Princess Superstar once posed on the cover of a magazine declaring she was a “feminist with [her] tits out.” This statement — coy, tongue-in-cheek, slightly bitter — ran through my head all week as I read the “fun feminist” crap that circled the feminist blogosphere.
I’m perfect, indeed. Ironic, campy, smart, funny, and conscious. Self-referential. This is my performance of femininity.
Let me make it clear: I’m firmly in Jill’s court, and I’m not concerned with how popular this opinion is. I wear makeup and heels, skirts and bras. I shave my legs and dye my hair, and nobody but my partner knows what the hoohah looks like, so I am not particularly invested in your thoughts on what I do with my vulva — and when it comes to most feminist politics, I get the feeling that most women aren’t all that interested in your thoughts on their girly bits either. Perhaps you identify.
I’m perfectly aware what the arguments are regarding feminism and beauty culture and I wrestled with the implications of my choices for several years while I tried to figure out how I could be true to my beliefs and still indulge myself in the pleasures of femininity, because I personally find many things deemed frivolously feminine in Our Dear Patriarchy pleasurable. Even Chef enjoys a good bubble bath — and when men like Chef take engage in feminine behavior we het-feminist ladies find it subversive and endearing, but when I do it I kowtow to the patriarchy.
Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth — this is our alliance, uneasy at times, but an alliance nonetheless. Be critical, please; but remember, even the unfunnest of blogular feminists carries a tiny handbag as she excoriates them on her blog.
The truth is, everybody, even those of us whose hobby it is to lounge around all day questioning the patriarchal origins of human behavior, contributes on some level to the sustenance of patriarchy. I, for instance, am at this very moment listening to Digital Underground’s “Packet Man”–damn those catchy sexist orgy-centric beats!– while wearing sweatpants that were made by Chinese slave labor in the Northern Mariana Islands. Earlier today I mocked people–I mean, what choice did I have?– who use the word “womyn.” Later today I will catapult the lithe Twisty bod into the penismobile that gets about 4 miles a gallon (that I bought instead of the more pious Priapus) and tool at breakneck speed, while flipping off as many moron drivers as possible, to my most recent niece’s christening, which will transpire in a fucking church–a fucking Catholic church–where the officiant is an octogenarian priest/family friend fond of alluding to me, to everyone’s unbridled amusement, as “the maiden aunt.”
See, the patriarchal system remains in firmly place because so many of its principles are so deeply ingrained by social and operant conditioning that they have become invisible, and are therefore regarded as “natural,” or harmless good fun, and/or necessary for health and survival.
Funny. Right now I am listening to “Afro Puffs” by Lady of Rage, and I rock rough and stuff with leopard print stilettos and red lipstick. I fail to see how this truly reflects on my commitment to women’s rights, reproductive rights, civil rights, unless we are being snotty, superficial, and holier than thou — and while I enjoy feeling attractive I will not be treated as a sex object, not by a man and not by a fellow feminist. Behavior, act, and person can be separated.
Shall I write the Feminist Purity Test for Spark? Shall we erect false dichotomies? Shall I eat a peach? With my matching finger and toenails?
I think it’s fantastic we feminists come in all shapes and sizes, colors and performances. Judge me, it’s cool, and let’s not keep these issues invisible.
I’m still on your side even if I don’t care how you groom your vulva.
But you need to know. I must tell you. In detail. It’s a matter of LIFE or DEATH.
Admit it. You’ve got Death Row’s greatest hits. It’s not shameful. Right?
But you need to know. I must tell you. In detail.
I can use that when I do the “Top Ten Yahoo Groups They Won’t Let Me Join” post.
Admit it. You’ve got Death Row’s greatest hits.
I once owned it.
Actually I’d been watching the vh1 Hip Hop Honors tonight and saw Salt-n-Pepa perform and then went all crazy on Wikipedia looking up female rappers and remembered how much I used to love that Lady of Rage song. I swear, the earlier days of Death Row Records were musical gold.
But yeah, I used to own it. Not sure what happened to it.
I have to admit that I wasn’t familiar with Lady of Rage, but here’s the Wikipedia description of the video for Afro Puffs:
That’s right, “a feminist utopia” is “women with burning torches chasing naked men.”
Am I wrong for wanting a feminist utopia EVEN MORE?
Yikes. The wikipedia text quoted by Auguste shows why one shouldn’t use wikipedia as a definitive reference for anything.
Ironic, campy, smart, funny, and conscious. Self-referential. This is my performance of femininity.
Ohh, me too me too!
And hey, I finally found your blog.
I love chef in the bath with bitch. I don’t love gender-nonconformity snobs who ask me to carry heavy things.
Geez, haven’t we moved yet beyond “pink is for girls, blue is for boys?” Is there some warning label on bubble baths that declares them for women only? Did I miss the disclaimer on the toolbox that proscribed it as only for men?
If we stop thinking of things as “manly” or “girly” we’ll have taken a huge step forward in limiting the amount of nonsense that gets written about online.
Okay, maybe a baby step forward.
Why can’t it ever be enough simply to think of feminism as having a choice? Unless you’re wearing leopard print stilettos and red lipstick because your man expects you to, who cares?
Aw, hell, let’s just ignore political issues and discuss pubic hair-dos instead. Isn’t that what women are supposed to do?
Eat that peach if you want to, I’m gonna go take a bubble bath.
“Actually I’d been watching the vh1 Hip Hop Honors tonight and saw Salt-n-Pepa perform and then went all crazy on Wikipedia looking up female rappers and remembered how much I used to love that Lady of Rage song.”
Would that be “Afro Puffs”? Because I totally had Death Row’s Greatest Hits, and I loved that song.
Also, you’ve got me watching that I’m Perfect video over and over and over. I only take breaks to watch Beyonce, and then I go back. My room mate is going to kill me.
I *heart* Princess Superstar.
also MC Paul Barman, whom she once did a duet (?) with.
“My pissed-off Jeblowski turned three colors like Kryztof Kieslowski
He said a hand job’s a man’s job, yo’ job’s a blowjob…”