Gender Performance II: This time we mean business

Last time, I pretty much just stuck with my past experiences, and how I came around to my understanding of gender performance—maybe not even that far. Well, let’s do that now.

(A disclaimer—I don’t have any education in this area. All of the following comes from my own experiences and reflection on those experiences. Please excuse any ignorance that may be apparent.)

What is my understanding of gender performance? To me, it’s really all about communication—when it is all boiled down, clothing really is the first and most immediate form of communication, albeit one-sided communication. I have to fess up and acknowledge that this has really come into focus thanks to television—namely the shows What Not To Wear and RuPaul’s Drag Race. For serious. With What Not to Wear, the stylists stress the importance of acknowledging that clothing is communication—how quicker to communicate what you value than through your choice in clothing? Nearly everything about a person could be known by careful examination of one’s garb—with a fair amount of assumption.

When watching Drag Race, or really, any amount of drag entertainment, I found myself really thinking about what traits of general female gender performance were chosen to perform, what traits were heighten, and why those traits were chosen above others. In all honesty, the after I watched my first season (which was the second season) of Drag Race, I had a small existential crisis—these men were better at being a woman than I was. What did that say about me? What kind of woman did I want to be? What kind of woman did I want others to see? What happens when you dress the outside to reflect what’s on the inside? Turns out, dressing the outside like the inside feels is rather freeing. I’ve written about this before, but I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my body, and really, not until I encountered this show and had a small crisis of identity, did I really come around to wanting to love my body. I’ve always known that I’ve needed to love my body, but there can be an immense chasm between knowing that one should do something and doing that thing. And, in the words of the wise RuPaul, “if you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

So. Connecting these dots, knowing that gender is a performance leads to self love? Well, yes, that can be true. And knowledge is power. And in a society that is set up to systematically marginalize women who don’t make a concerted effort to fight back, I want to equip my daughter with as much power as I can.

When my Darling Monster was first learning body parts, I thought about what to teach her about her genitalia. After waffling a bit with euphemisms, we settled on the correct anatomical names. Vulva, vagina. At bath time, she washes her own vulva--Mom and Dad make sure that she is the one in control when it comes to regular maintenance. We say, often, that it’s okay to play with your vulva! When navigating this idea with my husband, I wanted desperately to get across was that my daughter, at the tender age of three, needs to know that her body is her own, because my fear is that if she doesn't have ownership of her body, someone else could.

So. Two fundamental basics: a person must take ownership of their body, if only at least to prevent others from doing so, and any body is amazing and worthy of love. A good foundation for life, let alone learning how one can express one's self.

How do I tie that in with gender performance? Gently, I believe. Here's something to start, at the very, very least:

To my Darling Monster,
It's vital to dress and behave in a way that makes you happy, and that doesn't hurt others around you. Everyone has a right to feel happy and safe, especially you. It is also important to understand what ideas one communicates thought one's clothing. People will always make decisions about how they can and can't treat you based on your appearance, and it's important to understand what your appearance says to other people. It's more important that you are happy and safe. If you choose to dress or behave in a way that will illicit a certain type of response, it's important that you are prepared for it. You can change how you look and you can change how you act, and you can even change what may or may not affect you on the surface, but you can't ever change another person. I want to protect and shelter you for your whole life, but I can't do that. I can help you to be confident in who you are and confident in the world around you, and I can hope that that is enough.
     XOXO
        Your Darling Mother


I may refine this a bit before we dive in.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon.

Well, not that soon. Also, that song is freakin' creep-tastic.

I've been thinking on how to explain gender and gender performance to my darling Monster. She came at me with 'boys say "poop"; girls don't say "poop"' in the car on the way home from school the other day. We then had a conversation consisting nearly entirely of the word poop, and how yes, girls can say poop, and how really, as long as one is reasonably polite and well-informed, one should be able to say what one would like. The conversation turned to the subject of snacks before we really had a chance to delve.

I've been personally contemplating gender and gender performance lately, as well. I came of age in the 'Grrls ruuule!" time, which really seems to be a backlash against the hyper-femininity of the eighties, which came as a backlash against the androgyny of the seventies, which arose out of the women's movement in backlash to the sudden change in the social dynamic when the boys came home from WW2 and the women had to move on over, Johnny here needs that job. So get back in the kitchen, and look, Hollywood will make it all look fabulous. In a nutshell. It really seems that attitudes towards women and the roles that women play (painting large strokes here, I know) are all reaction to what transpired the generation before.

Anyhow, I seemed to go off on a tangent. I was saying that I came of age in the 90s and for much of my teenage years (oh gawd, teenage years) both tried to eschew and embrace all things feminine and girly. To paint a clearer picture, the icon that I looked up to was Marilyn Manson. Makeup wise, as well. (Yes, I looked ridiculous.)

I didn't really have an understanding of gender performance. I sort of thought that you were what you displayed--there was no option for playing a part. Also, my passions and hobbies all required a certain style of dress--paint clothes! Jeans and work boots! Getting dirty clothes! I wore those clothes for so long, I think I had forgotten that I could dress any other way, and I think that I came to view dressing "girly" was a sign of weakness. I needed to communicate my strength and ability to everyone, in as plain a way as possible, and that did not involve skirts. Or heels.

Heels. That's another tangent, and we are exploring that one. I'm tall. Just kissing six feet. My best friends in school were 5' 8" at best, putting me a good 2 or three inches above most everyone--and let me tell you, that when you're a teenager who wants nothing more than to be able to fit  in to a group, always looming above anyone doesn't do a whole lot for self-confidence. A good portion of the crushes I had were on people who were merely taller than I, and height isn't the best indicator of what kind of a person someone is. Hence, I stayed away from heels, mostly. I'd wear a pair or two, and feel super awkward, and then retreat to my work boots or sneakers until the next blue moon. I have just now discovered that I can wear heels that are "comfortable" (come on, what heel is actually comfortable?) and that I feel secure in holding the perceived power that comes with added stature.

Due to the nature of where I work now--a relaxed office environment--I've now really started branching out. I've always admired styles or trends, while not really changing what my personal style is. I've sort of had the 'well, that looks great, but I couldn't wear that because I'm too big/tall/whathaveyou" mentality. I've just now empowered myself to change how I present myself to reflect what I want to communicate.

And that brings me back: how do I teach my darling Monster about communication through gender performance? I guess, in a word: carefully.

Candy Crush is killing my creativity.

I get sucked into Candy Crush, that addictive little match-three Facebook game. Well, Candy Crush, and the rest of the internet. I get home, feed the Monster, (usually) clean the dishes (and if I'm really gung-ho, some other chores as well, but only once in a great while, I will readily admit), and do bedtime stuff--bathing, teeth brushing, hair braiding--with the Monster. Then the real fun of Let's See How Many Books Mom Can Read and Still Maintain Patience and Sanity Before the Monster Falls Asleep begins. Seriously, I've been reading for an hour before the little terror darling child will go to sleep. When I finally emerge, the glorious victor, there is nothing I want more than flashing lights and rewarding little melodies to lull me into a sense of accomplishment, all while enjoying the singular joy of only being concerned about how I am going to wipe out that stupid chocolate that's taking up all my moves, dammit.

I would love nothing more than to move on with all these projects in my head. I have some really neat ideas, but my only problem is that of time. Boo hoo, everyone has a time crunch, everyone has responsibilities, everyone has to negotiate limited time and limited resources--is what I think when I start feeling down about it. Which, if anyone out there has dealt with depression just a teeny tiny bit, knows that that's the kind of thinking that really doesn't help to motivate. At least, not in my case. Boo hoo, I'm not a special case, I might as well give up. And then I click the little pink 'try again' button, and the board fills up with those cute little candies.

I would love to be productive in my creativity. I would love to add more to my 'done' stack. And this is a running theme in this blog. My struggles with time, creative space, mothering, and basically, living as an adult. WAH.

I think I just need to go on a Candy Crush diet. Not cold turkey, mind you. Sometimes mama needs a little sugar. Er, aesthetically pleasing, sugar-themed match three game, that is. But I think I need to make my limited time on the internet more limited, and definitely more meaningful. Plenty of people are consuming awesome content--someone else can take my place there. I need to spend more time creating general awesome.

Seeing some changes

Not big changes, but noticeable changes. Like, the towel that I take to the gym: it used to just barely overlap--just enough overlap so I wouldn't be parading my rolls all over the changing room. Yesterday, I noticed that it overlapped a bit more, and all the way down, over my hips. My winter jacket had been edging toward a tad snug, over my hips again, and now there's a lot more room when I close it.

I've tried to make changes to my body before, but something just wouldn't work out, and back to the old habits I'd go, gleefully at times. Something's different this time. Aside from the odd moment few and far between, I haven't felt ashamed to be eating something. I can't say why I've been ashamed, or why I don't feel that way now, but why ask why? At this stage, I'll be glad to feel good, and feel good about feeling good.

I've spent some time thinking about why I've wanted to make these changes, and this time it's different from before (which may be why the changes are sticking a bit better). When feeling uncomfortable in my body, I've asked why, and kept asking why: I want to wear a thing, but I can't. Why do I want to wear that thing? Because this thing looks like how I feel inside (cute, flirty, silly, sexy, or what-have-you). Why can't I wear it? Because I don't feel comfortable in it. Why don't I feel comfortable. Because I don't like the way that I look. Why don't I like it? Because I don't think that I look attractive. Who don't I look attractive to? Myself. Does that mean that I'm not attractive? No. Can I change how I feel about myself? Yes, with work. Can I change how I look? Yes, with work. Can I love myself, no matter what I look like? Absolutely. Do I love myself, no matter what I look like? I try, and I think I'm getting there.

Why am I trying to change how I look? Because I want to look good.What does good look like? What metric will I use to determine good?

We shall see.

Small struggles

Stop.

Why are you eating? Are you hungry, or are you bored? Are you lonely? Are you sad? Are you happy? Are you angry? Are you angry because you keep eating? Which ones are reasons to eat?

What are you eating? Are you going to secretly wish that you could throw up after eating that because whatever you've decided to eat is terrible? When you feel shame looking at food that you really shouldn't eat, why do you eat it? Because of the shame?

If it's a problem, can you recognize it as a problem?

Yes.

Are you powerless to stop yourself?

No.

Will you change this behavior?

I will try.

One down...

And seventy million to go. Not really. Really, it's more like hundreds. Projects. That pattern that I was working on (and whining about) the other day is corrected and submitted! I rewarded myself with some knitting and period British soaps.

alright. I've finished something by deadline and written a (token) post about it.

Holiday Cookies!

I am a lucky lady, and I was able to get myself a pretty neato camera for myself for my birthday, back in November. It's not terribly fancy, but I like it. I've been trying to document happenings and whatnot, for me, for photo albums, and for the blog. Well, now that I have a minute really should be sleeping, I thought I would get a start on uploading the photos.

Before Christmas/Isaac Newton's Birthday, the Monster and I made my favorite holiday treat, Candy Cane Chocolate Chip Cookies!

Jump for photos!

Quiet

when the tv is hushed
and the dryer is done
the kitchen clock keeps time in quartz
and,
above the rustle of my hair on my pillow
above the hum of the ceiling fan in the next room
above the drone of the fridge
above my heart, beating in my ears,
there is
an ocean
drumming out of time
onto the sand

Math isn't hard

...but working out what you were thinking over a year ago when you probably weren't getting enough sleep to properly express a thought, and now you certainly don't have enough brain power left at the end of the day to suss out what your sleep-deprived brain was thinking--that is hard.

I have a knitting pattern that I am writing for (how exciting) publication in a book being produced by my LYS, and I am thisclose to being done with it, but for those niggling little errors. Ack. Thanks be to the wonderful tech editor who's catching all the errors, but mother of purl, I want to be done. This will be my first pattern, and I don't want ANY errata associated with any of my knitting patterns (it happens, I know, but let's not on the first go), and I know that the LYS also is not a fan of errata. So, that's what I'm doing.

Pacing myself. This is what this looks like. I'm going to go to bed before I get in too deep and screw it all up. I have time set aside to work on this tomorrow.

A Snail's Pace

Holy mother of pearl, what the what.

Oh, I've been neglecting the blog dreadfully. I've been composing a photo-dump post, in my head, and I even found the cable thingy and attached the camera, and installed Picasa, and, well, that's as far as I got. 

I have about a million zillion projects that I've been trying to finish up--only recently did I manage to finish hemming a pair of pants for the Nick, a pair of pants that he asked me to hem (and got stashed on my sewing desk) before Halloween. This past weekend, I had whatever bug was going around, and was knocked flat on my kiester. For one day, when Grandma was able to hang out with the Monster, I even got to rest for a bit. (After dropping the lovely Monster off at Grandma's house, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up some necessities, and holy mackerel, don't try to go shopping when you are sick. That is one of the worst times for decision-making, and staring at a shelf full of granola bars while a dial tone goes off in your head, well, that's just a terrible idea.) I did rest. I frogged a baby sweater that wasn't ever going to get finished, and frankly, is too small for the recipient, and in between episodes of my favorite British murder and sci-fi shows that I dozed off to, I thought about my creative self. (The sewing desk was right in my eyeline, so that might have helped a bit.) This is what I came up with:

I can be crafty, but I must not expect anything faster than a snail's pace.

WHAT? I'll never get anything done at that pace!

Yes you will; you aren't the knitting Xeno.

You mean the Greek philosopher who stated that one cannot get from point A to point B because first, one must cross half the distance between the two points, and first half that distance, and the first half that distance and so on?

Yes, shut up, we all knew that because we are all educated here.

What do you mean, expect no more than a snail's pace?

I mean that I don't have time to screw off with, and also expect to accomplish anything. My time is now finite, and little. You know that.

Yes, that's true. There's not so much now.

And rather than be disappointed when I don't accomplish the impossible, I should expect the possible.

That's crazy talk!

Shut your face! You're the crazy one, talking to yourself all the time.

Yep, I'm the crazy one. I would roll my eyes at you, but there isn't a mirror handy.

Anyhow, snail's pace. I can accomplish a lot, but only a bit at a time.

So, you're giving yourself permission to pace yourself?

Essentially, yes, that's what I'm doing.

You picked an odd way to deliver that revelation. Seriously, this is pretty anti-climatic.

No it's not, and critiquing a work in the middle of a work isn't meta. It's annoying, and hackneyed, really.

Your face is hackneyed.

~~~

So. I can travel at a snail's pace, and it's okay. I'll get to where I need to go, and in the time that I have. I will work on my ADOS (Attention Deficit--ooh, shiny! as my sister jokes) and document my ideas when I get them. The thing is, I get excited about a thing, and want to do the thing OMG right then and drop everything else. So, I'll endeavor to document my ideas as I get them, and hopefully be able to organize them, and be able to come back to them when both the idea and myself are ready,