Girl Power?
Does it really mean, "dress like a slut"?
by Deborah Peraya
As the parent of a
young girl, I am all for empowering females from a
young age. Except the load of crap that’s being
touted as “girl power” is actually an offense to all
females. I'm not sure it means what they think it
does.
Girl power does not mean dressing your six year old in any of the following clothing: low rise jeans, micro-mini skirts, bralettes (tiny padded bras for girls as young as six, lacy matching underwear optional) or items with anything provocative written across my child’s bum. Her bum is not “juicy”, a “cherry”, “sweet” or any other kind of description best suited to fruit salad. What exactly am I trying to push here?
My daughter (and I) have enough messages and images to wade through to cobble together some kind of empowering ideology without starting to pimp her out at the earliest moment she displays a clear feminine gender.
Because we all know where that leads.
Rainbow parties. I know. It sounds inclusive. It sounds happy. In reality it is parties where girls as young as grade six anoint themselves in different shades of lipstick while boys try to “collect” as many different colours as they can. And not on a napkin, although they might need one later.
Or Paris Hilton emulating train wrecks of teens, wearing t-shirts which boldly proclaim such empowering slogans as “I swallow” and my personal favorite “Sperm Dumpster.” Yes, you have to have a real healthy self-esteem to proudly display that. How shocking, how brave… how sad.
It all came increasingly and incensing clear the other day. It was the twenty-something blonde, Lululemon-attired (beloved by men everywhere for finally spotlighting asses and vaginas in a clear, socially acceptable manner) in the Subaru SUV, cell phone in one hand, saying it loud and saying it proud with the two decals on the back of her SUV. To the left, the playboy bunny symbol, delight of feminists everywhere and to the right, the international symbol for “I’ll show you mine” – a silhouette of a woman, leaning back provocatively, pants down around her ankles. I mean why don’t you just say, “throw me the twenty bucks and don’t hit me with your dick on the way out.”
At least then no one could accuse these women of miscommunication. Girl power.
Girl power does not mean dressing your six year old in any of the following clothing: low rise jeans, micro-mini skirts, bralettes (tiny padded bras for girls as young as six, lacy matching underwear optional) or items with anything provocative written across my child’s bum. Her bum is not “juicy”, a “cherry”, “sweet” or any other kind of description best suited to fruit salad. What exactly am I trying to push here?
My daughter (and I) have enough messages and images to wade through to cobble together some kind of empowering ideology without starting to pimp her out at the earliest moment she displays a clear feminine gender.
Because we all know where that leads.
Rainbow parties. I know. It sounds inclusive. It sounds happy. In reality it is parties where girls as young as grade six anoint themselves in different shades of lipstick while boys try to “collect” as many different colours as they can. And not on a napkin, although they might need one later.
Or Paris Hilton emulating train wrecks of teens, wearing t-shirts which boldly proclaim such empowering slogans as “I swallow” and my personal favorite “Sperm Dumpster.” Yes, you have to have a real healthy self-esteem to proudly display that. How shocking, how brave… how sad.
It all came increasingly and incensing clear the other day. It was the twenty-something blonde, Lululemon-attired (beloved by men everywhere for finally spotlighting asses and vaginas in a clear, socially acceptable manner) in the Subaru SUV, cell phone in one hand, saying it loud and saying it proud with the two decals on the back of her SUV. To the left, the playboy bunny symbol, delight of feminists everywhere and to the right, the international symbol for “I’ll show you mine” – a silhouette of a woman, leaning back provocatively, pants down around her ankles. I mean why don’t you just say, “throw me the twenty bucks and don’t hit me with your dick on the way out.”
At least then no one could accuse these women of miscommunication. Girl power.