bad feminist, good mother, maybe?

I used to be really hairy. I say "used to" because I've more or less bleached, waxed and lasered every errant hair into submission. I've told DM this many times, as well as friends from my post-wooky era. But I don't think anyone really understands. I mean, I started shaving my legs when I was 9 years old. And not because it seemed like a fun thing to do. But because I had grown-man hair on my legs when I was in 4th grade. Until I discovered laser hair removal, I could shave my legs at 7am, and have 5 o'clock shadow by lunch. Still, whenever I tell anyone this, they just say "Yeah, yeah, okay," and think I'm being dramatic.

these are not actually my legs, now or in fourth grade.
incidentally, in poking around on the interwebz, i saw some discussion that this image is not in fact hairy legs,
but a pair of hairy leg tights to be worn by women to ward off unwanted male attention? all this time i was carrying around an untapped asset. who knew?!

Anyway. Last month I was going through some old photos at my grandma's. I grabbed one in particular, not because it was a sweet shot of my sister and my newborn baby brother and me, but because, for whatever reason (probably because I've burned most of the rest of the evidence), it is one of the few photos I've seen that really demonstrates the full extent of my naturally hirsute state (at eleven years of age).

Now, I'm going to do something today that makes me more than a little nervous. I'm going to upset the precarious balance of my secret ninja blogger status by sharing some photos with you. This is mostly because if anyone actually recognizes the present-day me from any of these photos I'll probably just murder myself. But also because this story just can't be told without photos. So here goes:

I'm the hairy one.

DM is relatively unhairy for a man of Iranian descent. This was his reaction when I showed him the photo:

"What in the...? Were you a man? Were you a Rhesus monkey? Were you pretending to be a tiger for Halloween? Did your mom let you play with the Sharpies? Oh my god. You're hairier than me! What is really going on here? Okay. You can no longer blame me for our hairy children. It is now clear that you bear the majority of the responsibility in that department. Wow. You are lucky we got married and made babies before I saw this otherwise I might have changed my mind. Bad breeding stock!"

"Don't worry, he only means half of what he says." "Which half?" - Almost Famous

But he's right. Our kids are really furry. Jack is inexplicably blonde-haired and blue-eyed, so for now he is just covered with an abundance of blonde fuzz. It's so thick and coarse on his legs, though, it's like an un-shucked corn cob.

i swear he doesn't have rickets. DM has the exact same calves. or lack thereof. and i lurve dems.

The thing is... I hate to say this, and I know I'm playing into the problem... but... he's a boy. So I'm really not too worried about the ramifications of his hairiness on his self-image or social life. I do remember the first time I encountered DM's "manly" chest up-close and personal... I'm not gonna lie. It freaked me out a little bit. I was used to slick hairless so-cal surfer boys. But once you go... uh... yeah... nevermind.

Colby on the other hand... Poor Colby Jean.

All of this got me thinking about beauty and body image and self consciousness and my responsibilities as a mother to a beautiful girl. We've all seen the Dove commercials. We've heard the sound bytes. And look, I am well versed in fem theory. I understand gender performativity and "visible identities" and the objectification of women.

But here's the thing. I love pink. I love dresses. I love heels. I love jewelry and sparkle. I spend too much money on frou frou undergarments. I have my own mini MAC store of eye shadows in a glorious rainbow of hues even though I wear the same boring color every single day. I have spent more money than I care to admit on hair removal and products meant to do this, that, and the other thing (and they never, ever, deliver). I refuse to leave the house until I'm "ready." I'm about as high maintenance as someone who shops solely at Target can be. Yes, I am a by-product of gender stereotypes and society's unrealistic portrayal of beauty and blatant consumerism, but they have done a bang-up job because I actually really enjoy it. I like to play dress up. I think it's fun. So fucking sue me.

Incidentally, I'm not doing it for my man. He groans when I straighten my hair (he prefers it au'naturel). He asks "What happened to your face?" when I get daring with my makeup. He thinks the sexiest thing I could wear is his ratty old t-shirt. He doesn't give two shits about prickly legs or prickly any-other-things.

But. This does pose an interesting quandary. How do I "do me" without passing my body image baggage on to my daughter?

[INTERMISSION. Seriously. Here's the deal. I wrote this post last week but the word count was "a fuck-ton," so I decided to split it into two parts. But in so doing, I deleted over half the post and it was unrecoverable. I have a slight case of PTSD. After spending the better part of a week re-writing the thing, there's no way I'm going to make that mistake again. So here's the whole, unabridged version. But you might want to take a break. Pee. Get some popcorn. Etc. I'll be here when you get back.]

Okay. So. For example. Being a hirsute female. I'm sure my excess hair predated fourth grade, but it wasn't until some kids called me Sasquatch (and, inexplicably, a hammerhead shark? Are my eyes really that far apart?) that I began to internalize that shame. Up until that point, my mom had never even hinted at the subject, but when the time came, she was armed and ready with a depilatory buffet. She fully supported my body hair offensive, but was also quick to point out when external influences were getting the best of me, e.g., when a high school boyfriend told me I should shave my chest because I "had more hair there than he did" (which, incidentally, wasn't difficult to do.) Mom: "That's ridiculous. Don't listen to A-holes. Especially short ones."

Unfortunately, due to her genetic (mis)fortune, Colby will certainly have to deal with similar issues at some point. I think my mom handled it the right way. I certainly don't want to make Colby self-conscious about it before she needs to be by launching some sort of preemptive hair strike. But UGH, the thought of her coming home in tears after some brat calls her Chewbacca makes me wanna DIE :(

The good news is, I've gotten to the point where my husband can tell me, in so many words, that I have a blonde mustache, and it doesn't get me down. Hey, better than a black mustache, right?? I'm sure Miss Sassy Pants will develop her own thick skin in time. One of the benefits of all that extra hair ;)

Then there's the hair on my head. I hate my hair. I long for smooth, straight tresses. I long to wake up without my hair looking like a cuckoo's nest, or to swim without looking like a bedraggled poodle afterwards. As far as I'm concerned, the flat iron is one of the best mechanical inventions of all time, and me and mine are tight. My hair could technically be characterized as curly, but, depending on the humidity/barometric pressure/cloud formations on any given day, it can more aptly be described as frizz-fro-chic. Even when I wear it curly, I certainly don't just step out of the shower looking like Julia Roberts or Nicole Kidman circa 1985. It involves an arduous algorithm of conditioners and product and diffusers just to make me not look like an escaped mental patient.

And I understand I've internalized a lot of weird negative shit and I'm super neurotic about it. For example. Once a gay fashionisto friend from work said to me, "Gurrrrl, you look ten times hotter with your hair down." Since that day (15 years ago), nary a messy bun has graced the public sphere. Then there was the time in law school when I showed up to an interview with my hair "naturally curly," a.k.a. shellacked to within an inch of its life. Another girl who was waiting for an interview said to me, "Wow. Brave. I'd never show up to an important interview without a blowout." Granted, this girl was a blowhard, but for better or for worse, I haven't shown up to an interview, court appearance, wedding, shower, or really even a date night with my hair in its natural state ever since.

The thing is, my daughter has GORGEOUS curls, and I would never forgive myself if any of my curl contempt rubbed off on her. So recently I've been making more of an effort to embrace what God/Mother Nature gave me, even if that means showing up to work every day looking like a sad lion. And even though I know she will probably end up hating her curls anyway.

The other day one of my girlfriends was giving me a hard time as I was discussing this issue with her. She said, "You do realize you and she have the exact same hair, right?" But that is simply not the case. If it was, people wouldn't constantly ask me "Where does your daughter get those amazing curls???" Ummm... apparently not from me?

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

[Full disclosure - I can't post a current picture of my hair because, in between writing, inadvertently deleting, and re-writing this post, I got a Keratin treatment. In my defense, the lady told me I would still have my curls, minus the frizz. Well, she lied. I do not still have my curls. AND I LOVE IT. Seriously. Game changer. Why I did not do this seven years ago is completely beyond me. It is GLORIOUS. So, yeah. I'm a complete phony. What can I say? It's an evolution. And as my sister-in-law said in attempts to assuage my bad feminist/mommy guilt, "Maybe start worrying about it when she's old enough to have memories." Deal. ;)]

Then there are the ever-present weight and body-image issues. I'm basically a skinny-ish person. "Skinny-fat," I think, is the medical term. No, I'm not as thin as I'd like or as thin as I used to be, and my skinny jeans are like some sort of terrible April Fool's prank. But relatively speaking, I can't complain, especially since I'm not really willing to do anything about it. And yet. I religiously spend at least the first two hours of every Monday morning on a diet, I have an unhealthy relationship with my scale, and I spend way too much energy bemoaning the muffin top.

Have you read this article "Fuck Diets" on Ladybud? It is still one of my favorite pieces of all time. So good. If you haven't yet, read it. Anyway, that is how I want to feel about my weight. But I'm rather bi-polar on the issue. One day I'm like, whatever, I'm healthy(ish) and thin (enough) and there are about a million other more important things that I should be worried about. I mean, I could be in Iraq. Or Syria. Or Liberia. I could have EBOLA! And then I think, "I wonder if Ebola makes you skinny? I mean, like, before it kills you...." (Too far?)

I just had this conversation with a friend:

Friend: So skinny in that Instagram pic! No fair!
Me: Strategically placed baby.
F: That doesn't explain twiggy arms and cachectic neck.
M: What does cachectic mean?
F: Wasting away to nothing. Like end-stage AIDS or cancer patients.
M: Awww. That's the nicest thing you've ever said!

Insane, I know. So what do I do to combat the crazy? Repeat this mantra to myself again and again, and pass it on to my daughter if and when she needs to hear it:

Babies and puppies are small.  So are dimes and Skittles.  You’re a fucking woman.  A woman! You are entitled to occupy as much fucking space as you like with your awesomeness, and you better be suspicious as fuck of anybody who tells you differently.

Why, ladies? Why must we continue to whittle ourselves down? Who is it for? What is it for? ... “Shrink your waist.” “Lose inches off your thighs.” “Slim down.” “Get skinny.”

How about “Grow your mind.” “Increase your confidence and productivity.” “Beef up your knowledge.” “Enlarge your scope of asskicking.” ?

- From "Fuck Diets" on ladybud.com

What else is there to say?

I see a lot of stuff online about "No makeup Mondays" or a week or a month without makeup challenges. Ostensibly to prove to ourselves and to our daughters... what, exactly? That we can make the monumental sacrifice of living without makeup for a month? And then we go right back to our cosmetic crack like the addicts we are? I like the idea behind it, but in reality, what do we learn?

I also think there's something a little... hollow... about celebrities with their personal trainers and their hair, makeup and wardrobe teams giving their PSAs about self-love and being beautiful "on the inside." And then there are the supermodels who decry being PhotoShopped to puny proportions: "I boldly present to you, ME, a size TWO, not a size ZERO as mainstream media would have you believe! Do you see that singular dimple on my ass? THAT is the REAL me!" I mean, I appreciate what they're trying to do, really. And raising awareness of the issue is important. But these mixed messages don't really do much to alleviate the problem with the real-real people here on the ground.

And more power to people who feel their most beautiful in a t-shirt and jeans without a speck of makeup on. But I am not one of them. When I look good, I feel good. And for me, looking good involves mascara and fancy underpants. I'll leave it to Butler and Bordo, et al. to deconstruct those fucked-up feelings, but, there they are.

I don't have the answers, of course. And I can't teach my children what I don't know. As with most things in life, I will probably just make it up as I go along. But as I'm sitting here today, I think I'd like to say something like this: Most everybody loves a great lip gloss and the perfect LBD. But that's just icing on the cake. Don't be the kind of cupcake where people lick off the sprinkles and the frosting and throw the rest in the trash. Actually, just don't be a cupcake. Period. Look. Frosting is just that: sugar. Empty calories. (Don't get me wrong, those are my favorite kind, but they make you fat and you're still hungry afterwards.) Concern yourself with substance. Be happy. Be healthy. Be good. Be strong. Be you. And be glad it's not 1992.



glamour shots, obv.

the bedazzled bulldozer

what better way to start your day than with some more critical analysis of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity.... AMIRITE?!? hahaha, i'm half kidding.

this is about my boy and his pink blankie - the kernel that sparked my recent gender studies rampage. warning: there may be an inverse relationship between word count and actual knowledge on the subject.

anyway. my son is very ... sensitive. the sensitive child thing, and more specifically, the sensitive boy thing, is enough for a whole book (seriously, there's a whole book), let alone a blog post, so i will address that another time. i know (or hope) that, at least in part, it's the age, hence the "top 50 insane reasons my son is crying" fad. but i also know that, at least in part, it's just who he is. he's the sweetest, funniest, most thoughtful, most empathetic, cleverest little person, but he's also very emotional, raw, dramatic, and intense. he cries a lot and has a quick and furious temper. he gets his feelings hurt SO easily - even a stray look can set him off like a spanish soap opera. we call him our "drama king." he also loves the outdoors and is obsessed with all things sports-related, especially baseball. he will reenact his world-series-winning pitch time and time again, but inevitably, his dad or his sister or i will say something wrong and there will be bats thrown in fury and a waterfall of tears.

jack loves bikes and skateboards and "surfing" and jets and rockets and construction vehicles and motorcycles and garbage trucks. he is also the only boy in his preschool class who listed pink as one of his favorite colors. he has a pink blankie (two of them, actually). he screams bloody f*cking murder if any winged insect flies within 37 feet of his head. (i'm talking like, a gnat, let alone one of those enormous shiny green pterodactyl bugs. last week we were eating lunch out and one of those skeevy things buzzed through the outdoor seating area and jack's reaction was exactly the same as the 14 year old girl one table over). meanwhile, my daughter will stomp on a big juicy spider with her bare foot, or pick up an enormous horned beetle bug between her little pincer fingers like it's no big thing.

jack has an internal safety-meter, closely monitoring himself and anyone in his general proximity, while colby likes to climb anything taller than she is, and will launch herself backwards off any surface with complete faith that someone will catch her. if her faith was misplaced and she comes crashing down on her head, she'll rub some dirt on it and move on. she's a little lover and gives the best "huggles" (snuggle-hugs), but if you wrong her, she will bite you or smack you in your stupid face. she loves "foop-ball" and "beep-ball" and is really into "air-peens" and trucks right now, or, as she calls them, "phucks." :) maybe this is just because her brother also loves all of those things and we basically haven't bought the poor girl a single toy of her own. the only "girly" toys she owns were gifts from aunties and uncles and grandparents. sorry kid ;)

jack likes to have his toenails painted, and when i'm getting ready in the morning he demands his own "makeup" so he can "get ready" for his "'pecial date." he loves to try on my heels (his favorite are a pink patent leather pair that he calls my "ballerina shoes") and his sister's glitter Target Toms. the other night he told me he wanted a pair of glitter shoes, too. DM was sitting there giving me a warning glare so i said, "would you rather have glitter shoes, or light-up Spider Man shoes?" he chose Spider Man, and DM said, "that's my boy!" [*insert eye roll*]

but i couldn't help but ask myself, why did i make him choose? (aside from trying not to make him spoiled as sh*t, and it is too late for that.) the same thing happens when he wants to wear one of his sister's flower headbands to school, or wonders why he doesn't have any tutus. i just duck and weave, claiming they're in the wash or we don't have any in his size. when he asks to have his toenails painted pink or purple, i try to steer him to green or blue. i know how ridiculous that sounds. i'm painting his freaking toenails, so at that point, does it really matter what color they are? (speaking of, did you guys read about the hullabaloo last year when the president of J Crew was featured in an ad with her son, painting his toenails, and the caption read “Lucky for me, I ended up with a boy whose favorite color is pink. Toenail painting is way more fun in neon.” the backlash was quick, fierce, and absolutely absurd. ugh.)

but, my point is, why do i care? why can't i be more brave like that mom who let her son dress up as "Daphne" from Scooby Do on Halloween?* why can't (or rather, won't) i let him choose his own identity without placing my parameters on it? these are obviously my hang-ups, not his. where is that internal cringe-factor coming from when he zeros in on the gold glitter shoes at Payless Shoe Source? my critical gender studies professors would be ashamed of me. he's freaking three. i've seen enough photos of my straight male friends dressed in high heels and dresses as children to know that he will probably not turn into a cross-dresser later in life, no matter what he wears today. i don't worry that i'm "turning him gay" or anything of the sort. either he is or he isn't and i'm fine either way. i guess mostly - at least, this is how i justify it to myself - i feel like i'm protecting him? isn't it better that i steer him toward "gender appropriate" choices now so that he doesn't get teased and made fun of down the road? but then, i am just perpetuating the problem, right?

i mean, we live in california. people name their kids cricket and apple and lazer and some family used their third-born child as a sociological experiment re: gender norms. i understand that we've got a lot more leeway here than we would, for example, in kalamazoo, michigan. i mean, some places, a kid could get beat up for having his toenails painted pink or wearing his tinkerbell backpack to school. but still. i can just see him proudly bringing his favorite pink whatever to show-and-tell and some big brash bully character calling him a pansy or a "girl"... just imagining his little crestfallen face, and him coming home and telling me he hates pink and his new favorite color is black (not technically a color but not the time to tell him that). UGH. just the thought of that imaginary scenario in my mind BREAKS MY HEART. seriously. my heart. it is hurting right now. ouch.

many people claim nature over nurture and i'm not disputing that we all have, at our core, some essence of being that we carried with us into this world. but i think this essence is such a unique, individual thing. i don't think it comes in only two colors, two shapes, two sizes. nothing has driven this point home for me like having children. my kids each burst forth from my womb (and boy did they burst) with their personalities more or less formed. they like what they like and they DO NOT LIKE what they don't. they don't fit any formula, prescription or mold. they couldn't be more different from each other, or different than what i expected.

and who knows. maybe, statistically speaking, more girls do like dolls and more boys do like trucks. but i also know, from my own experience, kids pick up on our every prejudice. yes they come complete with personalities, but the knowledge and information comes from us, and they soak up every last drop, even the things we don't mean to share. to the extent that we do inform and mold their beautiful little minds, our responsibility as parents and as a society is to fill their brains and hearts and souls with everything they need to grow into functioning adult humans, preferably of the non-A-hole variety. one of my best girlfriends was telling me a while back that she was trying to convince her daughter to leave dance class or the park or wherever and she said, "Let's go home so we can watch princesses with Daddy." Millie replied "Daddies don't watch princesses. They watch football." my friend was marveling that our kids are now at the age where we are no longer in total control of the ideas that fill their heads. it's so true, and a little terrifying, too. but in the end, it's a good thing, right? it means there's still hope for children born into that cult of dickish douche bonnets at westboro baptist church.

maybe the fact that i'm even thinking and stressing about it just reinforces the walls that have already been built. i don't know. all i know is, my boy AND my girl like trucks AND dolls, glitter AND baseball. and i want that to be okay. i want to be aware of, and resistant to, this pigeon-holing that we do. looking on Pinterest, i see "10 crafts for toddler boys," "outdoor games girls will love"... can't we just call those "crafts" and "games"? why do we always have to fit everything so neatly into boxes. do this OR that. be this OR that. must check one. it's dumb.

interestingly, i really don't stress about my daughter in this regard. (actually, that's not entirely true. sometimes the daycare girl dresses her in these horrible butchy/frumpy outfits and ties her beautiful curls back into this little knot and she kinda looks like a sumo wrestler and i have to resist the powerful physical urge to change her outfit and fix her hair immediately upon arriving home.) but generally, i don't worry that she's going to get made fun of because she likes football or dresses like a boy (thank you Shiloh Jolie-Pitt). if she wanted to wear light-up spider man shoes instead of pink glitter ones, i wouldn't even think twice (okay, i'd be a little sad. i do love me some glitter. but i am fully prepared for a tomboy/goth phase as retribution for dressing her solely in hot pink for the first 2 years of her life.) so. i guess that strips my biases bare. why is that?!

maybe because she's tougher and thicker skinned than him. maybe because we are (thankfully) getting to a place in history where it's okay and even lauded when females excel at sports, math, science, and life. or maybe it's because, as a woman, i've spent less time confronting and analysing the socialized concepts of masculinity than i have those of femininity. i don't know. i hope you weren't looking to me for any answers, because i don't have any. thanks for coming along for the ride, though. and if you have the answers, please, feel free to share :)

*um, okay, side note. i went to look online for the link to that Daphne from Scooby Do "My Son Is Gay (or not)" blog post, and it seems to have magically disappeared from the internet. then i see a post from its author basically talking about how she was excommunicated from her church and community for writing the post. WHAT THE CRAP?!?!? okay. THIS is what i'm talking about?!?! is this what happens when you set your kids free to be who they want to be?

dear god, please let the internet self-destruct
before he is old enough to find this
on the world wibe web

by the way, i'm not saying J is necessarily "gender creative" (if that's an official thing), or a "girly boy" (this term is problematic on its face), or is or should be defined by his appreciation for pink glitter, but i do find it really comforting and enlightening that there are so many people thinking and talking about issues like this. it makes me think the interwebs are not a complete and utter waste of our brain cells.

 

Selected Googliography:

 

Can I Make My Son Gay, by Karen Alpert of Baby Sideburns at Chicago Now.com

http://www.chicagonow.com/baby-sideburns/2013/09/can-i-make-my-son-gay/

Pink is for Boys http://pinkisforboys.wordpress.com/

Raising my Rainbow - Adventures in Raising a Fabulous, Gender Creative Son
http://raisingmyrainbow.com
[And I love what she says about photographer/artist Parisa Taghizadeh's project "BOY," "a series of portraits of my son who enjoys 'dress-up.'" Although the project seems to be about a boy’s love for princesses and fairies, it’s more "an inquiry into what little boys are allowed to be before the world changes them and molds them into some notion of what it means to be a man in our society.”]

Sarah Hoffman - On Parenting a Boy Who Is Different http://www.sarahhoffmanwriter.com/