Cinderella Ate My Daughter.

by Ashley Weeks Cart

We had a lazy Sunday. The kind of Sunday where I stayed in my pajamas until 2pm, lying around Addison’s room, sipping my coffee and watching her play.

She moved from building toy airplanes out of primary colored Legos, to sipping tea out of purple tea cups poured by her pink tea kettle, to zooming a PlayMobile fork lift around with a princess PlayMobile character at the wheel, all the while her Elmo sitting by bedecked in one of her doll’s dresses while she sported bright blue dinosaur pajamas.

Why couldn’t she always have such a fluid and flexible perception of identity, particularly her own?

I recently finished reading Peggy Orenstein’s “Cinderella Ate My Daughter,” and am more aware than ever that there will come a day when she’ll understand the demands and expectations of her gender. What to like. What and how to play. How to dress. Even what to think. Ultimately, she’ll be taught how to perform her gender. She’ll learn, that as a female, how you look is how you feel.*

It’s already begun. It started the moment we learned that we were expecting a girl. The clothes she wears, the toys people have given her, the colors of her nursery, the language people use when addressing her, it is all dictated by the cultural norms of our society.

Yesterday I learned that I am expecting another daughter. Everyone’s initial response was, “Great! You already have everything you need.” or “It’s nice that you won’t have to worry about buying boy stuff, you already have all the stuff for a girl.” While in some way those statements resonate, as I am sure that I would have felt a need to purchase traditional little boy outfits and pepper the house with shades of blue were I to learn that I was pregnant with a boy, part of those sentiments just don’t sit right.

Arguably, I already have everything I could possibly need for a little boy OR girl. The needs of infants and toddlers are very similar, regardless of gender, and while I couldn’t see myself dressing a baby boy in Addison’s old ruffled, pink sundresses, his basic needs would be more than met by all of the clothing, toys, burp cloths, bips, bottles, binkies, etc. that we already own from Addison’s infancy.

But man does our society love polarizing boys and girls.

And that’s not to say that I don’t want to celebrate my daughters’ femininity or womanhood. I only wish that we could envision that identity more broadly and flexibly. For both women and men, I wish those identities and the expectations of them were more fluid.

Knowing, however, that we still have a great deal of work to do on that front, how the hell will James and I raise two well-balanced, confident, secure, strong women?

*headdesk*

Moving from Los Angeles to a sleepy, college-town in Western Mass was our first effort as parents to cut out the noise of mainstream media from our daughter’s consciousness. While in this networked world there is no way to completely remove the bombardment of advertising and media, this physical relocation certainly eases the assault of mainstream imagery and messaging.  Our home is sans television. But of course we have a computer and Internet access. We do not purchase toys or clothing or accessories with mainstream branding. Yet we do not discard the gifts of Tickle-Me-Elmo or Minnie Mouse pajamas when given those by friends and family.

We’re not naive. We know that we cannot completely cocoon our children from the outside world, but we can certainly filter and limit this exposure through our personal choices and actions.

I’ve been reflecting on my own childhood, as I think of myself now as a confident, educated female that pushes back on cultural norms and challenges societal expectations of my gender. How did my parents do it? What can I draw from my own childhood experiences that might shed some light on what to do with my own daughters.

Fact: I was a bride five Halloweens running. Yes, a bride. As in, the big puffy white dress, the veil, the bouquet, the ring, the whole-dreaming-of-my-prince-charming shebang. My mother, not one to stifle our interests, allowed it. But hot dang, I know I’ll bristle with concern if Addison asks to be a BRIDE for Halloween in the coming years.

And yet, not only did I not wear a veil or carry a bouquet at my own wedding, I did not wear a white gown (who was I kidding with the whole virginal, pure white facade? That ship sailed in high school, folks). I wasn’t “given away” (if there is a more misogynistic ritual that we so willingly and excitedly embrace in our culture it has got to be the father “giving away” the bride to the groom). Rather both of my parents walked me down the aisle, and both of James’ parents walked him down the aisle.  And we met as equal partners at the end.

Ultimately, I had come to think very critically about the rituals of a marriage and felt empowered enough to craft a ceremony that embraced more egalitarian notions of such a union.

If only my 6 year old self could have seen it! She would have been shockingly disappointed. NO TEN FOOT WEDDING TRAIN ESCORTED BY SOARING DOVES?!?

Somehow, my parents had raised me in an environment where I could pursue my interests, whether they were as a Halloween bride, or athlete, or photographer, or sailor, or girlfriend to a high school senior (when I was, GASP!, only 15), or world traveler, or book worm. They never made me feel ashamed of my pursuits and indulged my enthusiasm and exuberance, while subtly and gently enforcing their own value systems. Hard work was important. School mattered. Building meaningful relationships of all kinds was the stuff of life. Being passionate and confident in your actions was the heart of success. It only takes one “yes” so don’t be afraid of the “no’s.” And, most significantly, I was a person of value. All people had value. And no one should be treated differently based on their gender, age, skin, religion, sexuality, and so on. I also realize that my limited exposure to television and heavily branded products was intentional, although not forbidden.

As Peggy surmises, our role as parents is “not to keep the world at bay, but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it.”**

Ironically, my mother used to casually ask me, “Ash, do your teachers call on you in class? Do you feel like the boys are getting more attention?” I used to cringe and moan, “Mooooom, I’m not treated any differently, OKAY? That feminist stuff was a problem for YOUR generation. Stop worrying about me.” And I’d skulk off and journal dramatically about how misunderstood I was, like any proper 16 year old.

Flash forward two years, I entered college, enrolled in Gender Studies 101, and I have never been able to look at the world the same way. I see gender everywhere. How it shapes how we all interface and connect and understand one another, and thus how the visual, marketing world has interpreted and enforced those messages and perceptions. That course flipped a switch and I have carried that light with me ever since. Given that my academic interests lie in the visual world, my double major in Art and Gender Studies was compelling and disheartening and complex, which pushed me on to a Master’s in Public Art which only exacerbated the complexity and the scrutiny with which I approach mainstream media and advertising.

If only I could pinch that 16 year old version of myself and let her know that my mother was indeed on to something.

I see my identity now as very contradictory (by our culture’s standards). I can be confident and strong-willed and opinionated and comfortable with confrontation, while also being sensitive and emotional, apt to cry, apt to wear frilly dresses and high heels, apt to worry about my weight, and apt to want to have my husband tell me that I’m beautiful.

Maybe that’s just it. It’s about being comfortable embodying paradox.

I hope that I can teach my daughters that comfort.

For now, I’ll let them revel in sitting in toy bins, playing with whatever, however they wish.

If you are a parent to a daughter, I strongly recommend that you pick up a copy of “Cinderella Ate My Daughter,” like, yesterday.

*Orenstein, CAMD, p. 183
** p. 192