August 2011 – Page 13

I Don’t Have a Title For This; I’m Too Busy Being Angry

Trigger warning: sexual harassment, groping, erasure of victims/ survivors.

I have two beautiful children in my life, whom I enthusiastically co-parent. I am not partnered with either parent of these children. Instead, I am called their Auntie, because calling me Miss [name redacted] is way too formal. It’s a nuanced relationship — I am an authority figure, sponsor of fun time, shoulder to cry on, homework helper, and food exploration specialist. I’m what Patricia Hill Collins would call an “other-mother.” The eldest of the two, Brianna (not her real name, I won’t be using real names here), is thirteen. Her baby brother, Patrick, is three. Because Brianna is so much older than her brother, she often lives a drastically different life than he does. She goes to and from school by herself, has a course of study at her magnet school in NYC, and is beginning to explore the world around her in ways that Patrick cannot/ doesn’t. Because of her age, I’m always pondering how Brianna processes media and various experiences that she has. She’s a black girl in a huge city where it’s easy to become invisible, for a million different reasons. I worry. I ponder.

A few weeks ago when I went to visit Brianna and Patrick at home, Brianna told me that she’d just come back from one of those send-the-poor-brown-kids-to-the-mountains-for-a-week camp program things. I asked her if it was fun, if she missed her brother, mother, or stepfather. She said that she missed her brother, but was glad to get away, and then she exclaimed. “Auntie, I got really tan! And I swam and played in the sun. I had a good time for the most part . . . But they called the cops on me yesterday on the way home.” I shit you not, my head almost exploded. I asked Brianna to repeat herself and explain the circumstances to me.

Brianna said that there was this kid about nine or ten years old at camp, Michael, who had been bugging her all week. She said that it began with hits and pinches, pokes and staring. The usual bullshit that I think most kids are exposed to. But, she said that his behavior escalated. That Michael began saying things about her growing breasts and her ass — and that when she spoke to her group leader (an adult), she simply told Brianna to “Tell him to stop it.” No action was taken by this adult. Brianna said that she felt bad that nobody stepped in — but the excuse of her group leader was that Brianna is “older and bigger” than this other child. So, he chilled for a bit once he knew that there was an adult watching him. On the last day of camp, as the kids piled onto a bus to come back into the city, the harassment resumed. This time, Michael decided that he was going to touch the parts he’d been commenting on. Brianna warned him, shoved him away and told this same adult — who was supervising this bus trip — what happened. The woman told Michael to leave her alone, and did nothing else. Brianna told this woman, “I’m gonna beat him up if he touches my chest again.”

He did it again; she socked him square in the face. The group leader rushed to this boy’s aid and called the police, citing Brianna’s age and size as reasons why she should not have hit Michael. The adult had the bus driver pull over, and she called the fucking cops. On a thirteen-year-old who acted in her own defense. Thankfully, the police never came. But: this woman did not follow camp procedure (no incident report, she did not contact Brianna’s mother or the other child’s primary caregiver). She called the fucking police. Who, thankfully, never came.

I was livid. I began to think of all the ways Brianna’s needs for safety and protection had been invalidated by someone to whom her care was entrusted. I thought about all of the possible points of contention. Here we had a white adult and a large group of children of color in a setting that is more or less based on the assumption that these are Kids Who’ve Never Been Anywhere or Seen Anything Worthwhile. The fact that this woman did not address the core issue — the continual, escalating aggression of this little boy — is not lost on me, nor is the fact that she left Brianna to handle it herself. Reading the urban child of color as “tough” is typical, even when a person of color is the one doing the reading. It’s the same kind of thinking that causes folks to treat the reports of missing and/ or assaulted women of color differently than they do white women’s reports.* And the rush to involve police with two children of color — do I even need to go into that? Black folks and police have not ever been the best of friends. Why do that to either of them, but especially to Brianna who was defending herself from unwanted advances? What did this teach her? She said that she understood the actions of the adult in this situation as less than ideal. She said she didn’t expect support, but that she was shocked that this woman called the police.

To realize that Brianna had already internalized the idea that she was not worthy of protection (even by her own means) was absolutely heartbreaking for me. Already? She already knows nobody will give enough of a fuck? I felt betrayed. I felt all of the rage from my own experiences with street harassment and groping. I identify all forms of unwanted touching, especially in what I call the bathing suit areas, as sexual assault. And sometimes I forget that not everyone does. But, whether you think of these actions in a particular way or not, I have to ask: WHAT THE FUCK? Why make the child responsible when they’ve come to the clear realization that adult intervention is needed? Isn’t that your job as a fucking camp counselor or group leader or whatever title you’ve got?

I’m still processing this. Brianna and I did have a talk where I affirmed her choices to stand up, and I did not question or cast doubt on her narrative. I believe her. She deserves (a) to be believed, (b) to be affirmed in her feelings, thoughts and actions, and (c) to have the assistance she requested when she requested it. I made sure she knew that, and I offered my empathy for her having been mistreated so. She thanked me, though I had nothing to do with any of it.

I’m proud of her. Proud as hell. It doesn’t remove the sting, though. I hate that I feel so helpless, that I literally cannot jump in and fix it. But, that’s part of parenting and loving. I’ve got to roll with it.

______________________
* See the story of Romona Moore and the victims of Cleveland, OH serial killer and rapist Anthony Sowell for an idea of what I’m talking about.

I’ll take any good news you got.

In the Sometimes Good News Comes in Tiny Increments But It’s Still Good News Department (aka: The Department of SGNCITIBISGN):

1) Judge blocks Kan. law stripping Planned Parenthood of fed. funding, says law unlikely to last

An incredulous federal judge on Monday rejected the state’s claim that a new Kansas statute that denied Planned Parenthood federal funding did not target the group, ruling that the law unconstitutionally intended to punish Planned Parenthood for advocating for abortion rights and would likely be overturned.

(My favorite word here is mos def “incredulous.”)

2) Insurers must cover birth control with no copays

Health insurance plans must cover birth control as preventive care for women, with no copays, the Obama administration said Monday in a decision with far-reaching implications for health care as well as social mores.

The requirement is part of a broad expansion of coverage for women’s preventive care under President Barack Obama’s health care law. Also to be covered without copays are breast pumps for nursing mothers, an annual “well-woman” physical, screening for the virus that causes cervical cancer and for diabetes during pregnancy, counseling on domestic violence, and other services.

3) New Law [in State of New York] Ensures Domestic Batterers Can’t Legally Buy Guns

“We have seen too often the tragic consequences of domestic violence. This new law provides further safeguards to keep firearms away from those with violent records,” [Gov.] Cuomo said.

“New York state must stand strong against domestic violence by protecting victims and making sure those convicted of such crimes cannot inflict further damage.”

4) Married lesbian couple rescues 40 kids during Norway shooting rampage

“We were eating. Then shooting and then the awful screaming. We saw how the young people ran in panic into the lake,” says Dale to HS in an interview.

The couple immediately took action and pushed the boat into Lake Tyrifjorden.

Dalen and Hansen drove the boat to the island, picked up from the water victims in shock in, the young and wounded, and transported them to the opposite shore to the mainland. Between runs they saw that the bullets had hit the right side of the boat.

Since there were so many and not all fit at once aboard, they returned to the island four times.

They were able to rescue 40 young people from the clutches of the killer.

Kickass lesbian heroes. ‘Nuff said.

When It Rains, It Pours: An Introduction

Hey, y’all,

I’m dopegirlfresh. I’m guest blogging here at Feministe this week and next. I am very pleased and excited to participate — I’ve been reading Feministe off and on (mostly off) since about 2002, when I found Lauren Bruce via the now-defunct wehavebrains.com (were any of y’all around then?). I am a queer cis femme, black USian with some of the fiercest food allergies you ever did see.

I have a blog on wordpress that I ignore. And I have a tumblr that I use a lot, where I post original content ranging from rants about personal stuff to cultural commentary, to recipes. Also, I reblog any damn thing I want. I also co-host a weekly radio show called Hip Hop is for Lovers, where my co-host homegirl and I curse a lot and talk about sex, love, romantic relationships, dating, sex toys, and sex work with hip hop music as the soundtrack. I’m verbose. And I’ll ramble on forever if you let me. (Hence the title of this intro post.)

While I’m here, I’ll probably talk a lot about the following: culture, sex, race, class, sex work, serving as a co-parent to children who are not your relatives (think of the people Patricia Hill Collins refers to as other mothers in Black Feminist Thought), music, and random things that I find completely hilarious. Also, I’ll probably write about my experiences being a large bodied person on public transit, especially traveling in NYC versus traveling in Philly (my hometown).

Be forewarned: I don’t do a lot of 101 posts. If I think there’s something I’m discussing that requires background, I will provide it to the best of my ability. I’m looking forward to posting here. Many thanks to Jill for the invite!

Yo, yo, yo!

Hey there, Feministers! I just wanted to write a quick note and introduce myself. I’m Tyla, and I’m going to be guest blogging here for the next two weeks. So thrilled to be here – thanks for having me.

I did a short stint here last summer, writing about self-sabotage and the reasons we do it (or at least, the reasons that I do it). I was so pleased that what I wrote seemed to resonate with some of you! Others of you accused me of navel gazing and let me tell you: you are so right. I am definitely a navel gazer, constantly scrutinizing myself and my relation to the world around me. So, if that bugs you, I’m not going to be offended at all if you don’t read my posts. Navel gazing is not for everyone.

If you want to know what else I’ve done, I’ve got my own blog called Learning to Live Without a Microwave, which I neglect on a regular basis. I’ve also written a short piece or two for SAVEUR magazine. I’ve hopped around from job to job (food PR, editorial assistant at a food magazine, communications assistant at a non-profit), and I’ve finally landed happily working as the assistant to Gabrielle Hamilton, Best chef in NYC 2011 (according to the James Beard Foundation) and seriously, ONE OF THE MOST BADASS WOMEN I’VE EVER MET. I’ll probably talk about her more at some point this week.

That’s it for now. Figured I’d get the introductions out of the way so we can get down to more serious matters…Thanks again for having me!

Teta, Mother and Me: Three Generations of Arab Women

I’ve had the Feministe audience at the back of my mind (even when working on material that hasn’t seemed an easy fit for a blog devoted to discussions of feminism) since starting my guest gig here last week — which is to say, even when I wrote my Israel/Palestine-I-was-on-Russian-TV! post, as well as yesterday’s “Norway and terrorism as a daily event.” My professional life has only rarely overlapped with my advocacy for women, and sometimes it’s hard to hit both sweet spots.

But last night, I suddenly remembered a lovely book I reviewed a few years back, one which fits really nicely into the overlap in the Venn Diagram of my life: Teta, Mother and Me: Three Generations of Arab Women, by Jean Said Makdisi.

This is a beautiful memoir, written with great love and deep respect for the matriarchs who came before, as well as examining the author’s own life and choices. Born in 1940, Makdisi’s life has been shaped by the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from the very beginning (“my birth occurred at a particularly unromantic time: the anxiety of the war and the events in Palestine and Egypt weighed heavily on my parents”), but in going back two generations (“Teta” means “grandma”), she is able to sketch the lived reality of the Middle East’s contemporary tumult — not just the facts of dying empire (the Ottoman, as well as the British), competing nationalisms, and social unrest, but the impact of each on individual lives: What are the limits of ideology, how does it intersect with social development, and what is the role of memory?

Combining oral history with strict textual research, Makdisi does work here that we rarely see, providing cold hard facts alongside their emotional valence, often touching on events that have been largely forgotten though they continue to echo down through history — the massive famine which struck the formerly Ottoman lands, for instance, immediately following the destruction of World War I. The struggle in Israel/Palestine plays a big role, as does the Lebanese civil war, but so does the daily experience of a life in exile — the outcome of the violence no less importance than the violence itself.

Perhaps most unusual, however, is Makdisi’s willingness to take on tropes that have assumed the mantel of conventional wisdom when discussing women’s lives: “traditional” vs. “modern,” and what the discussion of the two might mean for the future — a conversation made particularly pressing by the advent of the “Arab Spring,” the revolutions currently roiling much of the Arab world*.

Over the largest fork in the road ahead… like a gigantic neon sign on a highway… flashes the dichotomy: “traditional” and “modern.” So pervasive is the discussion of this set of alternatives, so ubiquitous is it in all debates over women’s issues, and particularly Arab women’s issues, that its truth seems inevitable and absolute.

It is my growing conviction, however, that this dichotomy is not only misleading and confusing, if not downright false, but that is is also, and above all, divisive. It is, I am convinced, a red herring, flashing at us, making us chase down a road leading nowhere, missing, as we frantically sprint in the wrong direction, more subtle and truer directions….

What does it mean to be “traditional”? I am not at all sure. The word “tradition” is used much more than it is explained. There has simply not been enough scholarship, enough clearly thought-out discussion over this mysterious quantity as it relates to the Arab world for us to be able to answer this question clearly.

Over-used words and habitual labels, it turns out, are not always genuinely reflective of the lives they’re meant to describe.

Teta, Mother and Me is a lovingly written account, one which Western readers will find at turns to be warmly familiar, and entirely new, and it deserves to be widely read, by women and men, MidEast geeks and non-.

And finally, in the spirit of this blog, my own opinions, and indeed, Makdisi’s own writing, I will only now mention the fact with which I had to lead my original review of this book: Jean Said Makdisi is the sister of better-known scholar Edward Said. For my money, she’s the better writer.

******************

*Here are a few starting points for background on women in the Arab Spring:

1. An Arab Spring for Women, Juan Cole and Shahin Cole, The Nation, April 26: “The ‘Arab Spring’ has received copious attention in the American media, but one of its crucial elements has been largely overlooked: the striking role of women in the protests sweeping the Arab world. Despite inadequate media coverage of their role, women have been and often remain at the forefront of those protests.”
2. Women and the Arab Spring, Mary Hope Schwoebel, United States Institute for Peace, May 5: “Women’s participation in the Arab Spring has been significant, but it remains to be seen, however, if their participation will result in increased opportunities for women in the public sphere when the dust settles. USIP’s Mary Hope Schwoebel discusses the opportunities and challenges for women in the Arab Spring.”
3. The women of the Arab spring: from protesters to parliamentarians?, Natana J. Delong-Bas, Common Ground News Service, June 14: “In stark contrast to the image of Arab women in charge of nothing but their homes, these women are picketing outside supermarkets, staging sit-ins with their children, organising demonstrations, networking with each other, teaching workshops on the tactics of nonviolence, tearing down security fences and marching through checkpoints to connect with people on the other side.”
4. Women in the Arab Spring: The other side of the story, Elizabeth Flock, Washington Post BlogPost, June 21: “Much has been written about the women who have protested, organized, blogged and conducted hunger strikes throughout the Arab Spring…. But the other piece of the story is the anguish countless women have had to endure, in the form of rape, detention, or simply a lack of appreciation of their role in the protests.”
5. Arab Spring takes a chill turn for women, Sheera Frenkel, The Australian, August 1: ” ‘Before we were asking for normal rights – now we are trying to preserve the rights we already have,’ says Lina Ben Mhenni, a popular blogger in Tunisia. Sitting at a cafe on one of Tunis’s leafy boulevards, she draws stares at her pierced nose and black nail polish.”

Naming the Daughters of Zalophechad

A few weeks ago, Jews around the world read from Parshat Pinchas, the section in the Torah (Five Books of Moses) from BaMidbar (Numbers) 25:10 to 30:1. Within this section, at the beginning of chapter 27, is the story of five women: Machlah, Noah, Chaglah, Milkah, and Tirtzah. They approach Moses with a petition,

“Our father died in the desert…and he had no sons. Why should our father’s name vanish from within his family’s, because he had no sons? Give us a portion from that of our father’s brothers.”*

The prior rule in the Torah is that land can only be in the possession of men. Women cannot inherit land from their husbands or fathers. But, if a father has no sons, his portion of land passes out of his family’s possession. Machlah, Noah, Chaglah, Milkah, and Tirtzah challenge this law, and succeed. Moses approaches God, and God says that the women are in the right. They will inherit their father’s land, though they must marry within their tribe, so that the land doesn’t pass to a different tribe. Because, hey, this is still earlier than at least 450 BCE, and their children will inherit the tribe of their father. Furthermore, they set a precedent for future inheritance law.

There’s a lot of discussion among Jewish commentators surrounding these five women. And, almost always, they’re referred to as the Daughters of Zalophechad, by their father’s name. Which, as my rabbi pointed out, is kind of weird. Because they’re some of the few women who are explicitly named in the Torah. Despite having the honor of God, Godself, actually granting their request, their names are essentially erased, to the point where I, a self-proclaimed Jewish feminist, had to actually look it up (for the record, I totally remembered Milkah, because it’s an awesome name).

This shit happens a lot in Jewish commentaries. Women are erased. Exemptions for women turn into prohibitions. Restrictive laws for men fall out of practice but become more stringent for women. And it’s crap.

Enter feminist Judaism. At my egalitarian synagogue, we spent some time learning about these women, instead of the man for whom the Torah portion is named. Feminist Judaism calls for scrutiny of restrictions for women, to evaluate if they’re actually true to the tradition and the Law. Feminist Judaism calls for reinterpretation, in light of current realities and knowledge of gender.

For me, my feminism and my Judaism have always traveled hand in hand, probably because Judaism is chock full of calls for justice and compassion. Sometimes it’s a struggle. I’ve been told that I’m endangering my soul. Or that I’m worse for Judaism than Hitler. People can be really hateful and resistant to change. But I’ve also represented my community on Rosh Hashanah, as I’ve led prayers for forgiveness and renewal. I’ve wrestled with texts while trying to define a feminist Jewish marriage, something that the greater Jewish community is very much struggling with. After learning the laws of niddah, and wrestling with the often-misogynist interpretations of those laws, I have reclaimed the time of separation and the mikvah as space to look within and spend time on myself, as an individual, rather than half of a married couple.

It’s difficult work, sometimes. But, in the end, it brings me joy. It brings me community. It connects me to my family, my ancestors, the greater Jewish people. It’s a gratifying “fuck you” to everyone who would see my culture destroyed, to Pogroms, to the Inquisition, to the Romans, to assimilation. And, of course, I believe in God, and through my feminist Judaism I feel greater spirituality and connection with haShem**. So, for me at least, the struggle is worth it.

*My translation. I removed a bit about the conditions of Zalophechad’s death, for clarity.
** Literally, the Name.

Norway and terrorism as a daily event.

In the West, we seem to have at least a double standard when it comes to violence and mayhem.

When violence and mayhem involves People Who Look Like Us (“us” in this case generally translating to: ethnically European/white, not-poor, citizens of a Western-style democracy) — we experience society-wide woe. When it involves People Who Don’t Look Like Us? Often, not so much.

We see this in the semi-annual “OMG heroin has reached the suburbs” stories, we see it in the stories of missing mothers or schoolyard shootings that take place somewhere outside our inner cities or meth-riddled mountains — and I think we saw it again in the wake of the terrorist attack in Norway.

I am not, in any way, suggesting a sliding scale of pain. Pain is pain, loss is loss — if your child, partner, friend, parent, loved one was killed, in Oslo, on her way home from work, or in some random Columbine-like horror, your grief is no less because your skin is pale or your bank account full.

But as someone who follows the news out of the Middle East and Southwest Asia, as someone who once-upon-a-time covered terrorism’s aftermath as a reporter, as someone who has seen up close and personal the damage that bombs can do, I couldn’t help but feel the vast difference between America’s response to the terrorism in Norway, and our response that with which the people of Afghanistan and Pakistan live on a nearly daily basis.

Part of this is, of course, because in Norway, the line between good and evil was clear, shining and bright. One terrorist, 77 innocents. We know, in a heartbeat, how to direct our horror and revulsion, and to whom to offer our prayers and support.

This is not the case in the Af-Pak region. First of all, the West isn’t even sure of its own role anymore, if it ever was. Are we good guys or bad guys? When children are killed as our soldiers aim for the Taliban — who are we? Should we even be there? Are we imperialists, or did we fail to go after the Taliban hard enough in the first place?

But beyond the complexities of the war and a porous border — Western soldiers are not the ones purposely blowing people up in the middle of busy cities. Surely the people doing that are the bad guys, right? But what if their fight is just? And wait — who gets to decide what “just” means? Throw in the endlessly complex cultural and political realities of the two societies, the fact that Westerners tend to expect Muslims to be violent (though Muslims might disagree) — we throw up our hands. Another 27 dead. Another 22. An 8 year old boy. Those people.

One need only scroll through the Twitter feed of Foreign Policy’s Af-Pak Channel to see that a good deal more than 77 Afghans and Pakistanis were killed in the month of July alone, not on a battlefield, but while trying to live their lives. Hell, nearly 100 were killed in the Pakistani city of Karachi in the first week of July.

Some of these were combatants. Some were violent misogynists. Some were trying to go to the market. Some were children. Some of the “innocents” probably deserved to die, and some of the fighters had probably been involved in trying to bring peace. The lines are neither clear, nor shining, nor bright.

But I do know this: Dead is dead. The tears of a Pakistani mother are no less excruciating than those of a Norwegian father. The pain in these faces is as human and as raw as the pain in these.

I don’t have any grand conclusion to draw or act of advocacy to recommend. I know that no human being can carry all the world’s pain without buckling under the weight, and if a geek like me can’t always keep all the warring parties straight in Af-Pak, I surely don’t expect anyone else to manage it.

I just think that as we mourn the losses in Oslo, as we send our prayers and our white light and our best wishes to our Norwegian sisters and brothers, it matters that we also remember those for whom the Norway attacks look horrifyingly familiar. We need to find a way to manage to bear witness to the humanity of those living and dying in Afghanistan and Pakistan, too. As the holy month of Ramadan begins, perhaps we owe the living and the dead at least that much.

**************

If you want to learn more about Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the violence that has marked the history of both, here are two great books to get you started: Invisible History by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould, and Pakistan: A Hard Country by Anatol Lieven (both of which I reviewed for the Dallas Morning News).

Twirling in Neon

Violet Photons Have Low Entropy or
I Used to Wear Black

I wear colors now!
a purple hat
red top
green skirt blends in
with grass
when I lay back
to hug the sky
my lips as clovers
eyes brown caterpillars
their fuzz itches my nose
flies buzz into my hair
smack them!
no, that’s wrong
but it’s just entropy
(sometimes, S happens)
we turn to iron
low energy
slow…slow…

Stop
We need the Color need it
Raise it up raise it higher
Faster Bigger More Life More Light
Further further further from black
I don’t wear anymore.

When I was 18, I dyed my hair bright, tomato red. In the seven years since then, my hair has rarely been entirely its natural color. I had red hair for most of college. Then mostly blue and purple. My clothes also went from the mostly black and white of a wannabe goth to the exact opposite. Lime green became the predominant color in my wardrobe, followed closely by purple and turquoise. And, while I do love colors, I understood even then that it was about more than loving colors. It was about being seen.

Not in the stereotypical look at me look at me teenage angst kind of way, though there was also that. I was just. so. tired. of being overlooked. I was so tired of hiding my body. I was so tired of being ashamed. So I went to the other extreme, which is more-or-less where I hang out today. Because it is subversive in the US to be fat and to proudly inhabit your body.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my first taste of color, dying my hair that bright shade of red, occurred shortly after I started regaining weight from the most extreme diet that I’ve ever been on. I was devastated and I was feeling rebellious. And I was so tired of hiding in the back while wearing clothes that made me as invisible as possible.

There’s a lot of pressure, when you’re fat, to make yourself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Wear black! And grey! And navy blue! I have this habit of leaning off the edge of bus seats so as to prevent any possibility of my belligerent thighs coming into any contact with another person. But the more angry I get about the way fat people are treated, the more unapologetic I insist on being. And it’s been incredible.

I used to hate fashion, but now I see it as an amazing avenue for self-expression (not that anyone is required to use that particular avenue, any more than anyone is required to play a musical instrument). Giving myself permission to stand out has been so damn freeing.

Because it is OK for you to be noticed.

You are allowed to experiment with your dress.

The fashion police will not arrest you, I promise.

You are under no obligation wear black or grey or navy if you are fat fatty like me. It will not make you less fat. It may not even make you appear less fat. No carefully tailored top or placement of lines is going to make me look thin, because I’m just not thin. Once I realized that, I was able to focus on wearing what made me happy, which is a pretty awesome way to start the day.

Living With Contradiction: Beauty Work and Feminism

When I read Emily Hauser’s critical, searching post last week about beauty work she does that she feels is antifeminist, I got all jazz-hands—even more so after reading everyone’s comments and seeing the complexity therein. Since my focus at The Beheld (the blog that brought me to Feministe’s attention) is examining beauty work from a feminist perspective, I couldn’t resist a comment here of my own. Pit-shaving and the patriarchy? Bring it!

I’m a feminist, and I wear makeup and dress in a distinctly feminine manner (which sometimes means a distinctly uncomfortable manner, as with high heels), and try as I might I cannot fully reconcile the two. The feminist arguments I hear in favor of makeup—that it can create a place of play and fantasy, or that it’s okay “as long as you do it for you,” or “as long as it makes you feel good,” or, of course, the infamous “it’s my choice”—don’t cut it for me. Now, I don’t think engaging with traditional femininity can make anyone a “bad feminist.” But I feel a chronic internal conflict about the time, money, and energy I put into my appearance, and while I don’t think that the answer is necessarily to entirely opt out of beauty work, the justifications I come up with to soothe that conflict feel like just that—justifications.

There are some aspects of beauty that I appreciate as a feminist: for one, the bonding opportunities it can create with other women; for another, the human desire to beautify ourselves has, historically speaking, only recently been laser-targeted at women and our bank accounts. (Egyptians didn’t wear kohl eyeliner to appease The Man, after all.) Enhancing ourselves needn’t be inherently anti-feminist or fill us with shame. And even some of the more clichéd pro-makeup feminist responses beg examination, especially “it’s fine if it makes me feel good”: Fact is, beauty work has the power to make me feel absolutely stellar. Walking into a room and hearing the click of my heels, experiencing the sensual pleasure of a well-cut fabric that encases my frame, and knowing that my makeup is done in such a way that I feel brighter and shinier than I do when I’m au naturel—it’s not my only portal to personal pride, but it’s one of them, and I’m in no rush to cut off any port of entry.

But to be a feminist in 21st-century America means that to end the beauty conversation at “it makes me feel good” is disingenuous. If you’re reading this website, you’re probably pretty schooled in the links between beauty norms and the patriarchy, so let me just say: It doesn’t always make us feel good, and it’s not necessarily our choice. As commenter Ruth pointed out in Ms. Hauser’s post last week, “Can we really freely choose to shave our underarms when we know we will be rewarded for it?”

It’s those rewards that are of concern to me here. (Yes, of course I’m concerned about the self-esteem toll that painting over our real faces might have, but others have written about this more extensively and far better than I’m able to do. Indeed, it’s been the locus of much feminist discourse about beauty, but surely we can all agree that Nobody Should Feel Bad About Themselves, right?) Beauty privilege is extraordinarily difficult to willingly forsake, precisely because even as we’re encouraged to exercise it, we never know exactly how much of it we have. It’s a privilege we may long to possess even as we question our right to it, leaving us in flux, never able to fully develop our sea legs and figure out exactly why and how we can reject whatever beauty privilege we might have cultivated. (Women who came to feminism because of a resistance to beauty programming may experience this twofold: Many tales of resistance begin with a tale of strict adherence to the beauty standard, and growth in this area isn’t usually a straightforward progression. So now you’ve got women who actively wish to challenge the beauty standard but who continue to feel both its rewards and its mean pinch—it’s not a comfortable place to be.)

To be clear, I’m not talking about the privilege that comes with being born conventionally beautiful, in part because I’m not particularly qualified to do so (I’m perfectly fine-looking, but wrestling with the burdens of exquisite beauty is a challenge I’ve been spared), and in part because the beauty myth has done a terrific job of ensuring that conventionally beautiful and conventionally homely women alike fall prey to its trappings. I’m talking about the kind of privilege that we opt into because it greases the wheels a little bit, and the kind of signals we send when we play the game of conventional beauty. For when we don a feminized version of ourselves by swiping on face paint, we are playing into ideas of what femininity—and, by extension, womanhood—should be about, as much as we may resist many of those ideas internally. I may think I’m putting on lipstick because I like the thought of it serving as a sort of real-time punctuation to whatever I might be saying—but to anyone watching, I’m wearing lipstick because that’s what ladies do. (Plus, as a recent study indicates, the reasons we wear makeup are more in line with relief from self-dissatisfaction than any actual utilitarian benefit it gives us.)

Add to this the way the beauty industry has capitalized upon the idea of makeup as being “our bodies, our choice”—see also L’Oreal’s “Because I’m worth it” tagline and MAC’s Wonder Woman collection—and it’s clear that even if in some magic fairyland we’re aware of why we make the choices we make, those choices are easily exploitable and not entirely separate from upholding the beauty standard as-is.

So here it is, my miniature thesis on women, cosmetics, and cultivated femininity, in terms as definitive as I can comfortably state:

I do not think using makeup means you are a pawn of the patriarchy. I do not believe that using makeup means you are a bad feminist, or that you can judge a feminist by her level of active complicity to or disregard of conventional beauty standards. I do not think that feminists must have an armor about them that allows them to either disregard the immense societal pressure to look pretty, or to somehow magically be able to determine why we’re wearing makeup—that, say, we use it because it’s our choice, but those poor other nonfeminist women are just bullied into it by the patriarchy. I do not think shaming women for whatever beauty work they do is going to help any of us; I don’t think internalizing guilt is helpful either. And in general, I do not think feminist dogma helps most feminists, and probably prevents more people from joining the club.

But neither do I believe that neglecting to seriously, critically examine our engagement with the beauty privilege certain acts give us is the mark of a responsible feminist. If you’re a 21st-century feminist in western society, your beauty labor means something. We can’t blithely claim that cosmetics use is merely our choice, or that if it makes us feel good then it’s just fine. Feeling good in general is one of the aims of feminism, sure, but getting there through questionable means without, well, asking questions—and aggrandizing our own beauty privilege without closely examining what that means for us and other women—falls short of feminist goals. If we’re going to inhabit the contradictory space of having our feminist critique of the beauty standard while engaging with and benefiting from that standard, we must scrutinize that space with an honest, level eye that gives us grace for our contradictions while not letting us lapse into convenient answers.

Hi all!

I’m Shoshie, and I’m super excited to be guest blogging here for the next two weeks! I write occasionally over at my blog, Catalytic Reactions. I’m 25, currently living in sunny Seattle. I love hyphens, exclamation points, and the serial comma. I’m a more-religious-than-most-but-less-religious-than-many Ashkenazi Jew. I’m also a DEATHFAT, meaning I fall into the morbidly obese category on the BMI chart we all know and love. I entered blogging through the Fat-o-sphere, when I failed my last diet about 4 years ago. I’m also bisexual, cis, and married to an awesome feminist man. I have aquamarine hair, wear lots of lime green, and always keep something on my head. I’m a chemist-in-training, which means I spend a lot of time in my lab and will not be constantly accessible by computer. When I’m not playing with brightly colored solutions, I enjoy crafting, gardening, cooking, dancing, and peering into tide pools.

I’m not entirely sure how comments will be moderated at the moment. A lot of it depends on you guys. I plan to write a bit about religious feminism and fat acceptance, which I know have been heated topics here in the past. But for now, I’m going to leave things more-or-less open and just ask y’all to try to treat each other with respect. I may ban folks, go to total moderation, or close comments altogether if things get out of hand.

That said, I’m really, really thrilled to be writing here, and looking forward to to some interesting discussion!