Full Frontal Feminism: A Young Woman's Guide to Why Feminism Matters (20 page)

There’s even a section on “Countering Radical Feminism’s Agenda”!
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The idea is that boys need their “masculine” side praised and their “feminine” side quashed.

I couldn’t write about men and masculinity without at the very least mentioning militarization and war. They’re all too tied up with each other not to talk about it. Something superfucked up that will give you a good idea of why I’d feel remiss if I didn’t write about militarization: During the Gulf War (and who knows how many other wars), Air Force pilots watched porn movies before they went off on bombing missions in an attempt to “psyche [sic] themselves up.”
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Ugh. But that’s par for the course for an institution that relies on the feminization of the enemy as a way to dehumanize them.

Feminists who study men and the military are quick to point out that the military itself is built on sexist ideals.
Cynthia Enloe, a professor and an expert on feminism, militarization, and globalization, writes frequently about how militarization is dependent on women in “supporting” roles—whether as military wives or prostitutes on military bases.
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Interesting stuff (though disturbing).

Even Amnesty International reports that women are disproportionately affected by war:

Clearly, this is a huge issue, one that requires a lot more conversation than I can fit in this book. So this is just something to get you thinking.

I think it’s clear that everything—from social norms to pop culture—presents an insanely limited definition of masculinity, one that not only does damage to men, but harms women as well. So what to do now?

Robert Jensen, a journalism professor at the University of Texas, argues that the whole concept of masculinity as we know it has to go, because it creates a life for men that is marked by “endless competition and threat” and a quest for control and domination:

Men’s lives are being damaged by sexism—we can’t separate it out from how sexism affects women. Because every time someone calls a guy a “pussy” or a “mangina,” every time someone tells a little boy not to “throw like a girl,” the not-so-subtle message is that there is something inherently wrong with being a woman. And that’s a message I think we could all live without.

Ugly is powerful. Nothing has quite the same sting. Especially for the ladies. None of us want to be ugly; in fact, we all would really like to be beautiful—and it’s killing us. Literally.

Whether we’re puking or not eating or cutting ourselves (or letting doctors do it), young women are at the center of the beauty cult. We run that shit. But when people talk about young women having eating disorders or getting plastic surgery, they often assume that we don’t know the consequences—health or otherwise. The sad truth is, young women do know. We just don’t care.

I had a friend who struggled with bulimia for years. She went the therapy route, checked herself into a clinic—all the stuff you’re supposed to do to get better. But she kept on bingeing and purging. When I asked her about it, she told
me she
knew
this was unhealthy, she
knew
that this disease would likely kill her. But she didn’t care. She said, “I would rather live a shorter life as a skinny girl than a full life being fat.” That’s how powerful ugly is.

I liken it to wearing amazing high-heel shoes. They’re gorgeous, you know they make your legs look “better,” and you rock them everywhere you go. Never mind that they’re eating away at your feet and causing blisters that would make grown men faint. You suffer for beauty—or what beauty is supposed to be. We all do it in our own ways. And it’s fucking up a lot more than our feet.

Unrealistic beauty standards and the lengths we go to reach them are pretty personal for me. Like I’ve said before (damn you, Doug MacIntyre), I remember how utterly and completely miserable it is to hate the way you look. I’m not talking about just wishing you were better looking, but about absolutely
hating
yourself because of your appearance. And I remember what it’s like to be tortured because of it. When you’re taught that the majority of your worth is in how aesthetically pleasing you are to boys—and then boys tell you you’re ugly—there’s something soul-crushing about that. Recently, I came across my junior high school diary, and it was fucking heartbreaking.

Mighty embarrassing, I know. Shockingly, boys did like me, and I did have a boyfriend eventually. But at the time I was sure I would go through life unloved because of what a nasty hag I was.

It’s been a long time since grade school, and these days I think I’m looking pretty damn good. But as feminist, secure, and confident as I am now, any time someone makes a comment about my “Italian nose” or some such thing that recalls old complexes, I’m right back where I was in junior high. I can admit it. Sometimes I think that feeling will never go away. But recognizing where it came from, why I felt so shitty about myself, made a big difference. Especially when I found out that the ways in which our society keeps women obsessed with their looks serve a gross sexist purpose. In the same way that we’re brought up by the media and influenced by cultural standards to think about men, relationships, and weddings constantly, we’re taught to be forever worried about our appearance. It’s a distraction, really. Just like a lot of the other shit I’ve been talking about. The more we’re
worked up about how fat we are or how hot we want to be, the less we’re worried about the things that really matter, the things that will affect our lives.

Nothing makes a gal clam up faster than someone telling her she’s ugly. Or telling her that the way she looks/dresses/ appears has some bearing on who she is as a person.

Another little anecdote: In 2006, I was invited to meet former President Clinton (!) with a bunch of other bloggers. I was all revved up and feeling pretty honored. My mom cried when I told her—seriously. For a little Italian girl from Queens whose parents didn’t go to college, this shit was a big deal. And while I’m a feminist, I’m also a bit of a fashionista, so naturally, what to wear was on my mind. After much thought, I settled on a cap-sleeve crewneck sweater and black pants. I thought I looked pretty good. But, always the stickler, I remember asking my friend Bill that morning—who was also attending the lunch—if he thought the outfit was appropriate. Thumbs up.

So you can imagine my surprise when, mere days after the event, certain websites and blogs started to comment about the way I looked in a group photo that was taken at the end of the meeting. Some commenters on websites remarked that I looked hot; some said I was ugly. Many made quips about my being an “intern.” Yeah, in reference to Monica Lewinsky. I guess having dark hair and being young in Clinton’s presence automatically makes you fodder for tasteless jokes.

There was one site in particular—Althouse
¹
—where the comments got particularly nasty. Never being a girl to just take someone’s shit (I’m from Queens, remember?), I posted a sarcastic comment on the site, noting how lovely it was that women weren’t being judged for their looks anymore. And then the shitstorm began. You see, the law professor running the website, Ann Althouse, wasn’t too pleased that I had the nerve to speak up. She told me that it did appear as if I were “posing” (for a picture? Imagine!) and should therefore expect all sorts of nasty comments. Althouse then went on to write a whole new post called—you’re going to love this—“Let’s take a closer look at those breasts,” in which she accused me of “breastblogging.” Because Feministing’s logo is an ironic mudflap girl giving the finger, and our ad for shirts is worn by a woman with—gasp!—breasts, it turns out that I’m all tits, all the time.

What?! My modest crewneck sweater? I was shoving my tits in his face? It was all too much. You would think from the way she described it that I was pushing my boobs together while doing a pole dance in front of Clinton, instead of just, well, standing there.

And thus “Boobgate” began: hundreds of comments—some calling out said law professor on her bullshit; some calling me a whore and a hypocrite; more than one hundred thousand views of the notorious photo on my Flickr photo page; hundreds of links on both the left and right sides of the blogosphere; even a podcast claiming that the only reason I was invited to the blogger lunch was to be set up with Clinton. Seriously. And those are just the responses I’m aware of; I stopped checking after a couple of days. It was an online extravaganza, and for a weekend I had the most popular boobs in the blog world. And it wasn’t fun.

At the end of the whole nasty mess, I realized something—or at least realized it more acutely. If you’re a younger woman, no matter how much work you do, someone is always going to claim that your success is due to the way you look or your general fuckability.

The fact that some folks couldn’t fathom that I would be invited to this lunch for anything other than my appearance and potential whorishness is pretty depressing, but not shocking. Young women are constantly reminded that their only real worth is their ability to be ogled or ridiculed. That’s what we’re there for, silly! All of these nasty comments about my appearance and chest were there to remind me to shut the fuck up and know my place—which definitely wasn’t, in their opinion, at lunch with a world leader.

So anyway, just wanted to point out that we’re all subject to this kind of bullshit all the time. And even if we work hard,
do “serious” political work, and do our best to sport cute crewneck sweaters, someone is always going to be hating.

But, of course, using looks as a method of silencing women isn’t limited to young women. Pretty much any woman who speaks her mind (think politicians, journalists, feminists) is fair game for the shut-up-you-ugly-bitch line of argument. Or the you’re-too-pretty-to-be-smart argument. I’ve been privy to both, and they both suck.

I remember back when Clinton was president, everyone gave Hillary shit for her headbands and hairstyles. Headbands! The media even ragged on his daughter for not being pretty enough when she was a teenager (like that age isn’t hard enough!). Disgusting.

And dear lord, how much time is spent in the media discussing Katie Couric’s looks? Or any other public professional woman? If she’s cute by beauty norms, then you can’t take her seriously—or she’s vain. If she’s not, then she doesn’t deserve to be in the public eye. The only solution? Nip and tuck, baby.

Because of my already-mentioned issue with my nose, I used to beg—beg!—my parents to let me get a nose job. They were cruel, I argued, to let me walk around with this monstrosity on my face. Of course, I’m forever grateful that they wouldn’t even entertain the notion of letting me get plastic surgery. But at the time I thought they were the worst.

There’s something insanely sick about plastic surgery when you really think about it. Now, yes, I know—some people truly need corrective surgery or reconstruction. I’m aware. But don’t go telling me that anyone “needs” silicone gel thingies shoved in their boobs. No one needs that.