Parenting, the election, and the perils of dessert wine
I'm going to preface this whole post with an acknowledgement of my privileged status as a Caucasian, middle-class, well-educated woman. I can't even imagine what Australians and would-like-to-be Australians without these privileges are going through right now.
I often wonder if raising boys is easier than raising girls. Clearly both will have their challenges and their highlights, but as I sat and watched the election result on Saturday night, as a parent of a nearly-three-year old, I also watched my job as a parent get that much harder. As if it weren't already hard enough.
I'm not suggesting that parents of boys are in any way less politically informed, entitled to their own views, or less concerned with the profligate social injustices in Australia at the moment.
But they don't have to have the talk.
Not the birds and the bees - I mean the other one. The one where I have to sit my daughter down and explain that although we've been living on this planet in more or less the same form for 6000 years, things haven't really changed all that much. She is still a second-class citizen, destined for any number of unflattering labels, and having to work at least 64 days more a year to make the same amount as a man in the same position.
I'm going to have to explain to her that although she is a perfect, intelligent, giving, funny, charming person, the size of her breasts will be more important than the content of her character.
That the boys she meets in school and high school will be more likely to discuss her bra size than her feelings. That they will be expected to. That they will be encouraged to. That this will all be blamed on hormones instead of lack of respect or self control. That excuses will be made for them, that 'boys will be boys', but that she will not be given the same courtesy.
That even though it is expected that men will have a wealth of sexual experience before settling down, that many will expect her to hold on to her virginity, and promulgate the myth of 'being pure'. After all, our own PM labelled her hymen her 'most precious gift'. Not her love. Not her trust. Not her mind or her thoughts or her heart or her sense of humour or. A little flap of skin that hurts like hell when it tears and can make a first sexual encounter painful, awkward, and embarrassing. Just the sort of thing she might want on her wedding night.
I have to tell her that if she doesn't wait, or chooses not to marry, there are people out there who will call her a whore.
I also have to explain to her, that if she does make the decision to wait, and to marry, there will still be labels - prude, old-fashioned, wrong. She'll be told that she's setting feminism back, that she's not a modern woman, that she's no fun. And it won't just be men.
I'll have to tell her that no one will notice her if she doesn't play the 'sex' card, but that when they do notice her, it won't be in a good way. That being smart isn't as popular as being sexy, and it won't get her more boyfriends or praise or attention. That it will get her a better quality of boyfriend, praise, or attention, but that she'll have to wait longer and look harder for it, and that it will be so so hard to hold out, because it's so easy to play the sex card, and sometimes all she's going to want is a little attention, even if it's the bad kind.
That even when she gets a better quality of boyfriend/praise/attention, she'll still be told that it would be even better if she was sexy too.
That if she chooses not to have boyfriends, but have girlfriends instead, that some men - many of whom in positions of power - will still look for ways to control her sexuality in and out of the bedroom.
That she'll have to be so strong, because everyone around her wants her to be weak.
That being strong can mean being powerfully lonely, and it won't always feel like the right way to be.
I'll have to tell her that she'll have to work harder, be better, be stronger and smarter and more savvy than her male colleagues in order to be perceived as the same. That they might be confident instead of competent, and that she will have to be confident, even when every one around her is tearing her down.
I will have to tell her that she can be successful or she can be liked, but it's unlikely she can be both.
And, most of all, I have to teach her that teaching her all of the above will earn her a label of 'feminist', and that she will be attacked, demeaned, and threatened for simply believing that she is a worthwhile human being that is more than the sum of her parts.
I got drunk on Saturday night. I got more drunk than I've been in a decade, and I got drunk in company that I wish I hadn't been drunk in. Company that it would have behoved my professional standing not to be drunk in.
I sat with good people and drank steadily and tried to ignore the fact that our prime minister trotted out his daughters as 'not bad-looking' instead of strong, independent, smart, or valued. That he believes women don't have the ability to be leaders. That he thinks his god and the men that speak on his behalf should dictate what women do with their bodies. That he thinks 'barren' and 'unnatural' are acceptable words to fling in anger - that he has flung worse in a public context and no one called him on it. That he is willing to burn the future for a few extra dollars today towards an economy that is one of the strongest in the world.
That he was able to sell all of that.
That my job as a parent to a daughter just got harder.
My kid will be three soon. At the moment, she believes everything I say. So I tell her that she's smart and strong and that she can do anything, be anything. That she has so much potential and that she'll have to work hard, but she can achieve greatness. I tell her that she is pretty, but I tell her that pretty is a nice thing to be, but not an only thing to be. I teach her to say sorry when she hurts someone, and please, and thank you.
I teach her to be courteous, and try not to remember that courtesy is often seen as weakness.
I teach her that if she wants something, she has to act. She can't just yell and cry. I teach her that if she acts, she still might not get it, but she'll feel better than if she did nothing at all. I teach her that if she does get it, then working for it will feel best of all.
I've got maybe another 2 years before I lose my influence. First it will be her teachers. Then it will be her friends. Then it will be the other kids at school. Then it will be the media and the internet and tv who will teach her how she will define herself for the rest of her life.
I've got two years to build up the blocks inside of her to make her strong and capable, to make her believe that she is strong and capable, even when others are telling her she's not. I've got two years to give her all the tools that she needs to get through the next eighty with some form of self-worth intact, believing that she is more than her vagina and her breast size and that little flap of skin.
So fuck you, Tony Abbott. As if being a parent wasn't already the hardest job in the world. Now you've gone and made it harder.
