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34 december 9, 2011 Molly, a woman I went to high school with, posted a photo on Facebook with the following status update: “Have to brag a moment about my 15-year-old daughter Maggie! Sophomore class picture without a speck of makeup, not even lip gloss! [I’m] happy she’s happy with her perfect self!” Her daughter is in fact a beautiful young woman. My daughters are also beautiful young women but it made my heart sink to realize there's no way they would sit for a portrait without makeup. I don’t know that I’ve even seen my 14-year-old without mascara in months and my youngest has taken to wearing eyeliner and blue shadow. What has Molly done right that I obviously do wrong? A few months ago, I read an article on Huffington Post by Lisa Bloom, author of the book Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World. She claims 25 percent of women ages 18-34 would rather win America’s Next Top Model than the Noble Peace Prize and 22 percent would rather lose the ability to read over their figures. Around the same time I was introduced to Dance Moms, a reality series about a Pittsburgh dance company, where owner and director Abby Lee Miller “molds” young girls for their illustrious careers as professional dancers. Miller is a nightmare all on her own, but most shocking are the mothers of these young girls, one of whom claims that school is secondary to dancing class; her daughter will be on Broadway someday and school doesn’t matter that much. I found myself screaming at the television: “If your daughter got a Ph.D., she could make a real difference in the world! You idiot! You’re setting feminism back 50 years!” This is not to say there isn’t redeeming value in art and its contribution to our society, but focusing on a young girl’s extracurricular activities over academics does nothing more than reinforce that what a girl does and how she looks doing it is more important than what she knows. I immediately bought Ms. Bloom’s book and started some serious thinking on the subject. More women now occupy college campuses than men and more women obtain advanced degrees and enter prestigious professions than ever before, but these facts aren’t reflected in our mainstream culture or in the media. Women like Snooki and the Kardashians are celebrated, not for their IQs or humanitarian efforts, but rather their choice of shoes, jewelry, cocktails and husbands. This is modeled for women so it’s no big surprise that a huge majority would rather focus on their weight and appearance than intelligence or success. voices Miss Representation living out loud BY KATHRYN MARTINI American women spend millions on cosmetics and salon services and the number of plastic surgeries performed rises exponentially each year; tummy tucks alone were up more than 4,000 percent between 2000-06. Women run to surgery weeks after giving birth to have a “Mommy Makeover” (usually a tummy tuck and breast augmentation), allowing them their “pre-baby” body back. Pretty soon doctors will just offer same-day service: Give birth and have plastic surgery, so the homefrom-the-hospital photos look fabulous. I have a friend who said she would never have plastic surgery because her body, now stretch-marked and saggy, tells the story of how she conceived, carried, birthed and breastfed her three beautiful children, the greatest accomplishment of her life. Few women are able to do this and I believe that my friend is an exception. I look at my own, now nearly three years past 40, face and body and wonder what happened over the last few years. Suddenly, lines and gray hairs have appeared that weren’t there previously, the skin on my eyelids is looser than it was and I won’t even discuss my own childbirth-ruined body. I don’t em- Skatin' around the roller rink have a Happy Holiday! Bring all your family and friends and join justout for a rockin' Monday, December 19 (school's out) at Oaks Park Roller Skate Rink Doors open at 7pm. $6 admission Please share the holiday spirit by bringing a generous food donation for Esther's Pantry www.justout.com brace these changes as my friend has; I hate them and if I had extra money lying around, I’d probably make my own “Mommy Makeover” appointment. Does this take away from my intelligence and cause me to collude with the very sexism I balk against? My daughters are all smart and capable young women with a long list of self-assured female relatives and friends in their lives. I don’t encourage them to do well in school, I expect it, and I try each day to explain to them how the media and their environment form their opinions about themselves. Sometimes I get it right and sometimes, like when my oldest daughter misses calculus class because she can’t find anything to wear, I fail. I want to do a better job. I’ve tried to change how I talk to young girls. Instead of, “She looks so pretty,” I say, “She looks so strong and confident.” I’m also trying to love myself more. More than anything, I want to encourage young women to stand next to Al Gore and Gandhi in history rather than Tyra Banks or Heidi Klum. The documentary Miss Representation profiles how the media portrays women, even powerful women, in an extremely negative light. The film’s goal is to educate young women how this perpetuates oppression and sexism. Visit the film’s website, missrepresentation.org. Kathryn Martini is a freelance writer, blogger and columnist in Portland with three teenage daughters. Reach her through kathrynmartini.com.
oregon’s lgBTQ newsmagazine voices decemBer 9, 2011 35 On Extremes: A 2011 Dating Retrospective A month ago, my friend went on a diet. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill eating modification plan, this was balls-out life change guaranteeing drastic changes in metabolism. My friend visited a nutritionist, who subjected him to long evaluations and dictated an elaborate new eating plan. In addition to the big eating shift, my friend had to, each morning, inject himself in the stomach with some fancy herbal concoction his nutritionist cooked up. He couldn’t consume alcohol, he couldn’t veer even a moment from his new eating schedule; he couldn’t do much of anything. Although I was sad to temporarily lose my partner in crime, I was fascinated. Would his dramatic about-face afford him immediate gratification? This wasn’t mere sacrifice; my friend abandoned most comforts in the pursuit of a tangible, new body. (He gave himself injections.) A few weeks in, frustrated by a stagnant, unforgiving bathroom scale, my friend gave up, declaring the entire process a sham. The night of the big break, we sauntered up 21st and treated ourselves to a late night pizza party. If he was falling off the wagon, by God, he’d fall off right. Like my dieting friend, we all sometimes operate in extremes. This past year, during my first real foray into dating after a long- term, live-in apocalypse, I decided to upend my romantic approach. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been unapologetic about my shortcomings—perceived and otherwise, favoring a blunt love-it-or-leave-it mantra. I speak my mind; deal with it. This time, I’d be wide open to criticism; I’d listen to it and fix the bad stuff. I’d mind my tongue and overcompensate for friends’ behavior. I’d dutifully tend to perception. My about-face, not surprisingly, failed. I spent so much time apologizing for—let’s face it—being myself that I was convinced there were irreparable, fatal flaws in my dating psyche. There’s no person to blame here, per se; there’s no need for a laundry list of transgressions. The choice in approach was mine, as were the consequences. I chose to suspend a certain amount of disbelief, embrace a dash of self-delusion, and tell myself little white lies, determined to fill a niche I was never meant to occupy. Shortly after that relationship added itself to the large, growing pile of also-rans, Grindr announced its migration to Android phones. Until then, I railed against it pub- lady about town BY DANIEL BORGEN licly and privately, protesting a bit too much. Like how Larry Craig and Ted Haggard rail against gay sex. I was uncomfortable with what it represented, with how it and similar mediums contributed to the slow death of the gay bar. I thought it killed courting. I cringed at the make-a-man notion; pick the body, face and sexual position you’re craving without being bothered by social settings. But once I had it—in a flash, I moved from hate to love. I embraced courtship from the comfort of my living room couch. Maybe there is something to be said for knowing beforehand whether the gentleman courter who’s buzzing your front door is going to pound you silly, demand you be the jackhammer or engage in a long night of switch-hitting. Now, I not only acquiesce to the power of Grindr, I advocate for it. It’s convenient and fruitful. Even when I’m blocked immediately post-coitus. Hey, why can’t I message him anymore? I wanted to tell him I had a good time. To balance get-sex-quick schemes, I dabbled with Match.com. I’ve heard myriad stories—with varying levels of success. From the moment you sign up, though, you know this will be different; you’re hit with a barrage of questions and probing queries aimed at pulling the real you out of you. No distorted observations about self here, I’m sure. Profiles are pages-long descriptions, detailing every bit of neuroses and off-putting observations. Things you’d never dream of bringing up in initial conversations. But there it is, all before your eyes. Every bit. Then, the emails come; it’s like getting 10 mates in 10 minutes. I found it all overwhelming. During a party on Mississippi a few weeks back, a friend told me word on the street is I’m ready to wife it down after a date. While I’d argue my experience speaks to the contrary, that alarming perception gave me pause. But if I’ve learned anything this past year, I think it’s this: I’d rather make mistakes—even extreme ones—than avoid effort and chance. I’d rather look silly—occasionally—than perpetually too cool to be bothered. And I’d certainly rather be romance’s fool than lament not ever exerting effort, no matter how far outside comfort zones that sometimes drags me. And above all else, I think I’ve finally dumped pretense for good. How was your dating year? Email daniel@justout.com.
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