on tramps

This week, a male sports columnist -- a single father to a son -- wrote an opinion piece for CNN.com, a website I only visit when I'm directed there by others' outrage. He asked the parents of America to stop dressing their daughters "like tramps" and, in an undoubtedly purposefully creepy and inflammatory way, described a young girl as "the sexiest" person in the room. He posits that we can blame retailers like Abercrombie & Fitch if we want to, but the problem is really that parents don't set boundaries in favor of acting like their childrens' friends, allowing them to wear halter tops and Juicy Couture track suits, enabling perverty weirdos (who may or may not work for CNN) to leer at them. Lowering their self esteem via teensy padded bras. 

Well. 

I agree with him on one point: parents DON'T set boundaries, but it's nothing to do with buying size 6X thongs. Little girls live in the world with the rest of us. The world where famous women are simultaneously glorified and demonized for their bodies, their appearance, the lengths to which they go in order to stay relevant and beautiful. These little girls have mothers who diet, buy fashion magazines full of altered images of already nearly physically "flawless" women. Mothers who buy Spanx and padded bras and minimizer bras and ask apologetically before they leave the house if they look halfway decent. We present to them a framework of femininity that leaves no room for fat unless you're also hilarious (and sexless). No room for short. Or too tall. Or broad-shouldered or thin-lipped or round-assed lest you suffer the same fate as Jennifer Lopez who cannot be called beautiful without the qualifier of CURVY, even after carrying twins. 

And if you misstep? If you somehow fail to strike that perfect balance of demure but hot, available and eager but hard-to-get, if your skirt is half an inch too short and your expression reads less-than-interested? WHORE. You think you're too good for me, bitch? Fat slut. Ugly. You'd be kinda hot if you weren't such a bitch. These have all been said to me, without provocation, after polite refusals of come-ons. If you find that surprising, you haven't been in a bar recently. And by recently, I mean ever.

What LZ Granderson's article (which I will not link to, but is fully google-able) about child tramps failed to address is what got us here in the first place. What makes little girls want to dress scantily, suggestively. Why it's not their fault, or their mothers' fault for buying the stupid crap, but all of our fault for wondering aloud in the doctor's office while reading US Weekly if Jessica Alba is pregnant again because she looks a little... thick, if you know what I mean. We don't set boundaries, but failing to do so at the mall is the least of our problems. We need to identify the ways in which we propagate this poison. Start saying, in front of our daughters, I LOOK FUCKING GREAT TODAY, instead of, "Do these give me a muffintop?" Better yet, I AM A GOD DAMNED GENIUS WITH A CROCK POT or whatever other affirmations actually matter to their lives. Start setting an example of good. Of smart and interested and involved instead of not-really-pretty-but-trying. Yes, stop buying that glittery "girly" junk, those track suits and gross underthings, but if we imbue girls with worth beyond or instead of their looks, they won't want it anyway. 

There are ways to address the problem of sexualizing children without further marginalizing women, without insulting sex workers, without contributing to the very mindset that created all those horrific screen printed slogans. LZ Granderson just wasn't interested in going there. I am, though, and I'll keep rooting for girls, advocating for them instead of shaming them for participating in the cultural mess we made long before they got here. 

Sorry, Chelsea; it was just too perfect not to use. Love you/miss you. 

passing

I have a habit -- a very uncharacteristic habit, if you know me -- of hearing people out when they're saying something prejudiced. It's not because I care to humor them, or I'm gunning for a fight, or conversely because I'm charitable enough to let it slide, but because in this one instance I am a hopeless optimist. I'm always waiting for the big turn-around, constantly shocked that all the -isms and -phobias still exist and weasel their way into my life via "intelligent" "liberals." It stands to reason, I guess, that if I encounter racism, ableism, sexism and homophobia (see also: heteronormativity, transphobia, etc) from college-educated, democrat-voting, non-religious people, that once I widen my group of friends to include the devoutly religious and not-so-liberal, well...things take a turn for the even worse.



Somehow, it still took me by surprise when, at a get together with other mothers, the question was posed: how would you feel if your child turned out to be gay?

Let's see, I thought. How interesting do I want this discussion to get? Not very, I decided, and listened as women that I genuinely like expressed their potential misgivings. I realized at that moment that, for the first time in my awareness, I was passing.

Clearly, as I am a woman partnered with a man, having become pregnant with and birthing a child the old fashioned way, it's safe to say that I've been passing for awhile, but it had never occurred to me before. As someone who, in her youth, wore rainbow pins and short hair and suffered the consequences -- slurs, threats, dyke bitch hissed as I passed boys I had the nerve to find unattractive -- then stopped caring and stumbled on acceptance the thought that I would eventually blend seamlessly into the straight world wasn't something I saw in my future and certainly not in my present. But, here we were, sitting in a circle over our babies and hors d'oeuvres, discussing a them, not an us, as feels -- as IS -- appropriate in my case. I'm not sure what made me shy away from being entirely forthright aside from the simple fact that my own sexuality wasn't necessarily pertinent, but I, of course, said whatever George turned out to be is perfectly fine with me. The conversation didn't take any real grisly turns; nobody said anything terribly cringe-worthy and the general consensus was that it would be okay. But the fact that it was even a question made me uneasy: would these women be as friendly with me if they knew the truth? I wanted to believe they would; that once they realized a queer woman was already a part of their lives and she wasn't a caricature or an ethical vaccuum, a pervert or a societal outcast, their perceptions would change for the better. Their hopes for their daughters wouldn't hinge on heterosexuality. Admittedly, that I am living a relatively heterosexual life renders me less effective at normalizing queer culture but I can hold out hope that it would be a decent jumping off point.

Unlike past experiences which range from equally tame to really, really, REALLY stupid ala the moron Nathan went to school with, stupid enough to tell me, then repeatedly defend a Jew joke, I am not looking to discard my relationships with these mamas at the first sign of discord. Generally speaking, I've been a gung ho bridge burner, happy with a handful of people in my life and equally happy to expunge said life of anything unseemly. Now, while I'm not looking to change the world, motherhood has softened me, given me a little faith in humanity and the willingness to work with what I've got. So, ladies, cards are on the table: I like girls and frankly, if my son is gay, together we can celebrate Gael Garcia Bernal's entire catalogue. If my son is trans, I'll take him bra shopping. I am cisgendered but queer, and I hope we can still be friends.

controlling birth

There are so many easy ways to fuck over women. I rewrote that line about fifteen times before deciding that is precisely what I mean to say, so I should just say it. It starts during adolescence with -- well, a million things, but not all pertinent to this discussion -- hormonal birth control. At a time when our bodies are coursing with hormones already, new ones that make us do crazy, crazy shit, make us un-live-with-able and prone to falling in and out of love with just about anything at the drop of a hat. When I was fifteen, a different song changed my life every 45 minutes. You want to argue about how this right here is the best film ever made? TRY ME. The hem of my pants seems to be 1/4 inch shorter than it was last week which means I am the fattest, ugliest, most worthless person in all of humanity's long history -- and WHAT'S THAT? You aren't contradicting me heartily enough SO YOU MUST AGREE. So, when someone suggested that I try hormonal birth control to ease my hellacious cramps, considering that someone was a physician, I assumed he wouldn't lead me astray. I didn't smoke and I wasn't over 35, so the only two risks explained to me didn't seem to apply. Oh, but funny thing: there were these other risks he forgot to mention. The risk of totally going off the deep end when the naturally-occuring hormones already in your body take offense to the introduction of these johnny come-latelies and the ensuing hormone war leaves you suicidal and obsessive-compulsive. I was told repeatedly to "ride it out" while my body tried to normalize, but eventually I weighed the positives and negatives and darned if debilitating uterine pain wasn't the better option. Enter "natural family planning." A terrible, stupid, why-did-they-do-it name that makes you sound like an Evangelical Christian. Are you an Evangelical Christian? Sorry; I am not. Neither am I anti-hormonal birth control. I just think it's something that adversely affects lots of women who can't figure out what's wrong with them. I also advocate for women knowing as much as they can about their own bodies because this makes us healthier (most importantly) and smarter consumers (secondarily), meaning we can't be railroaded into sub-optimal care by our doctors/midwives (god forbid!)/ARNPs.
Natural family planning began my interest in women's health and my own reproductive system. I come from a staunchly feminist, pro-choice family so this was no real revelation. Women's issues were always discussed and reproductive rights are something for which my mom and I have both fought, basically, forever. Being able to identify where I am in my cycle is something that has saved me money, headache and heartache. It also quite literally saved my sanity and I know I'm not alone in that. For a pretty comprehensive guide to NFP, maybe try this book out (the publisher of which is not paying me but is welcome to, wink wink, nudge nudge).

Now we've come to way #2 to give women the screw job.

First, though, let's have an interlude to discuss our president. I voted for him. Grudgingly. I told myself that no viable candidate would ever align with my beliefs. And this guy would at least maintain the status quo. HA! Good one, Obama! You got me.



People are such wackadoos when it comes to reproduction, especially reproduction that does not include them. You've got the president willy-nilly mandating that impoverished, sick women have to carry a pregnancy to term despite a still very legal medical procedure meant to protect them from exactly this situation. You've got crazy nutsos who are free to adopt 500 children if they're so worried about babies, but prefer to birth twenty of their own and take them all to picket outside of Planned Parenthood. And then, there's #3:

Forcing women into birthing situations without their consent, by preying on their love for their unborn child. Just as it's not okay to get someone drunk and sleep with them, it is not okay to ply someone with threats and horror stories and expect them to make an informed, well-thought-out decision. The spectrum of loving motherhood is broad, and includes not only the excited, doting, round and glowing mama-to-be but also the mother who is staring down the barrel of birthing a brainless mass of cells that will somehow make it to full term. Both of these women deserve to have their wishes respected, their health considered, and their lives valued above convenience, prior engagements, fear of lawsuit or personal politics. Wait. I need to say that again. The spectrum of loving motherhood is broad, and includes not only the excited, doting, round and glowing mama-to-be but also the mother who is staring down the barrel of birthing a brainless mass of cells that will somehow make it to full term. Both of these women deserve to have their wishes respected, their health considered, and their lives valued above convenience, prior engagements, fear of lawsuit or personal politics. Women's choices need to be heard and respected. Women's birth plans need to be adhered to. People need to stop doing unnecessary surgeries and giving drugs unnecessarily just to make it home in time for 30 Rock.

In case you couldn't tell, the recent threats to women's health and rights are really bothering me. If they are bothering you, too, please take action here. If they are not bothering you, please try putting yourself in the very realistic situation of having little money, a debilitating disease and an unexpected pregnancy that could result in a special needs child and a serious and potentially irreversible deterioration of your own health. If I've alienated you with this post...well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.