I have an aversion to a number of girlie things: Pink. Barbies. Ballet. Princesses. I think I always have.
I could never imagine joining my 10 year old classmates who would spend their Saturdays in pale pink tutus with hair in a tight bun. My 10 year old activities included hide and seek, tag and move-ups or scrub (you know softball where you ‘move up’ positions). Now I wasn’t athletically gifted (those that know me personally will have probably snorted your drink of choice out your nose at this understatement). My height peaked at just over 5 feet so I have no swiftness of feet. But this is how I chose to spend the after school hours and the long summer days. I also did not dream of being a princess or being swept off my feet by my prince charming.
As I matured to adulthood, I developed my own brand of feminism (topic for another post). Suffice it to say, being dependant upon or even waiting for prince charming (or any man) was not part of my manifesto.
When my daughter was born, I do admit to taking a certain delight in being able to dress her. But it was a couple years before I had, myself, purchased anything in pink. And when I did, it was usually a pink top to go with her hand-me-down boy overalls as I thought that was the perfect tomboy look for a 9 month old.
When S was two, people would ask me if I had her signed up for ballet. No, I said dismissively. Not my daughter. I cringed when anyone innocently called S a princess.
At close to 3 1/2, S told me she wanted to be a ballerina. She started doing pirouettes in the kitchen. With two decades of feminism under my belt, I felt ready to pass this on to my daughter. Why do you want to be a ballerina? You can be anything you know.
About a month later I looked into ballet classes. I made sure they were the more-social-than-dance-learning-to-listen type at the community centre. Having made the leap I decided to embrace my inner ballerina. S and I went to one of those dance stores and got her a dance outfit with built-in tutu. And pink ballet shoes. She is freakin’ adorable and well worth the compromise of feminist principles (and I might add is the only girl in purple, not pink). She took to dance and, despite being shy in large groups, loves the spotlight at the end of each class where they get to wear a tiara and do a dance alone for the adoring parents and caregivers in the audience.
The floodgates were pretty much opened and S now has all manner of things princess. Especially Disney princess. And most of them I bought her. She has doll things, dress-up outfits, pyjamas, books, jewelry, clothes, dishes and a few dozen other things all pink and princessy. She even has bedding complete with canopy (which we had to take down because she could get to sleep with that scary thing over her head). She is a bona fide princess in every sense of the word.
But with a brother less than 2 years older she still has more than a little bit of tomboy in her. She’s fond of J’s hand-me-down clothes and wants to be one of the boys when around J and his male buddies. She loves to play rough and tumble in the backyard with her Daddy and brother (though has been known to plaintively call "Daddy, carry me!!”).
She does not own even one Barbie. (Though my mother has my little-used Barbie and Ken in her basement that she threatens to repatriate.)
Where does this leave my principles? Well, I guess I’ll let S develop her own brand of feminism, much as I have. If she chooses to do this in a pale pink tutu at the side of her own prince charming, so be it. That is progress.
I could never imagine joining my 10 year old classmates who would spend their Saturdays in pale pink tutus with hair in a tight bun. My 10 year old activities included hide and seek, tag and move-ups or scrub (you know softball where you ‘move up’ positions). Now I wasn’t athletically gifted (those that know me personally will have probably snorted your drink of choice out your nose at this understatement). My height peaked at just over 5 feet so I have no swiftness of feet. But this is how I chose to spend the after school hours and the long summer days. I also did not dream of being a princess or being swept off my feet by my prince charming.
As I matured to adulthood, I developed my own brand of feminism (topic for another post). Suffice it to say, being dependant upon or even waiting for prince charming (or any man) was not part of my manifesto.
When my daughter was born, I do admit to taking a certain delight in being able to dress her. But it was a couple years before I had, myself, purchased anything in pink. And when I did, it was usually a pink top to go with her hand-me-down boy overalls as I thought that was the perfect tomboy look for a 9 month old.
When S was two, people would ask me if I had her signed up for ballet. No, I said dismissively. Not my daughter. I cringed when anyone innocently called S a princess.
At close to 3 1/2, S told me she wanted to be a ballerina. She started doing pirouettes in the kitchen. With two decades of feminism under my belt, I felt ready to pass this on to my daughter. Why do you want to be a ballerina? You can be anything you know.
About a month later I looked into ballet classes. I made sure they were the more-social-than-dance-learning-to-listen type at the community centre. Having made the leap I decided to embrace my inner ballerina. S and I went to one of those dance stores and got her a dance outfit with built-in tutu. And pink ballet shoes. She is freakin’ adorable and well worth the compromise of feminist principles (and I might add is the only girl in purple, not pink). She took to dance and, despite being shy in large groups, loves the spotlight at the end of each class where they get to wear a tiara and do a dance alone for the adoring parents and caregivers in the audience.
The floodgates were pretty much opened and S now has all manner of things princess. Especially Disney princess. And most of them I bought her. She has doll things, dress-up outfits, pyjamas, books, jewelry, clothes, dishes and a few dozen other things all pink and princessy. She even has bedding complete with canopy (which we had to take down because she could get to sleep with that scary thing over her head). She is a bona fide princess in every sense of the word.
But with a brother less than 2 years older she still has more than a little bit of tomboy in her. She’s fond of J’s hand-me-down clothes and wants to be one of the boys when around J and his male buddies. She loves to play rough and tumble in the backyard with her Daddy and brother (though has been known to plaintively call "Daddy, carry me!!”).
She does not own even one Barbie. (Though my mother has my little-used Barbie and Ken in her basement that she threatens to repatriate.)
Where does this leave my principles? Well, I guess I’ll let S develop her own brand of feminism, much as I have. If she chooses to do this in a pale pink tutu at the side of her own prince charming, so be it. That is progress.
1 comment:
This is my New Year's resolution: Before I criticize anyone, I'll walk a mile in their shoes. That way, if they get angry, they're a mile away and barefoot.
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