Tag: sexism

Pretension

MissM4 Comments

I’ve been doing some over-thinking again.

Y’know, i’d be willing to bet that one of the main contributing factors to the modern woman’s demolished self-esteem is the paradox that self-adoration is wholly frowned upon.

When we give compliments, we practically expect the receiver of said adulation to refute our kind words.

When you say, “oh my goodness, Sally, that dress looks stunning on you!”, which response from Sally is most acceptable?

a) “Ew, oh my goodness you think? I think it looks like a sausage casing!”

b) “Oh please, you look better, though!”

c) “Really? I was just considering going on a diet.”

d) “Why, thank you! I quite like it, as well.”

Realistically, if Sally were to answer d), we would assume that Sally is a conceited, stuck-up snob.

Why is it so unacceptable to like parts of ourselves? Why is it such a crime to verbally agree with someone who has paid us a compliment?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am a hypocrite. Whenever I am paid a compliment, especially on my appearance, I automatically completely disagree, both mentally and verbally. It’s what i’m supposed to do, right?

Except for when I don’t. Believe it or not, I get an occasional comment of recognition from others in regards to my sense of humor. And you know what my response is every time someone tells me that they think i’m funny? A sincere “Thank you,” and an acknowledgement that I agree with their opinion that I am a notably comical young lady.That’s one thing i’ve decided I like about myself, and I appreciate anyone who concurs. Does this make me conceited? Snobby? Self-centered? If so, I want to be the most conceited, snobby, self-centered brat there is.

What i’m trying to get at here, is that it is absolutely more than okay to like yourself, granted that it’s virtually impossible to like yourself in its entirety, due to our toxic media and societal pressures to be discontent and self-hating.

It is possible to be humble while liking your own traits. No need to go parading yourself around, but I don’t believe that giving yourself a couple of put-ups will do your psyche any harm. It’ll be a refreshing change from that radiating stream of negativity that goes through a lot of our heads on a constant basis.

I think that if liking ourselves weren’t such a taboo, we’d be able to avoid all sorts of problems like eating disorders, guilt, jealousy, what ever else ails you.

The way I see it, i’m the only me I’m ever gonna get, so i’d better learn to start liking it, or it’s gonna be one long, self-loathing themed life.

Easier said than done.

But, like most things, it’s a work in progress.

Down with the societal encouragement of hating ourselves.

M.

Hedonic

MissM7 Comments

I don’t mean to be THAT girl, the one who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends, but let’s be honest, I’m typically that girl who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends. I live under a rock of Fall Out Boy and New Girl. My scope of pop culture exposure is fairly limited.

I listened to the radio the other day because I forgot my little tape cassette thingy that lets you play music from your smart phone. I hope I never forget my little cassette tape thingy again. Anyway, that preposterous “All About That Bass” song came on.

Aside from its reprehensible tune, I find the song’s lyrics to be absolutely ludicrous. Let’s take a closer look at the problematic themes of this song, shall we?

“My mama, she told me, don’t worry about your size. She says, ‘boys like a little more booty to hold at night.'”

Okay, Meghan Trainor, so your mama taught you to keep some junk in the trunk so that future suitors have something to grab at when you’re laying in bed at night? How is that any different than girls who starve themselves because everyone and their dog knows that the no boy doesn’t like the slim Victoria’s Secret Model body type? I have a really hard time picturing anybody’s mama telling them to do anything to their bodies that make men want to hold them more. In addition, this is a clearly anti-feminist theme because mama says the reason to keep your booty plump is for the sole purpose of attracting men, thus a form of self-objectification, which is completely problematic.

“Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.” 

So skinny girls are, by default, bitches? No, no. That’s called jealousy. If you didn’t at least partially covet those with a daintier frame, you wouldn’t feel the need to call them bitches. This ties in to a previous post of mine in which I discuss how women tend to degrade other women by attaching some kind of ridicule about their physical appearance to another insult, i.e. “skinny bitches.” (See “For Maximum Efficiency“)

“Cuz I got that boom boom that all the boys chase.” 

What in the hell is boom boom?

Skinny shaming is no better than fat shaming. I am a complete advocate of self-acceptance, but, in my opinion, (and the RIGHT one, on this website, anyway. Welcome to my totalitarian online world, people.) accepting and learning to love your body cannot be done while shaming those with body types that differ from yours.

This is going to sound completely adolescent, but if you have to shame other people to feel better about yourself, are you really improving your self-esteem?

Perhaps.

If mentally telling yourself that boys like your curves better than hip bones or vice versa improves your sense of self-worth and esteem, by all means, keep telling yourself that. But shall we not incorporate such themes into our media and allowing them to plague the minds of the young and easily-influenced?

As for me, I couldn’t give a damn whether REAL men like curves. Or thigh gaps. I have the body I have. It functions efficiently and I keep it healthy and feeling good. And that is good enough for me.

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, skinny, tall, short, have an extra toe, have been christened”big-boned,” what have you. Learning to accept the body you have is an entirely separate process from shaming somebody else.

As a side note, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” –Some Profound Author/Poet/Inspirational Speaker.

M.

For Maximum Efficiency

MissM11 Comments

My friend and I were reminiscing on acquaintances from high school yesterday, and naturally, our conversation morphed into a bash-fest of people we loathed. My friend brought up a girl that we’d been mutual friends with, but my friend’s relationship with this girl turned sour due to the girl’s blunt honesty and disregard for others’ reception of her verbalized opinions. I am still on good terms with this girl, despite my friend’s animosity toward her. 

My friend began listing out the qualities about this girl that caused the termination of their friendship. Her list started out with the girl’s character traits, but, as any gossiping female would, her list ended with insults on the girl’s physique. (Her “weird-shaped” head, of all things, which is completely unalterable, and quite frankly one of the most comedically pathetic insults I could possibly think of.) 

I told my friend that regardless of her opinion, I still liked the girl, and told her to be nice. (BLEH, she says.) Before I continue any further, I just want to acknowledge that I know that I am more than guilty of saying bitchy things behind girls’ backs, and I, too, have made fun of girls for their physical appearances, even though, hypocritically, I believe that the way a person looks has absolutely nothing to do with their value and like-ability. 

I’m a hypocrite, yes. 

Again, i’m only human, and I am only using this story to make a point. 

As with most things, I gave this conversation way more thought than normal humans do, and I noticed that this similar situation happens frequently among the ladyverse. 

When we’re blabbing away to our girlfriends about other girls that we can’t stand, why is it that we feel a need to not only insult their “hamartia”, but, while we’re at it, attack their physique, weight, hair, boobs, etc.? 

“Ugh she is such a fat, ugly b*tch.” 

“That slut’s nose is as big as jupiter.” 

Why does calling a girl a brat or a jerk or stupid not satisfy our tongues? Why do we feel the need to include the fact that she’s an UGLY brat or a FAT jerk? 

I’d be willing to bet that the majority of us females, myself included, would rather be called a brat than be called ugly or fat. Because hey, I may be a sucky person with a drag of a personality, but at least I’m pretty and that’s all that matters. 

I’m right, aren’t I? 

Most of us would never admit this out loud, but the sting of being called “ugly” lasts way longer and affects us way worse than being called “stupid” or bratty. 

Beauty takes the cake in the way we want others to think of us.

I know that people will continue to bad-mouth other people to their friends, but it’s possible to hate someone without ridiculing their physical appearances. 

That’s your food for thought on this fine Thursday. 

M. 

Conflicting Conscience

MissM11 Comments

Let me tell you a little story about a not-so-little girl. Legend has it she got not-so-little due to her picky palate and refusal to eat anything but starchy vegetables and Easy Mac. As the years passed, her excess intake of carbohydrates stuck to her in the least-flattering way that fat could stick to a person. You could see nothing but disgust and self-loathing in her eyes-merely a nine-year-old child! You would never catch this girl with more than a half-hearted grin in any photograph.

And the fat jokes, they came. As early as the fourth grade. They stung, oh they stung. But not nearly as badly as her own thoughts in her head. But she fought to suppress them, that is, until she was involuntarily thrust into the firey, unforgiving, pubescent realms of junior high school.  By that time, the voices had won. 

Just like that, from the end of seventh grade to the beginning of the eighth, the girl had dropped from her hearty, 110 pound chubbiness to a gaunt, skeleton-like 72 pounds. She thought that in doing this, she would satisfy the voices in her head, but they had only grown stronger with time. She was ugly, she was worthless, she was disgusting. And she believed it, too. 

Since then, she has crawled out of the hole she’d dug herself into, but her thoughts remain the same. Subconsciously, she still sees the portly fourth grader she’d shed a number of years ago. With every bite of cookie or cake or french fry comes an overwhelming and exhausting feeling of guilt, which results in her self-consciously pinching at herself in the mirror for the next half-hour. 

You guessed it, that girl is me. Living with a distorted body image is a living hell, I assure you. You take every fat joke, every weight-loss “secret” to heart, and you never feel good enough. It sucks. 

But Maddie, you’re a feminist! 

Feminists don’t believe in vanity or in giving in to societal pressures! 

Shut up you guys, i’m only human. 

And yes, I do believe that women are worth way more than their dress size or number on the scale and that “what matters is how you feel on the inside” and all that gushy, feel-good crap. On a conscious level, I really do agree to all of that. And I can counsel other girls till i’m blue in the face on how their size doesn’t matter and that they don’t have to be “beautiful” to be of worth, but I can’t apply a lick of my own words and “beliefs” to my own life. There, I said it. 

It’s a freaking drag. 

So here I am, conflicted as ever. Having the strongest belief in feminism and not owing beauty to anyone, when I am consciously indebted to myself with my vain bodily short-comings. 

Naturally, the blame falls both on the shoulders of the fat, carb-inhaling youngster I used to be, and also our disgusting, skinny-worshiping patriarchal society. 

A sincere thank-you to the both of y’all. 

I’m not sure what the point was for this post, but in the words of Nick Carraway from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, “Writing brings me solace.”

M. 

Ingress

MissM2 Comments

I absolutely DESPISE when people say, “don’t let it get to ya, champ!” after someone else tells you something hurtful or offensive. Trust me, sir, if I had a choice in the matter, I would not “let it get to me.” But there’s this cute little thing called emotions, and when people are insensitive, it makes me hypersensitive. 

I have noticed recently that it is mostly when a select few males give their oh-so-entitled and completely unwarranted opinions that I get the most upset.  

“I liked your hair better blonde.” 

“Are you gonna eat that whole thing? You’ll get fat!” 

“You should start running, or go to the gym!” 

“You’re skin is pasty.” 

Not to generalize, but I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I verbalized my verdict on a man’s appearance without him asking for my opinion.  

But for some odd reason, many men I’ve encountered in my life seem to feel that their opinion is always welcome because I am always in pursuit of their approval. 

As a girl in this world, I have plenty of societal pressure for acceptance without added remarks on a personal level, thank you. I already know that I’ll never be beautiful until I look like Kate Hudson or J-Lo (which is literally impossible unless you ironed and stretched me out like Play-Doh, removed each of my zillion upon zillions of freckles, gave me a spray tan and cheek bones, breast implants, hair extensions, and lipo.) 

But aside from being a girl, I am also a human. A flawed one. I’m short. I have zero muscle definition. My skin is comparable to an albino’s. Seven times out of ten, my hair is a frizzy mess. I don’t have an airbrushed complexion, or eyes as big as the moon. 

Y’know what I do have, though? A brain. And a personality. 

So how about instead of pointing out and re-pointing out all of my visual shortcomings why don’t you try commenting on my personality? 

Instead of, “you look good in that blouse,” why don’t you try, “you are so funny, you crack me up!”

I, for one, would MUCH rather be complimented on my personality, thoughts, accomplishments, and creative humor than my hair, legs, or outfit choice.  

To be frank, I don’t care if you like what you see. Because I like it. 

In the words of my idol, Tina Fey, “do your thing, and don’t care if they like it.” 

This is my new motto, folks. 

M. 

Flaxen

MissM5 Comments

It was time for a drastic change. I was feeling spontaneous, impulsive. The appointment had been set-no turning back now. My mind had been made. 

It was the concluding day of my employment at big girl job #1. Yes, the one in which I was the only female member. 

The boss man asked me to have a seat in his office while I turned in my keys, etc. back to the company. In effort to break the awkward air that my voluntary resignation had brought, he asked me timidly, “Well, what are you going to do with the rest of your day?”

“I think i’m going to dye my hair,” I shared, a little less bashfully. 

“…. But, men love blondes. It’s scientifically proven!” 

A direct quote from my former boss, I kid thee not. 

A zillion and a half feministic and attitude-slathered, raging responses raced through my mind. 

Silly me, though, I had forgotten that I wear my hair for the sole purpose of gaining male approval. I hadn’t considered the fact that i’d lose my allure in the eyes of most men. That my body is here only to be objectified and either accepted or deemed “undesirable” by the men I encounter.

After all, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. 

Not to be frank, but I DON’T CARE WHAT COLOR OF HAIR YOU’D PREFER TO SPROUT OUT OF MY HEAD, MISTER. *slams office door dramatically and stomps out, heels clanking harshly against the floor*

No, I didn’t yell. But the feminist in me was screaming, punching, and kicking- throwing a tantrum that would put all four-year-olds to shame.

It is sickening that men assume that women alter their appearance for the sole purpose of gaining approval and acceptance from them. And perhaps they are right, in some cases. However, they could not be more wrong in mine.

You see, I don’t care if you like blondes more than brunettes. Or redheads more than both combined. Bleach your own freaking head for all I care. Your opinion is of no significance to me. Admittedly, I hunger for approval and visual appeal from my peers. We all do. But I will do with my hair whatever I please, regardless of what any man thinks. IT IS MY HAIR, thank you. And you can stick your preferences where the sun don’t shine.

Before: 

blondie

After: 

Photo on 7-31-14 at 7.05 PM #2

In my opinion, and the only one that matters in this scenario, darker hair makes me look more lively. I like it. 

I am now a half-blonde. And for the record, half-blondes have more fun.(; 

M. 

Amelioration

MissM11 Comments

Today, while I was updating my knowledge on current Feminism-related events, I stumbled across the following quote: 

Women's world

Y’know, lately I’ve been so frustrated every Sabbath when I sit down in the pews and just wait for a speaker or teacher to say something that will stir up my Feminist rage. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been attending my church meetings with the expectation that somebody will say something offensive, oppressive, or degrading about the role of women in the Gospel. It’s as if I’m subconsciously, yet actively searching for someone to affront me. 

It’s stunting my spiritual growth. 

I don’t remember who said it, but we all know that quote that goes something like, “no one can offend you without your consent.” All of this consenting people to offend me with their derogatory comments and insisting that a woman’s place is strictly in the home is getting rather exhausting.

Why do I allow these people to affect my relationship with my church and my God? Who cares if Brother or Sister so-and-so don’t approve with my views on what my role as a daughter of God are? The only approval that matters to me is the approval of my Heavenly Parents. (Notice I said parents, I’d like to acknowledge the fact that I have a Heavenly Mother as well.) 

The God I am coming to know wants me to be happy. The God I know won’t repeal the incomprehensible love He has for me if I decide to pursue work outside of the home. Because what matters to me matters to Him. 

The God I am coming to know loves me as much as he loves my brethren, and knows that I am just as capable as they are in achieving anything I put my mind and energy into, and He encourages me to reach my full potential in every dream I pursue. 

So go ahead and keep trying to nudge me toward the ‘mommy track.’ Continue preaching your Relief Society lessons on the cruciality of being a submissive, home-making, child-rearer and telling me that this is the right way for me to live my life and fulfill my role. Keep blaming me for infecting the thoughts of the men I encounter if I choose not to cover my shoulders, or wear shorts that don’t hit the knee. 

Because I’m through letting this culture we are so caught up in affect the growth of my testimony, and my ability to feel the Spirit. 

The important thing is, progress is being made. Even the General Relief Society President has acknowledged the fact that a woman should not be limited to the role of a stay-at-home housewife. 

Small steps toward equality are being made. What more can I ask for? 

Carry on, Mormon Feminists. 

Complacent Vs. Contentment

MissM4 Comments

As most of you are rightly assuming from my previous blog posts, I am quite the philosophical thinker. It’s a curse, really. All this engagement in deep thought is draining on a poor lass, and instills a lingering, permanent sense of worry in me. 

Lately, i’ve been concerning myself with matters involving complacency. You see, my worst fear in this life (aside from the typical environmental fears such as heights, snakes, and big bugs) is not achieving my ambitious goals and winding up somewhere in a repetitive, life-running, average 9-5 job in Anytown, USA, and growing wildly unhappy and disappointed with my accomplishments (or lack thereof). 

These concerns haunt me on a regular basis, especially once I’ve fallen into a structured routine. Day after day, with nothing seemingly significant occurring, I begin to fear that perhaps my repetitive little agenda is all that’s out there for me. I feel that I am limited in what I will accomplish. I starve for change. 

Justifiably, my problem-solving skills aren’t up to par with seasoned and experienced adults. My solutions typically involve running away to Europe and starting a new life with a new hair cut and convincing accent, or simply just not showing up to things anymore. 

Even though I’m barely 19 years old, I feel like if I’m not accomplishing something huge that will have significant impact on my life, I am wasting time. My sense of contentment is endangered. 

Is it possible to feel content without becoming complacent? To be happy with the way your life is here and now and simultaneously be working for something bigger and better? 

This widespread belief that “things will be better when_____” or “once i’ve accomplished X,Y, and Z, then I will be happy,” is quite the obstacle to tackle when trying to be content with the here and now. 

Anyway, that’s what’s been on my mind as I awoke this lovely Friday morn. 

Cheers to the freakin’ weekend, and down with repetition. 

M. 

Embargo

MissM3 Comments

Recently, my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, has been making headlines for its decision to excommunicate Mormon activists who are pushing for equality, inclusion, and acceptance for women and gay/lesbian community. 

Heartbroken: The only word in my extensive vocabulary that I can think of to encompass my feelings toward these events. 

Latter-Day saints are representatives of Jesus Christ, and as His representatives in these latter days, we are expected to strive to progressively become more and more like Him. Charity is the pure love of Christ, and an attribute that we are all aspiring to master. 

The God I know loves all of His sons and daughters equally, regardless of how we sin in this life. So shouldn’t we do the same? Who am I to judge another, when I walk imperfectly? 

Clearly, the way His children get along with one another is of great priority to our Father in Heaven. After all, the second commandment is to love thy neighbor as thyself. 

Not just your straight neighbors.

Not just your male neighbors. 

Not just your neighbors of the same faith. 

Granted, we are all human, and will never be able to love everyone perfectly as He does, but the point is, we are supposed to try.

We are not trying nearly hard enough. 

It is so easy to judge one another, and it grows increasingly difficult when the people we are judging are vastly different than we are. 

I want everyone who walks through the doors of my chapel to feel that they are welcome, loved, and accepted from the second they sit down in the pews, regardless if they’re gay, didn’t serve a mission, are female, what have you. I want everyone who attends my church meetings to be able to feel the pure love that Christ has for them, without feelings of guilt, shame, resentment, judgment, etc. from members of the congregation. 

There was a time, in the 1980’s, I believe, when a general authority stated that women are “discouraged from working outside the home.” The Proclamation to the Family states that a woman’s primary role is that of a mother and homemaker. Granted, the times have changed significantly since the ’80’s, but that attitude of the role of women in the church is still predominantly taught as the “right way” to live. 

I am a young woman with huge ambitions and goals that surely don’t involve my getting wifed-up and making babies any time soon. I have prioritized my life in a way that varies from the mold that seems to have been laid out for me by the culture of my church. Yet, as a woman of the LDS faith, I am taught repeatedly from my youth that there is no better or more fulfilling way for me to spend my life than becoming a wife and mother. We spend our Young Women’s activity nights learning how to bake and crochet and all of those domestic tasks that will aid us in our homemaking futures, while the boys go on scout trips in the middle of the winter and river rafting in the summer.

Ask me again in a decade from now, but as it stands, I don’t believe that I will be happiest being a stay-at-home mommy for the next 20 years of my life. Contrary to my gender’s mold, I am most empowered by gaining an education and sense of independence and strength through finding a meaningful and successful career. 

It’s frustrating to hear all this talk of how women are the stronger gender because we can give birth and have a nurturing intuition and all that jazz, but are then expected to devote our lives to pursuing that route of mother and homemaker, regardless of our differing interests. 

People within my local church community have been expressing concern with my lack of desire to have children at all. May I remind you, I am only 19 years of age. I have my entire life in front of me, and an abundance of child-bearing years left. So what’s the rush? I intend to achieve my academic/career goals first. 

My main issue with all of this is that what I want out of my own life is not as important as my predestined role. Men can-and must, according to the church-be the providers for their families. They are free to get a degree and a powerful career and after their 8-5 shift, they can come home and play catch with Junior while Mom slaves away in the kitchen. Best of both worlds. 

But rarely is that the case for a woman. Every situation is different, and a lot of women have to work in order to support their families. I feel that the Church tries to make everything a one-size-fits-all, rather than recognizing that its members are individuals, and that there is no blanket-solution to the right way to set up your family. 

I just want to be treated as an equal member of the human race, and for all of my spiritual brothers and sisters to, as well. 

I find relief in authoring my frustrations. Agree, or don’t-it’s up to you. But also, have respect for my beliefs. 

M. 

Rose Amongst The Thorns

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Y’know how in High school the pretty people always had the easier life? The hot chicks in Human Bio always got a better grade on their group project because Mr. Smith was a single, sixty-something with a thing for blondes? And how the handsome boys just happened to be excessively, athletically inclined and how all the pretty people seemed to gravitate toward each other in an un-penetrable mass of popularity? 

High school never ends. 

You see, in the real world, the pretty people still come out on top. The cruel reality is, beauty is bliss. And your life will be significantly easier if the big guys like what they see when they look your way. 

Exhibit A: My big girl job (see previous post) 

At my new place of employment, I work with a team completely composed of men. I have no problem with this-in fact, I quite like it. When we’re not busy, we talk about dude stuff like food and modern warcraft (is that even what it’s called?) and wrist watches. And we can all make fun of each other without calling each other “bitches” behind our backs. Boys get along nice.

Anyway, our customers get randomly selected and surveyed on the customer service we provide. It’s nearing the end of the quarter, so at our little pep-talk meeting, I was told not to worry about getting bad surveys because I’m “cute and bubbly” and that people will just give me a perfect score because I’m cute. 

Are you seeing the perks yet? 

That’s all fine and dandy, but there are definitely hardships that come with being the chick that invades the wolf pack. 

Some of our customers are full-on sketch. 

My coworker was helping this man with a transaction, and I was standing nearby, shadowing him as part of my training. The customer asked my coworker if he’d been “staying out of trouble,” to which my coworker replied, “i’m trying to!” The customer was an older gent. He looked at me and said, “Well, how can you, when you’ve got a beautiful blonde right next to you?” Instantly, my cheeks flushed the color of ripe tomatoes. Did I mention my coworker is married? Neither of us could vocalize a decent response. 

That same day, I was helping another older man with a transaction. He tipped his hat to me and winked, and before he left, he handed me one of those individually-wrapped lifesaver candies. I know what you’re thinking, “what a sweet, old man!” But if you were a bird on my shoulder, getting a whiff of his stale-cigarette scent and noting his messy and unkempt appearance, you would understand. 

I’ve even been formally warned by my coworkers not to help certain customers because they’re “too creepy” and will “hit on me.” 

For the most part, customers are pleasantly surprised with the my being the new addition to the team. They call me the “rose amongst the thorns.” And who am I to argue? A rose I shall be. 

Sigh. The patriarchy at work.