dearest daughters & son

Have I Told You Tuesday: Considering My Part in Patriarchy

Dearest Daughters,

I've written before about my lake of shame, particularly around nudity. About how to properly pick your nose. About how I will raise you girls to be critical of media and popular society. About our genetic inability (or ability as the case may be) to defecate.

We have a song slash dance that we call "The Naked Baby" wherein we wiggle around and sing the words "naked baby, naked baby, naked baby" whenever one of you girls is caught with your pants down, your shirt off or both. It's not a make-fun-of-your-naked-body dance; it's definitely a celebration dance; a liberation-from-the-bonds-of-clothing-the-trappings-of-life dance.

Recently, I was helping Babybel get dressed in the morning.

I peeled her shirt off over her head and arms extended to the sky. This is the point at which our Naked Baby soundtrack would ordinarily play.

Instead, Babybel wiggled her body. Not in a silly, fist-pumping, maraca-shaking wiggle, but in a slow, hip-side-to-side wiggle, as she slid her hands along her sides from her waist to her hips.

"I'm skinny," you said, "like my cousin."

You didn't say this in a factual or scientific way, but maybe I'm reading into it. There was an element of gloating as you sing-song-spoke, "I'm skiiiiny, I'm skiiiiny." It felt heavy. Like there was more meaning in those words than there should be for a three-year-old. Or maybe for the older cousin you copied the words and suggestive movements from.

I wanted to argue, to neutralize the word, to take away any element of value your little brain was sorting out. I wanted to yell: "NO YOU ARE NOT!"

I stumbled, sounding like Lola, who sounds like an English language learner, even though she's not, "What is skinny!? It's not skinny. You beautiful! The way God made you."

You're argumentative, so you told me, "No, I'm skinny." This was more matter-of-fact.

I didn't want to argue with or engage with the idea of you being skinny; I didn't want to give it any attention or value. I replied again, "you are beautiful the way that God made you."

And you finished getting your clothes on.

But, me, being me, I couldn't stop thinking about this minor moment in our lives and what it meant for the battle ahead; the battle against society, against peers, against sexism and patriarchy. But, more importantly, the battle against myself and my own perceptions about my body and actions towards it.

"You'll just have to model good values about your body, Lauren," your Ninang/Auntie Katherine told me, talking me off the ledge as good friends do. "She's going to get messages and images and values from society and older kids; you can't avoid that."

The following day, with out even looking for an answer, a Facebook friend posted: "Mom I'm Fat:" One Mother's Inspired Response to her 7 Year Old" (h/t @revlkb). Naked dancing as a tool for embracing our bodies, affirmed. But also, the realization of how much our own body image as grown women affects our children's attitudes.

It's hard for me to remember a time in my childhood when Lola was not "dieting" or "going back on a diet... on Monday." It's hard for me to remember a time when she and I got out and did "healthy" and active things together.

And posted a couple of days later by the same Facebook friend, also a mother of two daughters, another depressing, but then hopeful testament of the effect of media on our nation's girls:

I will say that it's not just mothers and media that affect our self-esteem and perceptions.

I really had no consciousness about my body until I was in middle school. I got boobs and started my period when I was twelve, but I was still trying to fit my petite, but changing body into children's clothing. I had just gotten a new dress. I tried it on and showed Lolopop. It was a tight sheath dress in a funky 1960s color combination: an orange and brown and green tweed-looking print. It was probably tighter than what Lolopop wanted to see on his maturing baby girl. And I can see now that he meant no harm.

He patted my tummy, a part of my body I had never considered. It was a little girl's tummy, round and perfect, the way your tummies should be. He remarked that the dress was too small for me.

Instead of telling me that he liked my new dress or that I was beautiful, he chose to remark on how the dress fit. I went to my room, stared down at my tummy and thought, "I'm fat."

I never stopped thinking that until I honestly was fat. When I did gain weight in college, unaware and unabashed at the time, just buying bigger jeans to keep up with my eating and drinking habits, I looked back on photos from middle and high school. And I thought, "I can't believe I wasted all that time thinking I was fat." I was a skinny, awkward twig. But, I recall days when I told myself I wasn't going to eat. (That never worked, really, but I thought I should counteract my hearty appetite.) I recall pinching my belly to measure my tummy fat. I read teen magazines, trying to copy the workouts, the chair lunges and sit-ups to get that "Beach Bikini Ready Body!"

I joined Weight Watchers with my mom the summer before my senior year of college. And, yes, it was a diet program, but I learned about portion control and about making healthy choices. And I lost weight.

Almost a decade and two pregnancies later, I know how to maintain my body weight without much conscious effort. It's not something I am constantly talking about or obsessing over. But, your dad will attest that I've complained to him off and on about this wobbly bit or another, fishing for that deeply-seeded childhood affirmation that I'm beautiful just the way I am. The battle against myself.

And it's like God and the universe and my Internet friends were all in cahoots after that morning you told me you were skinny. Preparing me for whatever lies ahead.

Ashley Judd wrote this about patriarchy and women's role in it. I won't summarize here, but I really recommend reading it and taking time to consider things you think and say not only about your own body, but about those of strangers.

Another friend posted these on Pinterest:

Source: thegoldengleam.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: amightygirl.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

And just a couple days ago, these wise words from, okay, not a woman, but a man who taught and continues to teach children a lot about loving themselves:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

So no one gets butt-hurt, Lola often says something similar when she preaches. Something to the effect of praying for children to make good choices and also for the adults whom they watch to model making good choices.

Parenthood is a double-edge sword, in that my salience in your life is both a blessing and a weighty responsibility.

God, help me!? ME! Your mommy. Make good choices. About my body, my actions and my words.

Love,

Call me a conformist, but you can't say I don't speak my mind.

Dearest Daughters,

In a world of limitless art supplies and boundless time and two year olds, I agree that there is no right and wrong. I believe in open-ended art and play. I encourage pretending and tinkering and open-ended conversation.

I do everything in my capacity to build my girls up. Not tear you down. Especially not with mockery and berating, but, I must admit, sometimes a finger shake. Right, Danjo, Miss Finger Shaker?

I've written before about grey areas and my desire to avoid making my children feel wrong, making you feel like there is only one right answer.

I've had these thoughts for the very same reason as Teacher Tom (via Intrepid Murmurings), who writes:

When we manage to teach children that there is a right way and a wrong way, they are learning something about black and white. They are learning something about their own judgement. They are learning something about rote and obedience. And I think none of it good, at least if the idea is to have them ultimately emerge from school as people who form their own ideas and have the courage to express them.

Certainly. I want you, my daughters, to be true to yourselves and to be courageous in your convictions and actions.

But, there's something about this approach to child-rearing that is too "perfect world" for me. Never offering guidance about "right" and "wrong" or communicating expectations of excellence.

Yes, in a perfect world, those are the children I would raise. Children who are self-motivated to learn and make good choices. Who don't hit each other because they understand that it hurts, who want to learn math because they understand its fascinating application to natural phenomenon. (Click on Teacher Tom's link about "obedience" above, for more on that. A whole 'nother post. Don't have time to go there now.)

But, in reality?

Have I Told You Tuesday: You're a Genius

Dearest Daughters,

Lola makes sure to regularly ask you, her other grandchildren and other children in her life: "Has anyone told you today that you're [fill in the blank]?"

... beautiful? ... clever? ... smart? ... creative? ... strong?

I think it's a wonderful way to build your self-esteem and confidence. Better than just saying, "you're beautiful" or "you're so smart!" Which is just a few years and an eye-roll away, from "sure, whatever, mom."

"Has anyone told you?" implies that someone should have DAMN SURE WELL TOLD YOU ALREADY!!! As in, no one told you that you're smart today, Babybel? Well, lemme at 'em! Because YOU ARE. And you deserve to be told. And even though those adults forget to tell you these things, they are still, forever and ever, one-hundred percent, TRUTH.

Babybel, the smarty pants that she is, usually replies, "Yes. My best friend Ava told me!" Which she totally didn't, because they haven't seen each other in at least two days. But, maybe during a secret late night phone call? Or dream? I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Babybel, did anyone tell you today that you are an artist?

No, seriously. I mean, I know everyone is an "artist." Yes, your kid is cute and talented too. Blah. Blah. Blah.

But look at this!!! Really!!! You have to!!! The exclamation points beseech you!!!

Lola told me you painted a robot while I was at work. And I was, all: sure, great, whatever. But, look at it!

IT'S A FREAKING ROBOT!

With a rectangular robot head! And robot eyes! And robot ears! And robot shoulders! And robot arms!

Lola told me she didn't help or coach you at all, other than writing a title when you TOLD her to. You were alone in "the Studio" as we call the garage, with your paint and your paper.

And here's your "berry tree":

As in all you do, you are precise and intentional. You've moved beyond that two-year-old scribbled mess of mixed muddy brown paint. That was SO last week. This week, you're painting actual figures. From your mind.

Maybe, I'm biased. And easily impressed. Someone please put me in my place.

But, I didn't see this coming at all! Firstly, because, well, you're two. Painting or drawing things that make actual sense is not something I expected or was training you to do. And secondly, because I don't think of you as an artist "type." Danjo's the musician, the free spirit, the child who will give me gray hairs as I wait for her to "discover herself" while doing performance art and still living at home.

But, Babybel, did anyone tell you today that you are a truly talented artist?

Love,

Resolved for matters unresolved

Dearest Daughters,

I was going to write Danjo's monthly letter today, but I got distracted by this:

I was on the brink of tears all eight minutes of this trailer, shared by former MBCC intern @Derrick Weston and one of Daddy's man crushes. Did I just say that out loud? Sorry, beadle.

It brings up so many emotions and thoughts and issues. But, I've narrowed down the rush of thoughts in my brain to the following:

It is, resolved, that my daughters will go to Wellesley College like I did, I don't care how far away it is, because that place effing empowers women (Did you notice Wellesley Center for Women and Jean Kilbourne? Woot!)

Resolved, that I will help my daughters think critically, deconstruct the media on a daily basis, because I can't shield them from it. (Disney, you already know, I'm talking to you!)

Resolved, if I ever have a boy, he will hear it from me even more than his sisters. He will be the most anti-misogynist, womanist person you'll ever know. I will buy him a shirt that says: "This is what a femenist looks like." And everyone will cringe and accuse me of "ruining" my son. Except for the women in his life. They will thank me. And, I will train him, like Pavlov's dog, so that any time he sees a scantily clad woman, he will quote Gloria Steinem: “We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.”

That is all.

For now.

Love,

An Addendum to my Master Plan for Raising Mixed Children

Dearest Daughters,

I hate to be a buzz kill and continue to post about such "serious" things as raising mixed children, but I'm sure Auntie Amy was not our only reader (present or future) that has questions, concerns and takes exception to what I post on this blog. To appease the silent masses, I have a few more thoughts on the subject. Two things.

We all want our children to thrive.

I think that all parents can agree they want to give their children the best possible chance at survival in the world that their station in life can afford. That's why we feed them and educate them. Teach them how to communicate. How to behave. Enrich them. How to make good choices. Surround them with good people.

So, that when we send them off to kindergarten, let them take public transit alone for the first time, permit them to have a boyfriend or girlfriend, kick them out of the house, even. Basically, when we're not around, they'll not only survive, but thrive.

This, in part, is why "being Filipino" should be a part of our daily lives. My children, more so than I, look Filipino. And despite what some would like to believe, this is NOT a colorblind world. Nor should it be. My children's heritage, ethnicity, culture and appearance should be a point of pride. Not of contention. So that when they go into the world, they will never be made to feel ashamed--actively (i.e. by overt racism or stereotyping) or subconsciously (i.e. by media). They will be proud of who they are.

To claim their Filipinoness is NOT to reject their whiteness or their Americaness.

Have I Told You Tuesday: I'm Your Pimp

Dearest Daughters,

I'm always five days late with this stuff. That's why I'll never be a "real" mommy blogger. The news happens too fast for me to keep up. By the time I've read the "thing" going around the Internet, it's already soooo five minutes ago. And then it takes me another five minutes to develop my thoughts on the "thing" and a whole 'nother five minutes to sit down and write a post about it.

So, here I am fifteen minutes (or 10 days) later--because I have thoughts, dang-it and even if they're delayed, the world deserves my thoughts--commenting on a babble.com post by Jennifer Lehr entitled, "Are You Damaging Your Kid's Self-Esteem?"

In short, yes. And thank you for noticing!

The post identifies "3 things you should stop doing immediately".

The first is "prostituting your kid to perform acts of affection to satisfy your parents’ desires" when you make them hug or kiss said grandparent. BIG FAT DISAGREE!

Now, presumably, you're forcing your child to kiss a relative. Not a John who's paying you. I'm sure the author draws this dramatic comparison to get a rise out of readers. My rise is not from the language she uses, but the lack of cultural sensitivity, as is common in the predominantly White American blogging world. Why view the world through my lens, when you're busy spreading cultural hegemony? Okay, now who's being hyperbolic!?

Back to the point: My children will greet their parents, their grandparents, their aunties and uncles, whomever I tell them to, with a hug and a big fat kiss for the special people and one of those fake cheek-graze kisses for the B-List celebs. Because I am your pimp and I said so.

You're much more than a trunk.

I'm enjoying my last days of summer in front of the television.

Don't worry it's ALL educational; mostly TLC, Food Network, HGTV and, most importantly, PBS.

I just finished watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood and am feeling very nostalgic. He just sang a variation of a song about being "much more than" your looks or possessions or feelings. I think the original version talked about being "much more than your anger" and one of his snippet of wisdom books for adults mentions being much more than one's job. But since Mr. Rogers just finished reading a book about an out-of-place giraffe, this version went like this:

You're much more than a neck.
And you're much more than a trunk.
A chicken's much more than a peck.
And there's more than a smell to a skunk.

Thanks, Mr. Rogers. Now I'm feeling much more than a macbook, a food processor, a LAUSD employee and a couch potato!

More Mr. Rogers nostalgia.

A great way to start the day.

It is one wonderful thing when loved ones tell you genuinely that you're beautiful (yeah, yeah, heard that one before Mom, Dad, Beadle--thanks for the self-esteem boost); it is quite another wonderful thing when a stranger does so just as genuinely as my loved ones. As I stumbled towards work on a bad hair day, waiting to cross the street, I found myself wishing that more people were as genuine and affirming as the forty-something black man standing with me there on the corner of Franklin and 12th Street.

"You're pretty."

"Um. Thank you?"

"No really. I'm not trying to hit on you. I really think you're pretty."

"Thank you."

"Have a great day, okay?"

"Okay. You too, sir!"

an analogy.

lauren and a fountain
Originally uploaded by kitty.pants.

vegas : me :: paris : erica

i feel like a grown-up. traveling with friends. on my own dime-ish. boozing and cruising. talking to actual men. sober and drunk. at bars. at the pool. at margaritaville where i was challenged by the cute, but unwitting waiter to eat my entire surf and turf, which i did. at the hottest club ever where i made eye-breast contact with michael jordan. and got knocked over by about seven large, i mean big and tall, men trying to dance with my while katherine was approached by a cute and not too large alaskan who she danced with like the 21 year old she really is.

while erica may have had to go to paris to discover her inner adult of confidence and genuine self esteem, poise and uninhibited, actual, real "me-ness", i need'nt have searched furthur than the time/fashion/reality-warp that i like to call: vegas.

i.
must.
go.
back.

soon.
and.
i.
mean.
soon.