Monthly Archives: June 2011

Father’s Day note

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This Sunday will mark my third Father’s Day since Heloise was born, and my fifth without my own Dad.

There is so much I appreciate about having become a father in my forties. I admit I get sore more easily than a younger man, and I certainly wince sometimes when I climb up off the floor after a roll with my toddler. But the extraordinary reservoirs of patience I have simply didn’t exist when I was in my twenties. I’m able to be present for Heloise in a way that I could not have been ten or twenty years ago. Muscle tone fades and wrinkles come — but self-absorption also fades, and gentleness also comes.

(Parenthetically, I note that Eira and I are young parents compared to many of our friends. This is West Los Angeles; in Heloise’s pre-school class of eight kids, six have at least one parent older than I am — including a handful of biological moms. One of our good friends just had her first kid at 47, conceived and brought into this world the old-fashioned way.)

But I grieve that because I waited to become a papa, my daughter will never know her grandfathers, just as my wife and I never knew ours. And heading into this Father’s Day, I am reminded that I have so few regrets — and that one of the greatest is that my father is not here to see me be Heloise’s Daddy. I am comforted by the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, it is I who cannot see him watching over us.

I love being a papa, an abba, a daddy. I am so grateful for my daughter, for my wife, and for the many men and women who taught me how to be a loving parent — my own mom and dad chief among them. I am grateful for the young people whom I’ve mentored who’ve honored me by letting me serve as a father figure, and who’ve taught me that I can be loving, safe, and fully adult.

Happy Father’s Day.

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Love Hurts, Beauty Hurts: waxing, pain, and the pursuit of perfection

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My Thursday short column is up at Healthy is the New Skinny: Bare Down There: Waxing, Beauty, and Pain. It’s a brief look at teens and bikini waxing, and the growing popularity of the Brazilian wax among very young girls (including, as the article notes, among those who have not yet hit puberty and begun to grow pubic hair.)

Lots has been written about pubic hair and what its removal means. Count me among those troubled by what seems the almost pedophilic fetishization of hairless vulvas in pornography. (To put it simply, I find it sexually and aesthetically unappealing as well as politically problematic.)

But the larger point is that waxing, like so many other beauty rituals, hurts. (That’s true whatever’s being waxed, whether it’s the pubis or the lip or the space between the eyebrows.) As older sisters and mothers and the media instruct young women about how they should best pursue beauty, they teach girls that pain is not only a rite of passage into womanhood, but a necessary (and continuous) aspect of maintaining femininity.

Pain happens on a spectrum, from the merely itchy (pantyhose) to the permanently body-altering (major cosmetic surgery.) High heels, piercings, and hair dye all exact both a financial and a physical price. “Beauty hurts”, older women say to younger women. And it’s not just beauty, but love that hurts: think of what we expect girls to go through with first intercourse — or with childbirth.

For much of history — and in many other parts of the world — this pain has been and remains mandatory. Girls have their genitals mutilated against their will in Mali and suffer fistulas from giving birth too soon and too young in Afghanistan. There’s nothing quite comparable in America, where we at least claim to give girls and women a choice to avoid these agonies. We don’t cut off little girls’ clitorises, we generally don’t force 15 year-olds into marriages, and we certainly don’t mandate Brazilian waxes for high schoolers.

But as most women and some men know, the cost of saying “no” to pain is very high. If a teen girl wants to feel confident at the beach in her bikini, making sure she’s bare down there (or damn near) is a price she must pay. Young women are raised to fear ridicule and social exclusion far more than physical pain. Watch what most young women do when they trip and fall: they leap back up, more worried about what others have seen than about any injury they’ve sustained.

The law doesn’t mandate you wax your vulva or straighten your hair or put on hose and heels. The state doesn’t force you to give up carbs and dessert to fit into a bikini. But the fact that certain behaviors aren’t genuinely compulsory doesn’t mean that they can’t feel obligatory. And for so many women, the pain that comes with meeting those obligations is less than the social cost of refusing to pursue beauty.

Any solution to this problem of pain has to meet girls where they are. Parents can refuse to let their daughters get waxed or get their ears pierced, but in most cases that only delays the inevitable. The solution, whatever it is, depends on opening up a conversation with our sisters, our daughters, our mothers, our friends and lovers. And in that conversation, we need to look at the ways we consciously and unconsciously valorize physical and emotional pain as the price of beauty and true womanhood.

Thursday Short Poem: Larkin’s “Letter to a Friend”

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I discovered Philip Larkin in high school, and for a while he was my favorite poet (he died when I was a college frosh). Later, reading him through a feminist lens, I loathed him for his misogyny and his bigotry. And as is the way of these things, I grew later still to appreciate him in all his imperfect complexity as a man very much of his time. The bitterness is almost always present, but an almost avuncular sentimentality as well.

And this is one of his famous ones, describing a sexual marketplace that one would like to think is gone.

Letter to a Friend about Girls

After comparing lives with you for years
I see how I’ve been losing: all the while
I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours.
Grant that, and all the rest makes sense as well:
My mortification at your pushovers,
Your mystification at my fecklessness—
Everything proves we play in separate leagues.
Before, I couldn’t credit your intrigues
Because I thought all girls the same, but yes,
You bag real birds, though they’re from alien covers.

Now I believe your staggering skirmishes
In train, tutorial and telephone booth,
The wife whose husband watched away matches
While she behaved so badly in a bath,
And all the rest who beckon from that world
Described on Sundays only, where to want
Is straightway to be wanted, seek to find,
And no one gets upset or seems to mind
At what you say to them, or what you don’t:
A world where all the nonsense is annulled,

And beauty is accepted slang for yes.
But equally, haven’t you noticed mine?
They have their world, not much compared with yours,
But where they work, and age, and put off men
By being unattractive, or too shy,
Or having morals—anyhow, none give in:
Some of them go quite rigid with disgust
At anything but marriage: that’s all lust
And so not worth considering; they begin
Fetching your hat, so that you have to lie

Till everything’s confused: you mine away
For months, both of you, till the collapse comes
Into remorse, tears, and wondering why
You ever start such boring barren games
—But there, don’t mind my saeva indignatio:
I’m happier now I’ve got things clear, although
It’s strange we never meet each other’s sort:
There should be equal chances, I’d’ve thought.
Must finish now. One day perhaps I’ll know
What makes you be so lucky in your ratio

—One of those ‘more things’, could it be? Horatio.

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Male feminists, sex work, and SlutWalk: part two of a conversation with Meghan Murphy

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On Monday, I posted the first part of an exchange with Meghan Murphy, a blogger and radio host with the Canadian F Word Feminist Media Collective. I answered five questions she had asked of me, and we each posted the same piece at our respective sites. Predictably, we both attracted critics; some of Meghan’s radical allies were incensed that she would legitimize me by engaging, while some of my liberal/sex-positive friends were equally exasperated with my decision to take part in this dialogue.

In any event, what follows below the cut is the second part of our exchange, in which Meghan responds to five of my questions about male feminists, sex work and SlutWalk. Intercourse and puppy dogs also come up for discussion, though not in the same context. Continue reading →

Mrs. Palin’s Mangina: on the pregnancy hoax, feminism, and baby Trig

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Laura Novak, the writer who interviewed me for a story on circumcision at the Good Men Project, has been writing a great deal lately about the so-called “Sarah Palin pregnancy hoax.” She’s done a series of interviews with Brad Scharlott, a professor at the University of Northern Kentucky who’s convinced that Sarah Palin faked the pregnancy of her most recent child, Trig.

Count me in the camp of those who instinctively reject conspiracy theories — and who find it find it difficult to believe that Palin faked a pregnancy to cover up for Bristol (or some other family member.) But Novak tends to side with Scharlott, and both she and the professor have achieved some considerable recent notoriety as a consequence.

In any case, Laura shot me some questions and we did a little interview about Palin, pregnancy, and feminism. Read it all here, in a piece she calls Mrs. Palin’s Mangina.

Among other things, I say:

When it comes to sex, we’re all somewhat dishonest. We don’t have the vocabulary, most of us, to take the truth about our messy private lives into public spaces. Even if we want to tell our stories, our fears and our shame and our concern for others lead us to be less than forthcoming. And if Sarah Palin did pull off an elaborate hoax, I’m not sure that speaks to her essential truthfulness as a politician. When it comes to sex (our own and our children’s), we lie when we’d tell the truth about anything else…

Hug Your Daughters

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The Good Men Project is offering a series of pieces focusing on Dads this week, leading up to Father’s Day on Sunday. My column this week has a simple message to my fellow papas: Hug Your Daughters. (And your sons.) Excerpt:

One widely-believed myth about father-daughter affection is that if a dad stops hugging his daughter, he’ll drive her to seek affection from other males. I’ve heard of pastors who urge fathers to embrace their girls as a “prophylaxis against promiscuity,” and even some therapists take it for granted that there’s a demonstrable connection between paternal touch and a daughter’s sexual decision-making. But as Kerry Cohen points out in Dirty Little Secrets, her forthcoming study of teen girls and promiscuity, no study has ever shown a link. (The actual research on adolescent sexuality shows that parents have much less influence on decision-making than we like to imagine.)

The reason we should hug our daughters has nothing to do with preserving their virginity. It has to do with reminding them that no matter how overwhelming the changes of adolescence may seem, a father’s love is a constant in the midst of what seems like daily upheaval. Just as importantly, it’s an affirmation that their bodies aren’t as big a problem as our daughters fear that they are. As boys (and, sadly, older men) begin to leer and other girls begin to judge, girls desperately need reassurance that their bodies are not dangerous distractions. A dad who doesn’t freak out that his daughter has boobs can provide that reassurance as few others can.

Read the whole thing.

Feminism, Porn, and SlutWalk: part one of a conversation with Meghan Murphy

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One of the many benefits of being involved with the SlutWalk phenomenon has come in the form of new allies. But it’s not just allies I’ve met in real life and online. I’ve also had some vigorous discussions with folks who disagree with the very premise of the SlutWalk movement. Some of these conversations have revealed more heat than light. But some have been good, and I’m particularly pleased to have had the chance to meet Meghan Murphy, a graduate student in gender studies at Simon Fraser University who blogs with British Columbia’s F-Word Media Collective. Meghan also hosts the F Word Show on Vancouver’s Co-Op Radio, airing Mondays at noon Pacific time.

Meghan’s written a series of posts taking on SlutWalk, particularly around the willingness of some SlutWalks to form alliances with sex workers without a concomitant criticism of the sex industry itself. My views on SlutWalk are clear, and I’m currently developing a project in conjunction with sex worker advocates.

So in the interest of cutting through some of the rhetoric, Meghan and I decided to have a frank but civil exchange of views. She’d ask me five questions, and I’d respond; I’d ask her five questions, and she’d respond. What appears below the cut are her five questions to me and my responses. Jointly posted here and at the F-Word Blog, this will be followed on Wednesday with my questions and Meghan’s answers. Continue reading →

“I need your help, papa”: a reprint with an update on feminist fathering of a toddler girl

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From October 2010. Update at the end.

I linked last week to this post from a year ago: Princesses, princes, daughters and dads: a reprint against emotional incest. I stand by my thoughts in that piece still today. But reposting it reminded me that I haven’t written recently about Heloise (or HCRS, as we affectionately abbreviate her).

Our daughter is 21 months old. As of her last doctor’s visit, she’s in the 90th percentile for height and the 20th percentile for weight. She’s doing great on a vegan diet. So far, Heloise is not particularly interested in sports (balls and the like), but is very interested in clothing, and likes to go through her drawers and inspect what she has to wear. Heloise has got a rapidly expanding vocabulary and a great memory for people. She’s clearly social, perhaps even outright extroverted. Like her father, she likes to move quickly from one activity to the next, and is particularly interested in going to see friends and family. Our basic conversations often revolve around when we’re going to see Ruthie (her best friend) or “abuela” again. Walking down the street, she waves at strangers, saying “Hi” in an enthusiastic voice. When strangers don’t respond, Heloise looks confused and crestfallen — and it’s all her father can do not to walk up to those who have failed to notice my daughter’s greeting and tell them “Damn you, pay attention! My daughter said ‘hello!’”

And I notice the compliments she gets. Parents are hopelessly biased, of course. But it is rare that she is out in public without being told by strangers and acquaintances and relatives alike how beautiful she is. Some of that focus on her looks is perhaps due to her very special cuteness; some of it is the way in which we are socialized to praise girls for their prettiness. As a feminist and a father, as well as a professor and a youth leader who has spent much of my adult life working with teens around body image issues, I am acutely aware of how compliments at an early age shape young women’s identity. I am equally aware that as parents, my wife and I cannot entirely insulate our daughter against the most pernicious aspects of beauty culture. But we do what we can.

One thing we do is praise Heloise for things besides her beauty. When she remembers the names of the characters in her “Dora the Explorer” books; when she helps pick up her toys; when she successfully gets herself up and down the slide on her playset unassisted, we respond with wild enthusiasm. I know better than to never praise her looks: when everyone else is telling you something your Dad never mentions, that can make matters much worse (as anyone who works with teens knows.) But Heloise hears far more often how much she is loved, and how much her achievements delight her parents. There will come a time when she will learn that she can’t expect applause for performing routine tasks, but that time is not yet. At this age, I don’t think it’s possible to spoil a child with too much validation.

I also know that having loving and affirming parents isn’t always a prophylaxis against poor self-image. Mothers and fathers play a part, but so too do peers and the culture at large — with each passing year, indeed, our parental influence will diminish slightly as the other two influences grow. There is only so much that can be done to forestall that more or less inevitable process.

Whenever I change my daughter’s diaper, or take off her clothes, or give her a bath, I ask permission. I’ve done that since she was a newborn. “Heloise,” I’ll say softly, “papa’s gonna change your diaper. Is that okay?” Until recently, I got no reply. About six weeks ago, she finally started weighing in, usually with a “yes”. When she says no, I briefly — and I do mean briefly — discuss it with her. “But honey, you’re wet and you need your diaper changed.” That seems to do the trick. (It may not always, and I’m prepared for that.) Continue reading →

Older Men, Younger Women, and the Slide Into Invisibility

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Reprinted from May 2010.

I’ve been meaning to respond to some of the questions raised in the thread below this post, particularly those raised by “Rachel”. In this comment, Rachel turns away from the narrow issue of professor-student affairs to the broader issue of older men, younger women relationships, challenging what she sees as my refusal to see younger women’s potential for agency. Rachel asks:

And why is it so terrible it needs effuse apology that a man enjoys feeling virile and brilliant as he enhances the intellectual and sexual life of a younger woman surrounded by men her age who don’t know what they want out of life, are still selfish in bed so can’t (or won’t expend the effort to) pleasure her the way she deserves? In many ways, May-December romances can revitalize the lives of both parties involved.

Let’s agree to disagree about whether there ought to be blanket rules against professors sleeping with students whom they are currently supervising. (I think there ought to be, Rachel and a few other commenters aren’t quite so sure.) Let’s also stipulate that when we refer to “May-December” relationships, we’re talking about relationships between women Rachel’s age (25) and men two or three decades her senior (she mentions men 30 years older than herself). Is there a reason why 25 year-old Rachel and 50 year-old Ludwig shouldn’t have an affair, one in which Ludwig “enhances Rachel’s intellectual and sexual life” while she helps him to feel “virile and brilliant”?

Look, I’m not the sex police. I’m not going to stop age-disparate couples on the street and write them citations for violating what I regard as an acceptable chronological difference. I know full well that relationships between older men and younger women have worked quite well for both parties, even when the age gap is as significant as a quarter-century. And of course, from a psychological standpoint, I think a safe assumption about these relationships is that the potential for damage decreases as the younger woman’s age increases. I’m more concerned about a 30 year-old man dating a 20 year-old woman than I am about a 25 year-old woman dating a 40 year-old man, even though the gap in the latter relationship is larger.

That said, even if the relationship between Rachel and Ludwig is mutually fulfilling, that relationship doesn’t take place in a vacuum. When the happy pair stroll the streets or canoodle in sidewalk cafés, others will observe them. Now, it’s true that we shouldn’t let societal disapproval condition our actions. If Rachel were white and Ludwig were black, they might meet with considerable hostility, particular in certain communities. That wouldn’t be a good reason for the two of them to avoid having a relationship. Sometimes people need to be discomfited; sometimes people need to be challenged to rethink their assumptions.

But we also live in a culture in which older men/younger women relationships have a way of reinforcing the sexual invisibility of older women. Rachel’s words are telling; she implies that an older man might feel more “virile and brilliant” with a younger woman. The unspoken but obvious assumption is that he might have a more difficult time feeling that way with a woman his own age. I touched on that in a 2006 post:

So many older men hit on younger women for reasons that have little to do with sex and everything to do with a profound desire to reassure ourselves that we’ve still got “it.” “It” isn’t just physical attractiveness; “It” is the whole masculine package of youth, vitality, charm, sex appeal, and, above all else, possibility. When a 19 year-old flirts with a 39 year-old , it feels like the world is reassuring the fella that there’s still time, there are still new opportunities, still a chance to be young.

Rachel seems to be asking, “what’s wrong with reassuring the man he still has “It”? And my answer is that that it is based on a fundamental devaluing of the older man’s female peers. I always advise younger women who date older men to ask their lovers how they feel about women their own age. Frequently, the older lads will complain about the ways in which older women are “bitter”, “demanding”, “jaded”, or have “let themselves go” (meaning that they have tired of trying to live up to an unattainable ideal.) Whether the Rachels of the world are conscious of it or not, they are being set up in opposition to the older women that they themselves will soon be. And while I would not go so far as to say that the Rachels are taking from older women what is rightfully theirs, I think it’s fair to say that when Rachel sees it as normal and healthy that older men feel more “virile and brilliant” with younger women, she’s directly contributing (as are her lovers) to the depreciation of older women’s worth. Continue reading →

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The Timeless Anxiety of Acne

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My short Thursday column at Healthy is the New Skinny is up: Acne, the One Consistent Fear. Excerpt:

In many of my past columns at Healthy is the New Skinny, I’ve traced the history of our cultural obsession with thinness. When you read that so many of our contemporary worries (like losing weight, or being toned, or judgment and competitiveness) are less than a hundred years old, you may find yourself wishing you lived “back in the day”, when things were easier. Sure, women didn’t have the same rights or opportunities they do now, but they also didn’t have to worry about their body image, right?

Not quite. In American history, fashions have moved from extremely modest to quite revealing. But unlike in some parts of the world, we’ve never had a significant number of women who covered their faces. And because the face was always exposed, it’s the one body part about which American girls have always worried. As body historian Joan Brumberg has shown, teen girls in the 19th century didn’t worry about their weight; they never wrote in their diaries about how much they hated they thighs or hips or legs or tummies. But they did write about one familiar worry: their complexion.

Acne – pimples, zits, blackheads – has been the one great insecurity American girls have always had about their appearance. In countless ways, girls a century or so ago had it worse than we do now. They had none of the effective oral or topical medications we have to treat acne. And very few girls were allowed to wear make-up, as make-up was associated with prostitutes and actresses – or at least with adult women. There were far fewer options for concealing a bad breakout.

It was worse than you think.

Read the whole thing.