I recently went through an exhausting semiannual ritual — the dreaded closet swap. In our colonial home, storage space is at a premium and anything off-season resides in garment bags under the eaves of our third floor. Twice a year, I empty the closet and wardrobe in the tiny dressing room that separates our bedroom from my teenage daughter's, then refill them with items appropriate for whatever season is looming. Sandals are replaced by boots. Polo shirts are replaced by turtlenecks. Capris and camp shirts by wool pants and jackets.
In theory, anything that is out of style (or simply out of favor), is put into a Hefty bag for the school thrift shop. But, in truth, I keep most things, telling myself that shoulder pads will be in again or that I might wear those size 6 jeans someday. (If I contracted a tape worm, maybe.)
This time, I went into it determined to be ruthless. Lately, I've felt the need to purge, to live a lighter life by shedding some of our accumulated accoutrements, prized possessions, bibelots, objets (oh, admit it already Alex, the word is "crap"). The closet swap was the perfect opportunity to test my new resolve. I vowed that I would look at my fall and winter clothes with a more critical eye than ever before. If there's something I haven't worn lately (like in the past two or three years) or don't absolutely love, it's outta here. Most of all, if there are clothes that are too small, gone. Gone baby gone!
Despite what some might think, keeping "skinny jeans" is not an inspiration. It's more like a condemnation. We have been conditioned to believe that the words "pretty" and "skinny" mean the same thing. Opening the closet and seeing anything that is too small just reminds me of how much I've lost — or, more aptly, how much I've gained. I'm 52; I've had a baby. As Mammy would say:
"You ain't never going to be no eighteen and a half inches again. Never. And there ain't nothing to do about it, Miss Scarlet."
I'm proud to report that I did indeed donate an unusual amount of clothing this year. And, I do feel better when I select what I'm going to wear. Everything in my closet actually fits. (What a concept!) In fact, I don't just feel better, (dare I say it?) I feel pretty.
To celebrate the overdue eviction of my skinny jeans, I'd like to share a current video: Meghan Trainor's "All About That Bass."
Yeah, it's pretty clear, I ain't no size two
But I can shake it, shake it
Like I'm supposed to do
'Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places
I see the magazine workin' that Photoshop
We know that sh*t ain't real
C'mon now, make it stop
If you got beauty, beauty, just raise 'em up
'Cause every inch of you is perfect
From the bottom to the top
Yeah, my mama she told me don't worry about your size
She says, "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night."
You know I won't be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll
So if that's what you're into then go ahead and move along
Because you know I'm
All about that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble
Well done, Meghan! "All About That Bass" is great fun and a great lesson for girls of all sizes and all ages.
Just hope my daughter and her friends learn it before they're 52.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The first poetry slam took place in Chicago at the Get Me High Lounge (love the name) in 1984. This is both a happy and an unhappy coincidence. Happy because it was the year I graduated from college. Unhappy because — oh! — how my bookish high school classmates and fellow English majors would have shone!
Since then, poetry slams have become a badge of the proud poetic nerd. Especially now that the Internet affords such a huge audience. (Think of the web as the world's largest coffee house with hundreds of millions snapping their beatnik fingers in appreciation.)
Competitive poetry performance? What better way for women to express themselves!
Here are two of my favorite performance poems. As the mother of a teenage girl, these have a profound message for me. They are variations on a theme, one written by newcomer Savannah Brown, and the other by a veteran slammer, Katie Makkai.
Brown is just seventeen years old and she wrote her epic in response to a video that a sixteen-year-old boy, Nash Grier, posted on Vines. It was called "What Guys Look For In Girls." It wasn't exactly upbeat — or respectful.
The backlash was so great that Grier has removed the offending post and unplugged his YouTube account. (Yay backlash!)
Here is Brown's response:
When I first learned that no one could ever love me more than me
a world of happiness previously unseen was discovered
because somewhere along the line of aging and scrutiny and time
I was taught to despise myself
but I made sure I kept myself beautiful so someone would love me someday
so I could belong to someone someday
because that's the most important thing a little girl could ever want, right?
I was thirteen the first time I was embarrassed about my body
of course it would not be the last
and I remember stuffing my bra in the morning
with tears stinging my eyes
hoping, praying to something that I could look beautiful enough today, braces and all, for the ruthless boys
who mercilessly told me I was worthless
because my boobs weren't big enough
and I would go home and put on a sweatshirt with my eyes closed,
deny myself the right to be shown myself,
because I didn't dare want to insinuate beauty
in regards to something so insulting as my body.
But I mean we all end up with our heads between our knees
because the only place we'll ever truly feel safe
is curled up inside skin we've been taught to hate
by a society that shuns our awful confidence and feeds us our own flaws
and sometimes when I need to meet the me that loves me, I can't find her,
a reminder that the mirror is meant to be a curse so I confine her in my mind
but when when he or she shouts let me out
we're allowed to listen.
But it's met by a chorus of conceited
egotistical
narcissist
but since when was self solicitude a sin?
since when was loving who we are made an offense by morons that don't matter
change this physicality and that one, don't you shatter the illusion you could ever
be anything beyond paper fine flesh and flashy teeth and fingernails
echoic accusations of not good enough, never good enough
have you ever felt so numb that it hurts
entertain me
whore
you can't surrender to them
you gotta remember you're the only thing you'll ever truly have
and no I don't mean your body because someday it'll go bad no matter what you do
I mean you
I mean the way your bright eyes go wild when you smile
and how your laughter's so melodic it's a song
I mean the way your creativity's a compass that leads you to what you love
and you don't need any miracle cream to keep your passions smooth, hair free
or diet pills to slim your kindness down
and when you start to drown in these these petty expectations
you better examine the miracle of your existence
because you're worth so much more than your waistline
you're worth the beautiful thoughts you think
and the daring dreams you dream, undone and drunk off alcohol of being
but sometimes we forget that
because we live in a word where the media pulls us from the womb
nurses us
and teaches us our first words
skinny pretty skinny pretty
girls soft quiet pretty
boys manly muscles pretty
but I don't care whether it's your gender, your looks, your weight, your skin, or where your love lies
none of that matters because standards don't define you
you don't live to meet credentials established by a madman
you're a goddamn treasure whether you wanna believe it or not
and maybe that's what everyone should start looking for.
Twelve years earlier, Katie Makkai expressed similar issues about the word we all use a thousand times a day with our little daughters: "Pretty." (Warning, there is some adult language here — but in my opinion, it's appropriate.)
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.
“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”
The Afghan Women's Writing Project, a collective of women who risk their lives (quite literally) to write poetry, states that:
"To Tell One's Story Is A Human Right."
Right on, ladies. Write on.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who wanted to go to a ball ..."
So start countless fairy tales. Oh sure, in more modern ones, the princess is often really smart or really talented or really kind as well. But, you very rarely hear a story that begins with, "Once upon a time, there was a princess who had frizzy hair, thick glasses and acne, and the day before the ball, her orthodontist installed top and bottom braces that she would have to wear for the next eighteen months."
When you're a little girl, it's all about being pretty. Just count the Disney princesses at any preschool Halloween party. When you're wrapping up middle school, you still want to be pretty. But by then, it feels more like wishful thinking. Most fourteen-year-old girls have an acute sense of their own flaws. Too thin, too fat, too tall, too short. The wrong color hair, the wrong color eyes. Life was a lot easier when a long dress and tiara was all it took to feel beautiful.
I wish I could tell every tween and teen that looks don't matter. But, sadly they do. And these girls don't just know it; they live it. Instead, I'm going to try to give equal time (at least in Lovin' the Alien) to all the other beautiful things girls can be. Smart and generous and strong and honest.
For our girls, here are some words of wisdom from some very beautiful ladies:
"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."
— Eleanor Roosevelt
"It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength."
— Maya Angelou
"Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical."
— Sophia Loren
"The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives the passion that she shows."
— Audrey Hepburn
"I didn't have any confidence in my beauty when I was young. I felt like a character actress, and I still do."
— Meryl Streep
"The ideal beauty is a fugitive which is never found."
— Joan Rivers
"I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside."
— Whitney Houston
"People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within."
— Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
"A mode of conduct, a standard of courage, discipline, fortitude, and integrity can do a great deal to make a woman beautiful."
— Jacqueline Bisset
"Beauty is not just physical."
— Halle Berry
"Sometimes the beauty is easy. Sometimes you don't have to try at all."
— Ani DiFranco
And, one last contribution. (Or should I say reality check?)
"If truth is beauty, how come no one has their hair done in the library?"
— Lily Tomlin
