(My post on International Women’s Day 2 years back on my livejournal, because I need constant reminding myself)
So very apt that I am sitting down to start my 1.2k words (not 2k as I originally thought and it remains to be seen if that is a good or bad thing) essay for Political Science and starting next week’s readings on gender. Of course, no surprises, it’s my topic of choice for my essay even if I haven’t exactly narrowed down what I want to write specifically about yet. One of the readings is a chapter from The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf, and everything she wrote struck a chord. What I once wrote about women smashing glass ceilings but continuing to let themselves be brainwashed into thinking themselves inferior because of how they look, expanded and substantiated in writing that makes me nod and go so true.
“The beauty myth tells a story: The quality called “beauty” objectively and universally exists. Women must want to embody it and men must want to possess women who embody it.”
“The beauty myth of the present is more insidious than any mystique of femininity yet: A century ago, Nora slammed the door of the doll’s house; a generation ago, women turned their backs on the consumer heaven of the isolated multiapplianced home; but where women are trapped today, there is no door to slam. The contemporary ravages of the beauty backlash are destroying women physically and depleting us psychologically. If we are to free ourselves from the dead weight that has once again been made out of femaleness, it is not ballots or lobbyists or placards that women will need first; it is a new way to see.”
(I am going to hunt this book down and devour it.)
I was always told I was bright, intelligent, conscientious. Believe me, it’s scrawled over all my report cards, and I was the kid whose grades were talked about at family gatherings where my parents tried to hide their pride. I was told that I was university-bound, that I could do anything (prestigious) I wanted to. In that aspect, I didn’t feel the reach of sexism. Except when it came to math and science, in which case I humbly submit. I joke.
But my legs are chunky and my face is round, and some unfortunate times, I’m quite simply, fat. My skin is too tan, my feet are too big, my nose is humongous. Did I put on make-up for this boy I liked? Why bother, he wouldn’t like you. She’s prettier, look at her complexion, look at her smile. It goes on loop. For years, both people I shouldn’t give two shits about, and those I hold near and dear to me have systematically run me down, told me that I’m not good enough because of my body type, my features, because I cannot match up to the ideal.
And yet, sometimes people tell me I’m pretty, that I have a nice body, that I have curves. To all these well-meaning people, thank you, I struggle to accept what you say graciously because I’ve been conditioned not to agree, because what you say is at odds to the little voice in my head that has been fed negativity all these time. I have grown used to conditions, to love that comes with if-you-wills and not becauses. I am used to being told to be careful because all guys want from me isn’t exactly butterflies and warm feelings but a body to warm their bed.
Don’t forget, that in popular culture, in the media, horrid things such as rape befall girls who had it coming. They dressed a certain way, put themselves in compromising positions, tempted the men. Only in explicit cases do we recognise male guilt (in the Delhi gang rape case and the rapist’s infuriating remarks, for one. But every time we comment on hemlines and necklines we give a little more legitimacy to such assholes. Why aren’t we fighting for streets to be safer, educating our sons to be responsible and upright gentlemen, but bringing up our girls to be fearful and at fault? I know there’s a need for girls to protect themselves, but I don’t think we’ve been doing it the most optimal way.
At 18 years of age as I was fresh out of junior college and readying myself for interviews, I struggled at answering the most basic question: to tell more about myself. How was I to know? At 18 I had already been told that whoever I was was defined by the number on the scale and the thickness of my waist. My loved ones told me that I was beautiful no matter what but I could lose some weight, eh? I had studied Women in Literature and loved it and it had shaped me so much but even then I couldn’t look past the world’s definition of beauty or recognise how it held me captive.
Even now, my mother tells people I’m watching my weight when I reject the pieces of fried nian gao at Chinese New Year parties. That’s not true, I just dislike nian gao tremendously, but I’m reaching for the pineapple tarts instead. Sometimes my boyfriend (bless his heart) gets really frustrated that I still engage myself in never-ending games of comparison of diets and figures and looks. It’s a constant battle all the time, because the elusive ideal is so deeply entrenched nothing is going to change overnight. On this day though, here’s a reminder to every girl that she is beautiful in all ways and capable and strong. Here’s to a little step towards a new way to see, to see the world and to see ourselves.
x
alittleloveandsympathy 