge, I have, I don’t
know, it’s not things you can pinpoint, but it’s just like a certain level of intelligence
that you gain and maturity and in a way, self-respect and it’s weird . . .
Although she partially plays within readiness and virginity discourses, acknowl-
edging that she “has lost something,” she also adamantly resists her friend’s claim that
she “has nothing to show for it.” Indeed, she insists that you “interchange it for a lot
more things” and even attempts to describe some of these things (e.g., “knowledge,”
“a certain level of intelligence”). On the one hand, then, she partially accepts the nar-
rative that virginity should be “exchanged” for something valuable; on the other
hand, she simultaneously attempts to redefine what counts as a valuable “exchange.”
Without a more developed alternative language, however, she finds this difficult to
explain to others or to “pinpoint” even for herself.
She concludes by identifying an additional problem she faces in her romantic rela-
tionships now that she is no longer “a virgin.”
PE: . . . it’s like before . . . I’d be like, “I’m a virgin, that’s all that matters.” Now it’s more like
guys might not believe that I’ve only had one partner . . . when you’re not [a virgin]. . . .
Like you could say “Okay, yeah, I’ve only had one partner” . . . but then they think that
just because you have, you’re going to do it . . .
A: So before you could just call up the sort of virgin thing as a defense?
PE: Yeah, [before] it’s like “I’m a virgin.” . . . and then now, it’s like you’ve shared that
you’re not with them. . . . And so in a sense, you have to show even more self-respect
so they can pick that up from you.
A: And how do you do that?
PE: Well, it’s hard. But it’s just a lot, I think because of the fact that I still have the mental-
ity of a virgin, you know what I mean? I mean I haven’t experienced it that much. . . . It’s
funny how you have to change. You’re like, oh, I’m not [a virgin] . . . but on the same
hand, no, it’s like yeah, it’s like I am . . .
In these remarks, she describes how being positioned as “not a virgin” alters others’
expectations of who she is or how she will behave sexually. Although she was once
able to summon the “virgin defense” to effectively shut down propositions for sex,
the societal dichotomy between “virgin” and “not a virgin” now denies her access to
that defense. Ironically, then, the very discourse that demands she regulate the sex-
ual progression of the relationship strips her of an effective resource for doing so.
This can also complicate some girls of color or working-class girls’ attempts to dis-
tance themselves from other “controlling images.” As one Hispanic teen in Taylor’s
(1996) study explained, “People think of [Hispanic girls] as a girl who gets pregnant
easy and who doesn’t care. . . . There’s one thing [Hispanic girls] have to watch is not
to let people think they’re like that.” In the face of these dominant narratives, then,
losing the virgin defense can make it more difficult for this PE to distance herself
from these images and to “make guys respect” her.
Interestingly, she attempts to deal with this problem by implicitly challenging the
“virgin–not a virgin” dichotomy. Indeed, she begins to carve out a different subject
position, noting “I still have the mentality of a virgin.” Of course, at least part of her
reason for doing so is to regain access to the “virgin defense.” Without the discourse
of virginity, however, she would have little need for this defense. However, in a mate-
rial world where the aforementioned “controlling images” continue to shape how others
perceive her, regaining the “virgin defense” might be an important temporary strat-
egy for distancing herself from these images and remaining celibate if she so chooses.
In fact, regaining this “defense” might be particularly important for a range of women
of color and working-class women who face nuanced social circumstances, material
conditions, and controlling images that can complicate their efforts to remain a tradi-
tional “virgin” (Lichenstein 2000). These complexities, then, highlight the importance
of engaging in what might otherwise seem to be contradictory and paradoxical
projects—questioning virginity even while attempting to regain access to it.
Considering Implications and Possibilities for Future Study

Talk about “readiness for sex” pervades current conversations about teen sexual-
ity. As such, we can no longer afford to ignore how this discourse limits teens’ ability
to make sense of their sexual experiences. The above analysis reveals at least three
such limitations. First, in asserting that readiness is a mysterious state known only to
oneself, the discourse can shut down talk about the relational or power-laden dynam-
ics around sexuality. Indeed, this assumption can make it seem only natural that we
focus on the “technical and tangible” aspects and “let individuals decide for them-
selves” when it comes to this relational realm. Second, the underlying formula that
all will go well if one “waits until ready” fosters unrealistic expectations for sex and
encourages self-blame if these expectations are not met. Likewise, this formula pre-
vents individuals from considering more systemic patterns for the “failure” of a rela-
tionship. Finally, intersections between readiness and virginity discourses present a
range of nuanced difficulties for different women, often inhibiting their ability to act
in sexually autonomous ways. In light of these limitations, we would do well to inter-
rogate this discourse and to invent new alternatives. To begin this effort, I now look
at implications for classroom practice and future anthropological research. I also
acknowledge that significant barriers can make implementing some of these sugges-
tions difficult and will briefly address these concerns at the end of the next section.
Implications for Classroom Practice and Curriculum Development

In terms of classroom practice, educators in health or sex education might look for
ways that they (or their students) unwittingly use the discourse of readiness to main-
tain a focus on the more “technical, tangible” aspects of sexuality, simultaneously
shutting down potentially powerful conversations about the more relational aspects.
In her study of a ninth-grade sex-education classroom, Trudell (1993) observes how
teachers sometimes used “defensive teaching strategies” that simplify the content,
bridle student energy, and avoid controversial topics. Along these lines, teachers
might look for similar ways the discourse of readiness might function as another sort
of “defensive teaching strategy.” Teachers and counselors also need to consider how
they use the discourse of readiness in informal conversations with youth. Rather than
offering teens platitudes about “waiting until you are ready,” adults need to explore
what they mean by these comments and how this shapes the advice they give youth.
Furthermore, as one way of sparking these missing discussions, educators might

engage students in explicit discussion of readiness (and virginity) discourses. Students
could interrogate how they draw on these discourses to make sense of their sexual expe-
riences and to what effects. Such discussions would actively encourage the more person-
ally reflexive approach to sex education that Luttrell (2003:141) suggests—an approach
where young women and men ask themselves questions such as, “How do I know
what I want or desire sexually?” and “In what contexts can I act on my own feelings?”
For example, students and teachers could ask, “Why do we talk in terms of readiness
and virginity? What are the pros and cons of this language? Is it possible to know if you
are ready? What if there were no such terms as ‘virgin’?” Asking questions about how
conceptions of romance, virginity, and readiness vary by race, class, and sexual orien-
tation would also be important. Likewise, as Taylor (1996) notes, encouraging such
questioning may lead to hurtful conflicts between teens and families, particularly
between girls of color and their mothers. A key responsibility for educators, then, is to
recognize this and to allow students to discuss ways of negotiating these conflicts.
In addition to critiquing these discourses, educators could encourage student
efforts to devise new ways of talking. Clearly youth are capable of this; clearly they
already do so—as the PE in the above analysis illustrates with her invention of “vir-
gin mentality.” Without a more developed, alternative language, however, she some-
times found it difficult to express herself in a persuasive way. Teachers and students
could further develop these alternative languages and explore how this alters these
seemingly “natural” or inevitable dilemmas.
Addressing these complex dynamics of sexuality should not be the job of health
and sex education alone, however. Sexuality saturates adolescent lives, and a number
of educational sites already implicitly and explicitly teach messages about femininity,
masculinity, and sexuality (e.g., Connell 1996; Epstein and Johnson 1998; Rolon-Dow
2004). As such, these sites need to help teens make sense of this dizzying array of infor-
mation. For example, many texts and topics traditionally studied in literacy and social
studies classrooms already deal implicitly with themes of masculinity, femininity, and
sexuality (see Connell 1996; Epstein and Johnson 1998; Moje and MuQaribu 2003).
Talk about readiness and broader issues of what it means to be male and female and
how these expectations differ in terms of race and class could be interwoven into dis-
cussion of these topics and texts. Similarly, students could discuss shifting meanings
for masculinity, femininity, and what was considered “readiness for marriage” in dif-
ferent cultures or historical moments. This would help demonstrate the fluid nature of
sexualities and unmask the “naturalness” of current conceptions. Likewise, because
sexuality is of interest to teens, critical discussions of it also hold potential for increasing
student engagement and academic success (see Ashcraft 2006 for more discussion).
Indeed, I suggest that “mainstream” academic teachers would do well to frame teen
interest in sexuality as a “vehicle for” rather than a “threat to” academic success.
Again, I acknowledge that barriers such as time constraints, standardized testing, and
parental objections make implementing some of the above suggestions difficult. This
points to a larger need to question how we educate our children and how we might con-
front such barriers—a discussion well beyond the scope of this article (see Ashcraft 2006
and n.d. for more discussion). Much can be done, however, even within existing
models of education and sex education. For example, although the PEs often felt pressed
for time in their Prevention Methods Presentations, they expressed concerns about
having to “stretch” activities to fill the time in the “less scientific” presentations
(e.g., healthy–unhealthy relationships). As such, these presentations might be espe-

cially conducive sites for incorporating the above conversations. In addition, recent
program evaluations of sex education contend that, contrary to earlier speculation,
broader youth development programs are effective in reducing rates of pregnancy.
They recommend “taking a broader approach to sexuality education”—one that
helps students examine “cultural norms and values” (e.g., Kirby 2001). As such, we
can justify the above conversations in sex education even in terms of existing, utili-
tarian definitions of “effectiveness.”
Furthermore, it is precisely conversations about broader sexuality issues such as
relationships, respect, and “readiness,” that might be addressed more easily in some
conservative communities. Although such discussions might also cause controversy,
they are generally less controversial than overt discussions about condoms or safe
sex. However, even if these conversations ultimately prove impossible in certain con-
texts, this does not justify leaving the rest of our youth all alone to struggle with these
complex questions. Instead, we must redouble our efforts to create, wherever we can,
pedagogical spaces in which teens can interrogate dominant representations of sexu-
ality and negotiate more liberating alternatives.
Implications for Anthropological Research into Schooling, Sexuality, and Youth Identity
This analysis begins to illustrate how discourses of readiness reinforce virginity
and romance discourses. We would to do well to further research how teens draw
from discourses of readiness, how these intersect with virginity and romance
discourses, and to what effects. Researchers also need to further investigate how
these dynamics vary in terms of race and class, exploring how these intersections
shape these dilemmas in nuanced ways. Furthermore, they might examine how
scripts of masculinity interact with readiness discourses. This research is particu-
larly important in unmasking the neutrality of newer “gender-blind” virginity
discourses that presume that remaining a virgin is a simple matter of choice equally
available to all.
In addition to identifying the more limiting functions of these discourses, how-
ever, we also need to complicate our understanding of their complex and contradic-
tory nature. For example, in most existing feminist theories, virginity discourses tend
to be seen as primarily oppressive (and understandably so). However, the above
female PE’s attempt to reclaim the “virgin defense” may be one example of an impor-
tant strategy young women might be using to negotiate safer relationships, particu-
larly in an era of anxiety over HIV/AIDS. In a similar vein, Weis (2000) observed
how, in her study of an abstinence-based sex-education program, some of the girls
positioned themselves against other “loose” girls in the community. She suggests that
although this delimited a more structural analysis or any political alliance with these
other women, it was perhaps a necessary temporary move to save the girls from what
they feared was their fate. Attempting to regain access to the “virgin defense” might
function as a similar temporary strategy for negotiating safer relationships. At the
same time, providing additional scripts is also important so that girls are not limited
to the virgin defense but might also draw on scripts that ultimately might make this
defense less necessary (Lichtenstein 2000).
To multiply these scripts, then, researchers need to explore more of the creative
ways young women (and men) are attempting to deal with these dilemmas. Indeed,
we would do well to vigilantly look for “cultural forms and expressions that seem to
suggest new or emergent ‘structures of feeling’ in sections of the young population”
(McRobbie 1994:172). In particular, we need to seek the perspectives of teens of color
and other marginalized teens, drawing on their “cultural intuition” or multiple sub-
jectivities (Delgado-Bernal 2002; Hurtado 2003) as resources for theorizing more lib-
erating sexual scripts.
Finally, this analysis also points to important implications for anthropological
research in public debate and policy regarding teen sexuality. For example, this
analysis hints at one way we might complicate the heated public debate around
“abstinence-only” versus “comprehensive” sex education.4 We would do well to
challenge the assertion that the only programs that promote abstinence are those that
tell youth to “just say no.” Indeed, some do argue that comprehensive programs also
promote abstinence (often labeling them abstinence based). To date, however, this is
often a difficult sell, partially owing to the readiness discourse. To the extent that this
discourse can glamorize sex and lull teens into believing that all will go well if only
they wait until they are “ready,” it poses a threat (or at least a perceived threat) to
abstinence efforts. Critically examining whether or not “being ready” actually equates
to “perfect” sex or relationships, however, might arguably deglamorize sex and actu-
ally encourage abstinence or delayed first sex. Indeed, the ESPERANZA PEs often
noted that more, not less, talk about “what really happens” during sex would be a
more convincing way of encouraging abstinence (rather than using scare tactics). The
discourse of readiness, however, can get in the way of talking about “what really hap-
pens” during sex. As such, we need to recognize how the readiness discourse might
blind us to more innovative ways of talking about abstinence.
Ultimately, though, we still need to question the fundamental assumptions on which
the entire abstinence-comprehensive debate is founded. Recent researchers (e.g.,
Trudell 1993) stress the need to move beyond a traditional language of effectiveness—
whether this be in terms of abstinence or safe sex. Few people ask whether there are
needs underlying teens’ “at-risk” behaviors—needs that call for our attention more
urgently than the rates of teen pregnancy and disease transmission (Bernstein and
Kirby 1995). Certainly, many obstacles make it difficult to move the debate in this
direction. This study, however, highlights how the discourse of readiness might prevent
us from even trying to address those obstacles. By subtly suggesting that the more
relational realm is best left to each individual’s consideration, the discourse provides
an all-too-effective way to justify the pervasive neglect of this arena. In offering this
seemingly respectful, even pseudodemocratic, plea that we respect youth’s individ-
ual decisions, we simultaneously leave these youth all alone to wrestle with complex
questions about sexuality. Policy makers, parents, and the general public need to rec-
ognize how this pervasive, taken-for-granted discourse subtly shuts down these
important conversations. To foster these discussions, we need to explore new ways of
talking about sexual decision making—ways that allow youth and adults to chal-
lenge dominant representations, to build on the insights they already have, and to
explore new possibilities.
Catherine Ashcraft is a research scientist for the National Center for Women and Information
Technology at the University of Colorado, Boulder.
Notes
Acknowledgment. I would like to thank the teens and adults in ESPERANZA for letting me
share in their program and for offering their invaluable insights and perspectives.
1. In this sense, discourses are comprised of representations, narratives and practices that
establish the dominant categories of knowledge. Although, they appear natural, these dis-
courses are historical and contingent; therefore, they are subject to reconstruction.
2. Because ESPERANZA was a predominantly Latino program, I highlight Lat/Crit research
focusing on the sexuality of Latinas. Because the program included a range of diverse youth,
however, I also include additional critical race research on sexuality.
3. For confidentiality, ESPERANZA is a pseudonym chosen by the PEs and myself because
its meaning (“hope”) is similar to the Spanish word that is the program’s real name.
4. Comprehensive programs, also called abstinence-based, are those that discuss both absti-
nence and protection methods. Abstinence-only programs, as the name implies, only discuss
abstinence as a valid means of preventing pregnancy and disease.
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Ready or Not . . . ?

Teen Sexuality and the Troubling

—Peer educator, ESPERANZA sex-education program

Sexuality and Youth Identity

Sexuality and Schooling

Data Sources and Analysis

Ready or Not? Examining the Discourse

offered at the beginning of ESPERANZA presentations, functions to value teen deci-

Expecting the Unattainable

mistake—you were not ready. Unfortunately, if this is the definition of “readiness” or

Exploring complexities: At the Intersection of Readiness,

In these poignant reflections, the readiness discourse is bolstered by dominant

Considering Implications and Possibilities for Future Study

Implications for Classroom Practice and Curriculum Development

Furthermore, as one way of sparking these missing discussions, educators might

(e.g., healthy–unhealthy relationships). As such, these presentations might be espe-

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