Just a week after Facebook Chief Operating Officer Sheryl K. Sandberg ’91 will have returned to Cambridge to encourage female students to “lean in” to their careers, the rapper Tyga will tell them to bend over.

Tyga was the performer chosen by the Harvard College Events Board to headline this year’s Yardfest. Harvard undergraduates haven’t wasted the opportunity for a good protest. For once, it’s not for sport.

On the surface, Harvard is the epitome of academic and social enlightenment, helping to alleviate inequality of opportunity and allowing individuals to advance on their merits. Tyga’s booking demonstrates a disparity between this projection and reality—even those firmly committed to women’s advancement find themselves in a sticky spot when trying to deal with pop culture.

Though Tyga is best known for his hit “Rack City,” he’s also contributed poetic gems like “Lap Dance” and “Make It Nasty.” In “Bitch Betta Have My Money,” Tyga says, “Shut the fuck up and jump on this dick. Nothing but a motherfucking skank. Fuck what you talking ‘bout and fuck what you think.” In “Bitches Ain’t Shit” he raps, “Need a bitch that can fuck, cook, clean, right.” An online petition against Tyga’s Yardfest appearance that cites these lyrics has received nearly 2,000 signatures.

Some students have argued that Tyga’s detractors are overreacting, taking themselves (and life) too seriously. It’s very hard, in any debate, to prove that you’re not overreacting—the more you try to demonstrate the opposite, the surer your critics become. This sort of criticism—directed not at content, but at tenor and presentation—is frequently leveled at women. We often try to power through: “I sound mad? You bet I’m mad!”

But I do like Tyga’s music. Music like his only sells (well, is downloaded for free) because people like it. It’s not hard to see why. At least part of the allure of rap, misogynistic or not, is its open celebration of the self; listeners can be vicariously irreverent. (The other part of rap’s allure is its catchy beats.)

The trouble is that, all too often, rappers like Tyga gain at the expense of women. Their worth is measured in the size of their harems, their efficacy in the sexual deeds they perform.

In her book “Lean In,” Sandberg alludes to the trade-off women face between success and likability. Tyga highlights this problem. It’s hard to protest—to ask to be taken seriously, not seen as a collection of secondary sex characteristics—without ruining everyone’s fun.

And so we lead double lives. We debate the nature of feminist “strategy”: Is it mostly Sandberg’s ambition gap? Are policies and attitudes the problem, as Anne-Marie Slaughter has argued? But beneath the surface, the debate’s premise—that women should advance professionally—is under constant threat of erosion from the current of popular culture.

It seems unlikely that “grinding” to Tyga replaced “twisting” to Chubby Checker because girls wanted it to. We women—hoping to please and not to disrupt—comply with men’s (admittedly, not all men’s) definition of what is fun and cool. That female objectification is such a stubborn fixture on the cultural landscape provides all the more reason that Harvard should attempt to dislodge it. Given that we’re pulled in so many directions, it is hard to be a woman. Harvard, of all places, should not make it harder.

A friend of mine once joked that sexism, misogyny, and rape are “women’s issues,” like violence and murder are “dead people’s issues.” But the joke underscores a sad truth: For men, sexism is usually an intellectual exercise. For me, at least, arguing for feminist causes can feel like burdening others with my problems. Protesting Tyga feels like complaining. And that’s the last thing I want. I (and, I think, most college –aged women) want you to think I take everything in stride. I want you to like me.

It may take nuance for me to make it professionally: To be assertive without seeming “pushy,” feminine but also practical and reasonable. I don’t ask for any special favors (though my birthday is coming up soon if you find a nice skirt with pockets).

I don’t ask that Tyga’s freedom of expression be curtailed. I may disapprove of what he has to say, but I will defend to the death his right to rap it to the tune of a forgotten one-hit-wonder.

All I ask is that Harvard not use my tuition money to pay Mr. Tyga (I hope it’s all right if I call him that) to call me a bitch.

Lisa J. Mogilanski ’15, a Crimson editorial comper, is an economics concentrator in Cabot House.