Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Trust in Me, Baby

Sometimes you've just gotta trust the hand you've got.

Promotional tie-in alert! I’ve got an essay up today on Medium.com’s new mind and body channel. It’s a revisiting of something I wrote years ago, before The Beheld had much of a readership, about my own complicity in what some people might call beauty privilege, but what really amounts to sexism (and not only because I am far too modest to own up to “beauty privilege,” kittens). Specifically: By playing the part of a young-enough, pretty-enough woman and putting up with a certain amount of comments about being that part, I expected a certain amount of privilege. (Not universally; it’s specific to a former landlord whom I let make semi-lewd comments to me in hopes that my apartment would receive prompt attention when need be. Oh, just read the story.)

It’s been interesting to revisit this; the events in the piece happened three years ago, and I wasn’t yet as in the habit of looking at secondary themes when looks-related situations arise. When I look back on this situation now that it’s long over (my current landlord, Tanya, has never eyeballed me once), what stands out to me is my distrust. My distrust in my then-landlord, for starters, which in this case was earned. But really, it’s my distrust in myself that I’m noticing here. Or maybe not myself exactly, but more a lack of trust in the way things should work. When I relayed this story to a friend, she sympathized, but then pointed out that what I thought was a “weak hand” in the power balance between us actually wasn’t. That is: I am a good tenant. I pay rent on time; I’m quiet and courteous; I came to that particular apartment with excellent references; I’m housebroken. My former landlord had been looking for the right tenant for two months—this is unheard of in New York City—before I moved in. For in his own words, “I want someone who will treat the place right,” and his instincts (and my references) told him that I was that person. My hand was strong. And yes, he gave me attitude about making repairs that he wasn’t legally obliged to make, but the point here is that he gave me attitude even though I played the part of flirty, easygoing lady tenant. My real, actual, legal hand here of being a good tenant and knowing that that was valuable to him was just fine. Hell, in the end, he even made the repair I asked for. In fact, there’s a chance I made my hand weaker by playing the part I thought he wanted me to play. Had I approached every encounter with him in a wholly straightforward manner—just business, just the facts, no giggles—he may well have taken my complaint more seriously.

I can’t help but wonder how often I make the same mistake or assumption—that I’d better make the most of my looks, because that’s what’s really going to get me out of a jam when the time comes—out of distrust of my actual hand in life. I mean, yeah, it’s hard not to, when there are messages everywhere telling us that women’s accomplishments aren’t worth a damn unless they look good (and then they probably just slept with someone to go places, right?). But I also know that there are plenty of messages counter to that. Loads. (Including one that’s purposefully counter: Beauty Redefined’s “You Are Capable of Much More Than Being Looked At” sticky notes—promotional tie-in #2!—now available for purchase.) I mean, half the time I’m aware of people denigrating the appearance of women in the public eye, I’m only aware of it because someone has called bullshit on it. And believe you me, I did not grow up believing my looks would get me anything in life. (I remember justifying to myself as early as age 9 that it was okay that I wasn’t pretty, because I was smart, and lordy knows being both was impossible.) So when did I begin to subconsciously rely on my “girlish charm”? I wonder if this phenomenon could only exist in complicity with women’s inordinate distrust in our own appeal that we hear so much about. The flipside of not trusting your own appeal is that you overemphasize its importance. I don’t mean to make myself out to be a total sad sack, but honestly, this is sort of a lose-lose situation.

But back to the idea of not trusting others: When I was 24, I took a trip to Italy with my then-boyfriend. Being in Italy with a male companion was an experience entirely different from being in Italy alone, which I’d done the year before. I hear the culture has radically shifted since then (I haven’t been back since I was 24), but at the time, if you were alone and female, you were bait. This was charming at times (a shopkeeper in Florence ran to the music store next door to find a copy of “Autumn in New York” to put on when I told him where I lived), frightening at others. I remember at one point literally having a trail of three men walking behind me for several blocks, until I ducked into a polizia station, where the officers told me I had no need to worry—“When they stop looking, that’s when you worry”—but schooled me on a few choice phrases anyway. I’d told my boyfriend all about my earlier adventures, and had rather condescendingly pointed out that it was unfortunate that he wouldn’t receive as warm a reception from the Italians.

Which he didn’t. That is: He wasn’t followed down the street, nobody in the grocery line put down money for his goods, no bottles of wine mysteriously appeared at our table. People, men, were polite, but not...gregarious/overbearing. And still: One morning in Palermo, we went to the market, dazed by a rocky night’s sleep on an overnight train, and he stood in front of an olive vendor selling more varieties of olives than either of us knew existed. I’d been doing most of the communicating for us—doing my best with hand gestures, guidebooks, and college French—but I was too tired to figure out how to ask for olives, and I didn’t care for olives anyway, so we just stood there, staring. The man took a piece of paper from behind his cart, whipped it into a cone of sorts, spooned a heap of olives into it, and handed it to my boyfriend, whose eyes lit up like a six-year-old’s at Dairy Queen. When he dug out his wallet to offer some lira to the olive vendor, the man waved him away—prego, prego—with a smile. Waved him away with a smile: him, not me; the young freckled American who clearly wanted olives and would take utter delight in them, not the pretty-enough woman by his side.


I think of that sometimes, when I catch myself consciously thinking that being nominally attractive might curry some sort of favor. I mean, we all know it can, and you don’t need to be a traffic-stopper to reap the sort of benefits I’m talking about here. But when I’ve slipped into that worldview too deeply, I’ve robbed myself of the expectancy of human goodness. It’s a cynical mind-set, one that winds up reinforcing the idea that women are meant to be decorative objects—something I don't believe of any woman, certainly not of myself. Perhaps I developed that cynicism as a defense mechanism against the smatterings of disappointments that can accompany womanhood if you approach it from a certain angle and squint. But fuck it: I know better now than to think my own offerings, and the offerings of others, are most abundant at the surface. 

Right?

8 comments:

  1. Fascinating. Thanks for the education.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you--and if there's education going on here, it's co-education, ya know?

      Delete
  2. In all likelihood, the olive vendor was just being nice - but I'm amused at the way this is written to suggest men aren't likely to get favours from other men for being attractive. Maybe the olive seller thought your boyfriend was as attractive as you did?

    Overall though, I do agree with the points you've put forward here. It's hard sometimes to remember that people will do nice things sometimes even if they're not interested in getting in your pants, particularly when you spend a lifetime being told that's all you have to offer.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Oh wow, that there is some heteronormative blinders I've got on, eh? Thank you for pointing that out about the possibility that the olive seller may have been attempting to curry a sort of favor, just not from me. I appreciate that!

      Delete
  3. A really lovely read.
    The Italian bits in particular resonate with me a lot. I got a lot of attention there as a 16-18 year-old, but less so recently as a 29-year-old. Not sure if the culture changed, or if I did. (Actually I got friendly winks when I went without the husband to buy pizza in my daggy pyjamas one night, so perhaps it was him messing with my game)
    I've never consciously used flirtiness to get things, but I do note the lack of freebies etc as I've become less girly/teenagey in appearance.
    However, as you say sometimes people just want to be nice, and that still warms my heart when it happens to anyone. (like with the olives)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I wonder what sort of blind spots we all have in this regard: The first time I ever thought about the possibility that I might be receiving some sort of privilege from being a young woman was maybe 20 years ago, when I was with my parents; we were seated at a restaurant quickly and courteously and I didn't think much of it, until my mother pointed out that the host had been solicitous of my attention. She noticed because she was aging out of the zone where that might happen more frequently. And sure enough, as I get older myself, I notice the lack, as you say.

      And thank you!

      Delete
  4. This is a really good piece, and it's making me think a lot about my own experiences. Like, my experience of the world is that most people are genuinely decent and that approaching them with kindness and openness will generally mean they respond in kind. However, it has been pointed out to me in the past that perhaps what I perceived as "kindness" has been people - specifically men - responding to the fact that I am a young, attractive woman. I have to admit I find this depressing, because it makes those positive interactions seem conditional and goal-driven, and ultimately not at all genuine. (Plus there is the fact that there are people out there who see "friendly young woman" and read that as "she's flirting with me." Nope, just being friendly!)

    But then of course, I also wonder how accurate the perception is of the person who is doing the pointing-out, and how much their own personal ideas about the world is influencing their beliefs on this matter. I guess the point is that it's hard to really know another person's motivations for their behavior.

    That said, it doesn't really change the way I approach the world because ultimately I find I feel better when I try to be kind and friendly as opposed to surly and standoffish. There's something to be said for conducting yourself in a certain way because you find inherent value in it as opposed to using it as a tool to get what you want.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Great and thought-provoking piece. Indeed you have put it in good light and angle the "pretty girl discount" syndrome as it's known the world over.

    I've had my lion's share and not because I'm some drop dead gorgeous woman but way back I just thought that if you happen to be nice, polite and courteous more than likely you will get great service in return until an older woman pointed out way back in my early twenties that I get that because I'm young and attractive. She added that I should enjoy it and live it up because it will change eventually and have to wait like everyone else. I never gave it much thought even now that I'm close to fifty I still get lots of those nice surprises and it's not about looks. Deep down I know it's because a smile and kind words goes a long way no matter at what age. It might sound very Pollyannesque but when we are open to kindness and goodness it will find you even when you get a flat tire in the middle of the night in some deserted highway in the middle of nowhere and a generous gentleman made sure that I was back on the road safe and sound because it has happened to me. Kindness and grace are everywhere not just for the pretty faces.

    ReplyDelete