On Goldie Blox and The Benefit of the Doubt

The new commercial for Kickstarter darling Goldie Blox is making the rounds on social media, thanks in no small part to its parent-friendly reworking of the Beastie Boys' song Girls. And... I'm not as impressed as everyone else seems to be.

As the parent of two fairly gender stereotypical children -- a baseball loving, monster truck obsessed boy and a baby-toting, tutu wearing girl -- I'm always on the lookout for ways to mess with their natural dispositions. I'm an agitator like that, and as a result, my son will still often choose pastel or sparkly over the alternative, and my daughter plays unquestioningly with k'nex, Lego and other age-appropriate building toys. They have no real bias, yet, and all they require of their building materials is that they be sturdy and workable. My daughter is not confused by the lack of a plot, nor is she drawn to any particular color of blocks. But, okay, we are not your average STEM-disadvantaged family. 

the faces of revolutionLet's talk for a minute about those families. Maybe mom works outside of the home. Maybe she doesn't. But whether she does or not, we'll assume that a family in need of a STEM-centered boost for its girls is not headed up by a STEM-employed mother. What's the likelihood that she's a stay at home mom? Doll play -- something singled out by the Goldie Blox commercial as an alternative to "us[ing] our brains" -- closely resembles the activities of a caregiver, doesn't it? And oh, Goldie Blox, I know you aren't disparaging those infamous non-intellectual pursuits we brainless moms busy ourselves with... like raising everyone. Okay, okay. Just a misunderstanding. Empowerment doesn't have to come at others' expense, and when I saw pink-swathed "girly girls" on the receiving end of three death stares in that commercial, it wasn't personal. It was a death stare pointed at the institution the pink-lovers represent, right? I'm sure the kids will pick up on that nuance, and not perpetuate the age-old "tomboy vs. princess girl" dynamic. Whew. 

Moving on to the ways Goldie Blox is smashing stereotypes: the subject matter of the accompanying book for the first engineering set. A beauty pageant! Do I need to elaborate? At least the character loses? But don't worry; her friends use their engineering skills to build her a float so she can ride in the parade just like the actual reigning princess. The quality of the story is abysmal -- somewhere between a glorified instruction booklet and uninspired rhyming exercise -- as though the makers of Goldie Blox aren't even fully invested in the (arguably flawed) idea that girls require verbal engagement. 

Do I buy the idea that, given our culture and the dearth of resources for engaging girls in the "hard" sciences, we need some kind of hail mary, and that the likelihood is high of that hail mary coming in a pink package? YES. Do I think we all need to celebrate the first product that capitalizes on that fact as a victory for tiny mainstream feminists and their princess averse parents? No. We can be discerning on behalf of our daughters. On behalf of all our children! We can ask that companies not play into the trope of smart girls versus pretty girls and insult the less mechanically inclined among us in their commercials, while their actual products glorify the worst of the beauty industrial complex. We can stop giving for-profit companies the benefit of the doubt, or credit for a deeply flawed "small step" or a "good try." We can and should demand high quality, not just a shiny feel-good gimmick wrapped up in a catchy piece of our own childhood.

I can hear the same old gaslit refrain starting up: some people will complain about anything. Doesn't it get old, being the cynic? And, yeah, you know: sometimes it does. But what gets older is seeing money made by companies that perpetuate the same old hurtful stereotypes with a side serving of education. They are savvy, hip -- they know their demographic, they pay the appropriate lipservice, and they earn widespread backing by people who rightly put their faith in the girls the product purports to uplift. But what our girls need is engagement. Real engagement, not the kind that comes in a poorly written storybook. No gimmicks. Role models. Support. Trust. The freedom to explore, and fail. The freedom to like pink or not, to love babies or not, to be a physicist or a housekeeper, instilled with the knowledge that nary a person alive does a job without using her brain, and empowerment is, and always has been, free for the giving or taking. 

(don't) smile: not your holla back kid

I used to walk, ride my bike, or take the bus almost everywhere.

Hey, give me a smile!

That was before I had kids -- before I traded in urban life for a garden, a library with a nice children’s section, and a marginally reliable car.

Aw, come on. You’re hurting my feelings!

Men would often try to pry my gaze from my book or the scenes of the blurry city as I waited for my stop. Their lines were always the same: didactic, packaged in a toothy grin, with palms upturned as if to ask if I was really gonna leave ‘em hangin’. And I was. I did, every time.

You’re being rude. Why are you being rude? All I asked for was a smile.

My interest (or lack thereof) and my feelings were irrelevant. I was shirking what they considered my responsibility to be hospitable, entertaining, approachable, when I should’ve been thanking them for noticing me, putting on my most winsome smile and sitting, rapt, until they were finished with me. Instead, I refused their demands that I pretend to be happy to see them, flattered at their attention. The receiving end of the frequently ensuing ire is not pleasant, as anyone who’s met “let’s have a smile” with a stone-faced, simple “no” can attest. And so, when someone first let fly the above statements not at me, but at one of my children, I could feel the fight or flight response begin to bubble up.

The smile-demander got to their accusations of rudeness before I had fully processed what was happening. My toddler was being accosted, made to feel guilty for not performing as requested, in the exact same way I’d experienced. A recognizable, affronted tone was peeking out from the previously jokey demeanor. That bridge of sub-humanity was not a place where I wanted, or expected, to meet my children, but there we were. And I realized that, to many people, children and women are primarily for show.

“He doesn’t have to smile,” I said. “If he wanted to smile, he’d be smiling.” The smile-demander insisted that they were just playing around. Ah, I’d heard that one before.

This isn’t the only line that’s used on kids and women. You’re just tired is bandied about a crying child just as often as it is their stressed mother, with no further delving. No questioning. Are you tired? How can I help? What’s bothering you? Of course, those are questions reserved for people we hold in higher esteem. People whose ability to reason we value, whose feelings we consider valid, not overwrought and silly.

The systematic devaluing of women’s feelings serves to infantilize, which wouldn’t be such a bad gig if said infants didn’t have it even worse. Made out to be a burden, held to impossibly high standards, required to self soothe and obey without question often for fear of physical punishment, kids’ humanity doesn’t seem to be fully legitimized until they reach the age of majority, with several caveats for gender, race and sexual orientation. They aren't allowed to feel things we find unpleasant, act in ways that make us uncomfortable, or express emotions in ways we find unpalatable, much like their mothers, who by most of society's estimation aren't allowed to look unpolished, unwilling, or uninterested. Don't believe me? Enter a debate about leggings as pants and you'll hear fifty different ways that women owe it to the world at large to be attractive in a particular way, to put in some effort, to not embarrass themselves, to not gross out onlookers. 

Thankfully, purposefully, I have surrounded my family with people who don’t participate in this craziness, which makes contrasts all the more stark when they happen. The odd sing-songy directive What do we say?, for example, is jarring, confusing to my children, and is met with my curt reply: “we” don’t encourage forced gratitude. I'm proud to say that I kept my wits about me when that smile demander accosted my kid. Though, as their joviality gave way to impatience, I could almost feel the stickiness of the old bus seat naugahyde against the backs of my knees, remembering the times I quickly stood to relocate as someone spat insults or insisted that I come back. I stood up for him the way I wish someone would have stood up for me, and I can rest a little easier in the knowledge that, on my watch, he won't be a smile demander, a you're-just-tired-er, a dismisser of women and children and people his culture deems dismissable.  

the cult of masculinity

When my partner asked last night if I'd heard about the "rape thing" in the news, I'm sorry to say that I had to clarify WHICH rape thing he was talking about. I've been following the Delhi rape case but had somehow missed any reports on the case of Steubenville High School rapists Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond, who assaulted an unconscious 16 year old and were sentenced to house arrest, fellow student Michael Nodianos' horrific video commentary on the situation (google-able; not gonna link it) and coach Nate Hubbard's abominable victim-blaming. 

Oh yeah -- long time, no see. Did you forget what a downer I am?

XOJane posted a really insightful article that's sort of peripherally about the case wherein writer Avital Norman Nathman, mother to a six year old boy, discusses the worry I think a lot of progressive, feminist/womanist mothers experience: that our own sons will fall prey to the cult of masculinity and do the unthinkable. My own three year-old son has been exhibiting some very normal, age-appropriate aggressions like relatively innocuous hitting, pushing and general yelling/grunting when he forgets to use words to express his feelings. These things are shortcuts, now, when the frontal lobe is still getting itself situated, but it's admittedly very hard for me to see these behaviors without fretting: Is he going to be domineering, aggressive as an adult? Has the cult of masculinity already claimed him?

Of course, it hasn't. I know that. I look at similar behavior from his peers, I look at his sweet face and notice the thoughtful, nurturing aspects of his personality which far outweigh the more temporary, less fantastic traits I mentioned.  But when he's accosted by stereotypes from all angles, it's hard to keep a handle on what's actually seeping in. Well-meaning strangers tell him he's "big and strong." He's instructed to be a "big boy," told "you're okay!" when he cries (not by his parents, of course, but these conventional ways of talking to children are hard to regulate from the general public). He's mistaken for a girl when he wears pink or purple, which he does often, sees the confusion on strangers' faces, and no doubt notices the different tone they take or words they use when he corrects them. "Pretty," "sweet," "helpful" turn into "strong" "smart," "a handful." Gentle, lilting speech turns booming, didactic when his gender is revealed. How do I counteract that?

Nobody wants to look into the face of their baby, their three year old, their six year old, their 16 year old, and wonder: are you a rapist? But some mothers don't have to wonder. They've maybe made some mistakes -- maybe -- but, mental illness aside (which is a very important, but very different conversation), the cult of masculinity has claimed them as victims, too. Can you imagine being the mother of an abuser? A rapist? It must be impossible not to internalize the disdain for women they see in their sons; those women, too, must have been the target of their childrens' misogyny at some point. 

Are we doing everything we can to ensure our sons have the tools to appropriately process and release anger and frustration? Are we enabling them to really experience their feelings, to own their emotions, and, consequently, own their behavior, for better or worse? Are we growing boys aware of the rape culture they're inheriting, and committed to eliminating it? Are we giving them the language, the tools to hold their friends and peers accountable? I'm doing my damnedest, and I hope you are, too. Please read the XOJane article, and if you're in the area, attend the protests Anonymous is organizing. 

on involving my kids in politics

A photo of my son -- a photo (and a kid, obviously) of which I am very proud -- did some laps around the internet last week. On more than one occasion it, my parenting, and my motives were questioned, and that took me by surprise, as George was participating in an activity I would never think twice of. What was he doing?

Standing on the steps of our county's courthouse, at a rally in support of Referendum 74 (WHICH PASSED THANK YOU WASHINGTON), which affords all Washingtonians their right to marry whomever they damn well please.

I was accused of indoctrinating him, of forcing my beliefs on him, and using him for political gain. Those accusations made me sad not because they spoke to me in any real way; they were absurd. I was disappointed to read them, because they meant that people are not engaging their kids in political discourse. To the hand-wringers, a child at a rally is a prop, not a participant, and that speaks volumes of the state of our nation. 

George wasn't plunked down on the steps of the courthouse for a photo-op, and he wasn't naive to the cause for which we were rallying support. We've talked at length this fall about the presidential candidates, the ballot measures that most concern us, and what we, as citizens, can do to make sure our voices are heard and people get a fair shake. So many people he loves -- we love -- are affected by the homophobia that plagues our country, and if anyone feels injustice to the core, it's a toddler. What better time to introduce the concept of privilege (and shedding it) than in these formative years? We are developing a habit of participation, of informing ourselves and thoughtfully considering those around us. If that's indoctrination, well, there are certainly worse dogmata.

That brings me to the other troubling part of the complaints: the assertion that I should give my kids "all the information" and "let them decide." This is a proposition only humored by liberals, and I'm here to say: NO EFFING WAY. Civil rights are not something about which we should even be voting. Were my children to grow up racist, I wouldn't shrug my shoulders and say hey, to each his own! The devoutly religious, the homophobic: they don't (usually) suggest to one another that there might be another way, so what's with the liberal guilt around the only things that are, without question, just and true? I have no problem telling my kids, or anyone else, that some things are right and some things are wrong and my family will not participate in bigotry. For the record, I also often choose what George eats for lunch, when he goes to bed, and whether or not he can oppress his sister despite not detailing every edible thing in the house, the necessary bodily functions that occur during sleep, or what will happen when Zelda is big enough to fight back. 

I was proud to watch the debates with my children, proud to hear what George had to say about Obama and Romney, and thrilled when he could rejoice with me in the victories we won. It's never too early to have these conversations, and never too late, either. In a country where apathy is rampant, involvement is one cure. 

an open letter to jessica valenti

This post could be subtitled: Wherein I Refer Not To Your Book (which I haven't read) But To The Interview I Heard On The Radio The Other Morning. 

Jessica Valenti founded a website I like a lot and has recently written a book: Why Have Kids?: A New Mom Explores the Truth About Parenting and Happiness. She is mother to a toddler (I gather) and has been making the rounds as a "young feminist" who is tackling "the issues" or, diving headlong into the profitable and ridiculous "Mommy Wars" which is a phrase I already regret typing despite that last thing I said being (subjectively) true. I was disappointed at many points during her interview in ways that I frequently feel disappointed with my contemporaries in the feminist community. 

Dear Ms. Valenti,

I realize that mine is a difficult undertaking, given that I haven't read your book. To be honest, my reading wish list is long, and includes many things I plan to read for reasons other than providing thorough refutations of Internet Personalities' views on parenting. So, please cut me some slack in that department and I'll stick to what I heard you say in this interview on NPR to which I would link if I could find it. 

You seem to be taking the position that I've read and heard so often in the past few years: that parenthood is too hard on women. That attachment parenting is demeaning and demanding in unreasonable ways, particularly to women. That "problems" with these newfangled methods are, then, a feminist issue. I heard you smugly chuckle at the idea that some parents choose to watch their babies for elimination cues and take them to the toilet rather than change diapers. You scoffed, audibly, at the recommendation that parents wear their children as much as possible; at co-sleeping. You implied that these choices -- made by adults, generally after doing some research -- are making women unhappy, and that if it were more widely publicized that parenthood sucked so bad, if there were more affordable avenues for leaving your kids with someone else while you get on with your life, maybe fewer people would respond so negatively to the experience of raising children. 

I'd like to talk a little about this, personally. While obviously not the case for everyone, my children were my liberation. After years of working jobs I didn't like to make ends meet, putting off the possibility of seeking out work I found fulfilling because I couldn't afford to fail, I got pregnant. There was nothing noble or progressive about the job I had when I got pregnant, but quitting it to raise my children has easily been the most controversial parenting choice I've made. Politically active, feminist-identified friends have given me figurative head pats, pep talks about re-entering the workforce someday, and treated me like a twee relic because I choose not to work outside the home. They have congratulated me on being self-sacrificing enough to take on things like cloth diapering because, while they'd really love to, they just can't imagine having the time. Like many people, I've had lifelong struggles with my body image. It wasn't until having children -- birthing them, unapologetically feeding them in public, witnessing their guileless exploration of my flabby upper arms, acne scars, and stretched belly -- that I began to accept and eventually appreciate my body for what it was and expect that others do the same. I found myself hoping for my kids to find meaning and joy in their days and, in trying to engineer that for my children, I've learned to search for and value the same for myself, whether it's a paid, intellectual pursuit or not. Because it almost never is.

When asked the perfunctory question (why have kids?), you said there were two answers, a real one and a jokey one: you came from a large Italian family, and (basically) because kids say the darndest things. I realize that this was oversimplified but it still gave me pause. I had kids because I wanted to create a family with my partner, because I thoroughly enjoy children and because I knew I'd be good at it. Familial expectations didn't play into my decision, and similarly, I didn't have another child just to give my son a sibling. People should be parents because and only because they want to be, and believe they would be good at it. I agree that parental unhappiness stems in part from the lack of resources, but cheap daycare is not on my list of ways to make parents generally happier (It is, however, on my list of things we should do because it makes sense.). Instead, I take issue with a society that throws weddings to which children are not invited or relegated to a "childcare room" (because 200 adults can't just redirect a kid sticking his fingers in the wedding cake? Or, god forbid, hang out with some children?). I blame a country wherein breastfeeding in public is a debatable issue, and 30-something year old friends meeting my daughter for the first time say they've never held a baby before. We are setting up parents to fail by treating children like burdens we need to escape from, rather than welcoming them into the communities they'll inherit. We keep kids' normal behaviors a secret until those often confusing traits are foisted upon underslept, stressed parents focused on maintaining their "normal lives" and wondering why nobody told them that newborns actually eat every 3 hours...for 2 and a half hours. Including our children in our lives in both meaningful and mundane ways, incorporating them into everyday life so that they become as much a fixture as our phones, exposing others to the normality of childhood so that they know what to expect of young people: that's a way to make people enjoy parenting. Realistic expectations breed success. Attachment parenting, allowing a place for children in our everyday lives, enables that.

The question: are you mom enough? is not a question posed by well-meaning fellow mothers or even sympathetic feminists. It's yet another shitty patriarchal device used to pit us against one another, and it, along with all the other trappings of misogyny, are what's making women unhappy. Just as I don't allow the patriarchy to dictate where my value begins and ends, I don't want to teach people that their value will begin when they can make themselves useful (by my standards), or that I will put up with their difficult nature as long as it doesn't hinder my own pursuits. I had kids to teach, to love, to pay attention to and nurture in whatever way they need. I hope to have many years of watching my independent offspring fend mostly for themselves, but that just isn't the deal when they're little and I knew that when I signed up for this gig. If it were a more widely known fact about parenting, perhaps that would make for happier parents. 

Attachment parenting isn't making women unhappy. Following others' whims rather than deciding what works for your family? Sure, that'll do it. Uncertainty makes judgment feel harsher, hurt worse. Trying to squeeze your child into a philosophy that doesn't resonate with her? Failure: that'll make everyone unhappy. But don't blame women who believe fervently in and advocate for a more responsive way of parenting. Don't chuckle about parents who make educated choices that differ from yours. Then you're just throwing fuel on Time Magazine's beach bonfire. Some people find liberation in raising babies and chickens and the freedom to go to the library at 11am any damn day of the week, and nobody gets to tell me that isn't a part of my feminism.

Respectfully,

Stefanie