Killjoys Don’t Do Quiet Endings: Leaving with Luggage and a Louder Voice

Before arriving in Amsterdam, I thought I had a decent handle on what to expect: liberal policies, bike chaos, and a culture that was generally more open about sex than anything I’d experienced in the US. I was excited to learn in a place where social expectations weren’t built on religious morality and shame. Despite this final post being a farewell to Amsterdam, I feel as though I’ve only just gotten a taste of Europe. This trip has pushed me to reevaluate my own self-proclaimed open-mindedness, leaving me with an impatience for the American status quo. 

The Netherlands has branded itself as a haven for sexual freedom and queer rights, and in many ways, it’s ahead. Comprehensive sex education is legally required. Sex work is regulated, taxed, and treated (at least by policy) as legitimate labor. Trans individuals can now legally change their gender under public healthcare without forced sterilization, and queer history is archived, honored, and housed in publicly funded libraries. All of this is real, and still, none of it tells the full story.

Learning about Dutch colonial history, queer erasure, and the moral double standards embedded in sex work made it clear that visibility isn’t the same as safety. Brenda’s story made that especially obvious. As a sex assistant for disabled clients, she’s seen as nurturing and respectable. But when she works as Lucy, in the Red Light District windows, the same work is met with discomfort and moral scrutiny. Her labor is tolerated only when it aligns with what people are willing to understand.

That pattern shows up everywhere. At IHLIA, I was moved by the effort to preserve LGBTQ+ history, but it was hard to ignore how much of that archive centers white, cis, gay men. Savannah Bay Bookstore exists because queer women weren’t included in that “progress.” Even the government’s more inclusive moves like decriminalizing sex work are being rolled back under the banner of “protection” without consulting the women working themselves. It's not that the Netherlands is failing – it’s that it’s not finished. And pretending otherwise stagnates progress.

At the same time, this trip made me reflect on how deeply moral panic and shame shape sexual culture in the US. It’s well known that American sex ed is lacking, but hearing about the Dutch model’s emphasis on autonomy, communication, and pleasure made that contrast feel more cavernous. Moreso, the culture created by starting sex ed at a young age leads the next generation to fortify the national value of pragmatic openness towards sexual liberation. If we’d grown up with that kind of education, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me and so many of my peers so long to see sexuality as something to have ownership over rather than something to perform or defend. In the behavioral neuroscience lab I work in, we talk about sexual behavior, hormones, and reward pathways like they exist in a vacuum, but this trip reminded me that biology is always filtered through policy, culture, and history.

Traveling here as a queer first-gen American who’s had negative experiences in other European countries, I didn’t always know what to expect or where I fit into the big picture of it all. There were moments when it felt like I was watching a show I wasn’t fully invited to. But by week three, being in that liminal space, between insider and outsider, observer and participant, helped me sharpen my voice and cement the passions I have for political progress. I’m leaving Amsterdam with more questions (and more than a twinge of longing), but also a clearer sense of what I care about: education that doesn’t rely on shame, prioritizing people over governments, and queer emancipation that doesn’t just stop at the parade float.

I don’t know exactly where I’ll land after undergrad for veterinary school. Of all things, it seems like another world away from the pocket of liberality Amsterdam has been. How logical it has been to learn about a country where the validity of reason and science isn't questioned, where progress doesn’t mean one step forward and two steps back.

This trip clarified that no matter what field I’m in, I will stay in the conversation. Not only about sexuality, but about justice and the kinds of systems we build when we assume certain bodies are worth more than others. I used to cringe away from my tendency to be the resident feminist killjoy, but how could I see it as anything but an honor after all we’ve learned?

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Week 3: The Price of Being Palatable

At our visit to the Prostitution Information Center, we were told we would talk to two sex workers: Brenda, the ‘sex assistant’ who works by appointment with disabled men, and Lucy, who worked in the windows. To our surprise, however, out walked one 61 year-old fountain of knowledge, who switched personas based on which type of work she was doing that day. If Brenda had introduced herself to us only as Lucy, I wonder how differently the lens we listened to her through would have been. As Brenda – the sex assistant who provides intimacy and care for disabled clients – she was met with respect and, in some cases, admiration. But Lucy, in the business-like autonomy she held unrelentingly over her sexuality, was either judged far more harshly for her work or seen instead as a victim needing saving. What made the difference? Both roles are legal, consensual, and empowering. But only one aligned with gendered expectations of service, softness, and "giving back."

This tension between appearance and acceptance isn’t unique to sex work. I’ve seen it in how the Netherlands presents its queer history too. Amsterdam brands itself as the “gay capital of the world,” but that glossy image often leaves out the people who don’t fit the central casting: queer women, trans folks, migrants, and anyone outside the white, cis, gay male narrative. At the IHLIA LGBT Heritage library, I loved seeing archival records of queer history and media, but it was hard not to notice who was most visible. The feminist bookstore Savannah Bay in Utrecht exists today not only because the mainstream gay movement didn’t fully include queer women, but also because queer women were forced to create a space for themselves separate from the collective queer emancipation at the time.

Sara Ahmed writes that institutions often absorb social justice movements just enough to neutralize them (2012). That’s evident in how Dutch queer progress has often prioritized inclusion over equity. Visibility is granted to those who assimilate into existing power structures, not those who challenge them. And when gender roles are at play, the rules of acceptance are even narrower.

We see the same dynamics in sex work. The Netherlands is often applauded for its legalization and regulation of prostitution, and yes, there’s real infrastructure behind that. Sex workers register with the Chamber of Commerce, pay taxes, and even get deductibles on condoms and lubricant. But the stigma hasn’t vanished. As Brenda explained, her work as a sex assistant is praised because it’s seen as therapeutic, even maternal. But as Lucy, she’s treated with suspicion, even pity – despite the fact that role offers her more autonomy, safety, income, and control over her boundaries.

While Dutch sex work policy frames prostitution as a legitimate form of labor, it still operates within gendered and moral assumptions about who deserves respect and protection (Vanwesenbeeck, 2011). In an industry entirely catered to male desire, it’s hard to argue with that. When sex work is aligned with male pleasure and capitalist exchange, it’s tolerated but not embraced. When it’s wrapped in caretaking language, it becomes more palatable, especially when performed by women.

This divide made me think back to something Ahmed (2012) suggests: that being tolerated is not the same as being included. Tolerance creates a ceiling for how people can exist publicly, especially when their labor, their love, or their livelihood resists dominant narratives. Whether you’re a lesbian trying to write your story into the queer narrative or a sex worker trying to survive the dichotomy of misogyny and capitalism, your legibility depends on how closely you fit the script.

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References

Ahmed, S. (2012). On being included: Racism and diversity in institutional life. Duke University Press.

Vanwesenbeeck, I. (2011). Sex workers’ rights and health: The case of The Netherlands. In B. A. Dalla, L. M. Baker, & C. R. Williamson (Eds.), Global perspectives on prostitution and sex trafficking: Europe, Latin America, North America, and Asia (pp. 55–82). Lexington Books.

Week 2: The Birds, The Bees, and The Better Curriculum

When I was in middle school, “sex education” meant abstract allusions to sex, lectures on abstinence, and a slideshow of medically explicit STI sores. In contrast, what I’ve learned about sex education in the Netherlands feels like stepping into a parallel universe free of fear mongering – one where knowledge isn’t seen as dangerous and curiosity isn’t treated like a moral failure.

According to Advocates for Youth (2011), the Dutch model doesn’t just teach the biology of sex, but teaches sexuality comprehensively and through the lens of respect, pleasure, and communication. Starting in primary school, Dutch children are given age-appropriate lessons about relationships, bodily autonomy, and emotional wellbeing. The curriculum isn’t obsessed with shielding kids from sex. Instead, it helps them understand it in context socially, emotionally, and physically. Teachers are well-trained and supported, and students are taught early on that asking questions is not only okay, but encouraged.

This difference is not just cultural, but also deeply political. In the Netherlands, comprehensive sex education is a legal requirement in all primary and secondary schools, reinforcing the idea that access to accurate and inclusive information is a public right, not a parental privilege (Rutgers, 2022). As Yuri from Rutgers explained in his guest lecture, the Dutch model is grounded in the belief that sex education should promote not only health and safety, but also autonomy and equity. It’s not just about preventing harm, but about preparing young people to navigate intimacy and relationships with confidence and care. They emphasized that young people who are informed and respected are more likely to delay sexual activity, use protection, and feel empowered to make choices that reflect their personal values and readiness, not societal pressure (Rutgers, 2022). The goal: informed decisions, not obedience.

Thinking back to my own experience in reproductive biology and neuroscience, we talk about fancy science and research, hormone cycles, neural feedback loops, blah blah blah… but the conversation more than often ends there. We don’t talk about how politics, social attitudes, shame or historic context filters that knowledge, especially in the US where educational content is often shaped by conservative politics. It’s strange that a thoughtful, honest approach to sex education feels revolutionary when it really should be the baseline.

Even though this kind of sex ed feels like common sense here in Amsterdam, I can’t help but doubt the US will ever catch up in my lifetime. In the US, even bringing up the idea of comprehensive sex ed often requires defending it from imagined threats to childhood innocence. In contrast, the Dutch model understands that knowledge is protection, and that shame is far more dangerous. When we asked Yuri about LGBTQ+ inclusion, pleasure, or contraception, the answers were practical, calm, and backed by data. Even the random passing Dutch citizens we’ve interacted with this past week have been candid and open about sexuality, politics, and typically “taboo” topics. No pearl-clutching. No fear-mongering. Just educators doing their jobs and the real-life effect it has on people.

If I’d had even a fraction of this kind of education growing up, I might have started unlearning the internalized shame towards anything sex-related a lot earlier. Seeing how it's taught here gave me a glimpse of what’s possible when a society stops moralizing information and instead starts trusting science and people to use it.

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References

Advocates for Youth. (2011). Adolescent sexual health in Europe and the United States: The case for Rights. Respect. Responsibility. [Fact sheet]. https://www.advocatesforyouth.org/resources/fact-sheets/adolescent-sexual-health-in-europe-and-the-united-states-the-case-for-a-rights-respect-responsibility-approach/ 

Rutgers. (2022). Sex under the age of 25: Summary report. Rutgers Centre for Sexuality. https://rutgers.nl/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/Sex-under-the-age-of-25-Summary-report.pdf 

Week 1: Tolerance, Colonialism, and the Myth of Dutch Liberalism

When most people think of the Netherlands, they picture weed, red lights, and a wildly progressive sex education curriculum. But 6 days in and I’ve learned that Dutch liberalism is far more complicated and conditional than its global branding lets on.

In our first guest lecture, Chantal talked about how the Dutch pride themselves on being “tolerant,” especially when it comes to issues like sexuality and gender. But the deeper we went, the more it became clear that this “tolerance” often operates more like a lack of restriction rather than true acceptance. It’s strategic, not principled. As Mijnhardt (2003) explains, historical moments of Dutch tolerance (i.e. during the Golden Age) were less about moral commitment and more about managing instability. In a deeply fragmented political and religious climate, compromise became a survival skill. Religious freedom was allowed, but not celebrated. People were tolerated because enforcing conformity was impossible - not because diversity was actually valued.

Sophie Rose’s lecture and research on colonial sex laws made this painfully clear. In Dutch colonies like Suriname, Curaçao, and Indonesia, sex wasn’t just personal - it was political, racialized, and legally policed. Enslaved and colonized women were subject to violent double standards: white men’s abuse went unpunished, while women could be fined, banished, or even sentenced to death for the same acts -especially if their partners were non-white men (Rose & Heijmans, 2021). These laws weren’t about morality; they were about power. The manipulation of women's sexuality and bodies was reminiscent of what I'd learned in feminist philosophy last year. Angela Davis (1981) argues that during slavery, the reproductive labor of Black women was both exploited and pathologized, thus establishing a perspective of women’s bodies as both threats and tools for maintaining white patriarchal control. C. Riley Snorton (2017) builds on this, showing how the "flesh" of people of colour was cast as “ungendered” - outside the white Western sex-gender binary -  and thus open to use, violence, and categorization however the state saw fit. That’s what makes the legacy of colonization so chilling: bodies weren’t people. They were symbols of disorder or tools of control. And while the Netherlands has only recently begun to acknowledge its role in colonialism, these logics didn’t end with legal emancipation - they still echo in who gets criminalized, who gets protected, and whose pain is rendered invisible.

The Netherlands’ liberal self-image tends to erase this history. And yet, that history shapes who is still granted permission to be visible, desirable, and safe in Dutch society. This tension between the image and the infrastructure of tolerance reminds me a lot of what happens across the Western world, especially in conversations about queer rights or sex ed. Surface-level progress can both mask and reinforce deep-rooted inequality, leading those in marginal communities to never feel truly protected. Growing up in an environment as socially conservative as the US, it’s tempting to romanticize countries that claim to be sexually “free.” But if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is that simple. Who gets that freedom? Who is left out? And how do we tell the difference between actual liberation and tolerance that’s just convenient?

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References

Davis, Angela Y. “The Legacy of Slavery: Standards for a New Womanhood.” Women, Race & Class, Vintage Books, 2020, pp. 3–29.

Mijnhardt, W. (2003). A tradition of tolerance. In E. Lucassen (Ed.), *Discovering the Dutch: On culture and society of the Netherlands* (pp. 190–204). Amsterdam University Press.

Rose, S., & Heijmans, J. (2021). Sexual violence and the law in Dutch colonial Indonesia. *Gender & History, 33*(2), 377–396. https://doi.org/10.1111/1468-0424.12512

Snorton, C. R. (2017). Anatomically speaking: Ungendered flesh and the science of sex. In *Black on both sides: A racial history of trans identity* (pp. 17–54). University of Minnesota Press.

T-10 Days: Packing with Room for the Unfamiliar

I’ve always loved a good packing list, complete with checklists, tiny travel bottles, color-coded packing cubes, but no one tells you how much heavier the baggage of cultural expectations is to fold. That’s kind of what this pre-departure process has felt like: realizing that preparing for a trip like this isn’t just about what I’m bringing to Amsterdam, but what I’ve been carrying around already.

Soooooo... who am I, and how do I fit my perspective into the cultural environment of Amsterdam? As an eternally curious, first generation Indian-American navigating the once-taboo territory of sexuality, I've spent the past year figuring out what it means to live ethically, joyfully, and on purpose. I'm an unapologetic 'try-hard' and 'feminist killjoy' who's falling in love with life. I'm someone who notices how people speak to each other in public - and especially how they disagree. I value open-mindedness, life-long learning (shoutout to ZTA for that one), and questioning everything, especially the stuff we were told not to question. I'm also so over the shame in the US - about sex, about bodies, about being seen - and beyond excited to see the sociopolitical potential of a cultural free of that shame.

What I want from this trip, other than the in-curriculum drag show, is clarity. And not the kind that comes from a perfect itinerary or Google Translate. I want to see what it’s like to live in a place where sexuality isn’t immediately coded as distasteful or other. I want to learn how culture shapes comfort, how people talk about desire without panic. I want to feel what it’s like to be in spaces where bodies are just bodies, not battlegrounds. That feels like a big ask, but most certainly one that's overdue.

According to Shelley Story, this trip is a chance to meet a “new me” I haven’t met yet. I've never been immersed in a culture I didn't have a personal connection to, and as someone who prefers to know everything, that both thrills and terrifies me. I’m hoping to find more of my voice, especially in conversations about power and identity. I also know I tend to be the Sponge Traveler (with a dash of Schedule-Master chaos), so my goal is to soak in as much of the everyday life as I can, even if that means saying no to a couple nights out. I want this experience to feel lived, not just documented.

In regards to studying abroad, my boundaries are mostly internal. I know that when I get overwhelmed, I tend to shut down or go full people-pleaser mode. So I’m setting the intention now to ask myself “What do I actually want right now?” at least once a day. I also know I won’t be compromising on my safety or curiosity just to avoid being “the buzzkill.” There’s no version of this trip that’s worth abandoning myself.

My biggest fear? Missing the moment. Retreating out of habit, checking out to avoid discomfort, slowly starting to become a recluse, or sticking with the familiar and only the familiar. I know how easy it is to default to American friends, American snacks, American customs, but I want to push myself to fully immerse myself in the experience of living abroad for a month. This means not only surviving, but making an effort to thrive, too.

T-10 days, and I'm ready to unpack my values alongside my passport. So here’s to weird museum exhibits, hard conversations, and finding pieces of myself in unfamiliar places.

How Do You Say ‘Sex Positivity’ in Dutch?

Hey team!

I’m Chandha (she/her), and welcome to Of Tulips and Taboos - a little corner of the internet where I’ll be chronicling my 3.5-week study abroad in Amsterdam through the Sexuality and Culture program at Southwestern. Basically this will be my diary/thought-dump as I traverse the world of human sexuality across cultures this June while also possibly getting lost in Dutch alleyways with stroopwafels in hand.

I created this blog not just to document my travels but to reflect on the real stuff we’re diving into - like sexual communication, gender, queerness, reproductive justice, attitudes towards sex and how all of it looks different (and sometimes way better) outside of the US. Whether I’m talking about the politics of pleasure or just laughing about a wild sex museum experience, this online space is going to be candid, curious, and maybe a little chaotic. Think big questions, small revelations, and a lot of cultural unpacking.

If you’ve ever felt weird about how sexuality is taught (or not taught) where you're from, you’re not alone. I grew up with the idea that "sex talk" and queerness was avoided like the plague, and now I get to ask: what happens when we do talk about it - openly, kindly, and without shame?

Thanks for reading. Here’s to growing, unlearning, and blooming queerly <3 🌷