Lifestyle
Laura Sessions Stepp, Who Reported on Teenage Sex, Dies at 73
Laura Sessions Stepp, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist whose reporting on teenage sex and “hookup” culture on college campuses explored in strikingly intimate detail how adolescent girls and young women think about relationships, love and bodily autonomy, died on Feb. 24 in Springfield, Va. She was 73.
Her husband, Carl Sessions Stepp, said the cause of her death, at a memory-care facility, was from complications of Alzheimer’s disease.
In a series of articles for The Washington Post, and later for her best-selling book, “Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both” (2007), Ms. Sessions Stepp immersed herself in the lives of her subjects in the Washington area and at several colleges — going to parties, hanging out in dorms and tagging along on trips to the mall.
She earned their trust with a soothing voice accented by her Arkansas roots. But most of all, she listened.
“She wasn’t judgmental,” Henry Allen, her editor in The Post’s Style section, said in an interview. “These girls would tell her these amazing things.”
In July of 1999, readers of The Post woke up to a startling front-page headline: “Parents Are Alarmed by an Unsettling New Fad in Middle Schools: Oral Sex.” Ms. Sessions Stepp had interviewed several teenagers in Arlington, Va., and discovered that oral sex had become a popular way to avoid pregnancy and appear cool.
Some of the girls she spoke to were nonchalant: “What’s the big deal? President Clinton did it,” one quipped.
Others were more circumspect. “I didn’t really know what it was,” one eighth-grade girl confided about the time a boy had suggested it. “I realized pretty soon that it didn’t make him like me.”
Ms. Sessions Stepp’s subsequent articles explored “freak dancing,” the way students “grind” on each other at school dances; “buddysex” among high schoolers; and sexual score cards kept by college women, among them a University of Pennsylvania student who rated her companions and included dates and footnotes.
“These women analyze their numbers as if they were comparison shopping for the right size and color of shoes,” Ms. Sessions Stepp wrote in The Post in 2004. “They tell each other that sex is separate from love. And few adults tell them any different.”
She was blunt but detached in her newspaper articles, telling fly-on-the-wall stories about provocative topics that didn’t normally surface on the front page of a family newspaper. But that detachment all but disappeared when she expanded on her reporting in “Unhooked.”
Now she was worried.
“I hope to encourage girls to think hard about whether they’re ‘getting it right,’ whether their sexual and romantic experiences are contributing to — or destroying — their sense of self-worth and strength,” she wrote in the book’s introduction. “Their studied effort to remain uncommitted convinces me only of how strongly they want to be attached.”
She ended the book with “A Letter to Mothers and Daughters.”
“If you are a woman who came of age during the women’s movement of the 1960s and 1970s, I suspect you believe, as I do, that we have a responsibility to reach out and help other women improve their lives,” she wrote. “This means especially the next generation: our daughters all, moving through adolescence into young adulthood.”
Those admonitions didn’t sit well with some critics, who accused her of being a prudish alarmist.
“It is the time-honored duty of the adolescent to alarm adults (parents, in particular),” Meghan O’Rourke wrote in Slate, “by having wild and often idiotic fun — e.g., streaking naked across campus, playing drinking games, throwing things out windows, hooking up with an acquaintance or a friend who, in a flush of late-night hormones, suddenly looks kind of hot.”
Ms. O’Rourke, noting that she attended college “in the early days of ‘hookup’ culture,” wrote that her “recollection, through the haze of years, was that the whole point of hookups was that they were pleasurable — a little embarrassing, sometimes, but mostly, well, fun.”
Kathy Dobie, a journalist who reviewed the book in The Post, wrote that Ms. Sessions Stepp was “conflating what the girls refuse to conflate: love and sexuality.”
“‘Unhooked’ can be downright painful to read,” Ms. Dobie wrote. “The author resurrects the ugly, old notion of sex as something a female gives in return for a male’s good behavior, and she imagines the female body as a thing that can be tarnished by too much use.”
Ms. Sessions Stepp defended the book in interviews.
“I didn’t want to be a scold, I grew up with scolds,” she told The Baltimore Sun. “And I am not saying, ‘Have less sex.’ I am saying, ‘Have more romance.’ Love is a word that I didn’t hear, along with passion, joy, anticipation, and just being goopily in love.”
Her voice rising, she added: “I am sick and tired of having to defend what I think is a reasonable middle position. The far right wants you to wait until you are married to have sex. The far left is telling you to have as much sex as you want, the only requirement is protection. These young women are in the middle trying to figure out how to do this.”
Laura Elizabeth Sessions was born on July 27, 1951, in Fort Smith, Ark. Her father, Robert Sessions, was a Methodist minister who preached in support of school desegregation, an unpopular position that resulted in a cross being burned in the family’s front yard. Her mother, Martha Rae (Rutledge) Sessions, was a psychologist.
In high school, she dated a lot. Boys picked her up on her doorstep, she recalled in an interview with The New York Times after “Unhooked” was published. Some gave her friendship rings, which her father insisted she return.
She studied German and English at Earlham College, in Richmond, Ind., graduating in 1973. The following year, she earned a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University.
Her first job was in television news, as a weather reporter. After working at newspapers in Florida and Pennsylvania, she joined The Charlotte Observer in 1979 as an editor overseeing newsroom projects. She led a team of reporters who won the Pulitzer Prize for Public Service in 1981 for a series of articles about brown lung disease among textile workers.
In 1982, Ms. Sessions Stepp joined The Post as an editor, turning to writing four years later. She took a buyout from the newspaper in 2008.
In addition to “Unhooked,” she wrote “Our Last Best Shot: Guiding Our Children Through Early Adolescence” (2000), a well-received book that explored the struggles adolescents face with social belonging, identity, learning and independence.
Her marriage to Robert King ended in divorce.
She married Carl Stepp, a journalist and longtime journalism professor at the University of Maryland, in 1981, and they shared each other’s surnames. In addition to Mr. Stepp, she is survived by their son, Jeff Stepp; two stepdaughters, Ashli Stepp Calvert and Amber Stepp; three grandchildren; her stepmother, Julia Sessions; and her sisters, Teresa Kramer, Kathy Sessions and Sarah Lundal.
Unlike many reporters in Washington, Ms. Sessions Stepp never wanted to cover politicians or other well-known people.
“Chronicling the lives of the rich or famous is a sexy beat,” she wrote in Nieman Reports magazine in 2000. “It wins reporters spots on the front page, not to mention dinner party invitations. But it’s not nearly as personally rewarding, in my view, as writing about ordinary people.”
Julia Demaree Nikhinson/AP
A federal judge has blocked President Trump from adding his name to the Kennedy Center, saying that the Washington, D.C. arts complex was named for the late president John F. Kennedy. In a ruling on Friday, the judge also temporarily blocked the administration from closing the Kennedy Center for a planned two-year renovation that was slated to begin in July.
U.S. District Court Judge Christopher Cooper wrote in his ruling that: “The Kennedy Center’s organic statute makes crystal clear that the Center is to be named for President Kennedy, and it cannot bear any other formal name or public memorial based on the Board’s unilateral say-so. Congress gave the Kennedy Center its name, and only Congress can change it.”
A Kennedy Center spokesperson told NPR in an email Friday afternoon that it will appeal the decision. Roma Daravi, vice president of public relations for the complex, wrote: “We will review the decision carefully though the reality remains — the Center requires an urgent and significant restoration – a truth that even the plaintiff acknowledges. With $257 million secured by President Trump and approved by Congress, the resources are in place and we remain committed to pursuing every lawful avenue to ensure the Trump Kennedy Center is restored as a national cultural landmark for all Americans to enjoy.”
NPR has requested comment from the White House, but did not receive an immediate reply.
As part of his ruling, Judge Cooper ordered that all signage and online materials referring to the “Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts,” the “Trump Kennedy Center,” or anything similar must be removed within 14 days.
The judge also blocked, for now, plans to close the Kennedy Center for two years of renovations. Trump and the center’s current voting board members – all of whom were selected by the president, who also became chairman of the center last year – had planned to start the renovations in early July, just after the 250th anniversary celebrations. In his 94-page ruling, Judge Cooper called the renovation plans “murky,” and wrote: “None of the board members had sufficient information in advance of the March 16 meeting to make a well-considered decision to close the center.” The center has been winding down its programming and has already dismissed most of its programming staff.
Referring to a Truth Social post written by President Trump in February, the judge also wrote: “There was no ‘one year review of the Trump Kennedy Center, that has taken place with Contractors, Musical Experts, Art Institutions, and other Advisors and Consultants, deciding between’ complete and partial closure, as President Trump claimed.”
Cooper’s ruling resulted from a lawsuit filed in March by Rep. Joyce Beatty of Ohio, an ex-officio member of the Kennedy Center board whose voting rights there were stripped last year.
The ruling does not prevent the Kennedy Center’s board from a future closure, but the judge said that it should do so only after the board has “sufficient information to make a considered, independent decision, taking account of its obligation to both maintain and operate a premiere arts venue and its solemn duty to memorialize a fallen President.”
Three years after my second divorce, with the help of a dating app, I went on 53 first dates in one summer. Fifty-three times, I put on my first-date uniform (nice but not trying too hard), flat-ironed my hair and texted my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong.
I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet. I kept track of what I wore and what stories we shared to avoid repeating myself in case there was a second or third date. There were exploratory follow-up dates, but it usually only took one to know.
The coffees and lunches and dinners of that season flicker in my mind like a rom-com video montage. There were some average dates, plenty of nice-guy, zero-chemistry dates, but a few stand out.
Here are the notables.
There was the extremely tall, minor league baseball player I met at BJ’s in Burbank. He said no more than four words to me the entire meal, but managed to chat up our waitress. I believe he walked me to my car and went back for her number.
The quiet and irritable TV editor I met at Guelaguetza on Olympic Boulevard. We ordered the chicken mole and chapulines. During the meal, he had a panic attack and excused himself to call his therapist. He actually told me this.
The experimental-video director with the white faux hawk I met at Go Get Em Tiger in East Hollywood. He spent the date in an hourlong monologue about his ex-wife Julia, stopping only to show me many, many photos of Julia.
A young man, originally from Phoenix, asked to meet at Soot Bull Jip on 8th Street. A struggling writer-actor-production assistant, he confided that he had looked up my name on Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to pitch me an animated children’s show about singing giraffes. He also asked for a ride to Vons. I declined both.
The screenwriter I met at République who, based on his startling non-resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a picture of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like. It was all Radiohead and Elliott Smith. I adjusted my dating profile because I was apparently coming off as depressed.
There was the nervous and uptight English tutor, with a script in turn-around and a famous roommate, that I met at a Starbucks in Koreatown. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our introduction. Then, he proceeded to inform me that rather than be put off by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I could fix my error and not appear to be uneducated.
The trendy, bearded sports photographer I met for a late-night dinner at Fred 62 in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy, and we made plans for a second date. But then things started unraveling once we realized I had already dated his younger brother.
There was also the suave (Hand kiss? Really?) and extremely tan French tennis pro I crossed La Cienega Boulevard for and met for lunch at Thai Vegan in Santa Monica. He was on a nonstop series of calls on his cellphone during the entire meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “Non, merci.”
When describing these guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, it was better not to learn their names.
Due to a story he had shared with me via email, date No. 53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment. Before Naked Drummer came to meet me for our first date, he called at the last minute and said the following:
“I want to recap. I just turned 30. I am currently living with my mother. I play guitar in an alternative folk band. I have a semi-crappy temp job at Disney with no benefits. I drive a green ’97 Plymouth Grand Voyager minivan that smells like weed. If you would like to change your mind about this whole dinner thing, now is your chance.” He described himself as tall, dark and tall.
For some reason, I broke many of my first date “safety rules” with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went for dinner at Noshi Sushi on Beverly Boulevard. None of that is prudent behavior, and I do not recommend any of it except the chu toro.
Naked Drummer was a funny, smart, nice Jewish boy who had been touring in bands in that Grand Voyager since college graduation. On the first date, we bonded over takuwan rolls and our histories as teenage goths. My goth uniform included black Maybelline eyeliner I used a lighter to heat the tip with before application. His goth uniform included an olive-green trench coat he borrowed from his mom. We were a match made in Joy Division heaven. He confided he was an Insane Clown Posse Juggalo, I intimated I was in the Kiss Army. (We were both lying about those last two.)
Reader, I married him.
The author is a former writer, director and producer for television. She and Mr. Rosenberg live in South Pasadena. She’s on Instagram: @smacksy.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
Poppy Liu wants to remind you how revolutionary I Love Boosters is : Bullseye with Jesse Thorn
I Love Boosters starts like a fun heist movie. There’s a gang of cool ladies from the Bay Area who steal clothes from high-end designers and sell them at a steep discount to their friends and neighbors. But I Love Boosters is also a Boots Riley movie. The film is surreal and bombastic, branching out in a thousand directions and traversing a dozen genres. So it can’t really stay a heist movie.
Poppy Liu drives that change more than pretty much any other character in the film. She plays Jianhu, a garment worker in China who joins the gang and brings with her a bonkers new wrinkle to the story. It’s a role Poppy was made for. She’s made her career playing confident, somewhat unhinged weirdos. She was cast in a lead role in the 2019 sitcom Sunnyside, had other parts on Better Call Saul, The After Party, and Hacks.
Liu joins us to talk about starring in I Love Boosters and the message that she hopes audiences take away from the film. She also chats with us about her upbringing in Minnesota, how she got into comedy acting, her role on Hacks, and much more.
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