Lives Under Patriarchy

This post is about lipstick. Sorry, I know it’s a sore topic.

The third wave allows itself, in a kind of caricature of the third wave’s ideology, to “like men, wear lipstick and high heels, shave their legs and go to strip clubs.” As opposed to an older feminism, which was deconstructing men’s control over women, the demands made on women’s appearance and the discomfort inherent in feminine accouterments.

The reasoning goes, if we *want* to do it, it’s not oppressive. And now, in the “post-feminist” world, nobody’s forcing us to do this or punishing us if we don’t. We *enjoy* doing it, goddammit. So why not?

Why not, indeed.

But the truth is, there isn’t an awful lot of choice, still. The choices are easier only because they are not enforced ALL the time, and they aren’t as bad as they used to be. We don’t have foot-binding. We don’t have corsets. We don’t have long dresses with petticoats and ONLY long dresses with petticoats. We are allowed to sweat and work out and wear sneakers and jeans sometimes. Etc.

But! The gender-conformist choices we women make are still not made with only comfort and convenience in mind. Except that they are – of a certain sort.

Let me explain.

I made some difficult choices back home in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. I rebelled against the heavy cloak (abaya) and the headscarf that was forced on all women from the age of 10 up, in 110 degree weather. I refused to cover my very long hair, which was believed to not only cause men to lose all control but also to invite jinn (demons) who would possess you for your hair (long hair, I was told, was said to be the only thing that attracted jinn to human women; that, and menstrual blood, I believe; so a menstruating long haired woman in the prime of life was a veritable jinn-magnet, especially when walking under trees, and especially at night).

In Pakistan, I started wearing trousers with short shirts and no dupatta (long, unwieldy scarf-like thing you drape across your chest to hide your tits) because it was more convenient and comfortable. Sometimes, during the summer, I would go out in almost see-thru lawn shirts with no bra on. If I got harassed, I would swing out with my heavy handbag, yell and scream and run the harassers off.

I was seen as very weird by almost everyone who knew me, some of them being rich young women from ultra-liberal families. They conformed because it was too weird not to. Since my social training was virtually non-existent growing up, I never really learned to conform. I did what made sense and was most happy-making. I ended up having to explain myself an awful lot, and was unceremoniously kicked out within less than six months, from the first situation where I had to survive amid social norms and expectations. In other words, I failed and was punished horribly.

I found myself unable to understand how anyone could sacrifice comfort and convenience to someone’s stupid ideas of how women should look and behave. While visiting dad’s friends in Syria, I stayed with a Syrian family. All the women of the family observed hijab (covered everything but their hands and faces). They had a particularly secure way of tying their heads up, with two layers of wrapped cloth, that never budged, was cinched at the neck (they went around their necks with the ends of the cloth) and looked quite uncomfortable. There I was, in their home, 15 years old and wearing jeans and t-shirts, much to the discomfort and embarrassment of my parents. This was in the middle of summer. When my dad hinted that I tie up my head, I refused point blank. I got one of the daughters to show me how she tied up her head and when she undid her scarf to re-do it, I saw her hair, matted to her head, sweaty and dirty and stringy, and red marks on her neck. Her ears and neck were a different color from her face. I asked her if she wasn’t uncomfortable, and why she did it. And she said she wasn’t uncomfortable at all, it was completely comfortable, and she wanted to do it because she loved Allah.

There, the rules of the patriarchy are less symbolic, more absolute. Here, they are more symbolic, but honestly, who is my co-worker kidding when she says her 4-5 inch high heels are “comfortable”? Yet, she would agree with me about that tightly bound headscarf, while completely deluding herself about her heels (I’ve seen her wobble at every step).

When people like Twisty point out that we’re merely conforming to the patriarchy when we think we are doing what we want because it’s what WE want, they’re right. It’s not necessarily a judgment, but I do judge myself a little bit.

Here’s the thing.

I’m no longer that kid doing what makes sense and what is comfortable and happy-making. I do what is “best.” I end up enjoying it because the rewards are bigger than if I don’t do it. There’s a difference – I’m not avoiding punishment, I’m seeking reward.

I was truly free from the patriarchy in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia because I never had one tiny spark of desire for Middle Eastern / South Asian men. I was free of them. I despised them. I couldn’t have cared less if they thought I looked like a scarecrow. Any attention I got from them was unwelcome. I didn’t want to work for them, rely on them, marry them, befriend them or fuck them.

Here, not so much. I do all of the above; I want to do some of it. I need to do the rest.

Growing up with an older brother who was my best friend, I was a tomboy until my late teens. I didn’t discover the rituals and practices of femininity until 23. Yes, that late. The big crossing was getting contact lenses and shedding my glasses. Then came shaving my legs. Then came skirts (just last year).

I have never worn much makeup. Just a dab of powder to take the shine off my nose and a bit of brownish-red lipstick. Nothing for my eyes or skin. In fact, I don’t know how to put on make-up and make a giant mess if I try to put on eyeliner. I got my first real hair-styling done two months ago (I had only ever straight-trimmed my long straight hair before that).

Although I can “pass” now, I still feel graceless and unfeminine and unpolished when in the company of regular conforming white girls (of the type I work with). I am not and never will be one of those women who always look the same, always perfect, no creases in their clothes, not a hair out of place, no lipstick rubbed off after lunch. Me? I’m rumpled. My lipstick doesn’t stay on. I can’t wear heels all day. My hair gets windblown. My armpit hair grows out.

I fail the multifarious tests of femininity every day.

But I still do reasonably well, simply because with my raw material – young, slim and pretty – you can’t go too far wrong.

Of course I still feel the strain of femininity. I’ve been going shorter and shorter with my hair (it’s still very long because it was so long to start with) and now I admit the only reason I don’t chop it all off is femininity – vanity. I have gotten more used to 2-3 inch heels (used not to be able to walk in them at all). I wear them only for work. My legs are more often shaved than not, and no, this is not always fun or comfortable. In my non-skirt wearing days, I would envy the girls in loose flowing skirts and dresses in the summer. So there is the joy of comfort and the breeze and the freedom of movement. But it would be so much nicer if I could do it without making my legs conform to an arbitrary standard (of course I could still leave my legs hairy and wear a skirt. But I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that at all).

I didn’t care about the opinions of people back home, so I wasn’t uncomfortable flouting their conventions. I do care about the people in America, because they appear more sane to me and I AM uncomfortable flouting American conventions. That doesn’t mean there is a difference, in principle, in what’s going on in my choices.

My husband has always admired and loved the utterly natural unadorned first-thing-in-the-morning me. I don’t NEED to be decorative for work. I work for two feminists pushing fifty. Neither of them care how I look or would dream of holding it against me. I don’t care for the approval of the men on the street. I asked myself, “What’s holding me to femininity?”

So I decided to give up my only visible make-up (lipstick), pull back my hair in a bun, and not go out of my way or wear anything uncomfortable in order to look good.

I stopped after a week.

That little bit of lipstick and the flowing long hair. They’re crucial to earning me respect, apparently.

People stopped opening doors, standing aside and looking awe-struck. Some women stopped being nice. Some people assumed I was a sales clerk, homeless, boring, didn’t speak English, or was just plain stupid. People just weren’t as nice to me. Chivalry — never welcome anyway — was nonexistent.

People – especially men, but women too – listened less closely when I spoke. It took even longer to convince new acquaintances I had a brain. I didn’t notice any lingering glances from passersby. Nobody perked up and paid attention when I walked into a room. I didn’t “make anyone’s day” by smiling. (Yes, this happens – people, mostly men, mostly older men, mostly older men of a certain sort, tell you that.)

I had become a non-person. I was invisible. I had been disappeared. I had no value.

I realized what older women and other non-conforming women might feel. And I realized what a lot of societal rewarding a pretty woman turned out for the pleasure of patriarchy receives. I only saw it when it went away. And I wanted it back.

If this seems strange, it’s because lipstick makes a huge difference to a monochromatic color scheme like mine – I’m brown (skin) and black (hair and eyes), pretty much. No blues and pinks and yellows, as in white women’s faces and hair. A bit of lipstick and good hair goes a long way for me.

So, choice = be ignored and undervalued or be admired and adored? Some choice.

I am not wearing heels and stockings and certain clothes and keeping my hair long and putting on lipstick because I like it. I do like it, but I only like it because I’m rewarded for it. I’m made to feel better about myself if I look a certain way. But this rewarding? It’s wrong. And if I were a better person, I’d stop. I’d give up the rewards and just be comfortable and myself, and save myself a hell of a lot of time. I would stop expecting myself to perform a decorative function (in addition to being interesting, kind and good) and actually taking pleasure in my decorativeness. I would be for me, not “for me” through the reflections of others’ enjoyment.

I admire women who choose to do without, and survive the resulting social disappearance of them. But I don’t want to be one of them. The rewards are too sweet. Look around you — how many women do you see who aren’t trying to make the best of their physical assets? I don’t see many. How many women – otherwise youngish and ordinary looking (i.e., not homeless) do you see with hairy legs bared? I’ve only ever seen two. And one of them is an eccentric (see, I’m calling them weird now). The second was at a lesbian event.

The fact that I don’t want to give up my rewards is human weakness and pusillanimity, not the new freedom of the “post-feminist” world.

The patriarchy still rules, most of the time, on most women’s bodies. We have made some progress and earned one right – when we don’t conform, we mostly escape serious punishment. Not always, but frequently. This is a good thing.

I’m not chastising myself for the fun of it, but because it occurred to me – quite recently, as I have begun to notice more and more my transformation from a serious nerdy person to a ‘girly girl’ – that essentially, there really isn’t a difference between what the Muslim chicks do to fit in and what I do to fit in. This is an important insight. To get approval, Muslim women are asked to be submissive and show it in symbols, such as the headscarf. Western women are asked to be decorative. Or risk being made irrelevant.

The fight of feminism was and is to rescue women from irrelevancy while striving to control the definition of being relevant. Being decorative – or submissive – is not being relevant on our terms, although we may succeed in gaining some measure of relevance in other areas feminism has made headway in, and it helps the overall effort to show, through femininity, that we’ll bend a little here and there. We aren’t breaking all the rules. We are still “under control.”

When women look like how they are “supposed to look” – all is right with the patriarchy.

True freedom will be ours when we’re not playing to a gallery, when we don’t expect to wow people we’re never going to speak with, when we can exist purely as ourselves and not feel conscious of that simple act. But yes, I know this is all so much speechifying on my part if I openly declare I’m not willing to part with my rewards for the sake of mere ideals.

Ah, patriarchy. It’s insidious.

I’m working on it. That’s the best I can say.