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| Fresh organic cherries. Mother Nature's ruby gems. |
Cherry Baby
Summer is heating up. And so is yours truly in all her hot flashing glory. (We'll get to the cherry almond crisp recipe in a moment- but first I have to get something off my chest.)
Last night my husband was scanning channels on cable. I sat down next to him, (quickie dinner plate perched on my knee) and crunched romaine lettuce, almonds and dried cherries as he watched the end of the Shawshank Redemption. One of his favorite movies. An affection shared by many a cinephile. This is a beloved film.
Then I heard it.
A line that stung and burned so deep and hot I stopped chewing. I stopped breathing. I sat as still as the fork on my uneaten plate of salad.
The despicable, murdering bully of a prison guard is being led away by police. We hear the voice of
God Morgan Freeman purr with quiet authority that rumor has it this cruel and abusive man was led away "crying like a little girl".
The ultimate put down. Not only did he cry. He cried like a girl.
Because, really, who would ever want to be caught crying like a girl? It's the ultimate in weakness. The worst thing you could say about a man. It's dependent. It's needy. It's unmanly. Inadequate. Irrational. Disgusting.
Worthy of contempt.
A flood of sneers and mocking imagery ran through my head. All the put-downs of childhood endured and encoded in the hippocampus, stashed away for safe keeping.
You throw like a girl. You run like a girl. You cry like a girl.
Bullies. Belittling. Because girls are less worthy. Less capable. Less whole.
It's a
message our culture delivers every day, via media of all kinds. From raunchy punchlines about yeast infections to commercials for thigh cream, from political pundits calling single women sluts, to the latest (oops!) leaked sex tape, from a misogynist song lyric that rhymes with witch to the impossibly high platform heels women teeter in, hobbled for fashion's sake, shoes designed for prey.
I think about this and our nation's Cult of Youth as I walk and sigh at twilight, wearing Converse sneakers and
photographing violet shadows with my iPhone.
How often are girls and women celebrated for something other than appearance- a pretty object to penetrate, to own, or rate on a scale of one to ten.
And after a certain age- it only gets worse.
Just look at Botox sales stats. Women fear aging with a depth of disgust unfathomable. We are buoyed on an ocean of revulsion toward aging. Why else would we fail- collectively- to tell the honest truth about plastic surgery and the freakish waxy desperation it exudes? There isn't an actress over the age of 30 who can express worry or surprise with her forehead muscles any more (well that's an exaggeration. There are, maybe... three?).
Ask yourself- how often do we get to see ourselves depicted honestly, as complicated, brave, strong, authentically sexual- never mind brilliant, sassy, dimensional - and not be reduced to mere object or caricature?
Or worse, invisible.
This keeps me up at night. This girl stuff. This aging stuff. This what-do-I-do-next stuff. My hip starts to ache and I lie in the dark and feel no closer to solving my dilemma than I did yesterday. Or the day before.
And tonight?
I am sorry to say, I am no closer to an answer.
But at least I've told something true.
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