Awesome Poet to Know

So I was youtubing slam poetry and found this amazing work. Please watch it and fall in love with Katie Makkai like I did.

Kirstie Alley fat-hates herself

Hey friends! I took a break from blogging for awhile to finish my semester, but I finished all of my work this week and now (assuming things go well) have a Masters degree! Next comes the fun part of finding a job... Either way, my blogging hiatus is up!

I saw this article about Kirstie Alley and it just made me sad. The words she chooses to describe herself fat-shame not only her body, but her whole being as a person. The article quotes her as saying, "It [the scale] said 228 lbs., which is my highest weight ever. I was so much more disgusting than I thought!" She directly equates the number of her weight with herself - "I was so much more disgusting..." By seeing how much she weighed, Alley finds her personhood to be disgusting, which is just a really sad link.

People, this shouldn't need to be said, but it has to be said: You are not your weight. That random number on the scale doesn't describe you - it's just a number. You are made up of your personality, your humor, your interests, your laugh and millions of other things. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Alley's interview includes this as well:

Q: What weight do you want to get down to?
A: I have to be below 140 to really look good. I have to work my legs like crazy. Actually, do you want my real goal? My real goal's always too low. I love the way I look at, like, 128. One time on Cheers, I weighed about 148 lbs., and they told me to lose, like, 20 lbs. Now, I'm 5'8", so at 148 lbs., I wasn't fat. But they're saying, "You know, you need to lose 20 lbs." So what does that put me at? 128. That's where I keep getting this number.

Cheers ran from '82-'93 and Alley started on the show in 1987 - 22 years ago. So she's decided on trying to look like she did 15+ years ago because someone then told her she should. I'm sorry, but that just breaks my heart. Talk about unattainable.

Sex + Texting = Sexting

Newsweek had an interesting column this week about "sexting" the semi-clever name for sending naked pictures via text message. A study claims that 1 in 5 teenagers have "sexted." (The study specifies that 22% of girls and 18% of boys have admitted to "sexting.") The column talks about how many of these teenagers are being legally prosecuted for their actions. Both the senders and recipients are being charged: the senders with "production and distribution of child pornography" and the recipients with "possession."

The column focuses on the absurdity of punishing children:

"The argument for hammering every such case seems to be that sending naked pictures might have serious consequences, so let's charge these kids with felonies, which will surely have serious consequences."

I agree completely.

When I was a senior in high school, a freshman girl texted another student a naked picture of herself. The boy forwarded it to his best friend, who then sent it to most of the school. The principal became aware of the situation and ended up kicking the girl off of her sports team. The girl later transferred. The boys who had forwarded the photo weren't punished.

Parents are outraged at this trend, of course. They should be. The Internet's memory is infinite, and text messages are easy to forward. So why are thirteen year olds taking naked pictures of themselves? Teens are not stupid. They know that these phone photos will be forwarded and likely end up on the Internet. I am willing to bet many of these young people do it hoping most of the school will see it. Teens know that nudity is a type of capital. They see failing musicians pose for Playboy and then hear their music on the radio. Or they watch Tila Tequila, a woman with little talent and few clothes, get a television show. Popularity and being a known as "sexy" in high school is the equivalent of an MTV show, and one photo can be all it takes to become "someone" in high school. Everyone at my school knew about the girl whose photo was forwarded. Some boys even put the picture up in their locker, next to Pam Anderson or Adriana Lima.

This trend is going to continue because the reason kids "sext" is not going anywhere. When students value popularity and a label above anything else, they will do anything to get it. The consequences, like the permanence of the Internet, don't matter. We need to give these girls something more to strive for.

Strong bodies, strong sexualization

Other people have already said a lot about the sexualization of women's bodies during the Olympics - in magazines, in uniforms, in commentating and by the absence of discussion of men's attractiveness, and in expectations of what a female body should look like. They're all great discussions and raise questions about the public display of women's bodies, both in athletic settings and just in general.

I don't want to repeat too much of what has already been said, but I began thinking about the display of strong female bodies while watching American Gladiators a few weeks ago. Much like the Olympics, the women's uniforms were a lot "sexier" than the men's; for example, women are often in bikinis (or things similiar). One women's outfit consists of a black leather corset while another wears a skirt. Not only do their outfits reflect this, the pictures and poses often try to make the women look as sexy as possible while the men's photos mostly work to show their physical strength (or potential for physical strength).

Is it possible to show a women's body in public that displays strength but without sexualizing it?

In an athletic setting, I think soccer does a pretty good job on the uniform end. I'm just not sure if we can escape the curse of the bikini, especially in cases like the Olympics where it's required for beach volleyball. Superhero movies don't help either, when Catwoman and Wonder Woman even have to deal with it.

When thinking about it, I was reminded of this picture that does a pretty good job, in my opinion.

I am a little bias, though. That's my great grandma Fern, one of the coolest ladies I know. Not an athletic uniform, but still, the photo displays a sense of strength.

On Staying Single

Notice that I am not just single currently, but that I am  staying single. This was not a conscious decision. I did not sit down one day, feminist ideology in hand, and decide to stay single for political reasons. It just happened. I haven't been in a relationship for two years. For a woman in her twenties, this is so odd as to be alien.

When I was in middle school, nothing could have been more important than being in or wanting to be in a relationship. Boys were just beginning to notice me, probably because I was one of the first girls to have her breasts grow beyond the mosquito bite phase. Luckily for me, I did not grow up in the Paris Hilton era. Britney Spears was still keeping most of her clothes on the late 90s when the pre-teen girl uniform of choice was polo shirts, short shorts, and high ponytails.

Regardless, my desire for a boyfriend and to look good had nothing to do with my sexual desire. Although I had curves and breasts to rival any grown woman, my sexual drive had not matured. I heard about masturbation, mostly from the eighth grade boys, but such things held no interest for me. Even the extremely progressive books on puberty that my parents bought me detailed male masturbation explicitly, although some of them spend a bit of time on female masturbation as well. Curious, I attempted this masturbation a couple of times. Nothing really much happened, presumably because my sexual drive had yet to develop (it would in high school), so I gave that up.

Why then, was the pinnacle of pre-teen social life the drive to attract boys? I obviously did not know what to do with them when I got them, and I had no sexual desire for them. I was putting on a performance, plain and simple. The dominant social message of the time, and I assume it has gotten worse lately, was that a girl should aim to look sexy and have sex, but her own enjoyment of the sexual act had nothing to do with it. This held true for my twelve year-old self: I was not attracted to boys in a sexual manner, and I had no personal desire for sex. I was simply responding to social norms. If I said a boy was cute, it was not the case that I was attracted to him. I simply recognized that he fit within the acceptable range of male appearances, and I wanted him to want me. My desires did not play into the equation at all.

As I moved on from middle school and entered high school, my sexual drive finally blossomed. I had a healthy desire for sex and masturbation by the time I was fifteen. Still, however, I cannot think of a time that I wanted a boy more than I wanted him to want me and the social power I would gain by being sexy and attached to a suitable male. I was also doing battle with my monstrous crush on my female friend at the time by denying to myself that I probably was not as straight as I would like to be. Nevertheless, the idea of a boy competing for me or spending time on his appearance for me was laughable. By the time elaborate hair and makeup routines were the norm for girls my age, boys had yet to grasp the concept of showering daily.

Simply put, being sexy was more important than being sexual. The conflicting messages of abstinence and MTV had done battle, and the result was "be sexy, be hot, be available and wanted. Your sexuality is shameful." It was not important that boys were attractive, and they largely were not, it was important that I was attractive to them. Due to my extremely extroverted personality and unwillingness, even then, to play weak or dumb, I never succeeded.

In college, the drive to be wanted and not to want became funny in its intensity. The antics of my peers inspired mental images out of a porno: buckets of male ejaculation everywhere, but no elusive female orgasm. Men were still boys, and still had not grasped the basics of hygiene that were common sense to the average eleven year-old girl. And why would they? All around them women were wearing next to nothing and viciously fighting for their attention with deeper tans, deeper v-necks, and higher shoes. All they had to do was sit back and enjoy.

After a disastrous series of boyfriends where the male orgasm was far more present in our relationships than the female orgasm, I had the luck to fall into Feminism by way of a Women's Studies course. Among the considerable changes in my life, I stopped wanting men to want me if I did not want them back.

Simply, if my sexual pleasure had no part in the equation, I wanted nothing to do with men. If they were not attractive, their attention was gross and creepy. It was surprisingly easy to find my dry spells becoming longer and longer, only broken up by my mostly pleasurable forays into lesbian relationships.

How was this so? Once I gave up performing the sexy routine, guys largely did not want me. Which was fine with me, because most guys my age hadn't touched a razor or bar of soap in half a week. My university was like a scene out of a pornography: most of the women were conventionally attractive, but the men were as lazy with their appearances as they were with their health.

Today, I find it pathetically funny how my pursuit of my own pleasure--wanting attractive men, wanting sexual fulfillment--removed me from the dating scene. By raising my standards to men that I wanted, instead of men that wanted me, I had to find men that spend a comparable amount of time on their appearance and would be invested in my pleasure as much as their own. Unsurprisingly, the men who spent as much time in front of a mirror as I did (which wasn't much, considering that I stopped tanning and wearing large amounts of makeup) were the ones that dated the most feminine women, who had the personality of swine, or who were more interesting in acting out their favorite pornography than pleasing their significant other.

What I realize today is that the dating scene revolves around male pleasure. Male orgasms, male lust, male appreciation of beauty. If I wanted female orgasms, my lust, and my appreciation of male beauty I was holding out for something that did not exist. Or, if it did, it was not available to me once I stopped tanning, obsessing about how flat my abs were, and wearing hundreds of dollars of makeup.

In conclusion, I stay single because it's pathetically easy, but not by my design. Perhaps one day I might stumble upon a man who is as invested in looking good for me as I would be invested in looking good for him. Instead of me wanting him to want me and him wanting me, I would want him and he would want me. Then we could meet in the middle, form a relationship based on mutual attraction, admiration, and lust.

How sad that society has made such things the exception, and not the norm.

(Cross-posted)

Plastic Surgery and the Fake Beauty Ideal

What do Cindy Jackson, 48, and Steve Erhardt, 23, have in common?

They've both spend over $100,000 USD on plastic surgery.

The images above are of human beings that do not exist in nature. What I find intrinsically wrong and disturbing is my reaction to both pictures. Cindy, my mind tells me, is a pretty woman. Don't I wish that I will look like that when I'm almost 50? Steve, according to my inner sense of beauty, is a bizarre parody of a man. Cindy is beautiful, and Steve is abhorrent.

If my inner sense of beauty was as unwarped as I would like it to be, both pictures should disgust me. My mind should be incapable of finding completely unnatural and fake images of humanity as sexually appealing, or more so, than images of unaltered human beings.

I tested this with several of my friends. Unanimously, regardless of their gender or sexual preference, everyone I talked to found Cindy better looking than Steve. In fact, only one of my friends, a straight woman, thought that Steve wasn't disturbing.

What does this mean?

It means that our definition of female beauty is so warped that we find completely invented images of women prettier than actual women. This standard does not apply to men. When confronted with an image of the "perfect man" who has spent thousands of dollars augmenting himself to adhere to a beauty ideal, most react with disgust. When we see Cindy, on the other hand, we find her unanimously prettier than Steve, at the least, and extremely good-looking in general.

I submit this experiment as absolute undeniable proof that the image of female beauty is invented to a degree that male beauty has never been. Humanity finds the male that occurs naturally much better looking than one that appears plastic and fake. Whereas, unless we're plastic surgery experts, we are incapable of recognizing alteration to the female form because we are socialized to find such alternations beautiful and normal.

It is the true female body, with its stretch marks, pores, unlined eyes, uneven skin, knobby knees, and slight pouch that we find as disgusting as the altered male.

Repeat this experiment with your friends. Even though I spend hours weekly trying to deconstruct the false image of beauty that marketing has socialized into my subconscious, I still find Cindy infinitely more attractive than Steve. I highly doubt that anyone, regardless of their sexuality or gender, disagrees with me.

It is this evidence—socialization has ruined my natural sense of beauty—that is much more horrifying than the thousands of dollars and months of pain women undergo to transform themselves into some Living Doll. Although I cannot determine which came first—the demand for false beauty or the image of unnatural beauty—I can say that my subconscious is evidence that we continue to perpetuate this demand for the mutilated image of femininity despite any objection that so-and-so prefers natural beauty.

In fact, I postulate that anyone when confronted with a unadorned symmetrical female face through the media would not find it as attractive or "normal" as the completely unnatural image of Cindy Jackson.

This fact, coupled with the observation that we are capable of valuing real men over altered men (who would argue that a naturally handsome man is less appealing than Steve?), leads me to believe that feminist theory is undeniably true: that what is we think is "normal" female beauty has nothing to do with nature. This hijacking of female beauty and biology is nauseating in its totality.

(Cross-posted)

The Hot Friend

I went home last weekend. Just a short break from the doldrums of college life. Before my mom took be back to school, we stopped at a Dollar General Store for some snacks for my dorm room. We were about to check out when I spotted this shirt in the corner of the store. Sometimes I'm really glad I always carry my camera with me.


Asserting that one is "the hot friend" comes with some connotations. Being "hot" in America means, more than anything else, being sexually available. When being "hot" (or white, thin, and sexually available) is the ultimate goal for American females (you don't see many t-shirts that say "I'm The Smart Friend"), it's no wonder that so many of us feel inadequate, despite our accomplishments.

Thanks, Dollar General Store, for reminding American females that the content of their character and the depth of their knowledge don't mean anything if they're not "hot."