Laura Merrell and Lily Iserson

Laura: 2014 is a big year for Nicki Minaj. She traded in her neon pink hair for a subdued brown. At red carpet events, she favors evening dresses over outrageous costumes. It could be that once she hit 30, she felt that neon beehives and rainbow jumpsuits were a little childish. However, I can’t help thinking that the change is not an accident in timing since her first acting role in The Other Woman, alongside Cameron Diaz and Leslie Mann, was released this year. She might have been advised to try to fit into a more conventional movie star look.

Then again, her new hit “Anaconda” is much more like the old Nicki. She’s unafraid of breaking down the boundaries of what a rap star can be. At first, I had qualms about the music video. I felt that the overtly sexual tone would just reinforce the male gaze and the use of hyper sexualized female bodies for male pleasure often seen in hip hop videos. But after watching it a few times, I have to applaud her for disregarding conventions and expectations. Many mothers worry about what “Anaconda” will teach their daughters, and I understand their concern. However, Nicki’s breaking important ground for the perception of women’s sexuality in music, and it’s long overdue. She used the mostly positive message of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s original, expressing that curves are good, and expanded upon it by also advocating that women can have their own sexuality. I’m excited to see what Nicki has in store for the future as she continues to push back against stereotypes and double standards.

Lily: Like Laura, I too had doubts about Nicki Minaj. Yet with “Anaconda,” Minaj’s usual flair for wacky performance and eccentricity remains supplemented by an underlying smartness, a feature that deserves automatic acknowledgement in our plastic-pop celebrity culture.

Let me clarify: my interest was piqued by legions of Jezebel/Tumblr writers who proclaimed that “Anaconda,” Nicki Minaj’s remix of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s 90s hit “Baby Got Back,” was feminist and progressive. Knowing Minaj’s early over-the-top routines, I was reluctant to accept these characteristics, too aware that hip hop’s scantily clad women and booty often existed for the male gaze alone.

And yet, the women of “Anaconda” owned their sexuality by extension of Minaj as an overlord mistress. Interestingly, beyond a befuddled-looking Drake and Sir Mix-a-Lot’s emphatic overtures, “Anaconda” lacks any sort of “masculine” figure. The twerk and fashion of “Anaconda” are entirely Minaj’s to wield. Even Minaj playing to Drake’s “pleasure” was an instance utterly in her power — when Drake tries to touch her, Minaj struts away, reaffirming her ownership of her booty and her person.

Although “Anaconda” seems to reinforce a binary of “fat and skinny bitches,” the overall message of “Anaconda’ never left me with the impression of a true rivalry. Instead, “Anaconda” means to show Minaj’s supremacy in her assets —and because Minaj feels supreme, you, the female-identifying viewer, should feel supreme as well.