Delightful treat or Distraction from progress?

I was just in Hawaii for vacation last week. It was a beautiful time for me to rest and enjoy the unbelievable sunshine and landscape of Lanai Island. I got time to recharge and to re-set myself in hopes of resting and coming back to work with fresh insight and a more centered sense of self and a more clarified vision of purpose.

The time was incredibly valuable. I got to enjoy my friend Megan for several days and remember pieces of myself that I have been too busy to entertain lately. I also got time to reflect on myself as just myself (and not as a therapist, or a roommate, or a girlfriend, or a daughter), and to simply be and rest. I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for the people in my life and the person that I have fought to become. (Also I got a lot of sleep, ate a lot of pineapple, read inspiring literature, and swam with wild dolphins. Boo Ya.)

On our third day, we were at the pool and I was reading the global updates section in Ms. Magazine and reveling in more gratitude in regards to the privilege that I hold as a woman in the U. S. The updates told of countries all over the world where women are still oppressed in shockingly overt and violent ways. (One update in particular highlighted the young girl who was stoned to death at a sporting event in Somalia because she was considered an adulteress for having been gang raped by three men earlier in the week.) I was humbled by the incredible freedom that I have had as a Caucasian American woman to find my voice, choose my partners, leave unsafe situations, access birth control and health care, and have a community of women who are free to openly meet and encourage one another. (Thank you Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan, and Heinrick Ibsen and Lucy Stone and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Eve Ensler, and Virginia Woolf, and and and and and and and and and and)…

And just as I was about to share the sentiment with Megan, irony caught us by the earlobes and we were distracted by the conversation next to us. (Poolside eaves dropping is one of our favorite vacation hobbies). There were two younger girls, who appeared to be around eighteen (they were in their first year of college), and a mother, who appeared to be forty five going on thirty. All three women met the prototypical beauty archetype: they were thin, white, had striking facial features, were without goiters, and wearing designer labels. I felt like we were watching an episode of “The Hills”.

I am not sure how the conversation began but these women were talking about dieting. The younger girls were saying that they wanted to lose weight so the mother started giving them tips about how to drop pounds. She whipped out her portion controlled low calorie snacks and talked about the ways that she avoids “bad food”. One of the younger women asked the question, “so, is it better to eat one Oreo everyday in a week, or seven Oreos in one day?” Megan and I laughed audibly. Was she serious? Was this question really plaguing her? The sad part was that it was. This young woman was obviously dealing with body dysmorphia and some form of eating disorder. The mother replied with confidence, “all seven Oreos in one day”. What?

And the conversation only got worse, at one point the two younger women were stating that they really preferred the look of “disgusting skinny”, and the mother agreed, except of course when the “knees start to look knobby”.

Snap-Just like that I was sobered into remembering that the battle for women’s progress in the United States is still going strong, it is just being fought on a different kind of playing field. Women in America are not being massacred by men throwing stones on soccer fields as is the case in Somalia, but they are being massacred by their self-contempt towards their bodies and the psychotic standard of beauty that promotes self violence in the form of starvation, self-induced vomiting, maxed out credit cards, and distraction from greater purpose.

The extreme level of self-disgust and self-hatred that women experience towards their bodies is a result of a beauty standard that promotes FRAILTY as the holy grail for female achievement. Women are taught to be aroused by their own demise, and to desire their position in the world to be that of a thin waif standing next to a man with substance. I have personally known this violent oppressor, and I have had to wage an incredibly long and tiresome war to learn to love my body. Regardless of the work that I have done to grow into a woman who believes in her self-worth, I was aware that as I was pitying these young women for their self-hatred and food obsession, I was also envying their itsy bitsy bodies. Some part of me still instinctively moves towards self-deprivation and starvation as a way to be “beautiful”, and therefore a legitimate and desireable woman.

And I know intellectually this this is hogwash. I know intellectually that my beauty lies within, and my sense of self is my move towards progress and influence. But it is buried deep in my blood to lust for a lie that steals my power away from me. Because the idea that my value is in my ability to allure a man, is something that has been embedded in my unconscious and is more powerful than mere thoughts. The beauty obsession runs deep in western women and does its work to divide us from each other and distract us from our progress as people.

So as I left the poolside, I was reminded of the complexity of gender oppression and the many faces that patriarchy holds. I may not be in danger of being stoned death for being raped, but my body is in danger of starvation at the hands of a sexual beauty standard that promotes emaciation as a desired outcome. And as a woman who has stood up to an abusive man, I know that rocks are not always necessary for a stoning to take place. The war to be free, to be equal, to valued, is still raging around me, and in me, and I can only hope, through me.

I find myself again, at a sort of beginning, humbled by my humanity, grateful for the many privileges I have, and hungry to continue to grow more roots and more trunk and more branches to reach out to women around me and share the good news, that we are already valuable beyond measure. So what do you think? Would it be more effective to spend one hour a day every day dreaming for equality and justice, or all seven hours in one day? I’m thinking one hour every day and at least a couple of Oreos to boot. (With milk of course)

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I am not sure how old I was when I was first told that “boys are stronger than girls”, or when that notion transformed itself into the endemic belief that “men are stronger than women”. I certainly don’t remember a time when I was taught anything that inferred that a woman’s physique was related to “strength”.

Rather, I remember being taught about how women are “responders and beautiful”, and men are “initiators” and strong. And I was taught that males were the only serious athletes, and females could never be as accomplished (or interesting to watch). And at church it was taught that men were “wild at heart” and women were the “beauties to be rescued”. And all of these notions reinforced their ideological predecessor that “men are stronger than women”.

Very few people stop to think that maybe the only thing that women need to be rescued from is the insidious belief that we are the weaker vessel.

Ironically, I grew up in a home where my father had a difficult time screwing in a light bulb, and my mother could put up dry wall, re-furnish a couch, and replace the cabinets all in one afternoon. And though the stereo-types were challenged by my parent’s abilities, they were not snuffed out by the greater world around me. We still attended churches and schools that theologized and philosophized that a woman’s role is to always be in tow behind the lead of a man. I read history books that were composed of 90% male perspective and 10% highlight of token female achievers. I watched TV shows, and commercials, and magazines that all validated the idea that women are dependent on men, and therefore weaker. And even though I knew somewhere internally that this myth was untrue and oppressive, I had no way to prove it because on the surface level, my body appeared “weaker” in arm wrestling matches, races, and fist fights. (ok, I have never really been in a fist fight, but you could imagine)

The philosophy of gender biology (in terms of strength, weakness, and dominance) is taught both consciously and unconsciously in a primitive split: men are strong and women are beautiful. We (both men and women) are all taught to view gender in role formation, and to create relationships based on those roles. The roles themselves boil down to a simple assumption, “(strong) in charge”, and “(beautiful) subservient”. This then creates a world where authority is distributed to men through patriarchy, and submission is distributed to women in the form of “beauty” that is meant as pleasure for a man. This is a very complex and ancient belief system, but at its most primitive roots is the argument that men are physically stronger than women.

In most positions of power in modern day, candidates do not arm wrestle to gain employment, or awards. And yet, with the case of gender, any time I have been around for a debate concerning gender values, the conversation has always comes back around to “biology” and the age old “reality” that men can overpower women in physical “dominance”. As if the ability to successfully violate someone is a quality we should desire in our leaders. And yet it stands to be a repeated argument in the distribution of power. Men can reek more physical pain, so women must be the weaker vessel.

But no one stops to consider the meaning of strength. Who has had the power to determine which physical strength is value worthy, and which physical strength is not? Up to this point, men have had the power to decide. Because of this unequal authority on strength definition, no one stops to think about the deeper biological implications of the female anatomy and the dependence that men have on women. Show me the man who can procreate. Men are dependent on female biology to continue the cycle of life. This is the most PHYSICALLY important act of survival and “leadership” that I can think of. And yet it is this very ABILITY that is used against women to connote their inability to co-create, and co-lead in other facets. (which is of course a farce, women ARE as competent in leadership as men) But this physical strength of women is devalued because its implications lead to a world where male privilege must be eliminated and co-participation in domestic life is expected.

Although it may be one small argument amongst a pool of millions, it feels hopeful for both men and women alike to lie the smack down on it. Men are not stronger than women, and women are not stronger than men. Men and women are meant to co-create humanity together and to acknowledge differences in a way that does not privilege one biology over another, but in a way that betters humanity as a whole. This creates a loss of male privilege in one vein, but it also creates the opportunity for men to find legitimate partners, and not just “child brides”, who can partner in both emotional, physical, and financial ways.

If we want to see a world with less violence, and corruption, then we have to envision a world where no gender is taught to be submissive, or taught that their particular strengths are subordinate to those of the other. If we are people that truly believe in love and peace, then we must champion a community where all genders are equal in power, dignity, and the opportunity to lead, speak, and shape the perceptions of what is considered “strength”.

I must admit, I really relate to those who wrestle with the mental illness Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as “Multiple personality disorder”)

(For pop culture reference of Dissociative Identity Disorder, see Sally Field in her film, “Sybil”)

Granted, I know that this disorder is not commonly seen with positive implications. I know that our culture does not embrace this type of self-structure and that we all work vigorously (and I would argue ineffectively)  to try to construct ourselves as “one” “consistent” “cohesive” human, who is predictable, and linear. But I think it is impossible. I think we are so f-ing complex, and fragmented, and full of too many pieces to have a “singular self”.

In the conventional sense of course, I do not in fact have “multiple personalities”. I am consciously aware of myself as one person (although some would argue that the whole Eli/Liz thing is a bit bizzarre).

I am internally informed of my unique parts and their presence in my experience of life. I do not have periods of “fugue” or amnesia that indicate a split in my personality. (A person who suffers with DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), is NOT aware of the different personalities that they present….in other words, there can literally be a “tom” and a “bob” and a “ichabod”, and those parts of that person’s experience create gaps and confusion for them. What happens to “bob” may not be accessible to “tom”, which causes a lapse in time and narrative.)

I do however feel that I am multiplicitous.

There are parts of me that are vibrant and alive, and full of gusto and confidence. And there are other parts (little tiny baby parts), that are fragile, and terrified, and quick to fold at the hand of violence and intimidation.

And I could go on an on (thanks to years of psycotherapy) about my different “me’s”, and the relationships that they have with the world, and the relationships that they have with each other. (My opinionated, intellectual me, doesn’t tend to be too approving of my weepy, terrified, under-confident me).

But I am starting to realize something really profound. There are in fact many me’s. And this is not a flaw, or a burden (although sorting through them sometimes feels that way). But rather it is the power of the mysterious and the sacred manifest in my being. It is the glory of a life that has the possibility to continutally redefine and rediscover itself. I have too many me’s to be complete, and so I am left to explore and desire and decompensate at times….but always I am morphing and changing in relation not only to others, but also to myself.

Sometimes I want to throw up when people pull the cheesy “my partner is a never ending well of mystery and newness each day”. But other times I so long for that to be true. And I think it is high time that we start approaching our many me’s in the same way. There is always something new, something old, something profound to be discovered about ourselves, and in this way, we are blessed to be so damned fragmented, piecy, and confused about who we are.

Because this IS who we are. We are the compilation of the infinite moments, relationships, sensations, and places that we go, feel, see, and long for. And the gift that we have in that multiplicity is what I think makes life worth living.

So maybe this is just an exercise in validating my multiple neurosis, but maybe it is also an exercise in truly falling in love with the most intimate group I will ever be a part of….myself (or should I say, myselves?)

Artists were painters, and sculptors, and those who could draw things that actually looked like the things they were drawing.

I was merely a consumer of art. (And not a very good consumer at that).

But then I got older, and things started to shift. I realized that the artist thing isn’t about WHAT someone is creating, or how good it is in the eyes of some expert, but about the very fact that someone IS CREATING. That we are all hardwired to make, and in our making to join something profound and sometimes tragic (I may or may not spend some time creating some really crappy situations for myself, and I may or may not know some other people who seem to do the same, and I may or may not know some other people who have used the majority of their lives as a canvas for poetic and ironic tragedy).

My guess is that most people are fairly open to the idea that the definition of art is broad, and that there are many ways to be artistic. But, still we put values to that art. There are still ideals that we use to mark art and say “this one is better than that one, and this one is worth more than that”. And this mentality serves a purpose. It gives us meaning about ourselves and those around us.

For example:

Noodle necklace made by kid = priceless to father/mother; cute, and disposable to the rest of us.

Feist Concert= $49 Canadian Dollars

Picaso’s Dora Maar with Cat Oil Painting= $95,200,000 (cha ching)

So we know that the first item for bid has sentimental artistic value, the second has experiential artistic value, and the third has status artistic value (along with philosophical and aesthetic artistic value).

Each piece of art is judged by a predetermined unconscious (unless we are thinking about it…like right now) standard of appreciation.

But it got me thinking. Because in reality the values are all man-made, and they all shift over time. The noodle necklace becomes obsolete as little Johnny gets a beer belly and a mortgage. The Feist concert is forgotten over time and becomes less important as her influence wains in the pop culture wrestling match. And the Picasso painting becomes more and more valuable the longer he is dead. But all of these things are made valuable by external influence and progression and not through some God-given innate value.

And so I wonder, on a more complex and (I would argue) important question. How do we ascribe meaning and value to the people around  us?

Does someone become more valuable when they have the same interests as we do (or the same skin color or the same religious cognition)?

Or because they take the time to invest in our stories and our deep human longings, or are hilarious, or are submissive and unassuming?

Or maybe we value people who seem to have more cultural leverage (ie. wealth, fame, influence etc)

How often are we actually aware of the way that we appraise art, or people? I think it takes alot of work to understand ourselves, and often alot of heartache. But I don’t think that we are credible critics until we have spent ample time unearthing our value systems and understanding the located/contextualized/limited flavors of our perceptions.

There is this dude, a musician dude, named Joel P West, and he had this brilliant idea about how to engage and transform the way that we value art. And in a way, I think he is also working towards the transformation of how we value humans.

His website….

www.DUSTJACKETPROJECT.com is a compilation of art work that people have sent him in exchange for his new CD. To me it not only puts a more accurate value on art (ie. someone’s poem or photo is as significant and someone’s studio based music project, but it also puts people on equal playing feilds. No longer is there a super human rock star guy and his fans, but there is a collaboration of the beauty that flows between people in the exchange of their artistic impulses.

It’s cool.

I’m thinking about looking at art and people with new goggles. Or at least trying.