The New All American
I said, "Pick any pair of pants and a shirt." She brought over a pair of playboy jeans with a huge bunny on the ass. Something in me seized up. I looked at the huge sign over our heads. It read "juniors." I looked back at the rack of clothes, at my young friend, and around at the other teen aged girls picking through this stuff. I blanked out. For a moment. I couldn't say anything. When I did find my voice, it was all anger. I railed, but kept my promise.
She got the jeans. They looked good on her.
So, I thought I'd had my vent and gotten over it. I thought I was done with the whole playboy for preteens thing. But I guess not.
At 3:23 this morning I crawled to the kitchen to "eat." I sat on the floor against the counter in the glow of the nightlight. I said aloud, "I'm angry." And then I started crying. And then I tried to eat some corn chex out of the box, which was impossible because you can't really swallow when you're crying. So I just kinda dissolved for a minute into a heap of chex and tears and spit.
And I know that wearing the bunny logo doesn't make a huge difference in a young girl's life. It doesn't make her sluttier or more likely to be taken advantage of by men. Her family, her friends are more important in deliniating where her worth lies and who she is. And I know that pornography doesn't make a guy a child-raping pervert. It matters what he's told by his parents when he's growing up, by what occurs in his life to shape his thinking.
But it didn't stop. I felt wickedly angry. Angry with this country for raising a generation of jackals that preys on its own and leaves little bodies strewn through the neighborhoods. Another mother in her oversized t-shirt and faded jeans sobbing uncontrollably on the TV. Another slew of posters of sweet-faced children who we all know probably won't be coming home alive. Another day when your stomach drops into your feet and you feel numb because no one seems to be able to protect the innocent.
I'm angry. I'm not ready for Playboy to be the next Tommy Girl. I'm not ready for them to be the new cleancut all-American look. Que sera sera, my ass.
I did eventually get to sleep. And woke up wobbly, but fine. Just a little disturbed by how much shit has to be swept under the rug to make this world appear OK for living in each morning. I try not to think about it. Because if the truth be told there's no one for me to kick, no child to rescue, no wrongs I can right. It all happens "out there." And I'm here. Helpless and enraged. All I can do is give it up and go back to sleep, back to work, back to k_sra.
She got the jeans. They looked good on her.
So, I thought I'd had my vent and gotten over it. I thought I was done with the whole playboy for preteens thing. But I guess not.
At 3:23 this morning I crawled to the kitchen to "eat." I sat on the floor against the counter in the glow of the nightlight. I said aloud, "I'm angry." And then I started crying. And then I tried to eat some corn chex out of the box, which was impossible because you can't really swallow when you're crying. So I just kinda dissolved for a minute into a heap of chex and tears and spit.
And I know that wearing the bunny logo doesn't make a huge difference in a young girl's life. It doesn't make her sluttier or more likely to be taken advantage of by men. Her family, her friends are more important in deliniating where her worth lies and who she is. And I know that pornography doesn't make a guy a child-raping pervert. It matters what he's told by his parents when he's growing up, by what occurs in his life to shape his thinking.
But it didn't stop. I felt wickedly angry. Angry with this country for raising a generation of jackals that preys on its own and leaves little bodies strewn through the neighborhoods. Another mother in her oversized t-shirt and faded jeans sobbing uncontrollably on the TV. Another slew of posters of sweet-faced children who we all know probably won't be coming home alive. Another day when your stomach drops into your feet and you feel numb because no one seems to be able to protect the innocent.
I'm angry. I'm not ready for Playboy to be the next Tommy Girl. I'm not ready for them to be the new cleancut all-American look. Que sera sera, my ass.
I did eventually get to sleep. And woke up wobbly, but fine. Just a little disturbed by how much shit has to be swept under the rug to make this world appear OK for living in each morning. I try not to think about it. Because if the truth be told there's no one for me to kick, no child to rescue, no wrongs I can right. It all happens "out there." And I'm here. Helpless and enraged. All I can do is give it up and go back to sleep, back to work, back to k_sra.
posted by k_sra at 9/20/2004 09:34:00 AM
6 Comments:
(shivers) Sorry, [k], that doesn't sound fun at all. Went through a similar state of worry with my niece. It was actually a simultaneous love of cheerleaders and far too sexy for teenagers let alone pre-teen clothing. Her mom bought her the clothes and a cheerleader uniform. Cheerleading lasted 2 months, the clothes 3, then the phase was completely over.
Nice. That's a tough one when porn has gone absolutely, everyday mainstream. And when the current crop (and past one or two as well) of kids has decided that participating in "Girls Gone What?" productions is a really great form of self-individuation and rebellion against older peoples' values AND (and this is a huge 'WOW' to my mind) FEMINISM. (Say "lesbian feminist stripper" three times fast.)
Every generation's need for self-individuation and a mangled form of feminism that has 12, 13 and 14 year old girls participating in really bad sex on a regular basis with their idiot little boyfriends, are reasons why buyers will now stock bunny logo shit for girls. (I would like to propose the following: feminists are supposed to be smart, tough and willing to insist on equality. Having bad sex- especially when you're too emotionally unformed to even choose what you're doing with some sanity- does not fit into this anydamnwhere.)
They've got bunny logo merchandise for little kids, too, you know. (Not to disturb you further with that last thing, but Playboy has definitely been annointed an innocuous household institution. Because it's old. Because Hugh's old. Because it's the shallow end of the pool. Because Marilyn Monroe was on the cover- which puts it into a "collectible/nostalgia/art" category. Which makes it alright. I guess.)
The longer I live (the more I sound like a granny AND) the more I am convinced that people don't know what to do with the desire they can feel. I don't mean to be existentialist about it, but everybody's gotta do something with all that desire. Or not. (Is there ever an accounting?)
k_sra, don't let any of this bunny stuff get ya down. It's nothing. Besides, bunnies are so cute and cuddly; all they should do is bring you happy thoughts! Who could ever frown at a bunny! Identify and exert effort to change what you can and laugh at what you can't. Don’t let the weight of the world be on your shoulders, it’s too damn heavy. Last I heard the Earth weights something like 10^21 tons, that’s pretty heavy. Here, Brutus is licking the monitor, there, doggie kisses always help.
Oh, it's always a good time to be angry. And take a break from carrying the weight of the world. Oh, and I want doggie kisses, too! Brutus is cuter than cute and I'm not ashamed to say it.
dag is right about the doggie kisses; they do fix everything. Thanks, Brutus. And Lbaf, I think you need some doggie kisses... or maybe just a "there, there" and a big hug. : )
(mildly off topic, aimed at Joel) Planned parenthood is speaking fankly about sex to teens? (shock and horror) The next thing you know they'll be giving them condoms.
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