Post-Backlash Feminism

Victoria's Secret has launched a campaign to encourage women to love their bodies. This bullshit is the height of cynical marketing.

VS doesn't give a damn about how women feel about their bodies; in fact, the brand does everything it can to diminish the average woman's sense of self. Indeed, they specifically market self-loathing. Their ad campaigns then suggest that the right bra will solve the problem.

The real problem is most women aren't built like ten year olds with silicone softballs on their chests.

Here is the pic attached to the campaign:

VS models are sticks with artificial breasts, posed in mildly pornographic postures, wearing garments very few of us have the thighs or wherewithal to fit into.

If Victoria's Secret really wanted to encourage women to love themselves, they'd make jeans that fit real bodies, panties that fit the average female bum, and hire models who look human.

Hannah Storm is cute as a bug. Petite, fit, great "stems" as BleacherReport.com puts it, and a nice smile. She's good at her job and a pleasure to watch. (I recognized her charm when I saw her interview Liam Neeson. Ms. Storm could hardly conceal her attraction to the actor. It was endearing---and not a bad interview.)

A small media hubbub has erupted this week after one of her colleagues, the always noxious Tony Kornheiser, recently tore into Storm on air for the clothes she was wearing that day. He suggested her clothing was too tight, too revealing and inappropriate for her age.

She looked fine, attractive, feminine. But, even if you didn't agree with her sartorial choices that day (red high boots, plaid skirt), she was hardly inappropriate in the manner Mr. Kornheiser's hysterics suggested. Her clothes were not, as Kornheiser put it, tight as a "sausage casing."

I worry, of course, that women spend inordinate energy on their appearance and staying thin, and I know that our media culture can be cruel if they don't. Indeed, as Kornheiser here demonstrates, that same culture can be punishing if women do care about their appearance. And this is the bind women find themselves in daily.

Mr. Kornheiser's hypocrisy here is visible from space: Ms. Storm works for a station devoted to sports and specifically marketed to men. ESPN prides itself on featuring attractive, slim, thoroughly glamorous female personnel. (Sadly, the same cannot be said of the men.) Breck girls all, they wear clothes that fit and flatter and sport glamorous do's as they interview (mostly male) athletes and celebrities.

But the more salient feature of this essentially meaningless media event is that while Ms. Storm is being discussed for how she looks, Mr. Kornheiser is garnering attention for what he said. That's the true offense of ESPN, women reporters are decoration, sprinkled throughout their coverage for spice and decoration; men are employed for expertise and commentary

Forgive if you have already seen this at OpEdNews.com; it seems important enough to re-post here.

Two days ago, Amy Bishop, tenure-track faculty in an Alabama English Department, opened fire on her colleagues during a department meeting, killing three.

The media consensus at the time the story broke circled around "having been recently denied tenure" as a motive. Yesterday, Glenn Beck blames the radical ideology he most fears, misunderstands, and mistakenly assumes has overrun American universities for this horrifying event.

I've been an academic for 25 years, and I am here to tell you universities are not the hot-beds of liberal thinking and radical ideology so many think they are. All my degrees are in the humanities; all my jobs have been in departments of "liberal" arts. Even in departments claiming to teach critical thinking, to promote openness to new ideas, and to practice the religion of liberality, gender and class hierarchies are fixed, closely guarded and quite conservative.

Being denied tenure is no true motive for violence, and Ms. Bishop was a demonstrably troubled person who committed earlier crimes free of the pressures of the tenure process. But, both guesses at motive illustrate how deeply misunderstood higher education and those who teach there are within the larger culture.

Academe is not an easy place to exist if one is a woman, or a person of color or gay. The myth of the comfortably employed, politically-correct, hyper-liberal academic grows out of work produced by a small minority of institutions. Even within these institutions, publishing and pumping out literary theorists of the post-modern set, women are a minority; power is maintained by a small, well-connected and largely white/male population.

We aspire to democratic notions of fair play and department citizenship. But higher ed is no such a place.

Sitting at lunch with a friend yesterday, I observed the university community around us: the Smug Table of Smug Men: those secure in their tenure, their influence, their academic cache which begins and ends in white skin and the male gender. The Smug Ones enjoy reduced teaching loads, gained through exotic research projects, or calculated moves into administration, or mere reputation.

Behind me, a junior professor (what we kindly label Tenure Eligible, promising nothing) who talks a bit too loudly, nervous about "the letter" and what it will mean once it appears in his next evaluation. The Letter will likely be written by a committee of Smug Ones, who neither appreciate nor entirely understand Tenure Eligible's work. They will feel no compunction undermining him, and promoting themselves as they execute this small task.

And to our right, two female professors, Tenure-Eligible-and-Female, clearly working to find their way through academic life as women: one dresses a bit too aggressively, the other too flirtatiously. Their conversation is smart and reflects good educations and critical minds; still, they are burdened with self-conscious body language and an unwillingness to meet their colleagues’ eyes.

Finally, at my table, here the two of us sit, mid-career, with several articles, a book a piece, heavy teaching loads, and a full plate of committee work and student projects. We are the Department Proletariat, performing service the Smug Ones are simply too busy to help with and the Tenure Eligible too inexperienced. We are the good citizens, having believed all these years that department service, a respectable research agenda, and dedication to teaching would earn us a measure of minimal respect--and perhaps a travel budget.

I wouldn't harm my colleagues, cannot understand what Amy Bishop did to hers. But I know too well the academic frustration that grows out of the invisible forces that seem to control our destinies, the "letter" included in the tenure file, the apparently arbitrary doling out of funds or offices, and (I am not making this up) pens and letterhead.

And I understand tthe wall of privilege some of us feel we pound against day after day, women, academics of color and garden variety professors (of all genders, all colors) who want not to undermine, or over rule, or bilk, but to do good work and to feel they are appreciated. To feel they are seen by the institution, their colleagues, the "system." On top of it all, we are maligned in the media, or portrayed as lazy, having taken the easy way, not part of "the real world."

Academe is the "real world" in small, pressurized form and it can be misery-making.

I googled the term, "vaginal rejuvenation": 1,020,000 hits. So many ads. Here’s a sample from www.Gynaecosmetics.com, a UK site explaining the range of cosmetic vaginal surgeries available and offering a rationale for most of these procedures. For example, for vaginoplasty, or vaginal tightening: “vaginal relaxation, which occurs when the vaginal supports lose their tone, strength and control. The vagina becomes quite roomy and slack…”

Ok. Wait. My vagina might be too “roomy?” And don’t get me started on the implications of a “slack” vagina. Not to worry, says the kindly doctor voice of the website, it’s not your fault your vagina has pushed out babies the size of watermelons and stubbornly refused to return to a “virgin-like” state. After this tragic turn of events, “the vagina is no longer at its best possible sexual functioning state.”

But they can help; as can tens of thousands of other cosmetic surgeons around the globe. For the price of a new car, one can have their labia redone, touched up, tucked in, whatever the hell they call it. Sadly, we can now have surgically done to our vaginas what women have been doing to their eyes, ears, chins, tummies and breasts for decades.

Why would anyone do such a thing? Well, the site explains, some women: “simply want to look and feel as normal and attractive.” Again, I have to pause here: “normal?” A virgin-like vagina is “normal?” One that is totally symmetrical and aligns with standards that are nothing to do with the biological facts of femininity is “normal?” Yes. I looked at the before and after pics, and well the “before” look a lot like your run-of-the-mill vagina, even before childbirth. The “afters” all look neatly closed shells. And little girl vaginas.

Ads for Female Genital Cosmetic Surgery tend come in muted tones, with images of beautiful, airbrushed women, photographed from the shoulders up, smiling, satisfied with their new bodies, some happily snuggle their man, both parties grinning with love and satisfaction. Often these models are lounging on a beach or in a wheat field. And of course, the requisite flower images. Comforting thoughts float by “peace of mind.” 

Oh, for god’s sake.

The standard explanation, taken from a survey of dozens of these sites, is that women find their labia minora embarrassing. The inner lips of their vagina are a source of unhappiness because they are the wrong size, they protrude beyond the outer lips, or the labia majora. I thought they all did that?

Now, some of the clinical problems associated with larger labia minor include, according to Aestheticspecialists.net, “discomfort during physical activity such as biking and horseback riding or when wearing those ever popular tight pants.”

To most women, these are ordinary complaints; anyone with a vagina experiences discomfort from time to time caused by clothes or--no kidding!--horseback riding. What all this boils down to is that women are being encouraged to surgically alter their vaginas in order to “cure” the ailment that is having. a. vagina.

In my first Women’s Studies class the instructor walked in one day with a box of hand mirrors and plastic specula. She invited us all to take one of each, go home and examine our cervixes. I thought this was pretty nuts, but I did it. When I got home, I dutifully quatted over that hand mirror, jammed that specula up there, and had a look. I remember thinking, “Ewww. Oh, well.” And promptly forgot  all about it.

Some parts of our bodies, like vaginas, aren’t—strictly speaking—beautiful. But they can do some pretty beautiful things, they can feel some pretty amazing things, and they tend to be standard equipment. It never occurred to me or anyone in that class that our vaginas might need a bit of nip-tucking; the Women's Studies instructor assumed we might be curious, not ashamed.

from: April 2009

My step-son hits. When he’s angry, he lashes out. Sweetand funny when feeling safe and unaccosted, this boy turns ugly and violentwhen he’s provoked. He has a kind face, is handsome as he can be, and his sillyjokes make his dad laugh. He is 24 years old.

Since I’ve known him these past four years, he has beenarrested twice, involved in no fewer than eight bar fights, and has moved ninetimes, switching roommates and groups of friends each time—twice, his moveswere precipitated by violence between himself and his roommates.

One evening last week, my husband hung up the phone andannounced that “Drew is going to stay with us for a few days”  because he and his girlfriend (with whom henow lives) got into a fight. In explanation, my husband had to tell mesomething, so he said, “He scared her.” Drew was staying with us to protecther, he explained, coming to our place to give her some space and get himselfstraightened out. He knows he’s got an anger problem, he assured me, and isgiving himself time to calm down. What a nice guy, my husband seemed to say,Drew taking care of his girlfriend this way.

What happened? How exactly did Drew scare Trish? “Helifted her up by the shoulders and dropped her into a chair.”

We all know this thread-bare bullshit story of the abuserrescuing the abused—and those who enable them. And many of us recognize whathappened next, when I made to object. Noting the look on my face, my husband offeredup the condensed version of the “He’s-my-son-and-it’s-my-house” lecture. Manyof us also recognize that whatever story we get from Drew about what happenedis a lie. If Drew tells us he dropped Trish into a chair, he more likelyslammed her into a chair, and also did other things. He broke her stuff or hither or screamed in her face or pulled her hair.

This situation presents the perfect storm for mymarriage. If I do nothing, if I resist my conscience and my impulse to reachout to Trish, I am complicit in the next act of violence. Reaching out to her,however, would probably end my marriage. I cannot imagine my husband toleratingmy treating his son’s girlfriend like a victim of his son’s violence. Not onlywould he not react well, but such an act on my part would force into the openthe compromises, the equivocations, the lies we tell ourselves about Drew’sviolent tendencies. For without these, we could not go on.

So I wait. For the next phone call, the act of abuse thatwill be definitive and convince my husband, his ex-wife (Drew’s mother), andthe rest of that family, that something must be done. Many of us know preciselywhat this means: until Drew inflicts enough damage to leave marks, on thiswoman, scars that cannot be equivocated away, I am powerless to move thisfamily to stop their son.

As an activist, committed feminist, a loving human beinga mother with a grown daughter, I feel my obligation to this young woman. And Ihesitate, delayed by anxieties about my husband’s anger, his son’s potentialfor violence. I hesitate, I wait. It’s a misery.

As she addressed the Tea Party convention this week, it became apparent that Sarah Palin is the talkin'-est woman in politics. Not to mention confused, mean-spirited, and kinda dumb. From cribbed answers on her hand to mangled grammar to Miss America hair, the woman embodies a movement grounded in ignorance and backward thinking.

Palin endorses a movement proud to call for a return to Jim Crow laws, that places spunk above political experience, and sees truck ownership as a necessary qualification to hold public office. This folksy fun is a lie, of course. Palin is plainly seeking to acquire wealth and influence, to join that very class--politicians--she claims to dislike to much.  But lies are Palin's stock in trade. She lies about her administration in Alaska, about taking stimulus money, about foreign policy experience, hell, she lied about which magazines she reads. Even in the most benign situations, Ms. Palin cannot seem to summon the truth. Often, she simply does not know it. (Supreme court rulings, anyone?)

But Palin is talking her way into, if not real power, then celebrity and wealth. The more she complains about the "lamestream media" the more it covers her and increases her earning potential. She rails against the "talk talk talk" of the pundits, but without them, she'd be invisible and back in Alaska, force to serve the people who put her in office. Instead, she serves herself.

And those who follow her will not be served by her. She works for herself, spending, for example, tens of thousands of dollars of her PAC money and buying her own book to create the lie of writing a "best seller." 

Those following her need a better economy, more jobs, greater access to health care, tax cuts. Palin can promise only greater access to herself, her ambition and, of course, her talk talk talkin'.

It's the end of the semester, time to return to the writing I love. Thought I would share a bit of the novel I am working on, The Fanny Banks Mysteries.

River is confused as only anacademic can be. Torn between a worldly and dangerous graduate student, Jake, andher ground-breaking work: “The Woolen Bodice: A Study of Knitting, TruckFarming and the Victorian Wool Trade,” she faces an impossible choice: finishher manuscript in time for Promotion and Tenure review or head south for thebiggest adventure (and best sex) of her life.

She could take her laptop.And note cards. Right?

Living in a shrinking andrainy mid-western town, River seeks distraction and adventure through theexploits of her favorite literary heroine, chronicled in The Fanny Banks Mysteries series. She’s read them all; the last bookfound Fanny and her long-legged, sandy haired, ex-Special Forces lover,Antonio, tangling with a corrupt Central American government as they raced tosave the kidnapped daughter of an American CEO whose company has just securedthe patent to a mysterious new “green” military weapons system. River herselfteaches Women’s Studies at the local university, living a tidy little lifeamong messy, ill-tempered colleagues—until a graduate student turns up dead. Andshe’s the prime suspect. River may have been the last person to see the studentalive when, walking home from the library, down a rundown street in anunfamiliar part of town, she stumbled upon a late-night, heated argumentbetween the student and the chair of the department, long rumored to be herlover. With tenure in the balance, River must choose between doing the rightthing, reporting what she knows to the authorities, or joining Jake at theairport and kissing the university life goodbye. “What,” River asks herself,“would Fanny do?”

The Fanny Banks Mysteries is a 75,000 word novel about a shy academic womanwith a rich fantasy life who finds herself living a life suspiciously like herliterary heroine’s. Combing Fanny Banksfor clues, River hopes to learn enough to save herself, her lover and hercareer. River might be described as Stephanie Plum’s nerdy, highly educatedcousin—like Stephanie, she lives in an ordinary place, full of curiouslyordinary folks, and she can’t resist the mysteries she stumbles upon.

Last week I was honored to spend a wonderful day with Women's Studies-affiliated women and men at IPFW. My visit was intellectually stimulating, enlightening--and a whole lot of fun.

The chair of Women's studies and her staff arranged a luncheon book talk and an evening key note. At both events folks from the university and the Ft. Wayne community gathered to discuss not only my work, but also issues concerning us all, like breast cancer awareness, violence against women on campus, the American beauty culture, and the language of gender. I am flattered by their attendance and grateful for the opportunity to learn from these good folks.

The men and women I met were generous, interested and engaged with the issues we take up everyday in the study of women and culture--and that's a credit to the culture of IPFW and the work of the Women's Studies faculty. The tone and tenor of the conversations I had (both formal and informal) during my visit affirmed for me how important intellectual work on women is, how urgent and necessary. These conversations also confirmed for me that this work, done well (as it is plainly done at IPFW), has the effect of bringing people together and reminded me of why I undertook this work in the first place.

Thanks to everyone who had a part in my visit., especially Janet, Linda, Mandy, Liz and Jen.

Thank you.

"Rethinkbreastcancer.com" had a great idea: get men to care about breast cancer by filming bouncing breasts. I'm not kidding.

In a public-service-announcement style video published on the website, young (ostensibly cancer-less) breasts are fetishized and marketed as toys for men.

First breast cancer awareness gets pinkified, with cancer victims and survivors infantalized and obscured behind giant pink bows and teddy bears.  Now this.

The message of the video: men's fascination with "the boobs" should motivate young women to take care of the breasts they have. Keep those toys perky and healthy--for the pleasure of others.

The video suggests that If you don't get involved in cancer awareness for the good of women's health, maybe you will if we show you lots of boobies. Breast cancer is a woman's disease, attacking women's bodies and potentially destroying their health. So, shouldn't we all, men, too, be concerned about breast cancer?

Apparently the kind women at this site don't think so. We've got to make the disease a threat to men (it is; it takes daughters, mothers, sisters, partners friends everyday). Hence, a public service announcement warning of the darker danger of the disease: fewer "boobs" to ogle and fetishize. (The insult to men is equally inexcusable.)

Check it out; this ostensibly woman-center, woman-run website offers it up without apology: http://www.rethinkbreastcancer.com/boobyball-cruise.html

"Rethinkbreastcancer.com" essentially devotes itself to bringing younger women into the conversation about breast health. The site offers lots of information about prevention and support. All good things.

But this PSA is not a good thing. It ignores female bodies at the heart of cancer awareness. It insults women surviving and suffering from the disease (not to mention those who love them) . And, piling on the insult, replaces the reality of cancer with sexist portrayals of women; we're worthless without the bouncing playthings so lovingly photographed in the video.

Further, the video reminds us that women envy each other's breasts, and we feel bad when ours don't measure up. The video features a young women in a bikini strutting around a pool where an array of men and women watch her walk. Close ups of her breasts dominate the one-minute piece, wider shots show men's admiration and women's envy. So: women should take care of their bodies in order to please men and make other women jealous? Seriously?

We can't even get respect from our own gender; even our (very serious) health concerns are turned against us in pernicious and sexist ways.

It's so tiresome, isn't it?

According to Jamie Oliver, Huntington, WV overflows with fat, unhealthy people who don't know enough to feed themselves properly. Oh, but don't worry, the snooty Brit doesn't think we're "ignorant" or "stupid." Imagine our relief.

Seriously? The reality TV star comes here to film a show that has made him rich and famous, he arrives fully cognizant of this town's status as most overweight in a country where we rank among the poorest states, and he feigns alarm on glimpsing a typical family's poor diet. *Yawn.*

I have two suggestions: First: I'd like to ask Oliver to join my family and me for a typical meal at our home. I have managed to uncover a cache of fresh fruit and veg (sshhh: it's in the giant Kroger on rte. 60) to prepare for his visit.  Also, I recently taught myself to read, so I can finally use one of Gramma's old cookbooks that we keep in the outhouse (I promise to ignore any recipe that calls for lard or ramps). Oh, and for your comfort, I'll teach my teenage children to use knives and forks. I really think, Mr. Oliver, you will feel right at home.

Second: I'd like to ask Mr. Reality Star to endow a community garden in the center of our town so that we can grow the kinds of foods that might encourage good habits, and he can leave something useful behind (besides the shadow of his giant ego).