[This is one of a series of posts on Caitlin Moran’s book How to Be a Woman. Click here for other posts in this series.]
I needed a bra by the time I was nine-years-old. And I don’t mean needed, as in I was developing a bit and in a hurry to grow up and play at being a woman, I mean, I NEEDED the support. By the time I was 11, I had reached my adult height and an approximation of what would be my adult shape, encased in a protective coating of baby fat. My rack was large enough to require serious support, the kind of support that only underwire and multiple hooks can provide. This did not go unnoticed.
A handful of boys in my class galloped right past snapping my bra strap — perhaps because of the novelty of so much actual breast — and went right for grabbing my breasts. I was targeted on the playground, in P.E. and whilst waiting in line, where I experienced drive-by grabs from boys in lines going in the opposite direction, kind of like the frenzy at the end of Supermarket Sweep.
I was deeply ashamed, but I was also hurt and confused. I liked boys already, I had been noticing them for years, but this was not at all what I had expected or wanted. My romantic imaginings were highly influenced by the hyper-articulate banter in movies I watched with my Dad, like The Philadelphia Story and His Girl Friday, or the slow simmer between friends portrayed in Anne of Green Gables. I thought maybe this boob grabbing was like Gilbert Blythe pulling Anne Shirley’s braid and calling her “carrots,” but it didn’t feel like it. Of course, I should have confided in my parents or friends or told a teacher, but it didn’t even cross my mind. It felt like my fault, I was the one who had grown these stupid BOOBS. And, as Caitlin Moran writes in a chapter called “I Don’t Know What to Call my Breasts!”:
“Boobs” are too Benny Hill. Boobs are perfectly spherical, bouncing, jokey — you might as well refer to your “pink chest clowns” whilst making a tromobone-y “wah wah wah waaaaaaaah” sound and have done with it…Boobs, of course, can’t get cancer, or lactate, or be subject to the subtle erotic arts of the Tao. Boobs exist only to jiggle up and down on the chests of women between the ages of 14 and 32, after which they get too droopy, and then presumably fall of the face of the earth, into space; maybe to eventually become part of the giant rings of Saturn (68-69).
At 11, I wasn’t thinking about the erotic arts or lactating, but jiggly boobs on a sensitive nerd did feel like a cruel joke. After a miserable
month, I finally cornered the weakest boy one day during English and told him I was upset that he and his friends were grabbing me. I said I didn’t like it and I didn’t like the way it felt and I wanted them to stop. I don’t know if he actually felt bad, was embarrassed or just dumbfounded by all this Free to Be You and Me-style talk of my thoughts and feelings, but he and his friends left me alone after that day. And I was empowered by speaking out and that was the day I realized what it meant to be a proud feminist. Sadly, no.
Speaking out didn’t automatically make me feel less ashamed of my body and left me somewhat conflicted about the value of demanding respect from boys. I wasn’t getting grabbed, which was good, but I also found that now no boys paid any attention to me and they wouldn’t for a long time. (They would not be the first boys or men I would encounter who would be confused about the fact that feminists like sex and even some good old boob grabbing; such attentions simply must be welcome and dudes have to move on when they’re not.) I sent my boobs way underground in huge tents of clothing, their true size and location to be revealed only to boys who genuinely seemed to like sarcastic girls with lots of opinions and an excessive love of books, music and black and white movies.
Although it would take a lot more life experience for the lesson to sink in, it was important to have a sense at a young age that I wouldn’t settle for just any attention that came my way, to know that I would rather be alone than feel small and humiliated or like a body part that just happened to have a person attached to it. It was important to locate and identify the feelings that came from experiencing sexism because, like my boobs, the boys’ sexism would go underground too, it would become more subtle, complex and harder to recognize as we all got older. Moran says:
These days, a plethora of shitty attitudes to women have become diffuse, indistinct or almost entirely concealed. Fighting them feels like trying to combat a mouldy, mildew smell in the hallway, using only a breadknife. Because — like racism, anti-Semitism and homophobia — modern sexism has become cunning. Sly. Codified … a closet misogynist has a vast array of words, comments, phrases and attitudes that they can employ to subtly put a woman down, or disconcert her, but without it being immediately apparent that that is what they are actually doing (130).
Which leaves us with an important question, “how can you tell when some sexism is happening to you?” Moran’s answer to this question is a little surprising, she argues that this isn’t a case of man vs. woman, but winner vs. loser, and understanding it in this context will help us move forward. If men were physically more powerful in a world that required brute force, Moran argues that “being a man and men’s experiences were considered ‘normal’: everything else was other. And as ‘other’ — without cities, philosophers, empires, armies, politicians, explorers, scientists and engineers — women were the losers.” As women continue to take control of cities, think deep thoughts, run countries and armies, take over labs and explore the world, the world will continue to become less sexist. But you don’t get rid of thousands of years of history just because your values change. Our culture is like sedimentary rock and there are thousands of years of layers of sexism and patriarchy with a relatively new layer of equality on top. Even for those of us raised in a post-feminism world, we can still feel the huge foundation of sexism under our feet.
So we can challenge sexism when we see or feel it. We can laugh at it, call it out as rude and uncivil behavior that won’t be tolerated, ignore it and get our shit done — whatever it takes. I think the biggest change comes when women stop accepting a world that sees their bodies, their experiences as “other,” when we can become “at the end of the day, just a bunch of well-meaning schlumps, trying to get along,” just like the men (133).
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Heidi, this is really insightful. One of Moran’s most interesting points to me was when she discussed strip joints versus burlesque joints. Both involve nudity and could easily be confused with each other or considered different flavors of the same thing. But, she points out, you’ll notice (meaning a hypothetical “you” here because I doubt many of us who frequent D&S have much actual experience in visiting these places) that gays hang out at burlesque joints, but not strip clubs, because, there is a fun element to it and they don’t feel like outsiders–everyone can “enjoy” the campiness of burlesque and it is not sexist, whereas strip joint are joyless, focusing on the exposure of female breasts and labia, and no one seems to be having fun. I’ll take her word for that, but it illustrates your points Heidi, that sexism will meet its demise when all people can enjoy each others’ company without the feeligng of insider/outsider or winner/loser.
I’m going to be sending this to a young person who is dear to me who needs to read it and feel less alone–
My dear young person pointed out to me that only flat-chested young women are ever shown in the Ensign–
because, in her opinion, “the church’ thinks breasts are immodest”–
I’m so sorry for your young person. Unfortunately, I think she might be right about the church and the Ensign.
I would like to slap whoever invented the word boobs. Moran nails it. Such a silly, clownish word. And it doesn’t help at all when you are in that awkward phase of life, maybe feeling a bit disproportionate, a bit clownish anyway.
Heidi, your groping stories were totally familiar to me. I also didn’t know what to do, except keep on walking down the hall. I wish I’d had the guts to punch that kid in the nose, or at least alert a teacher. I wonder how many women and girls have stories like that, and if it is much more common than we realize.
Further thought–Why is the chest squeeze so common? What would the male equivalent be? Tweenage girls getting handsy during gym?
Dayna, I wanted to write about it because I feel like my experience was common. Most women I know had something like this happened to them (and so many women experience things that are much, much worse). And it’s crazy how much these seminal experiences of being a woman stick with you and become part of your body image. I’m increasingly comfortable in my own skin, but I STILL feel a little apologetic about my shape. At least I can laugh at it now.
My husband and I were talking about it and he was arguing that it was bullying and not sexism, but I think sexism is basically patriarchal bullying? I think the fact that there is no male equivalent is evidence that it was sexism, but I also think it’s evidence of the winner vs. loser dynamic that Moran describes. This is patriarchy and it’s rigid ideas of gender against the rest of us “shlumps” because boys who aren’t particularly masculine or strong or, heaven forbid, gay, are bullied just as much. And it makes sense that this starts to emerge on the cusp of puberty.
This is when I’m happy to have attended an all-girls school.
This really resonated with me.
“If men were physically more powerful in a world that required brute force, Moran argues that “being a man and men’s experiences were considered ‘normal’: everything else was other. And as ‘other’ — without cities, philosophers, empires, armies, politicians, explorers, scientists and engineers — women were the losers.” As women continue to take control of cities, think deep thoughts, run countries and armies, take over labs and explore the world, the world will continue to become less sexist. But you don’t get rid of thousands of years of history just because your values change. Our culture is like sedimentary rock and there are thousands of years of layers of sexism and patriarchy with a relatively new layer of equality on top. Even for those of us raised in a post-feminism world, we can still feel the huge foundation of sexism under our feet.”
And I disagree with this based on personal experience.
“Boobs exist only to jiggle up and down on the chests of women between the ages of 14 and 32, after which they get too droopy, and then presumably fall of the face of the earth, into space; maybe to eventually become part of the giant rings of Saturn (68-69).”
It’s the “32” I object to.
What an interesting observation about the Ensign! Probably true too.