Pretty Is as Pretty Does

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend, Jamie, at a birthday party. (I have to set the stage a bit for this story to make sense.) The party was a mix of people -- around 10 queer women and the birthday girl's family, including her sister, cousins, parents, nieces and nephews, and others. Jamie and I were sitting on a swing in the back yard, overseeing a game of beer pong and shooting the shit over some beers. Jamie is thin, about 5'4, and more androgynous than me. I don't know if she identifies as butch, but she'd definitely be masculine-of-center. That day she had on jeans and a t-shirt, nothing fancy. I was dressed up for the St. Patrick's parade that morning, wearing a low-cut pastel green cotton dress and green eyeshadow, and I had beads from the parade around my neck and a green silk flower in my hair.

We were talking about having children and our own families when a young girl, around six-years-old or so, walked up to us. She had a t-shirt and shorts on, and her long hair pulled into a side pony tail. She sat down between us, looked at Jamie, then looked at me. She turned back to Jamie and asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?"

Jamie didn't hesitate. She replied quickly, "I'm a girl."

"But you look like a boy," the child insisted.

I don't remember Jamie's response, but I don't think she had one. The child got up, ran off, and found someone else more interesting to play with. Jamie turned back to me and began to talk about how much she hated when children asked her that question. "Can't they see that I have breasts?" she asked me, and then she got up to find another beer.

A minute or two later, the child returned. I invited her to sit down next to me on the swing, which she did. I gifted her some of the beads I wore from the parade, and she reached out to touch the flower in my hair.

"You're really pretty," she said.

I found myself choking. I wanted to say a thousand things. I wanted to rewind her gender education. I wanted to offer her an answer that didn't replicate the binary she had so succinctly recognized between her interactions with Jamie and I. I wanted to show her that I appreciated the compliment, but at the same time, offer her a space that didn't equate beauty with femininity. I wanted her to know that "pretty" isn't what she should aspire to, and that worshiping femininity as an ideal for beauty is dangerous and masochistic. I wanted her to know that my gender expression isn't the only valid one.

By then, she had run off. I wondered... who am I to decide what this child should believe about gender? Should I try to influence the way she looks at gender, when she's not my child? I tossed this question around for a few days in my head until I found an answer I was satisfied with.

Yes, we are influenced and educated by our parents. But we're also socialized by friends and family, by strangers, by teachers, by social structures and pervasive beliefs held by the dominant majority. We're educated by TV and the internet, books, movies, music. My thoughts would probably be but a drop in the bucket compared to how much media influences her ideas on beauty and gender. This child could one day be my neighbor, my child's friend, my co-worker... who knows. She'll be a voting citizen who decides if those who don't conform to the gender binary deserve rights and respect. She'll possibly be a parent, a teacher, an influence on another child. She's not yet old enough to truly decide if my opinion -- or anyone's -- is valid. But she's making these decisions every day, accepting and rejecting and buying in to beliefs and opinions. She's affected by those beliefs every day. Any and all influence matters. Her beliefs affect mine, my recognition in this society. So yes, it's a careful and thin road to walk, but I do think I should talk with her.


*******

I remember, as a child, feeling fat. I was five, maybe six, years old, and I would sit on the toilet or in the bathtub, staring at my stomach, and hating it.

I remember my neighbor, Miss Susan, telling my mother that if her daughter, Jessica, didn't fit in a size four dress for homecoming, then she would make her lose weight or she couldn't go to the dance.

I remember the girls at summer camp making fun of me for not plucking my eyebrows when I was in 6th grade.

I remember my high school teacher, Mrs. W, catching me in the hallway and telling me that ladies don't wear clothes that show their shoulders. Instead, she said, I should learn to dress like a lady.

I remember dance class, as a child, when the leotards didn't fit me right and I couldn't move my feet and arms gracefully like the other girls. I was distinctly aware of how everything I did was ungraceful. I remember taking another dance class, at 15, at it was like those years of controlled movement suddenly sunk in all at once -- my body could do things it couldn't, years before. But in my mind, I still didn't have the talent, and sometimes, I still hear my teacher telling me that I'll never be any good at ballet, tap, or jazz.

I didn't do femininity right.

There are a thousand moments in my life that are and have been a lesson in gender. For me, for many women, most of those are negative. Girls shouldn't go barefoot or yell too loudly or wear pants with holes. Girls shouldn't have sex, because that's what sluts do. Girls shouldn't wear low-cut clothing or date boys with piercings or smoke cigarettes. Women shouldn't be single. Women shouldn't be childless. Women shouldn't hold the door for men. Women shouldn't walk alone at night.

That's not to say that men don't get lessons in gender -- of course they do! -- or that lessons for men aren't negative -- some definitely are.

The ideals for girls are extremes of femininity. Models. Princesses. Beauty queens. It's how companies sell make up and clothing, cars, beer, and just about every product on earth -- put a "sexy" woman on an ad, and you'll sell it. Women want to be her, men want to be with her. But what does she want? Does anyone care?

I'm reminded, every day, that I carry a certain privilege due to my gender expression. No matter how carefully I walk that line, no matter what my words and actions and beliefs are, my body is marked by gender cues and clothing, and those cues are read and responded to by people who believe strongly in a gender binary. I'm reminded that I face different risks, but more often than not, my gender identity is unquestioned and therefore, less marked and less risky. I'm reminded that the terms we use as compliments -- pretty, beautiful, charming, handsome, gorgeous, cute -- are gendered in a ways that make me profoundly uncomfortable. (I'm still learning how to create my own language out of what is available and to reject using these terms). I'm reminded constantly of my gender expression in queer bars that question my sexuality, and in heterocentric spaces where I pass but still get sexually harassed or feel extremely tokenized and isolated.

At the base of all of this, my experiences and those of many others I've talked to, I find that there's a very harmful ideal of who/what is feminine and who/what is masculine. No one -- trans or cis, male or female, queer or straight, genderqueer or androgynous -- can live up to a binary system of ideals. No woman will ever be "pretty" enough. Yet so many will do anything to achieve that. No queer community which defines its members as only gender normative (like some of Los Angeles bars) or gender non-normative (like places here where I get static) will provide a safe space for all those who are queer. Yet we define and identify those in our community by using gender cues.

If I have a child, I couldn't shield hir from media and strangers, from family members, from all the influences that teach us what gender is and isn't, what's acceptable for hir gender, and how to "properly" express gender. But I know that there are studies showing that adults respond differently to infants depending on their perceived gender. Our ideas of gender start at -- if not before -- birth, and those influences are so very persuasive and strong on young children who can't evaluate and reject opinions and ideas the same way adults can. If I have a child, I would want hir to understand and respect gender expressions of all types. I would want hir to embrace any -- or reject any -- aspect of gender ze wished. I would try my best to make sure ze doesn't feel crushed by a beauty norm ze can't live up to. I would want to offer more than two options, but instead, endless possibilities.

I would want my child to keep having conversations, keep questioning those ideas that we are told to assume.

What I know about gender, my own expression and gender as a social norm, comes from years of experiences and much unlearning. It is an ongoing process. I hope my understand of gender continues to evolve and change as I age, and yet, I hope having these kinds of interactions someday becomes less taxing.

I can imagine a world that doesn't operate within a gender binary. I can. I want to live to see it.

"Queerer than Thou"

This made my night.

I know all of these people. I don't think they usually all end up in the same room. But damn. This is exactly how it would go down if they did!

Saying "No"

There are a lot of different stories bubbling lately, both erotic and not, both intensely personal and not. Unfortunately, I am not a one-track person; I digress easily, ramble often, and multi-task always. None of these traits are strengths in writing. If there are too many ideas, I struggle to write, because I must focus on one topic and ignore the rest of the clamornings. But this week I feel pushed, shoved really, to focus on a problem I can't seem to conquer... how to say "no."

"No" is a word of power. It's about consent and ability; it concerns agency in a way "yes" doesn't always.

I worked through college at a fine(r) dining establishment, run semi-corporately, and we had a rule -- to always say "yes" to any customer's request. Customers had power, or at least, corporate and management for the restaurant gave them power. Management told us that saying "no" meant punishment, or even possibly getting fired. So we bowed to the every demand of every customer, and of course, management. I said "yes" to unreasonable requests, to personal questions, and at times, to sexual harassment. I didn't have the power to say "no" without losing my job. I could not say "no" to racist jokes or angry, demeaning rants. I couldn't say "no" to anything.

I grew up in Mississippi until I was fourteen, the daughter of two parents born and raised in the deep South. I was socialized in a culture of debutantes, Junior League, and very gendered notions of what a woman's role should be in society. My mother didn't know how to say "no" to my father, even as he became increasingly aggressive and violent toward others, even as he gambled and lost a small fortune in the stock market, remained unemployed, and drained her bank account and my college savings dry. Saying "no" meant divorce, and my mother, her family, and many of her friends carry antiquated ideas about women with young children who leave their husbands. Even now, after her divorce, my mother doesn't know how to say "no." She works herself into the ground, as a secretary/bookkeeper to her brothers' firm and a caretaker to her family. She is constantly in a state of frustration and stress, and I cannot say how many times I have asked her -- why do you not refuse? Why do you not refuse to manage the personal accounts of your brothers, to run at your mother's every whim, to work for much less than what you should be paid? But she feels she must fulfill her obligation, as a sister, a daughter, a mother. She must put family first. She must pay back the unspoken and uncounted debt she owes her family for taking her in as a divorced woman. She doesn't feel like she can say "no."

I grew up learning that a girl, a woman, says "yes." A mother, a wife, especially has no room to say "no." She must say "yes" to her family's needs and desires, putting her husband and children first, because "no" is not what a "good" wife or mother says. It's about agency, a very gendered notion of who should and who should not have agency.

The only time a girl can say "no" is when facing a boy who wants to sleep with her -- simply because males have libidos which take their agency, leaving girls with the power (nee the requirement) to say "no." But sex and agency and consent are tricky. A girl can say "no" and still get harassed or even raped; she can say "yes" and still be slut-shamed. So there's really no "no" there.

Against this backdrop, which has influenced me in ways I can't imagine, I have a "yes" personality. I like to help. I like to get involved, and God knows I have too many interests, making it difficult (if not impossible) to invest in all of them. I do well in the service industry (and in non-profit) because I like to say "yes." I like to make people happy. I like to provide comfort and support. I don't like to argue, don't like to confront. These are all traits our society associates with femininity, with women's roles.

I have been an older sister figure to many passing through my life, often when they were in a state of crisis or change -- coming out, growing up, leaving relationships, dealing with stress. I have provided an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, sometimes out of love, and other times out of my own feelings of obligation. I have trouble saying "no" to someone in need.

I have trouble saying "no," period.

I didn't know how to say "no" to my boss at a non-profit agency when he made sexist, racist, ableist, transphobic, and generally hateful comments to me and to others in front of me every day. When I said "no," he increased the attacks -- and I didn't feel like my refused was even heard. So I left a job I loved.

I don't know how to say "no" to my mother when she makes hurtful comments -- when she rejects my friends, when she puts me down for being queer, when she acts like an asshole to other family members in front of me. I avoid her. I ignore her. I internalize the stress, run away, and try not to explode.

And now, at the end of a four year relationship with someone who has become increasingly dependent and lecherous, I'm learning again that I must find the ability to say "no." When I did say "no," all she would have to do is keep pushing -- and I would eventually say "yes." But now, as I have let her, enabled her, to wear me down, to leave me constantly stressed and angry, I am learning that I have to re-learn consent.

All relationships have a component of consent. I understand that abuse is, intrinsically, nonconsensual-- even the strongest person can feel trapped. I get that addiction is, unfortunately, much the same way. There's an element of self-policing, a panopticon-level of fear. I am afraid, because "no" in my relationship with her often leads to fights, to confrontations, to pain, to guilt. Saying "no" for me is inextricably intertwined with guilt, whether with her or with anyone else. I say "no" to a sick co-worker who wants me to work for her, and I am assuaged with guilt. I say "no" to my mother, and there are waves and waves of guilt.

I said "no" to her today, and as I write this, I am trying to stay angry enough, to stay rational enough, to know that I don't have to feel guilty -- it is my agency to protect myself from being used. I have every right to say "no."

She'll call today, tonight. She'll show up at some point, and I'll still be struggling. I can only run so far for so long; I cannot avoid her. I cannot avoid my own guilt.

Nor can I afford to keep avoiding the damage she is inflicting on my life. After watching her do to me the same thing my father did to  my mother, I am determined to learn to say "no."