This article in USA Today talks about a study conducted on films.
The results?
Women have about half as many speaking roles as men.
And women are about 3 times more likely to appear naked in movies.
We have come so far. 
I went through a phase where I stopped carrying purses.
Instead, I crammed everything into my pockets. It was more pragmatic than anything, though. Every purse I had was too big for just a wallet and some chapstick. So it made more sense to me to walk around with bulky pockets rather than a flat purse. (This was long before I carried my cell phone and iPod everywhere.)
And then I went through a phase of carrying purses all the time to compensate for my increasingly androgynous outfits. But I had to find things to put in my purse…tissue, notepad, pens, gum, hand lotion, fingernail clippers, peppermints, safety pins, sunglasses… I usually didn’t need most of it.
But part of being a girl is carrying around stuff you don’t need.
My first best friend was a boy.
We met in second grade during recess one day. We were playing that innocent game of cat and mouse like boys and girls often do before we learn to express affinity or fondness. So he would chase me. And I would chase him. We would chase and chase with all the energy I no longer have now in my late 20s.
On one occasion, he caught up to me. And you know what he did? He pushed me! And you know what I did? I punched him! The truth is, he probably didn’t know what to do once he had caught me. After all, the fun of the “chasing game” is chasing, not catching.
It wasn’t until later in life that I would realize the significance of the punch. Most girls my age at the time would have responded in one of three ways: cry, tell the teacher, or take off running. I didn’t react like other girls. I met his violence with a violence of my own. It was terribly ungirly of me…but I had won his respect.
We quickly became best friends. He lived a few houses down from me in a bright pink house with a statue of a knight on the front porch. He hung out at my house often and ate meals with my family countless times. All because I punched him.
But for the rest of my life I would wrestle with the consequences of not reacting the way other girls do.
He was squishy, had a chocolate brown complexion, and a little tuft of yarn hair atop his otherwise bald head. He was Kevin, my favorite Cabbage Patch doll.
I don’t know why I loved him so much, but I dragged poor Kevin everywhere.
My parents and I were on our way to the German supermarket. I think I was 6 at the time. We parked across the street from the market and stood on the sidewalk waiting for traffic to pass. When the traffic broke, we started scurrying across the road towards the supermarket. And in my haste, I accidentally dropped Kevin in the middle of the street! I hesitated for a second and then left him there and crossed the street without him. I stood on the sidewalk and looked back, waiting to see if my beloved Kevin was going to get run over.
I think that was the day my parents realized I had good decision-making skills. And that was the day I realized I wouldn’t make a good mom.
I think I was 10 the first time I shaved my legs. I also think I grew hair on my legs way before my friends did.
That first leg-shaving experience was exhilarating! Something about smooth legs makes you feel like you own the day! And it earned me bonus “girl points”. Little did I know I had just initiated myself into a lifelong covenant of ritual hair removal. Dammit.
When I got to college, I lost all the bonus points I had accrued from my pre-teen leg shaving. Winters were long and cold. I wore pants a lot. It was difficult to shave in the dorm showers. Leg stubble kept my socks up. Eh.
My mom always says, “Women of class control their body hair.” I don’t know if she made that up or heard it somewhere. Though I often fail at being a girl, I think I’ve managed to be quite classy. For whatever that’s worth.
I’ve never been good at making friends.
I remember coming home crying one day after another tragic day of second grade. I told my dad I had no one to play with at recess. I think he talked to my teacher, and she told him that all the other little girls brought Barbies and dolls to play with at recess and that if I brought some too, then she was sure I could easily join their fun.
So the next day, I brought Barbies to recess. And I played with the other little girls. And it was awkward because I’m bashful about pretending. I was used to using my imagination only when I was alone in my room.
In the days that followed, I stopped bringing Barbies and started playing with the boys on the monkey bars. But I felt accepted by the girls. And I think that’s all I had really wanted to begin with.
Now I’m in my 20s. I don’t have recess. And I don’t always know what to bring so that I can fit in with other girls.
When I was 13, I asked for eyeliner for my birthday. My parents said no.
I’m 26, and I still don’t wear makeup.
The other day I came across this website encouraging women to participate in the “Pretty Girls Rock Dresses” challenge. Basically, the challenge is for women to wear dresses and heels at least 3 days out of the week. (Check out the Facebook page for more ‘deets’.)
So far, so good. I mean, I love a nice dress (almost) as much as the next chick. Do your thing. But I nearly jumped out of my skin when I read this:
Motivating women of all ages to embrace beauty, charm, intellect, and prissyness
. There’s power in feminine celebration and cooperation. Pretty Girls of All Ages Should ROCK A DRESS.
Pretty Girl Rock Dresses is about enpowering women and girls. We want all of our sisters to embrace the BEAUTY of womanhood. What better way to illustrate that point by dressing like a lady. We motivate one another to go the extra mile by rocking a pretty dress, a cute blouse/skirt combo, or a killer FEMININE pants suit. Don’t forget the pretty accessories and nice heels!!!
Dress Like a LADY = Acting Like a LADY. There’s Power in the DRESS, PURSE, and Stiletto
So what’s my beef? Well, for starters, beauty, charm, and intellect have nothing to do with wearing a fuckin dress. Wearing a dress won’t make you beautiful, charming, or intellectual. And wearing jeans won’t diminish those qualities if you already possess them. Is it just me, or is that really obvious?
Secondly, I’m thoroughly confused about how wearing a dress and heels empowers women and girls. Let me be clear: I am not anti-dresses or heels. In fact, I bought a fly green dress the other day and I’m looking forward to rockin the hell out of it! But I really don’t think my fly green dress is doing anything to elevate the plight of women. Be for real.
Thirdly, “Dress like a lady = Acting like a lady”….Ummm, how about that for some sketchy logic? What does “acting like a lady” even mean? How does a lady act? And are outfits magic tricks that transform dispositions? We can not exempt such rhetorical devices from critical interrogation.
Lastly, this idea that power is in what you wear (dress, purse, stilettos) is totally regressive. For years, women everywhere have been trying to influence public culture to understand that power lies in our voices, our artistry, our talents, our brains, our convictions, our courage, etc. How silly. All along our power has been in our outfit? Gosh.
Listen, I’m not a hater. Girls, do your thing. Rock your dresses. Strut in them shoes! But let’s not pretend that this has anything to do with our social or political progress. And let’s not devastate the women whose identities lie outside this narrow definition of femininity by insinuating that if they don’t wear dresses, then they’re not pretty. That they don’t know how to be a girl.
I think I’ll stick to my own challenges of writing a poem each day and mastering scales on my guitar.
There is a small, old-fashioned suitcase in my parents’ garage that’s full of G.I. Joe figurines. My family jokes that I played with them more than my older brother did. Jokes are funniest when they’re kinda true.
It’s not that I didn’t have enough Barbies (had a case-full!). It’s just that I had small hands, so G.I. Joes fit better. And I was never really sure what Barbies were supposed to DO, anyway. I mean, G.I. Joes came with guns and grenades and a mission. Barbies came with…an extra outfit?
But my G.I. Joes didn’t fight or blow up stuff. They sat in a circle or in rows and listened to me (or some burly WWF figurine) teach them lessons about who knows what (because what did I know at 7 years old?). A hundred G.I. Joes sitting in a carpet “classroom”. I memorized their names with uncanny accuracy. My dad was blown away by that. The whole thing was sort of prophetic. Years later, I would pride myself on my ability to learn 100 students’ names within a few weeks while I was teaching at a university.
I imagine it was kind of strange to see a little girl wearing lace socks talking to a suitcase full of grimacing toy soldiers.
A few years ago, I was looking through my baby book scrapbook. I got to the page that lists my favorite childhood things. Next to “favorite toy”, my mom had written “G.I. Joes”. I remember feeling embarrassed. It was obvious from early on that I didn’t know how to be a girl. And I didn’t want those failings documented.
I think my parents’ favorite photo of me is my ballet picture from 20 years ago.
I bet they wish they could freeze me in that moment. In my leotard, tutu, hair buns, bow, tights, ballet slippers, dimples, red lipstick (Isn’t that odd?), and sparkly eyes. It’s a cute picture. I look like I loved ballet.
The truth is, I quit after the first recital. Stage fright. I had no desire to be gazed upon while I flitted around the stage in a costume. And that’s no diss to ballet. I just didn’t want to be watched in that way. We teach girls so early to want to be looked at. The truth is, I hated going to ballet practice because my natural-born inflexibility made it nearly impossible for me to do any of the exercises correctly. When you’re six years old and can’t touch your toes, this ain’t the gig for you.
They put me in ballet hoping it would make me poised, graceful, elegant. I’m still awkward. So I guess I’m glad they didn’t spend a lot of money on it.
The next year, I played tee-ball instead of ballet. I think my uniform was made out of the same material as my leotard. And the new challenge would be teaching me how to be a girl with grass stains, a bat, cleats, and a hat.
