Why I’m Raising My Daughter in a Sex-Positive Way

On surviving childhood silence around sexual assault and the radical power of giving the next generation the language of autonomy

As a child, I was sexually assaulted by two close male relatives. I can’t remember exactly how old I was when the first assault happened, but I know the age of the second: I was nine. I know this because my mother was in the hospital delivering my younger sister.

Years later, in my forties, I told my mother about the first assault. I hadn’t told her sooner because I imagined she would confront the man, a relative I still see occasionally at funerals. Ghanaians make a big fuss about our dead, and at these events you are likely to meet relatives that you barely know, or those that you would rather were six feet under. On those rare occasions when I meet that uncle, he smiles broadly at me and asks, “How are you doing?” I’m always shocked at how casual he is, how genuinely pleased he seems to see me. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers what he did to me, and what he made me do to him. The last time we met, he introduced me to his wife. I felt like asking her, “Do you know the kind of man you married?”

When I finally told my mother, her response was, “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” She then proceeded to tell me how she had immediately told her parents when someone had acted inappropriately toward her as a child. I was shocked. Where was the anger for her daughter? Why was she making this about herself, comparing her experience that wasn’t remotely close to the level of abuse I had endured?

One of the realizations I’ve had over the last few years, especially as I’ve learned about sex-positive parenting, is that many parents simply lack the tools to speak to children about their bodies. This inability to talk openly means children grow up knowing very little about themselves. Particularly harmful is the use of “cutesy” names for genitalia. Growing up, I referred to my vulva as “my wee-wee thing.” That is not a name that stands up in a court of law.

At that time I didn’t even have the language to describe my own body accurately, and yet even as a child who was not yet ten years old, I had already absorbed the notion that sex was “bad,” and that girls and boys (or in my case, a girl, and her young uncle) should not be touching each other in the way that we did. But the sense that I had was, if my uncle touching me was bad, then I must be really bad, too. And as a child, I knew I had to keep “bad” things a secret.

Now, as a parent of a young girl, I see how vital body literacy is. My child knows the correct names for her body. Once, when I slipped and referred to her vagina, she corrected me: “It’s not my vagina, it’s my vulva.”

It has taken me years to unlearn the shame that began with being sexually abused as a child, and one thing I know for sure is that I don’t want any girl or woman to feel ashamed because she has experienced sexual abuse. Part of the reason that people who have been sexually assaulted feel shame is because we don’t talk enough about sex. We don’t tell young people that feeling sexual desire is natural. Experiencing the desire to touch yourself is completely normal. When you are of age, you can choose to have sex with another adult, and there are ways to make that experience safer, and pleasurable. We don’t say to young people, your body is yours, and no one should touch your body in a way that makes you uncomfortable. And if anyone does, tell your parents, or another adult that you trust.

Recently, one of my feminist friends told me that her five-year-old daughter had been sexually assaulted by her thirteen-year-old cousin. They had been at a family luncheon, with the two kids playing upstairs. My friend had made a point of going upstairs intermittently to check on the children, and each time she went up, they were in the wide-open lounge playing. When it was time to go home, she took her daughter to use the bathroom. Her kid sat on the loo and said, “I can’t pee because it hurts. Kofi put his fingers in my vulva.”

I’m filled with rage every time I hear that a young girl has been sexually assaulted. I’m a feminist who has been active in various movement spaces since my early twenties, so I’ve met many girls and women who have experienced a range of serious sexual assault. There is a particular pain in the gut that I feel when I meet young girls who have been sexually assaulted. Sometimes it takes me back to my own past. I remember as a young teen walking through a bustling market, with women selling tomatoes, onions, and fish on either side of me. The lane was narrow, with people passing by close enough to innocuously brush your shoulder or hand as they strode by, and on one occasion, a man—whose face or features I can never remember—but whose words and actions I will never forget, reached out, squeezed my breast, and said, “Bobbie stand up.”

My intimate experience of child sexual abuse, and the casual sexual harassment I experienced as a child, is partly why I write about sex. In a patriarchal world, we may not be able to protect girls from every evil, but we can give them the language to recognize that sexual shame is not theirs to carry.

When my friend told me that her child had been assaulted, I said to her, “You should be proud of yourself. She was able to tell you straightaway what happened.” I wish that as a child I had been able to speak to my parents about the abuse I experienced, but I also recognize that even if I had been able to find the language, they wouldn’t have had the tools to heal me.

Part of the way in which I’m healing myself is being intentional in how I raise my daughter, and teaching her that there is no need for “shameful secrets” between the two of us.

This journey from silence to agency is at the heart of my work. In my latest book, Seeking Sexual Freedom: African Rites, Rituals and Sankofa in the Bedroom, I explore how we can reclaim our bodies and our right to pleasure by looking back at our histories and unlearning the shame that was never ours to begin with. My desire to raise my daughter in a healthier way than I was raised inspired me to include a chapter on “Sex Positive Parenting.”

I included insights from experts like Jasmine Johnson, a mother of four, and a licensed clinical psychotherapist who also describes herself as a “full service, forward facing sex worker.” She said, “Oftentimes when people hear sex-positive parenting, they think that we are just allowing our children to run amok, just to be having sex, and hearing, and seeing, and engaging in content that we would otherwise say is inappropriate for children. And that is the furthest thing from being sex-positive. Sex-positive does mean protecting your children from inappropriate material and being prepared for when, and if, they should ever come in contact with that material. It means helping to provide context. It also means protecting our children from some of the really scary things that are sadly associated with children and sex, such as pedophilia and sexually inappropriate behaviour.”

What my experience has taught me is that speaking to children about their bodies, boundaries, and sex is radically important work. Even if we can never fully protect children and vulnerable people in a patriarchal world, we can certainly give them the tools to navigate that world better, while simultaneously working to build new realities where all children and people live free from violence of all kinds.

Nana Darkoa Sekyiamah is the author of Seeking Sexual Freedom: African Rites, Rituals, and Sankofa in the Bedroom. Her debut, The Sex Lives of African Women, was an instant classic, lauded by Publishers Weekly as “an astonishing report on the quest for sexual liberation” and named a Best Book of the Year by The Economist. Nana Darkoa is also an award winning podcaster, a festival curator, and the Co-Founder of the Institute of Journalism and Social Change. Her transformative work has earned her international recognition, including a spot on the BBC’s 100 inspirational and influential women list and New Africa magazine’s list of 100 inspirational Africans.