I was going to write a post on how it isn't anti-feminist to take an interest in your appearance, that smart and pretty aren't mutually exclusive, etc.
Then I stumbled upon an article about that very topic on another blog, Already Pretty.
But if you're too lazy to click that, here's what she says.
I've heard people say that whenever a woman dresses up, elements of patriarchal oppression, conformism, and weakness are at play. That it goes against the feminist grain to cinch your waist, or maximize your bust, or lengthen your legs with flattering clothing because on some level, you're doing it to garner male attention ... or to make your fellow women feel inferior. That you're unconsciously playing into some societal idea of what a woman should look like, even as you're telling yourself you're doing it because it makes you feel good.
But I don't buy it. Not for a minute.
This kind of thinking paints women as mindless, consumption-driven zombies incapable of making their own decisions. It assumes that any time we dare feel good about our looks, any time we include grooming and style in our regimen of self-care, we are surrendering power. And, perhaps even worse, it feeds into the smart-versus-pretty dichotomy. I mean, any woman who wants to dress up and look fashionable every day can't be smart, can she? If she makes sexy shoes and perfect makeup a priority, she can't possibly have room in her life for anything deeper or more meaningful. And, obviously, someone who stays abreast of the trends and dresses to accentuate her assets couldn't be a real feminist.
Obviously.
And that's a bit extreme and most people who accuse women of pandering when they pull on miniskirts and brush on mascara aren't quite that prejudiced. But a few months back, I saw a blog comment about how Eve Ensler wasn't relevant as a feminist anymore because she'd gotten a flattering new haircut and put on some lipstick for an interview. And I had to walk around the block a few times to keep my head from exploding. Because Eve didn't lose brain cells as she lost length off her 'do, and she didn't get the smarts sucked out of her when she slapped on that lippy. She's still herself, still amazing, just a little different-looking. And saying she's a sell-out for changing her personal style is assuming that she took someone else's opinion into consideration when she made those changes. That's a BIG assumption, and not one I'm comfortable making. About anyone.
The choices we make when we dress are nothing if not complex. To deny that societal ideals have influenced modern fashion would be naive, and to claim that women never dress to appeal to men would be preposterous. These things play in, sometimes, for some women. But it really frosts my cake when people assume that ALL women who dig clothes and fashion, cosmetics and fitness, are brainless bimbos who'd love nothing more than to bulldoze all that feminists have worked so hard to build.
Are all women who dress up feminists? No. Are all women who dress down feminists? No. What someone wears tells you some information about their tastes, choices, and lifestyle, but that information is minimal at best. Important, but minimal. There is no way to determine from looking at a woman whether or not she is a feminist. There is no way to determine from looking at a woman whether or not she is smart. You have to dig deeper to find those things out.
So don't tell me I'm not a feminist because I'm a clotheshorse. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.
Much love,
The Albright Sheriff
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Votes for Women
Last night, The Librarian and I watched Iron Jawed Angels which is a fantastic movie about suffragist Alice Paul and her homegirls. (If you haven't seen it, you need to!) Every time I watch this movie, I get angry but also thankful. Thanks to the efforts of thousands of women over 70 years, every woman in the US has the right to vote. Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony started the fight for women's rights back in 1848 at the Senecca Falls convention where they declared that women needed to have certain rights. (At this point in US history, it was legal for a man to beat his wife, among other things.) In 1920, over 70 years later, women gained the right to vote. The amendment passed by one vote. Women were not granted the right to vote. They fought for it with their blood, sweat and tears.
Our great-grandmothers, grandmothers, and mothers fought for every freedom that we enjoy today. Currently, I have the right to vote, open my own bank account, have control over my reproductive capacity, get an education and even play on sports teams. A married women could not open her own bank account until the 1960's. Women were not admitted to Dartmouth, Harvard, Yale etc. until the late 1970's. When Margaret Sanger began advocating for birth control, it was illegal for her to open a clinic or disseminate any information via the mail. Congress had passed a law in 1873 which defined birth control as obscene material, so it became illegal to distribute it. The Supreme Court declared laws against birth control as unconstitutional in 1965 (Griswald v. CT) b/c these laws violated a woman's right to privacy (no shit). But again it took 60 years for women to have the ability to control her own body.
Unfortunately, I think that we have a tendency to forget these facts (or we never learned them due to an education system only concerned with the history of the white male). So, I encourage you to take a class in women's history if you can or even just read a wikipedia page about Margaret Sanger, Alice Paul, Elizabeth Cady Stanton etc (the list goes on). We need to remember this history and these women because they sacrificed not for themselves really but for us. So, exercise the rights that your foremothers fought for. Don't let anyone take them away from you or tell you that the fight for gender equality is over ('cause it isn't).
Lots of Love,
Lady Lola
Our great-grandmothers, grandmothers, and mothers fought for every freedom that we enjoy today. Currently, I have the right to vote, open my own bank account, have control over my reproductive capacity, get an education and even play on sports teams. A married women could not open her own bank account until the 1960's. Women were not admitted to Dartmouth, Harvard, Yale etc. until the late 1970's. When Margaret Sanger began advocating for birth control, it was illegal for her to open a clinic or disseminate any information via the mail. Congress had passed a law in 1873 which defined birth control as obscene material, so it became illegal to distribute it. The Supreme Court declared laws against birth control as unconstitutional in 1965 (Griswald v. CT) b/c these laws violated a woman's right to privacy (no shit). But again it took 60 years for women to have the ability to control her own body.
Unfortunately, I think that we have a tendency to forget these facts (or we never learned them due to an education system only concerned with the history of the white male). So, I encourage you to take a class in women's history if you can or even just read a wikipedia page about Margaret Sanger, Alice Paul, Elizabeth Cady Stanton etc (the list goes on). We need to remember this history and these women because they sacrificed not for themselves really but for us. So, exercise the rights that your foremothers fought for. Don't let anyone take them away from you or tell you that the fight for gender equality is over ('cause it isn't).
Lots of Love,
Lady Lola
Friday, June 4, 2010
Macho macho man.
About a week ago, I was at a house party of a friend of a friend (let's call him...Hammy). Hammy is himself a very typically masculine guy--he was in the military, could absolutely kill you his pinky finger, and played lacrosse. All the right traits of a macho man. He also owns and adores a yorkshire terrier and wears pink polos, so I give him credit for the crossing of boundaries (I think he can own a yorkie and wear pink because no one would ever give him shit, lest they wind up in the river...but I digress).
Some of Hammy's neighbors drunkenly wandered over and hung out for a while, and they provided the more interesting social dynamics to observe. They were definitely older than us, probably early 30s, but wanted to chill with the college kids and re-hash their youth (one man bragged to me twice about his DUI as if it was supposed to be impressive, and they all wanted to play flip cup).
One of the women began ragging on one of the guys, mocking him because he'd watched Dear John all by himself, something that she said made him "gayer" than the pink tissues Hammy kept in the bathroom. Dear John is a sappy romance (that I rather enjoyed, shhh) based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. The plot is more or less unimportant (it's sad, is what you need to know) It's a film clearly marketed towards young women and attempts to capitalize on the supposed romantic yearnings typical of that age group. And to watch this film, by himself, earned this poor guy the nickname of "Dear John" for the rest of the night and branded him with the status of being gay.
Obviously, this is a rather minor, harmless example: this man was just being teased, but not mercilessly bullied. But it does illustrate how clearly we've delineated acceptable patterns of "feminine, girly" action and "masculine, manly" action. Anything that doesn't fit the box is either manly/unnatural for women or makes one a faggot for men.
I would argue that, in some ways, this pull to stay within the hegemonic concept of gendered behavior is actually stronger on men, and the repercussions for violating that standard are often harsher. Women no longer are discouraged from sports for fear of being called manly, short hair might get one teased but does not necessarily indicate sexuality or a "masculine" nature, and many professions that were once closed off to women are still male-dominated but far more open (excepting possibly for construction and other manual labor jobs). In contrast, male nurses are ridiculed (think Meet the Parents), men who are "too" well-groomed or well-dressed are harassed and dismissed as "fags" (think every public high school in America), and men drinking fruity drinks are "pussies" (see Lady Lola's post on Manning Up). Please know that I am not saying hegemonic concepts of femininity don't hinder women, because they absolutely do. I just think it appears to be more socially acceptable for women (especially if they are otherwise straight, attractive and feminine) to take on "masculine" traits and get away with it.
Much love,
The Albright Sheriff
Some of Hammy's neighbors drunkenly wandered over and hung out for a while, and they provided the more interesting social dynamics to observe. They were definitely older than us, probably early 30s, but wanted to chill with the college kids and re-hash their youth (one man bragged to me twice about his DUI as if it was supposed to be impressive, and they all wanted to play flip cup).
One of the women began ragging on one of the guys, mocking him because he'd watched Dear John all by himself, something that she said made him "gayer" than the pink tissues Hammy kept in the bathroom. Dear John is a sappy romance (that I rather enjoyed, shhh) based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. The plot is more or less unimportant (it's sad, is what you need to know) It's a film clearly marketed towards young women and attempts to capitalize on the supposed romantic yearnings typical of that age group. And to watch this film, by himself, earned this poor guy the nickname of "Dear John" for the rest of the night and branded him with the status of being gay.
Obviously, this is a rather minor, harmless example: this man was just being teased, but not mercilessly bullied. But it does illustrate how clearly we've delineated acceptable patterns of "feminine, girly" action and "masculine, manly" action. Anything that doesn't fit the box is either manly/unnatural for women or makes one a faggot for men.
I would argue that, in some ways, this pull to stay within the hegemonic concept of gendered behavior is actually stronger on men, and the repercussions for violating that standard are often harsher. Women no longer are discouraged from sports for fear of being called manly, short hair might get one teased but does not necessarily indicate sexuality or a "masculine" nature, and many professions that were once closed off to women are still male-dominated but far more open (excepting possibly for construction and other manual labor jobs). In contrast, male nurses are ridiculed (think Meet the Parents), men who are "too" well-groomed or well-dressed are harassed and dismissed as "fags" (think every public high school in America), and men drinking fruity drinks are "pussies" (see Lady Lola's post on Manning Up). Please know that I am not saying hegemonic concepts of femininity don't hinder women, because they absolutely do. I just think it appears to be more socially acceptable for women (especially if they are otherwise straight, attractive and feminine) to take on "masculine" traits and get away with it.
Much love,
The Albright Sheriff
I'm hot.
When I first came to Smith, I had had three sexual experiences, none of them positive. At thirteen I was groped on a subway, and then later that year I was repeatedly and violently sexually assaulted (he liked to use objects to violate me). Then monotonous, unsatisfying sex with my ex, I’ll call him Kimpchi. Needless to say, I am not a very sexual person. I don’t like sex. I’m not particularly good at sex.
Kimpchi and I dated for almost four years, and regularly fucked. He really wasn’t a good guy and he almost always made me feel horrible about my weight, especially during sex. Not cool. (He’s an asshole.) I’m not a very “sexy” person, but when I finally broke up with him I figured, what the hell, I’m single. I’m going to have fun. So I have been, and each and every time I’ve “had fun,” it’s been pretty fucking fabulous. These guys want me. (We could talk about how slutty it is to have self-validating sex, but I digress.)
Yeah, I’ve been hooking up a lot. (Maybe not really that much, but it seems like a lot.) I guess that’s difficult at a women’s college. But it’s perfectly fine, because I’m a sexually liberated woman. I bang who I want, when I want, how I want. They haven’t all been perfect, but fun and beneficial indeed. Each and every time I’ve been naked with these totally random dudes, I haven’t been self conscious.
Just to give you an idea of how self conscious and modest I am, I don’t wear bikinis, I don’t wear tank tops, I don’t even change in front of my friends. Wait, I didn’t wear bikinis. I didn’t get naked whenever. Now, I feel so empowered not only by sexual expeditions, but also by my environment and friends, that I get naked. Whenever, whatever. For this revelation I give a lot of credit to my hookups. These random dudes didn’t stop in the middle of fucking to tell me how bad my stomach looked, or how I could use some creams for my stretch marks, they told me how hot I am. How they loved my ass and my laugh. These guys, some whose names I don’t even know, have made me feel great about myself.
Recently I visited my friend at a small school near Columbus. It was one of the most interesting and eye opening college visits I’d ever had. I’ve been to a lot of schools, but never had I been somewhere quite like this. (For another post. Blond bimbos? Sorority idiots? Greek life?) Nowhere can compare to Smith. As planned, I hooked up with someone. In fact, I went, I conquered, I left. I’m easily manipulated, but up until this point, had been able to remain in control of my hookup situations. For the first time, I couldn’t tell whether or not I had been. Kimpchi manipulated me regularly, and I only ever caught on after the fact. This past hookup, I couldn’t tell who was in charge. But was it still empowering? Fuck yeah. I am bound only by my own rules.
I’m hot. I don’t need a hookup to tell me that. Before March, I was a really very different person. I would’ve never said that I’m hot. I’m hot. I love saying it, it helps me to believe it. Whatever, the combination of hookups and Smith College have made me an empowered woman. Hookups maybe only carry more weight because of the things that I have learned at Smith? I’m certainly surrounded by flawless group of women.
My hookups have been key to my own personal development. They have made me a much more confident, beautiful person. I treasure each and every experience that I have had because they have made me stronger. Even more importantly, they have made me more confident in myself, my body, and the power that I have over myself and others. Shit happens. You gotta make the best of it. You gotta stay in control, have fun, and play the field.
Sorry for the rambling, biography, whatever. I love Smith College, hooking up (no matter how bad I am at it), and all my amazing Albrighters!
Love love love,
Baby
Kimpchi and I dated for almost four years, and regularly fucked. He really wasn’t a good guy and he almost always made me feel horrible about my weight, especially during sex. Not cool. (He’s an asshole.) I’m not a very “sexy” person, but when I finally broke up with him I figured, what the hell, I’m single. I’m going to have fun. So I have been, and each and every time I’ve “had fun,” it’s been pretty fucking fabulous. These guys want me. (We could talk about how slutty it is to have self-validating sex, but I digress.)
Yeah, I’ve been hooking up a lot. (Maybe not really that much, but it seems like a lot.) I guess that’s difficult at a women’s college. But it’s perfectly fine, because I’m a sexually liberated woman. I bang who I want, when I want, how I want. They haven’t all been perfect, but fun and beneficial indeed. Each and every time I’ve been naked with these totally random dudes, I haven’t been self conscious.
Just to give you an idea of how self conscious and modest I am, I don’t wear bikinis, I don’t wear tank tops, I don’t even change in front of my friends. Wait, I didn’t wear bikinis. I didn’t get naked whenever. Now, I feel so empowered not only by sexual expeditions, but also by my environment and friends, that I get naked. Whenever, whatever. For this revelation I give a lot of credit to my hookups. These random dudes didn’t stop in the middle of fucking to tell me how bad my stomach looked, or how I could use some creams for my stretch marks, they told me how hot I am. How they loved my ass and my laugh. These guys, some whose names I don’t even know, have made me feel great about myself.
Recently I visited my friend at a small school near Columbus. It was one of the most interesting and eye opening college visits I’d ever had. I’ve been to a lot of schools, but never had I been somewhere quite like this. (For another post. Blond bimbos? Sorority idiots? Greek life?) Nowhere can compare to Smith. As planned, I hooked up with someone. In fact, I went, I conquered, I left. I’m easily manipulated, but up until this point, had been able to remain in control of my hookup situations. For the first time, I couldn’t tell whether or not I had been. Kimpchi manipulated me regularly, and I only ever caught on after the fact. This past hookup, I couldn’t tell who was in charge. But was it still empowering? Fuck yeah. I am bound only by my own rules.
I’m hot. I don’t need a hookup to tell me that. Before March, I was a really very different person. I would’ve never said that I’m hot. I’m hot. I love saying it, it helps me to believe it. Whatever, the combination of hookups and Smith College have made me an empowered woman. Hookups maybe only carry more weight because of the things that I have learned at Smith? I’m certainly surrounded by flawless group of women.
My hookups have been key to my own personal development. They have made me a much more confident, beautiful person. I treasure each and every experience that I have had because they have made me stronger. Even more importantly, they have made me more confident in myself, my body, and the power that I have over myself and others. Shit happens. You gotta make the best of it. You gotta stay in control, have fun, and play the field.
Sorry for the rambling, biography, whatever. I love Smith College, hooking up (no matter how bad I am at it), and all my amazing Albrighters!
Love love love,
Baby
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Don’t think im naïve
For years I told myself that losing my virginity was nothing special, that it was just sex and that I would “do it” whenever given the opportunity. The thing is, the opportunity has presented itself countless times, and alas I am still a virgin. It wasn’t until a conversation with an old friend that I realized that the reason why I had subconsciously turned down the opportunities (including using the “I realize I’m totally naked and on top of you, but I’m tired and am going to go to bed now” excuse) was because I actually do care about losing my virginity. The ability to choose who I lose my virginity with is empowering, and I want to make sure that I won’t wake up regretting my decision.
Yes, I’m a college student and a virgin, but that does not mean that I am naïve or inexperienced. I know exactly how to pleasure myself, and I am not hesitant to tell the guys I’m with what I want. This seemed to make an ex, a president of a frat (so let’s “lovingly” call him frat-boy), rather uncomfortable. He was more than willing to comply with my suggestions of naked canoeing or my love of props, but when it came to me telling him how to pleasure me (without penal penetration) it was as though I had chopped off his manhood. Later on frat-boy had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, and even prior to being a Smithie I dished out the “ I know what makes my body feel good.”
The past year has changed my outlook on a lot of things. Fellow Smithies have helped me realize the importance of doing things which make me, not the people in my life, happy. At some point I realized the empowerment, and importance, of choosing the right man (or woman) to have sex with. Looking at my friends from home I wonder how many regret who they lost their virginity with, did any of them have that morning after regret. For their sake I hope they didn’t, I also hope that they are confident enough to say what they want. For those of you reading this, I realize it’s a bit of a rant and it leaves a lot of holes for the imagination to fill in. I wish someone had told me in high school that having sex, specifically losing my virginity, was not the only way to feel like a woman, it would have defiantly helped my self confidence. So ladies, have sex or don’t but either way make sure it is what and how you want it.
so much love,
mama bear
Yes, I’m a college student and a virgin, but that does not mean that I am naïve or inexperienced. I know exactly how to pleasure myself, and I am not hesitant to tell the guys I’m with what I want. This seemed to make an ex, a president of a frat (so let’s “lovingly” call him frat-boy), rather uncomfortable. He was more than willing to comply with my suggestions of naked canoeing or my love of props, but when it came to me telling him how to pleasure me (without penal penetration) it was as though I had chopped off his manhood. Later on frat-boy had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, and even prior to being a Smithie I dished out the “ I know what makes my body feel good.”
The past year has changed my outlook on a lot of things. Fellow Smithies have helped me realize the importance of doing things which make me, not the people in my life, happy. At some point I realized the empowerment, and importance, of choosing the right man (or woman) to have sex with. Looking at my friends from home I wonder how many regret who they lost their virginity with, did any of them have that morning after regret. For their sake I hope they didn’t, I also hope that they are confident enough to say what they want. For those of you reading this, I realize it’s a bit of a rant and it leaves a lot of holes for the imagination to fill in. I wish someone had told me in high school that having sex, specifically losing my virginity, was not the only way to feel like a woman, it would have defiantly helped my self confidence. So ladies, have sex or don’t but either way make sure it is what and how you want it.
so much love,
mama bear
A tribute for Chris.
You were the first person who wasn't related to me to call me pretty. I remember it distinctly: It was in 7th grade, in Mr. Mcnally's classroom, waiting for the buses to be called. You were goofy and so sweet and smiling and jolly (Was it real, this happy demeanor, even then?).
And I was anything but pretty then. I was a blur of anger and hurt and bad fashion choices vaguely related to punk and anxiety. But you saw differently. You were nice to me (you were nice to everyone). And so launched a relationship.
We talked almost every night for years on AIM (god, remember when AIM was cool?), sometimes about BS, sometimes about our demons. I told you about my anxiety and not being able to eat, you told me about your depression and later, your addictions. It always seemed like a cry for attention (why wasn't what we gave enough?). We talked less after I went to treatment. I kept trying to tell you, It gets better! (for you, I guess it didn't).
You told me a few weeks ago you were cleaning things out (Was that a sign? Should I have known?) and found my 8th grade picture that you'd kept. We joked around; I promised to call when I came home and I never did (WHY?).
Last night, I find out that you've ended your own life.
I can't do anything. I can't sleep. I start eating something and I walk away from it. I cry. I've hugged my brother for the first time in years (you've got our attention now, in the saddest way imaginable). I can't imagine that way your close friends must feel. Your sister. Your father. That kind of loss is literally incomprehensible to me.
We weren't even that close since I've left for college, (something I blame entirely on myself for being so ready to get rid of this place). Thanks to that same eager attitude, I'll probably miss your wake and funeral (WHY DIDN'T I CALL YOU?). And all I want to do is be here, with other sad people. I've tried to find my yearbook; I remember handing it to you, you smiled (you always smiled) and wrote something that was sad and sweet and probably mentioned my boobs. But now I can't find it. I've tried so hard to scrub the PA off me, to box the Valley out of my life that when I need it, it isn't here (why aren't you here?).
Too many young people have died in this Valley. I've been to a funeral or viewing of a person under 24 every year since sophomore year of high school. I almost miss the way we expressed grief when the first person we all knew died, in tenth grade. It was loud and public and inexperienced and embarrassing. No one tempered their sadness or edited themselves based on how well they knew her. We all just sobbed uniformly, for her and her close friends and her family, until it hurt a little less. I wish I could grieve for you like I was 15 (I wish we'd talked like we did at 15). I really do.
I sincerely do hope you've found peace. That there has been some relief from whatever tormented you here on earth. You were a good person, and I hope you believed that about yourself. We all did.
<3 The Sheriff
Chris Bennetsen 2/9/89-6/2/10
And I was anything but pretty then. I was a blur of anger and hurt and bad fashion choices vaguely related to punk and anxiety. But you saw differently. You were nice to me (you were nice to everyone). And so launched a relationship.
We talked almost every night for years on AIM (god, remember when AIM was cool?), sometimes about BS, sometimes about our demons. I told you about my anxiety and not being able to eat, you told me about your depression and later, your addictions. It always seemed like a cry for attention (why wasn't what we gave enough?). We talked less after I went to treatment. I kept trying to tell you, It gets better! (for you, I guess it didn't).
You told me a few weeks ago you were cleaning things out (Was that a sign? Should I have known?) and found my 8th grade picture that you'd kept. We joked around; I promised to call when I came home and I never did (WHY?).
Last night, I find out that you've ended your own life.
I can't do anything. I can't sleep. I start eating something and I walk away from it. I cry. I've hugged my brother for the first time in years (you've got our attention now, in the saddest way imaginable). I can't imagine that way your close friends must feel. Your sister. Your father. That kind of loss is literally incomprehensible to me.
We weren't even that close since I've left for college, (something I blame entirely on myself for being so ready to get rid of this place). Thanks to that same eager attitude, I'll probably miss your wake and funeral (WHY DIDN'T I CALL YOU?). And all I want to do is be here, with other sad people. I've tried to find my yearbook; I remember handing it to you, you smiled (you always smiled) and wrote something that was sad and sweet and probably mentioned my boobs. But now I can't find it. I've tried so hard to scrub the PA off me, to box the Valley out of my life that when I need it, it isn't here (why aren't you here?).
Too many young people have died in this Valley. I've been to a funeral or viewing of a person under 24 every year since sophomore year of high school. I almost miss the way we expressed grief when the first person we all knew died, in tenth grade. It was loud and public and inexperienced and embarrassing. No one tempered their sadness or edited themselves based on how well they knew her. We all just sobbed uniformly, for her and her close friends and her family, until it hurt a little less. I wish I could grieve for you like I was 15 (I wish we'd talked like we did at 15). I really do.
I sincerely do hope you've found peace. That there has been some relief from whatever tormented you here on earth. You were a good person, and I hope you believed that about yourself. We all did.
<3 The Sheriff
Chris Bennetsen 2/9/89-6/2/10
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
shoulda put a ring on it...erm, no thanks: Marriage Doubts
Most women who have a bond with her hairdresser find their conversations usually revolving around a single thing: relationships. Hairdressers have long known that allowing people to gush or vent undeterred about their love lives is one of the best ways to garner trust, tips, and loyal customers. And this is an instance where I am no different from most women.
About a year ago, I'd spent much of my appointment gushing over my then-boyfriend and as I was admiring my gorgeous post blowout hair, the stylist said something that made me freeze: "I feel like you'll be showing me your engagement ring the next time you come in!" Now, did I disabuse her of her notions about women and marriage, or did I shut up? I settled for the smile and giggle option, but it left a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I am an optimistic person. I tend to see the best in people. So why my hesitance about marriage (note: I only analyze hetero marriage here because that what there’s a decent body of research about)?
There are the obvious factors, like the American divorce rate, hovering around 50%. There is also my family's marital history, with a divorce rate around 85%. Every adult has been in at least one failed marriage or soured relationship with a baby daddy. This creates a healthy distrust in me of the institution (though I do love me some weddings).
But there's more to it then just simple statistics.
This little tale sums up some of it well: An ancient Indian yogi long ago was known for her wailing and crying at weddings. She didn't cry out of joy, but rather out of sadness, knowing that these two formerly independent young people were forever tying all of their hopes, dreams, and ambitions to one other person, a recipe for failure and unhappiness and a lack of fulfillment. The weight of that burden is simply a crushing thing to put on another person. Also, it’s blatant bullshit. I, and every single human on this planet, am a complete person. I am flawed, but I do not need a legal bond to another equally flawed individual to somehow fill the gaps. Because I have no gaps, bitches (and neither do you!).
And furthermore, I do believe that women have more of this propensity to put their dreams into a partner, to believe that it will make them complete somehow. Whether this is because of conditioning (cough DISNEY cough) or inherent biology (...nah), it's very real. Little girls are taught to dream about their wedding day, when they get to be the princess, to feel chosen.
But this is not a worthy trade off, this feeling of being wanted by one person forever. I'm going to take a passage from Elizabeth Gilbert's book Committed to flesh this out a bit (italics her words, parenthesis mine):
If you are a man, the smartest decision you can possibly make for yourself--assuming you would like to lead a long, happy, healthy, prosperous existence--is to get married. (She then lists the ways men benefit: they live longer, accumulate more wealth, excel at their careers above, less likely to die a violent death, less likely to suffer from alcoholism, drug addiction, and depression then single men).
Dishearteningly, the reverse is not true. Married women in America do not fare better inlife than their single counterparts. (They live shorter lives, take a 7% pay cut on average, are significantly less healthy, do not thrive in their careers as much, more likely to be depressed, and most frighteningly, are more likely to die a violent death, usually at the hands of their husband!).
All this adds up to what puzzled sociologists call the "Marriage Benefit Imbalance"--a tidy name for an almost freakishly doleful conclusion: that women generally lose in the exchange of marriage vows, while men win big.
But the inertia of tradition is strong, and it’s difficult to resist the cultural tide pushing women towards settling down and feeling “complete.” I already have several companions and friends from high school who have tied the knot or soon will. And if you want to get married for your own reasons, by all means, go ahead. I am not critiquing your individual choice; rather, I take issue with an institution that we perpetuate strongly through cultural norms and encouragement that is blatantly bad for an entire half of the people participating in it!
Much love and frustration with cultural institutions,
The Albright Sheriff
About a year ago, I'd spent much of my appointment gushing over my then-boyfriend and as I was admiring my gorgeous post blowout hair, the stylist said something that made me freeze: "I feel like you'll be showing me your engagement ring the next time you come in!" Now, did I disabuse her of her notions about women and marriage, or did I shut up? I settled for the smile and giggle option, but it left a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I am an optimistic person. I tend to see the best in people. So why my hesitance about marriage (note: I only analyze hetero marriage here because that what there’s a decent body of research about)?
There are the obvious factors, like the American divorce rate, hovering around 50%. There is also my family's marital history, with a divorce rate around 85%. Every adult has been in at least one failed marriage or soured relationship with a baby daddy. This creates a healthy distrust in me of the institution (though I do love me some weddings).
But there's more to it then just simple statistics.
This little tale sums up some of it well: An ancient Indian yogi long ago was known for her wailing and crying at weddings. She didn't cry out of joy, but rather out of sadness, knowing that these two formerly independent young people were forever tying all of their hopes, dreams, and ambitions to one other person, a recipe for failure and unhappiness and a lack of fulfillment. The weight of that burden is simply a crushing thing to put on another person. Also, it’s blatant bullshit. I, and every single human on this planet, am a complete person. I am flawed, but I do not need a legal bond to another equally flawed individual to somehow fill the gaps. Because I have no gaps, bitches (and neither do you!).
And furthermore, I do believe that women have more of this propensity to put their dreams into a partner, to believe that it will make them complete somehow. Whether this is because of conditioning (cough DISNEY cough) or inherent biology (...nah), it's very real. Little girls are taught to dream about their wedding day, when they get to be the princess, to feel chosen.
But this is not a worthy trade off, this feeling of being wanted by one person forever. I'm going to take a passage from Elizabeth Gilbert's book Committed to flesh this out a bit (italics her words, parenthesis mine):
If you are a man, the smartest decision you can possibly make for yourself--assuming you would like to lead a long, happy, healthy, prosperous existence--is to get married. (She then lists the ways men benefit: they live longer, accumulate more wealth, excel at their careers above, less likely to die a violent death, less likely to suffer from alcoholism, drug addiction, and depression then single men).
Dishearteningly, the reverse is not true. Married women in America do not fare better inlife than their single counterparts. (They live shorter lives, take a 7% pay cut on average, are significantly less healthy, do not thrive in their careers as much, more likely to be depressed, and most frighteningly, are more likely to die a violent death, usually at the hands of their husband!).
All this adds up to what puzzled sociologists call the "Marriage Benefit Imbalance"--a tidy name for an almost freakishly doleful conclusion: that women generally lose in the exchange of marriage vows, while men win big.
But the inertia of tradition is strong, and it’s difficult to resist the cultural tide pushing women towards settling down and feeling “complete.” I already have several companions and friends from high school who have tied the knot or soon will. And if you want to get married for your own reasons, by all means, go ahead. I am not critiquing your individual choice; rather, I take issue with an institution that we perpetuate strongly through cultural norms and encouragement that is blatantly bad for an entire half of the people participating in it!
Much love and frustration with cultural institutions,
The Albright Sheriff
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