I wasn't planning on doing any kind of follow-up on that other consent post, but recent news coverage just leaves me no choice. I have no interest in talking about that news coverage. That's not what I do. I tell stories.
This is going to be a story about taking self-defense classes.
My public high school offered self defense as a P.E. elective for girls. This was probably really cutting-edge at the time. Every girl I knew wanted to take this class--possibly because every girl I knew well described herself as a feminist, but maybe also because the teacher was a bad-ass woman coach who was very nice but also kind of tough and you could imagine actually learning some useful things from her. Or maybe because it was P.E. without the physical exertion. Who knows.
We watched a lot of videos about date rape, drinking, inappropriate behavior from adults, how to protect yourself on the street. We had a lot of good, open, honest conversations. We practiced some physical fighting techniques. This stuff got us thinking, and we girls talked about the class a decent amount, as I recall. Having already dealt with a lot of unwanted attention by the time I was 14 or however old I was when I first took the class, there was one thing that really bothered me about it. A few things, actually. One was that it seemed to give some of the girls the idea that as long as they knew how to fight, they were invulnerable. We would joke and tease with each other and pretend to fight, but I never liked that. I was little. I knew that the point wasn't to fight and be a badass, but to create an element of surprise with the hope of escaping. A good right hook wasn't the point, and you weren't to blame if you were being assaulted and you froze, or couldn't fight, or fought and lost. I often felt like I couldn't articulate those thoughts, because if I did, I would be accused of having "victim mentality" or thinking that girls aren't as strong as boys.
Which, you know--a lot of times, they aren't.
When I was 16, I dated a guy for a while who was fairly small, maybe 5'4", 110 pounds or something. All I know is he was still bigger than me, since I was maybe 5'3" and 95 pounds on a fat day. (Is it normal for girls to grow taller 7 years after getting their first period? Oh well, I'll chalk that up to another way that Katy is like a boy--growing in college). And one day we were wrestling, and I tried one of those self-defense moves on him. And he just flipped me and pinned me, using his upper-body strength to win the wrestle, until I said let go, and he did. That kind of worried me, and got me thinking about how the first serious boyfriend I ever had was 6'3" and weighed 200 pounds or so--thankfully I never had to try to fight that guy.
So here's the thing that really bothered me about learning "self defense." One day, probably when I was a junior, I pulled the coach aside and said I wanted to ask her something:
"Why aren't there any boys in this class?"
She said that the administration didn't think we could have honest discussions in a co-ed setting, and that kids would be too embarrassed to talk, or that girls would feel threatened. OK, that sounded reasonable, I guess, so I followed up with this:
"So, is there a class for them? So they can watch these videos and see what is appropriate and learn how to interpret "signals" and identify bad behavior and understand that no means no and all of that?"
No, she said, there was no class for boys.
I walked away in anger--not at her, because I know she agreed with what I was saying. Inside, I was thinking, but I already know all of these things. I am 16 and already about 60 in my self-policing behavior, already clear on how to fight because I've already done it. I get it. I left feeling like maybe I wasn't the one who needed educating. Or, that it wasn't about education at all, but decency, respect, civility, common sense, and in general not being a piece of human garbage.
Now I'm not saying I didn't learn anything. I did--I suppose I learned a lot. In high school self defense class, I learned:
not to accept drinks from people I don't know, or from people who seem really hell-bent on offering me drinks (didn't need the video for that one--understood why from experience);
not to wear my hair in a ponytail in public because that would make me an easier target, as someone could try to grab me. I also learned not to go out at night or in the early morning by myself, not to use parking garages, to look under my car before getting in it, to look strangers in the eye on the street so they would know that I would remember how to describe them to the police, to wear pants instead of skirts when walking outside, and all kinds of other crap that make living your life seem like some kind of regimented impossibility;
how to use my elbows as weapons, how to stick my fingers in someone's eyes for maximum pain, how to break fingers, and the best ball-injuring techniques. (full disclosure: I have used all of these in my life. many of them in high school, some of them before I had taken the class or knew what it was called. I never actually broke fingers but came close enough to hear the yelp of pain and run the fuck away);
how to yell really loud: NO! FIRE! HELP! MY DAD JUST GOT HOME! I'M CALLING THE COPS! YOU GODDAMN SONOFABITCH IF YOU DON'T GET OFF OF ME I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR FACE OFF! (OK that last one was all me);
how to essentially get a PhD in adolescent male mind-reading so that I could be sure to know what unspeakable things they were thinking at any moment of any day (and that wasn't even, like HARD to learn);
that I could indeed agree to a date, even an expensive one, and not have to put out (yup, check, knew that);
that I could put out and that was ok, as long as I wanted to put out (double check);
that boys' (and men's) excuses for why they behave in bad and criminal ways were just that--excuses.
And that last one was the one lesson that really mattered.
Do you know what I did NOT learn in self defense class? I did NOT learn:
how to keep my body parts to myself and not use them as weapons against people smaller or less powerful than me;
how to walk down the street, or attend a party, or drive somewhere, without wild uncontrollable urges taking over and forcing me to commit acts of aggression against random people or my best friends or the person I claim to love;
how to actually listen to the words coming out of someone's mouth, and believe that they too know what those words mean;
how to avoid sticking objects inside other people unless they asked me to;
how to make out and make my way through all the "bases" and be damn happy with what I was getting;
how to talk about and tease my guy friends and boyfriends without resorting to insulting and degrading language;
that I wasn't entitled to any parts of anyone's body other than my own;
that the world didn't owe me sexual pleasure;
how not to: corner people, lure people away from the crowd, pin them with my arms or legs, pull their hair, cover their mouths, say things like "you aren't getting away from me," "there's nothing you can do about it," or any of that kind of stuff that must be, like INEVITABLE if you're a guy, right?
I didn't learn any of those things, because I was a human female living in the world and the understanding was that I already knew them. But in my mind, that was the class I wish they had offered to the boys. I am not saying that I wish that now, looking back with the wisdom of age. I wished that then. When I was 16.
Now I would say that I think everyone really does know all of these things, because boys and men do understand what consent is and what rape and assault are, and most of them care about the difference, but some do not. I knew at 16 that boys knew damn well how to behave, even when they were horny, even when they were drunk, even when no one else was around, even if no one would find out, even if I would never tell. They knew, and they didn't need a class to tell them. Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea to stop focusing on girls and women changing every freaking aspect of their real or potential behavior, as opposed to boys and men just not doing violent and degrading shit.
I failed to mention something else that I learned in self-defense class in high school. I learned that it wasn't my fault, and that I could tell people, and I wouldn't be blamed, and someone in authority, like the police, would help me.
I didn't believe that then, for a lot of reasons, including some damn good ones involving figures of authority being part of the problem, not the solution. I read the news, and I'm not sure I believe it now. So how about if we all collectively take the class called:
How not to be a piece of shit human being.
If you fail, you can enroll in the
Lose access to the basic privileges of society because you don't deserve them class.
And I will just keep waking up early for spinning class, and maybe take piano lessons.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Puppy Love
I have always hated the phrase "puppy love." First of all, I'm not a dog person, so it just conjures up images that I'd rather not have in my mind. Second of all, the phrase is always used when talking about young people, and the assumption is that they are idiots who don't know what REAL love is, because only the old or cynical know about that kind of stuff.
I call bullshit on that.
In general, I don't believe that emotions ever change. I don't believe that children's emotions are less real or less relevant than adults.' While I will agree that sometimes children and teenagers are lacking experience or the luxury of context, I don't think that makes their feelings any less real. Children are inherent narcissists, teenagers believe their experiences are unique in the history of the world. That's true. And it means that sometimes people--especially the young--need a swift kick in the ass or a big dose of perspective thrown in their direction.
But they FEEL things the same. In particular, if people decide they are in love, I don't see who we are to argue.
In full disclosure, I have been in love with four people in my life, and I fell in love with three of them as a teenager. I'm not talking about crushes, or unrequited longing. I'm talking about relationships, full of love and sexuality and passion and commitment and learning things about yourself and the world. I dated people as a teenager and an adult whom I did not love, so I'm pretty sure I know the difference. I fell in love with my husband when I was 27, and you know what? It felt the same as it did at 15. No, it was not the first time, filled with all of that wonder and, let's face it, disbelief. By 27, you can believe it...kind of...and yet it still seems like some kind of miracle. The people were different, hell I was different, but love, that's still the same.
I should say that I believe that all close friendships are love affairs. It's one thing to have friends, groups of people you like to hang out with, people who make you laugh. It's another thing to have that close friend or friends, the ones you make special time for, the people you find captivating, the women you find fascinating and sexy, the men you have so much in common with that it almost seems wrong. Those kinds of friendships are love, absent the sex. And very, very small children have those kinds of friendships. Both of my children have them. They KNOW what falling in love is, because they have done it already.
When people refer to puppy love, with all of that disdain in their voices and rolling in their eyes, perhaps it's because they are regretting something that happened or that didn't happen in their youth. If kids say they are in love, they are not lying. It's not "just" lust, or hormones. Because let's face it, what IS love if not lust and hormones? I am 37 years old and I am not looking for another friend, damn it, and I am absolutely not looking for a freaking roommate. I want a LOVER. I WANT lust and hormones. I also want a partner in crime, a co-pilot, a parent for my kids. That person might play catch with me, grab my ass all the time, give me cheesy googly eyes and start a pot of coffee for me at dawn while I am at the gym even though he doesn't drink the stuff himself. And people might say "oh you are just like TEENAGERS," and roll their eyes, and I would say this:
Yes.
Because teenagers aren't morons, and adults aren't exactly known for their aversion to irrational and disastrous decisions. People of all ages play games, if they are so inclined. Some people are jealous and possessive and toxic and crazy, and they always will be, no matter how old they are. Others are inclined towards compromise and selflessness in love, and most of the rest of us are hanging out somewhere in between. Life changes people, but life is always happening. I had had enough of life--enough pain and suffering and perspective, thank you very much--to know what the hell I was talking about as a teenager.
In high school, there is the luxury of not having to choose someone who is "right" for you, based on some notion of what you have in common or where you want to live or your philosophy on organic farming or some shit. You choose based on mutual attraction, of all sorts--how he or she makes you FEEL in a variety of situations. You have the luxury of taking it slow, choosing to ease into it gradually with sex or at least not having the option of spending the night together, which kind of goes away with adulthood, and later you will realize that what seems like an interminable prison to your hormones is actually a gift of pacing you will wish you could replicate in 10 years.
When I was 16 to 17, I dated a boy for about a year who had been a close friend for a long time. Before we started dating, my mom once told me she always knew when I was talking to him on the phone. Back then, there were no cell phones of course, and we had two phones in our house: in the kitchen, and in her bedroom. There was no such thing as privacy, so she could hear all of our conversations. I asked how she knew, and she said, "That's the only time I ever hear you laugh that hard."
The woman had a point. I fell in love with that kid. That was real. So was the pain of losing him, not just as a boyfriend but as the friend he had been before, though I never regretted any of it.
My first love happened when I was 15. This kid, who was also 15 at the time, told me he loved me on our second date. Well, it was kind of our third date, but that's another story. I told him that was impossible, because he didn't even know me, and it didn't make sense. And he just shook his head and said, I hear what you're saying, but you're wrong. I love you. I know I do.
And you know what? He did. He loved me for a long time, much longer than he should have, much longer than made any sense.
Gabe told me he loved me when we had been dating for two months. Today it seems like if you're a guy who just turned 28 you are too cynical or too focused on holding onto your extended adolescence to make that leap, especially before the woman does. He never seemed to care about that stuff. He loved me early on, wanted to marry me early on, became a father relatively fast, figured out the whole cancer and menopause and baldness when the shit eventually hit the fan.
Through all of this, I realize that I learned something way back when I was 15. I learned, first of all, that someone could really adore me, think of me when he could have thought of so many other things, treat me like some kind of goddess descended from the heavens, regardless of whether or not he was "right" for me. I learned that I COULD have that, so I didn't want to settle for something else. I had already learned the kernel of what real love is--what it always is, no matter how old you are.
Love is a choice.
It is a choice you make every day, or every minute of every day, or at least whenever you can. You can always make a different choice. It is a decision that you make, and you stick with it, or you don't. You can't talk someone into it, and you can't talk someone out of it. Age is irrelevant, stage of life is irrelevant, experience is irrelevant. As Goethe said: "If I love you, what business is it of yours?"
The decision has already been made. You just have to decide whether or not to accept it, which is not what puppies do--it's what people do. And it's worth everything.
I call bullshit on that.
In general, I don't believe that emotions ever change. I don't believe that children's emotions are less real or less relevant than adults.' While I will agree that sometimes children and teenagers are lacking experience or the luxury of context, I don't think that makes their feelings any less real. Children are inherent narcissists, teenagers believe their experiences are unique in the history of the world. That's true. And it means that sometimes people--especially the young--need a swift kick in the ass or a big dose of perspective thrown in their direction.
But they FEEL things the same. In particular, if people decide they are in love, I don't see who we are to argue.
In full disclosure, I have been in love with four people in my life, and I fell in love with three of them as a teenager. I'm not talking about crushes, or unrequited longing. I'm talking about relationships, full of love and sexuality and passion and commitment and learning things about yourself and the world. I dated people as a teenager and an adult whom I did not love, so I'm pretty sure I know the difference. I fell in love with my husband when I was 27, and you know what? It felt the same as it did at 15. No, it was not the first time, filled with all of that wonder and, let's face it, disbelief. By 27, you can believe it...kind of...and yet it still seems like some kind of miracle. The people were different, hell I was different, but love, that's still the same.
I should say that I believe that all close friendships are love affairs. It's one thing to have friends, groups of people you like to hang out with, people who make you laugh. It's another thing to have that close friend or friends, the ones you make special time for, the people you find captivating, the women you find fascinating and sexy, the men you have so much in common with that it almost seems wrong. Those kinds of friendships are love, absent the sex. And very, very small children have those kinds of friendships. Both of my children have them. They KNOW what falling in love is, because they have done it already.
When people refer to puppy love, with all of that disdain in their voices and rolling in their eyes, perhaps it's because they are regretting something that happened or that didn't happen in their youth. If kids say they are in love, they are not lying. It's not "just" lust, or hormones. Because let's face it, what IS love if not lust and hormones? I am 37 years old and I am not looking for another friend, damn it, and I am absolutely not looking for a freaking roommate. I want a LOVER. I WANT lust and hormones. I also want a partner in crime, a co-pilot, a parent for my kids. That person might play catch with me, grab my ass all the time, give me cheesy googly eyes and start a pot of coffee for me at dawn while I am at the gym even though he doesn't drink the stuff himself. And people might say "oh you are just like TEENAGERS," and roll their eyes, and I would say this:
Yes.
Because teenagers aren't morons, and adults aren't exactly known for their aversion to irrational and disastrous decisions. People of all ages play games, if they are so inclined. Some people are jealous and possessive and toxic and crazy, and they always will be, no matter how old they are. Others are inclined towards compromise and selflessness in love, and most of the rest of us are hanging out somewhere in between. Life changes people, but life is always happening. I had had enough of life--enough pain and suffering and perspective, thank you very much--to know what the hell I was talking about as a teenager.
In high school, there is the luxury of not having to choose someone who is "right" for you, based on some notion of what you have in common or where you want to live or your philosophy on organic farming or some shit. You choose based on mutual attraction, of all sorts--how he or she makes you FEEL in a variety of situations. You have the luxury of taking it slow, choosing to ease into it gradually with sex or at least not having the option of spending the night together, which kind of goes away with adulthood, and later you will realize that what seems like an interminable prison to your hormones is actually a gift of pacing you will wish you could replicate in 10 years.
When I was 16 to 17, I dated a boy for about a year who had been a close friend for a long time. Before we started dating, my mom once told me she always knew when I was talking to him on the phone. Back then, there were no cell phones of course, and we had two phones in our house: in the kitchen, and in her bedroom. There was no such thing as privacy, so she could hear all of our conversations. I asked how she knew, and she said, "That's the only time I ever hear you laugh that hard."
The woman had a point. I fell in love with that kid. That was real. So was the pain of losing him, not just as a boyfriend but as the friend he had been before, though I never regretted any of it.
My first love happened when I was 15. This kid, who was also 15 at the time, told me he loved me on our second date. Well, it was kind of our third date, but that's another story. I told him that was impossible, because he didn't even know me, and it didn't make sense. And he just shook his head and said, I hear what you're saying, but you're wrong. I love you. I know I do.
And you know what? He did. He loved me for a long time, much longer than he should have, much longer than made any sense.
Gabe told me he loved me when we had been dating for two months. Today it seems like if you're a guy who just turned 28 you are too cynical or too focused on holding onto your extended adolescence to make that leap, especially before the woman does. He never seemed to care about that stuff. He loved me early on, wanted to marry me early on, became a father relatively fast, figured out the whole cancer and menopause and baldness when the shit eventually hit the fan.
Through all of this, I realize that I learned something way back when I was 15. I learned, first of all, that someone could really adore me, think of me when he could have thought of so many other things, treat me like some kind of goddess descended from the heavens, regardless of whether or not he was "right" for me. I learned that I COULD have that, so I didn't want to settle for something else. I had already learned the kernel of what real love is--what it always is, no matter how old you are.
Love is a choice.
It is a choice you make every day, or every minute of every day, or at least whenever you can. You can always make a different choice. It is a decision that you make, and you stick with it, or you don't. You can't talk someone into it, and you can't talk someone out of it. Age is irrelevant, stage of life is irrelevant, experience is irrelevant. As Goethe said: "If I love you, what business is it of yours?"
The decision has already been made. You just have to decide whether or not to accept it, which is not what puppies do--it's what people do. And it's worth everything.
Friday, March 8, 2013
On a Child's Seventh Birthday
They say that seven is a lucky number. But lucky, exactly, for whom?
Seven is supposedly so many things: a years-long itch, a deadly sin, a sun, a son, a wonder of the world, a sister, a number of days, all of the seas on earth, a particularly impressive notion of heaven.
Seven is also the number of years it’s been since my first child, my daughter, was born.
She was born early, not by choice but rather necessity, to protect me and her from the high blood pressure in my veins that threatened us both. The whole thing started in the morning, and she was born a little before 6 pm, silently, as if she wanted to reconsider. One of the odd things about giving birth is that you remember everything, every last detail, and yet it all seems impossible, like it couldn’t have actually happened. When your child is a small person living fully in society, it’s hard to fathom how she used to live inside of you, how at one point in a sense you were one and the same.
What a world!
Because you and she are not the same. She is gymnastics, and you are basketball. She is arts and crafts, and you are poetry. She is obedience and you are rebellion. She is straight fine hair and you are thick and curly. She is competition and you are just too busy laughing in the background to care.
And now, she is seven.
Seven is an important age, somewhere between being a little kid and being a not so little kid. Do you remember being seven? I do. I remember resignedly waking up at midnight to take my epilepsy medication. I remember that my best friend was a boy, and everyone—well, mostly adults—teased us about being “boyfriend/girlfriend.” I remember my last year with a bowl cut before my hair turned curly. I remember being able to float on my back on the water for 30 minutes straight. I remember pancakes and peanut butter and crackers and watermelon boats. I remember jumping rope for hours without stopping and reading novels intended for people ten years older and lying in the hammock in my back yard.
What will my daughter remember of being seven?
Will she remember her surprising strength, the impressive little muscles in her belly and arms? Will she remember her “monochrome” phase, wearing the same color from top to bottom? Being student of the month? Winning the spelling bee? Playing with her brother—finally, finally!—peacefully and happily for hours on end? Refusing to eat? Colored pencils or sleds shaped like polar bears? Treating an eraser with a smiley face as if it’s a real life person? Playing gin with her mother on a Friday night? Any of these songs that we sing?
Well, she will now, because I wrote this.
What can we give our children but a name, some mannerisms, immeasurable love and memories they’d like to keep?
We can give them nothing else but a wish. And so we say, Happy Birthday.
And when I remember this happy 7th birthday, I will think about how I went to her classroom to do a little poetry project. She was so excited in theory and so shy in practice. And as everyone else was shouting and giving their answers to the age-old philosophical question of Why Popsicles? and it came time for her turn, I already knew the answer: Because 30 years have passed between your eyes and mine. I asked her, why did you choose that one? And she said, in front of the entire first grade:
Because I love you.
I will always remember you when you were seven, Lenny. Always—no matter how many more sevens I've got.
This post is also available at KatyDidCancer.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Snow White v. Superman
I've written a lot about gender roles, I realize. I've written controversial pieces based on my own childhood experiences, talked about the craziness of buying clothes for boys and girls, written about sex and rape, and yes, even ventured into the territory of talking about Disney Princess movies, though apparently I'm not good at that because that post degenerated into a long missive about the importance of using condoms. And that's not to mention all the posts about hair and breasts and body image and femininity and everything else inherent in KatyDidCancer.
However, I think it's time for me to give a little bit of my take on the whole Princess phenomenon.
It really doesn't bother me at all.
If you think of yourself as a feminist (and yes, I do, because I don't think that's a dirty word and I don't like how people have tried to take history and manipulate it), this is almost a sacrilegious statement. After all, princesses are only valued for their sex appeal! They are sitting around waiting for Prince Charming! (Ever notice how no one ever focuses on the princes? They are usually some pretty ineffectual dolts) They have to give up their talents and get threatened with death and they are abused and have no lives of their own! They are literal prisoners! What does this say to our daughters?
Um, well, I don't know. That's all bad stuff. I just think our kids can figure that out. Look, I could be dead wrong about this. I didn't grow up playing with princesses. I didn't play with dolls in general, except for Barbies (read this for my mom's perspective on mothering a girl like me). I think the princess stories are disturbing, especially in their dark, depressing, original Grimm form. However, my daughter has never seemed to care about princesses (my son went through a Princess-obsession phase; he thought Snow White was SO PRETTY). Lenny used to dress up in the outfits if her friends wanted to do that, but she never chose to do that on her own. She doesn't have princess dolls and never talks about being a princess. So, perhaps I've been lucky. But I can honestly say that it wouldn't bother me if she was into all that stuff.
Why the collective obsession with princesses? I think we give advertisers too much credit, and our kids too little.
Does anyone wring their hands over the assumption everyone seems to make about boys looking up to superheroes? No--quite the opposite. The trend seems to be to encourage girls to look up to those characters too.
But think about what that means.
Who are superheroes? Well, on the one hand, they are people who help others, fight crime, and do things for the greater good.
On the other hand, they have a pretty bum rap, if you ask me. In order to be a superhero, it's pretty much guaranteed that you have no family. You are an orphan (Spiderman, Superman, Batman), led into the path of greatness by the suffering and death of the people you love most. Even that is not enough. Once you begin your life of crime-fighting, you still don't get to have a family. It is accepted that anyone who loves you--women, parental figures--will be a target of the bad guys in order to get back at you.
So, it's back to a life of solitude for you. Back to a life where you hide your true face and lie to everyone every day.
There's more. Sometimes, you can't be a superhero without literally being a freak of nature, an aberration (Hulk, Spiderman). Sometimes you bring this on yourself or it's done to you against your will (Iron Man, Wolverine). So you can look forward to being this dude who is tormented, either by others or by his own misgivings with his body, or both. Your life is filled with excessive danger and physical pain. You will die young or come close to death over and over again. People will hate you and misunderstand you. You will be expected to represent entire nations and save society from extinction (Captain America, every other superhero).
Now you're saying, Jesus Katy, way to ruin all the fun! And that's exactly my point. No one points out how unrealistic and damaging the actual messages of Superheroes are--they are too busy focusing on the cool special effects and gadgets and the flying and the stuff blowing up. We don't actually want our boys to be isolated, cold, violent, without friends or love, incapable of telling the truth about themselves, doomed to lives of heroism tinged with the knowledge of a painful and early death. I think it's accurate to say that there are aspects of those messages that do get lodged in boys' brains, and those can be damaging, but no one is wringing their hands over the completely effed-up messages behind these dudes (yeah, I said dudes--Wonder Woman is kind of on her own).
And I say that's fine.
Kids get interested in this stuff for their own reasons, and they do different things with it. Sure, there's too much product placement for little kids, too much pressure for every kid to like the same things, too much merchandising of the message. However, our kids do deserve a little more credit than for us to just think they are mindless drones swallowing every piece of junk message that's given out.
When I was a kid, I had a favorite Barbie. I named her Joanne and called her Jo. I dressed her in the pedal pushers and other awesome 50s-era pants I had handed down from my mom, and she often wore Ken's sweaters. She drove to her job (she was 17--my idea of the absolute perfect age in the world when I was 9) and did well in school and hung out with her friends and got to have sex with the one Ken doll, who never cheated on her. She was a tomboy. I never gave a thought to the unnaturally large tits or the weird curve of her feet or whatever other porn-based messages Barbie was supposed to impart to me. Playing with that doll did not cause me problems in my life, my relationships, or my career. It never affected my body image. She was a 12 inch plastic doll. There wasn't a single part of her that looked like a real person. I was smart enough to know that.
And when my brother played with his thousands of little green plastic army men, arranging complex war scenarios, it did not make him a violent person. I remember him making a diorama about World War II or something, and to make it realistic, he cut off some of the army men's limbs and painted them red. I kind of love that fact. But the point is, he didn't grow up to cut people's arms off or inflict harm on other people or think that's what a man should do.
In fact, there are so few kids who ever grow up to do anything remotely resembling the messages behind princesses or superheroes that I don't know why we've all got our undies in a bunch over it. Sure, there are some trophy wives and gangbangers, some Navy seals and supermodels (or whatever the real life parallels are), but not very many. Most kids grow up to do something, hopefully something they like, but not usually, not for most kids. They do something to pay the bills. And they learn how to do that, how to cope and survive, in part by how they play.
The other day, Gabe and I were treated to a "movie" that our kids put together with the stuffed animals. The plot was that the two Beluga whales had a baby (a cow), who was subsequently rocked to sleep by a Latina American Girl doll, and then treated to a birthday party complete with cake until Augie started throwing everything around. There was singing involved in the movie--Lenny singing softly to the baby, Augie making up some pretty creative lyrics of his own. In order to do that movie, they had to work together, plan, build the set, use their imaginations, and generally laugh a lot and make a huge mess. It didn't turn out exactly how either of them expected. Gabe videotaped it for a minute but then his phone died. I made them cut it short because it was past their bedtime. We forced them to clean up.
There's more to real life in those games than all this other stuff we worry about, and I see them play like that all the time.
I started thinking about all this the other day, when Lenny said something very insightful to Gabe about her birthday. Her words made me realize that kids do internalize messages they see and hear about men and women, though not necessarily in the ways we imagine. Girls might not see the superheroes and toughness and world-beating out there that's stuffed down boys' throats and feel left out or lesser. They might see something else--something more insidious, something that they don't want for themselves--something kind of sad.
Lenny was due to be born on St. Patrick's day. She knows this. She was born 9 days early, on International Women's day. She complained to Gabe a few days ago that she wished she had been born on St. Patrick's day because that would be so fun (we are a family of redheahds living in a neighborhood filled with a lot of Irish Catholics; we are neither Irish nor Catholic, but the shamrock culture is ubiquitous here--an alien concept to me). Gabe said "well, don't you think the day you were born is better? I mean, which is more important?" Lenny said "women, I guess." Gabe told her that if there were no women, there would be no babies. And she said this:
Yeah, and then there would be only men. And then there would be no people. Because all they would do is have wars and everyone would die.
I'm thinking that a cow born to whales that like cake and music is a better bet. But maybe that's just me.
However, I think it's time for me to give a little bit of my take on the whole Princess phenomenon.
It really doesn't bother me at all.
If you think of yourself as a feminist (and yes, I do, because I don't think that's a dirty word and I don't like how people have tried to take history and manipulate it), this is almost a sacrilegious statement. After all, princesses are only valued for their sex appeal! They are sitting around waiting for Prince Charming! (Ever notice how no one ever focuses on the princes? They are usually some pretty ineffectual dolts) They have to give up their talents and get threatened with death and they are abused and have no lives of their own! They are literal prisoners! What does this say to our daughters?
Um, well, I don't know. That's all bad stuff. I just think our kids can figure that out. Look, I could be dead wrong about this. I didn't grow up playing with princesses. I didn't play with dolls in general, except for Barbies (read this for my mom's perspective on mothering a girl like me). I think the princess stories are disturbing, especially in their dark, depressing, original Grimm form. However, my daughter has never seemed to care about princesses (my son went through a Princess-obsession phase; he thought Snow White was SO PRETTY). Lenny used to dress up in the outfits if her friends wanted to do that, but she never chose to do that on her own. She doesn't have princess dolls and never talks about being a princess. So, perhaps I've been lucky. But I can honestly say that it wouldn't bother me if she was into all that stuff.
Why the collective obsession with princesses? I think we give advertisers too much credit, and our kids too little.
Does anyone wring their hands over the assumption everyone seems to make about boys looking up to superheroes? No--quite the opposite. The trend seems to be to encourage girls to look up to those characters too.
But think about what that means.
Who are superheroes? Well, on the one hand, they are people who help others, fight crime, and do things for the greater good.
On the other hand, they have a pretty bum rap, if you ask me. In order to be a superhero, it's pretty much guaranteed that you have no family. You are an orphan (Spiderman, Superman, Batman), led into the path of greatness by the suffering and death of the people you love most. Even that is not enough. Once you begin your life of crime-fighting, you still don't get to have a family. It is accepted that anyone who loves you--women, parental figures--will be a target of the bad guys in order to get back at you.
So, it's back to a life of solitude for you. Back to a life where you hide your true face and lie to everyone every day.
There's more. Sometimes, you can't be a superhero without literally being a freak of nature, an aberration (Hulk, Spiderman). Sometimes you bring this on yourself or it's done to you against your will (Iron Man, Wolverine). So you can look forward to being this dude who is tormented, either by others or by his own misgivings with his body, or both. Your life is filled with excessive danger and physical pain. You will die young or come close to death over and over again. People will hate you and misunderstand you. You will be expected to represent entire nations and save society from extinction (Captain America, every other superhero).
Now you're saying, Jesus Katy, way to ruin all the fun! And that's exactly my point. No one points out how unrealistic and damaging the actual messages of Superheroes are--they are too busy focusing on the cool special effects and gadgets and the flying and the stuff blowing up. We don't actually want our boys to be isolated, cold, violent, without friends or love, incapable of telling the truth about themselves, doomed to lives of heroism tinged with the knowledge of a painful and early death. I think it's accurate to say that there are aspects of those messages that do get lodged in boys' brains, and those can be damaging, but no one is wringing their hands over the completely effed-up messages behind these dudes (yeah, I said dudes--Wonder Woman is kind of on her own).
And I say that's fine.
Kids get interested in this stuff for their own reasons, and they do different things with it. Sure, there's too much product placement for little kids, too much pressure for every kid to like the same things, too much merchandising of the message. However, our kids do deserve a little more credit than for us to just think they are mindless drones swallowing every piece of junk message that's given out.
When I was a kid, I had a favorite Barbie. I named her Joanne and called her Jo. I dressed her in the pedal pushers and other awesome 50s-era pants I had handed down from my mom, and she often wore Ken's sweaters. She drove to her job (she was 17--my idea of the absolute perfect age in the world when I was 9) and did well in school and hung out with her friends and got to have sex with the one Ken doll, who never cheated on her. She was a tomboy. I never gave a thought to the unnaturally large tits or the weird curve of her feet or whatever other porn-based messages Barbie was supposed to impart to me. Playing with that doll did not cause me problems in my life, my relationships, or my career. It never affected my body image. She was a 12 inch plastic doll. There wasn't a single part of her that looked like a real person. I was smart enough to know that.
And when my brother played with his thousands of little green plastic army men, arranging complex war scenarios, it did not make him a violent person. I remember him making a diorama about World War II or something, and to make it realistic, he cut off some of the army men's limbs and painted them red. I kind of love that fact. But the point is, he didn't grow up to cut people's arms off or inflict harm on other people or think that's what a man should do.
In fact, there are so few kids who ever grow up to do anything remotely resembling the messages behind princesses or superheroes that I don't know why we've all got our undies in a bunch over it. Sure, there are some trophy wives and gangbangers, some Navy seals and supermodels (or whatever the real life parallels are), but not very many. Most kids grow up to do something, hopefully something they like, but not usually, not for most kids. They do something to pay the bills. And they learn how to do that, how to cope and survive, in part by how they play.
The other day, Gabe and I were treated to a "movie" that our kids put together with the stuffed animals. The plot was that the two Beluga whales had a baby (a cow), who was subsequently rocked to sleep by a Latina American Girl doll, and then treated to a birthday party complete with cake until Augie started throwing everything around. There was singing involved in the movie--Lenny singing softly to the baby, Augie making up some pretty creative lyrics of his own. In order to do that movie, they had to work together, plan, build the set, use their imaginations, and generally laugh a lot and make a huge mess. It didn't turn out exactly how either of them expected. Gabe videotaped it for a minute but then his phone died. I made them cut it short because it was past their bedtime. We forced them to clean up.
There's more to real life in those games than all this other stuff we worry about, and I see them play like that all the time.
I started thinking about all this the other day, when Lenny said something very insightful to Gabe about her birthday. Her words made me realize that kids do internalize messages they see and hear about men and women, though not necessarily in the ways we imagine. Girls might not see the superheroes and toughness and world-beating out there that's stuffed down boys' throats and feel left out or lesser. They might see something else--something more insidious, something that they don't want for themselves--something kind of sad.
Lenny was due to be born on St. Patrick's day. She knows this. She was born 9 days early, on International Women's day. She complained to Gabe a few days ago that she wished she had been born on St. Patrick's day because that would be so fun (we are a family of redheahds living in a neighborhood filled with a lot of Irish Catholics; we are neither Irish nor Catholic, but the shamrock culture is ubiquitous here--an alien concept to me). Gabe said "well, don't you think the day you were born is better? I mean, which is more important?" Lenny said "women, I guess." Gabe told her that if there were no women, there would be no babies. And she said this:
Yeah, and then there would be only men. And then there would be no people. Because all they would do is have wars and everyone would die.
I'm thinking that a cow born to whales that like cake and music is a better bet. But maybe that's just me.
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