The Wisdom of Others: Carrie on Carrie

So, the brilliant Carrie Polansky, who founded the faboo blog Gender Across Borders (do go read them/find out how to like/follow them on Facebook and Twitter here, if you haven't already--I promise, you'll be glad you did!), has started a new blog about the gender politics of Sex and the City, Carrie on Carrie. [Claps hands together in anticipatory glee.] I, and all of us over here at BOCS (which... oh, right, it is actually just me over here at BOCS), are pretty darned psyched. Go revel in her wisdom immediately, won't you? Once again, you shall certainly be glad that you did!

Fashion and Feminism: Friends or Foes?: A Tangent

One of the chief “f”s of SATC (one being “friendship,” of course—I leave it to your fertile imaginations what the other primary “f” might be) is, of course, fashion. From the very beginning of the show onwards, fashion was one of its focal points. Throughout the series (and into the ghastly—but very nicely togged up, I will admit) movies, the writers, producers, and costume designers all worked together very closely when it came to deciding what the four women should wear for any given moment/discussion/event. Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha’s sartorial choices were never incidental to the primary action of the show/the films, but were, rather, often a vital part of it. Fashion really mattered in the SATC universe, both to the four characters, and to the women and men who created (and dressed) them.

Part of this focus on fashion, of course, had less to do with creativity and self-expression than it did with a significant, ever popular “m” word—that is to say, money. By the time we got to the movies (“SATC 2: brought to you by Skyy Vodka, Debenham’s, and, of course, the Prince of Darkness!” Have I mentioned I didn’t like the second movie at all?), the connections between the franchise and various products/designers were quite blatant and overt—were, indeed, positively shameless. I confess that I have not done any digging/research on the subject whatsoever (and me with a PhD in my back pocket, aren’t I supposed to like that kind of thing?), but I am nonetheless quite sure that some unsavory deals must have been done throughout the series between members of the SATC juggernaut and various designers and stores. If you were to play a drinking game in which you took a slug of vodka (Skyy Vodka, presumably, SATC’s vodka of choice, in case you hadn’t heard!) every time the characters mentioned/enthused over a particular brand (perhaps taking two slugs for repeat offenders like Bergdorf’s, Manolo Blahnik, and Jimmy Choo) in any given episode, let me assure you, by the end of said episode, you would be very drunk, indeed. (Like, we're talking Russian drunk.)

In short, all of this talk about fashion in the show most certainly has its dark side. A dark side in which particular brands are touted because there is money to be made, and profits to be enjoyed. A dark side in which the women of SATC are defined primarily through their roles as avid consumers within, and enthusiastic cheerleaders for, a capitalistic society which, as we know, is no respecter of either persons or nations. A dark side which suggests that, for women, real beauty, success, and glamour have a very high price tag attached, and that to be an accomplished, modern, sexy woman, you have to look the part—in a $4,000 dress and $400 shoes, of course.

Having noted that the show’s immersion in (and whole-hearted, uncomplicated embrace of) the world of high fashion most certainly has its problematic aspects… may I also note that said immersion is also one of my favorite parts of the show? Not because I see the show offering a sophisticated analysis of the ways in which women forge a sense of self through their clothing choices (because I don’t think that it is), and not because their take on fashion radically challenges normative ideas about what constitutes “beauty” (because I don’t think it does)—but rather because I really, really like pretty things, and deeply enjoy getting treated to a constant parade of outfits from women who are quite dashing and risk-take-y when it comes to the clothes which they wear and the ways in which they wear them (here’s looking at you, Carrie Bradshaw.)

All of which brings us to the inevitable Bigger Question—can a strong commitment to feminism (which—thank you, Women’s Studies classes which I took in college!—I most certainly have), and a deep love of fashion (which—thank you, American Girl books which consistently featured Loopy Fashions of the Past, especially cracked-out bows from the Victorian era which I read as a child!—I most certainly do) happily co-exist? In a not entirely un-self-serving way (because I defy you to successfully extract either love of pretty clothes or of feminist ideals from my person), I am going to say—yes.

But “happily,” I don’t think has to mean “uncomplicated-ly.” Because there’ll always going to be some fundamental contradictions involved, for those of us who hug both our copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and the new shiny brown heels which we just got at a thrift store for $4.00 (I seriously did, and they are STUNNING) to our chests. Because is the fashion industry one which primarily has women’s interests/empowerment/fulfillment as individuals/as a class at its heart? Nope. Its primary concern is to make buckets and buckets of shining cash, and if it has to exploit Third World women and create a damaging and destructive ideal of female beauty which kicks all women who are not cisgendered, white, painfully thin, young, and able-bodied to the curb (among other sins) to do it, then by golly, do it it most certainly will.

Am I participating in an empowering, feminist act when I slap on said heels and go gadding about town? (Which… can’t wait to do, they are so pretttttty.) Not so much. I know that numerous Third Wave feminists have strenuously worked to make the case that playing with fashion and beauty can be a profoundly subversive act—and I do buy that… but only up to a certain point, in certain ways, and in certain contexts. There is nothing in the least subversive, for example, about me putting on heeled shoes (which are coded as “feminine” and “sexy” in our culture)—if anything, it’s quite the reverse. As a straight woman, that’s actually something I am “supposed” to do, if I want to in fact be considered “feminine” and “sexy.” Dominant beauty ideals, my lovely new heels—I fear that you play right into them.

This doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t take pleasure in said shoes, because you bet your sweet bippy that I do. Fashion in general is a source of active, continuous pleasure in my life, and (conscious as I am of all of fashion’s many pitfalls and uglinesses for women), I don’t feel an anguished sense of conflictedness that my favorite blogs almost invariably involve the two “f”s of fashion and feminism.

And though I won’t claim that getting dressed in the morning is a feminist act equivalent to writing a feminist treatise or protesting for equal pay, I will say that fashion is, indeed, something which consistently gladdens my heart and lightens my spirits—which even (yes, I’m giving some ground to the Third Wavers here) provides a (small) space for subversion.

I’m quite tall even sans tall shoes, you see, and putting on heels, as such, does feel like a miniature act of defiance to me. After all, I spent my entire adolescence trying to make myself smaller than I was (hitting the 5’10” mark at 13—thanks a lot, genes, that was very helpful)—to take up less space—to not be “too tall” (i.e., taller than whatever boy I happened to be standing next to.) And when I put on heels that push me over the six foot mark (which is to say… basically any heels), it feels like a gift to the frightened young lass I once was, who was terrified of standing out too much—of being too noticeable—of making herself too conspicuous. I’m not afraid of taking up space/being visible, anymore, and I bless heels, for enabling me to take pleasure in something which was once a source of considerable adolescent hand-wringing and angst.

I also quite literally buy all of my clothes at thrift stores (okay, undergarments excluded, I do like to find my undergarments unworn by others)—I think the last dress I bought new was for my sister’s wedding (my sister who has been married for five years, thankyouverymuch), and that was only because I couldn’t find something sufficiently festive at my usual stand-bys. So, yes, I am still buying clothes and shoes that were made in sweat-shops by unpaid, undernourished five year olds. But I’m not directly supporting the businesses which run said sweatshops—sometimes, I even get to support thrift stores with quite lovely missions and admirable goals, instead. So though I am not quite bringing capitalism down from within—it’s still something.

And as a historian of women, there’s also something in the world of fashion which speaks to my susceptible, past-loving heart—for a lot of American history, after all, fashion was one of the primary means through which women could express their creativity and demonstrate their artistry. (And not just economically privileged women, either.) Yes, ideals of female beauty are most often not generated by women, and are certainly not generated along pluralistic, “all women are beautiful, you look great the way you are, even if you are a woman who happens to be voluptuous in the 1920s/flat-chested in the 1950s” lines, either.

But still. Throughout American history, women have taken fashion and made it into a thing of joy, beauty, and meaning in their lives. Treasured items of clothing (wedding dresses, baby clothes) have been passed down as beloved family heirlooms—transforming otherwise simple, physical objects into memories of women past, and hopes for women future. I wear a necklace every day that once belonged to my great-grandmother—a complex and contradictory lady (from what I hear), possessed of a stubborn nature and a sharp tongue. I wear it in honor of her, and of all the women of my family who carved out lives for themselves in times far harsher than the times I live in, now—and who insisted on bringing beauty into their lives, even if that beauty took the so-called “frivolous” form of a pretty new necklace.

So is Carrie exhibiting grating tone-deafness about her own immense class privilege when she insists that buying $400 shoes for herself is the best means for her to declare her independence? Yes. Is she irritatingly buying into Hugh Hefner’s tired line that the best way for women to claim sexual autonomy is to conform to a rigid, narrow ideal of “sexiness” and the male gaze when she sports a Playboy necklace? Yup.

But still. Watching Carrie wear what she wants to wear, in the way that she wants to wear it, and take an active pleasure in her own creativity and body, actually feels pretty darned good to me.

It feels, in fact, pretty darned feminist.

Moments That Are More Like An SATC Episode Than They Are Like Real Life: A Tangent

So I recently went to get a facial (which in and of itself is more like an SATC episode than real life, since such pricey spa treatments are usually waaaay outside my adjunct self's financial purview--thank you, nice people who gave me cash for graduation!), and had a distinctly "I have been thrown into a humiliating Miranda plotline, circa about Season Two" type experience. Said experience went a little something like this [adding the caveat before I begin that the esthetician in question was a very nice lady and a very talented woman at her job--one does not wish to falsely paint a picture all black]:

Esthetician: "Do you have any children?"
Me: "Nope, no kids."
Esthetician: "Are you married?"
Me: "Nope, not married."
Esthetician: "But you have a boyfriend?"
Me: [feeling like I should be hooked up to a polygraph by this point, and wondering if delivering a lecture on heteronormativity to someone wielding what looks like a scalpel is entirely wise]: "Nope, I'm totally, completely, utterly single!"
Esthetician: [poking at my skin critically]: "Well, when we fix this, that will change."
Me: [silent, thinking to self that self does not want a husband or boyfriend who would want me only on the condition that I successfully banished all of the imperfect "thises" from my person.]
Esthetician: [poking at a different patch of my skin even more critically]: "You can tell that you are a single lady from your skin. Hormones, girl, hormones! That is what makes your skin like this."
Me: [wondering why, if it is so obvious from my skin that I am unmarried, I was even asked whether or not I was married in the first place]: "But... wouldn't I still have hormones, even if I was married, or had a boyfriend?"
Esthetician: [jabs at part of my skin with a sharp metal implement, thus effectively silencing me for the duration.]

So, in case the lessons to be gleaned from this exchange are not clear to you:

1) I have troubled skin because I do not have a boyfriend or husband to keep my hormones in check.
2) My troubled skin is making it tricky for me to attract a boyfriend or husband who will keep my hormones in check. (The world of the Catch-22... I live in it.)
3) Basically, keeping my hormones in check is key here.
4) Also, all women are straight.

Got that? Now if you'll excuse me, now that my skin is freshly facialed, I need to betake myself out there to find me my very own Hormone Check-er! They are not going to check themselves, people!

Carrie Cuts Her Hair to Get Over Her Lost Fiancé, I Cut Mine to Celebrate My Completed Dissertation: A Tangent

I realize that we are still acres away from Season Four (which is one of my favorite seasons, can’t wait), but I feel compelled at this moment in time to make another belabored parallel between me and the show. (Remember those, from when I first started this blog?)

In Season Four, Carrie chops off her hair when she is ready to start a new chapter in her life—lost love, new job, fresh start—and I’ve just chopped off mine, in something of the same spirit. True, unlike Carrie, my hair-cutting was not preceded by tragedy and heartbreak. (I’m going to put that one in the plus column.) And true, unlike Carrie, mine will not be followed by a glamorous, lucrative new job as a writer for Vogue. (I’m going to put that one in the minus column.)

But I think our friend Ms. Bradshaw is onto something, with this whole “marking of important life milestones by cathartic shedding of hair/transformation of personal appearance” thing. Carrie had been with the gent she breaks up with in Season Four for years. She loved him deeply. Their lives were profoundly intertwined. And when that relationship came to an end, she wanted to mark it in some way--to make the shifts in her heart and the upheavals in her life visible, on her body. After all, she was a different person, after being through what she had been through, and she wanted to make those differences overt--tangible--physical.

I have been a grad student for seven years, people… pretty much my entire adult life. I started grad school as a lass of twenty-two, and am now within inches of my twenty-ninth birthday. For me, grad school has been a home, a haven, a hell—a source of both tears and of laughter (sometimes happy tears and quasi-hysterical/embittered laughter—such is the “Alice falling down the rabbit hole,” everything-is-upside-down-and-backwards-but-apparently-it-would-be-impolite-of-me-to-mention-this nature of the grad school experience)—the reasons for long bookish days and late writing nights. And this very day, my dissertation will be signed, sealed, and delivered—and I will be a grad student no more. Huh. Whaddya know.

And I am not the same person I was, B.G. S. (Before Grad School)—and I wanted to mark that in some way. To make this tremendous shift in my life and the pending upheavals in my world visible, on my person. (And to donate my discarded locks in the process, of course.)

Because as Carrie teaches us, cutting off your hair is a leap of faith. A public assertion that you are not afraid of change, but that you embrace it. That you are not afraid of making yourself vulnerable (after all, when The Hair is Cut, The Neck is Exposed and The Face has Nowhere to Hide), but that you recognize that being vulnerable is an essential part of being brave. That you are not afraid to face your future without the man who was once the center of your world, or the role which was once the core of your identity.

That sometimes we have to let go of a much-loved past in order to embrace an exhilaratingly, terrifyingly unknown future.

So… onwards for me, as I throw myself into My Life After Grad School… and onward for the women of SATC as they throw themselves into their next madcap adventures.

(Oh and P.S.—the charming blog Cupcakes Taste Nice had a lovely story a couple of years ago about the evolution of Carrie’s hair if you want to see it all unfold—and you can still even vote on which look you like best. Come onnnn, short bob, I am very Pro-Short Bob!)

Moments That Feel More Like An SATC Episode Than They Do Like Real Life: A Tangent

[Blogger's note: Regular episode-bitching-about is temporarily suspended given Pressing Dissertation Deadlines. But said deadlines shall pass soon (VERY. SOON. EEP.) and episode-bitching-about shall commence again thereafter!]

So I spent this weekend at my family reunion, which was 1) very charming, and 2) featured (as life so often seems to do) a convergence of many Important Events—four new babies (either already present and wearing fetching floral rompers or Coming Very Soon to A Family Near You—or more accurately, Near Me), two wedding anniversaries, and one shiny new engagement.

One of the activities at said family reunions (apart from the eating, my goodness—the eating) is taking tubes, canoes, kayaks, or whatever one’s watercraft of choice might be down the (very mild) rapids which a river in Pennsylvania can boast. As I floated in a tube (my watercraft of choice – for me, kayaks = high probability of drowning and canoes = too hard for my spaghetti-like arms to wield successfully) on the aforementioned Pennsylvania river, through the aforementioned (very mild) rapids, I was having a “ 'I love my life exactly the way it is, but my, aren’t babies cute and engagement rings pretty?' [insert slightly wistful sigh here]” moment, when two blokes in a canoe pulled up alongside me and asked (I kid thee not, I wish I’d had a waterproof tape recorder with me so I could prove it to you), “Do you need rescuing, little lady?”

Leaving aside the facts that these blokes were 1) smoking as they canoed, 2) had a dog in the canoe with them (and a big dog, at that), and 3) actually did apply the label “little lady” to me (even though I am demonstrably not little, and arguably not a lady), the thing that struck me the most about this incident was how darned unreal it felt. It felt like something that was happening, not to me, but rather something that had happened to an SATC character at some point during the show’s run, in an episode which I now only dimly remembered.

These gents seemed way too much like they’d been placed on the river by central casting, and given their lines by an SATC scriptwriter. (“Get it, when they ask her if she needs to be rescued, they’re partly talking about her incompetent self trying to pretend she knows what she’s doing tubing, but they’re also asking if she needs to be rescued in the Deep, Philosophical Sense, as a childless, single lass drifting she knows not where on the River of Life. You see? SYMBOLISM. POETRY.”)

Thrown into such an SATC-like situation, how does one respond? If playing the role of Samantha, one would, of course, rapidly seduce (and equally rapidly abandon) one (or both?) of the canoers. If playing the role of Miranda, one would instantly develop a neurosis about this challenge to one’s athletic prowess/overall competence, which would subsequently need to be addressed through extensive therapy. If playing the role of Charlotte, one would convince oneself that one had fallen in love with one of the canoers at first sight, and proceed to daydream about a future spent living in a charming tree-ringed cabin with him, and, presumably, the dog as well.

If playing the role of Carrie, one would probably do what I did, which was to say, “No, thanks, I think I can make it on my own,” continue on my way, and then go home and write about it all.

Which, even though I got a bit scraped up and bruised in transit, is exactly what I did.