Tag Archives: women

Not a California Gurl

I admit it: I love to listen to CHR—Contemporary Hit Radio, i.e. the Top 40 station. One of the best things about living in California (after the weather) is the fact that rather than normal Top 40 stations, we have “Rhythmic Contemporary” stations. This means, basically, that you get all the great pop, R&B songs, and hip-hop songs of a normal CHR station, still skipping some of the hip-hop that would play on an “urban only” station (which generally tends to be the hip-hop I enjoy less), and skipping most of the rock and country songs that other CHR stations would play.

This last part is key. I do certain rock (e.g., U2), but I don’t do other rock (e.g., Nickelback). I appreciate a radio station that doesn’t make me listen to any more rock than I have to, since I tend to dislike more than I like. Unfortunately, however, even my beloved AMP radio is making me listen to other disgusting excuses for art. Indeed, Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” does not even perform well against other dumb and potentially offensive songs. Yes, even “Carry Out” by Timbaland and Justin Timberlake ranks far, far above “California Gurls” in my mind.

I dislike “California Gurls” for many reasons. First, its spelling. Secondly, it’s labeling women as girls. (Thanks, Jennifer Hagin, for ruining my ability to mindlessly accept colloquialisms.) Thirdly, Katy Perry’s barely cloud-obscured nudity in the video. Fourthly, Katy Perry’s costumes because they are just sexist and disgusting. Fifthly, the song’s insinuation that men should pick their women based on geographic location and that women are valuable as members of a group rather than as individuals. “Carolina Girls” may be a much more innocent song, but I’ve always hated it, too—along with the thousands of “Carolina Girls” t-shirts sold at UNC Student Stores every year.

One of the most frustrating things about “California Gurls,” however, is the aspect of it that is true. Of course most women here don’t walk around in bikinis, drive Jeeps, or have sex on the beach on a regular basis. However, there is something different about women (and many men) in California: an increased concern with appearance. In California it’s easy to walk around in what you think are normal-people clothes and feel like a total bum. As my friend Kate noticed on a visit here, people seem to dress up even just to visit the mall. After traffic, this is probably my least favorite part of living in Los Angeles county. There are plenty of kind-hearted and intelligent people out here, but the stereotype that L.A. residents are shallow, materialistic, and always sporting the latest styles sometimes feels very true.

Back in college, the dominant culture was that of the over-achiever. It was this culture that our InterVarsity staff encouraged us to struggle against—that we might find our value in God’s love for us rather than our achievements. Here, I wish we had a few more prophetic voices encouraging us to not buy into the SoCal mentality. I wish this partly for selfish reasons—so that I wouldn’t feel as out of place just because I don’t wear make-up and could stand to lose a few pounds—but I also want it because I hate seeing the damage that comes from misplaced priorities. Unfortunately, L.A. sometimes seems to specialize in cultural flaws (though, of course, it also has its share of cultural beauty), and it can be difficult to know how to adequately address a culture’s influence in our own lives, much less help anyone else with this task. Still, I think this is a task we are called to, as we try to better love God, ourselves, and our neighbors.

With no further brilliance to share, I will conclude by recommending two recent books that I have not yet read: Unsqueezed, an entertaining book about culture and body image by Margot Starbuck (author of The Girl in the Orange Dress, a fantastic memoir on adoption, divorce, and God as Father) and Under the Influence, a look at the culture of California and its influence on broader American culture.

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Filed under Pop Culture

Feminism, Babies, & PhDs

A lot happened this February. First, I was invited on an all-expense-paid weekend trip to Baylor University where I had applied to a sociology of religion PhD program (which made me feel important and intelligent). Secondly, I went on said trip (which made me feel professional and mature). Lastly—and thankfully not during the aforementioned trip—I had a brief pregnancy scare (which made me feel a lot of things).

In March, I was put “at the top” of the wait list, and soon after I received an official notice that I was not rejected per se—but there would not be space for me in the incoming class. I did not feel bitterness towards those who had been accepted, as I had met them and thought they were both brilliant and fun. I had hoped to be their peer and friend, but even given this unfortunate news, I only wished them the best. I did, however, have an important decision to make: Would I reapply to PhD programs next year? And I eventually decided I wouldn’t.

My main concern: babies. Ending a PhD at 29 somehow felt a lot more do-able than ending a PhD at 30. I’m not sure what is magical about 30, but 30 felt impossible. Too close for comfort. If I was graduating at 30, would I be able to be have done having kids at 35?

35 is the even-more-magic number. 35 is the deadline. Over 35 you are an “advanced maternal age” patient. Your risks for everything go up; your baby’s risks for everything go up. If you’re willing to take fertility drugs or abort a baby with birth defects, you can keep going into your late 30s and early 40s. If you’re willing to consider just having one or two kids, you wait to start until your late 30s and early 40s. I, however, wanted to be sure I wasn’t forced to have kids over 35 if I didn’t want to, and I wanted to make certain I had room for as many as we decided to have.

My husband didn’t want me to give up on my goals because I felt confined by gender. He promised to be a total team player, sharing housework and childcare as equally as possible. The burden wouldn’t be on me. We could do not only the dual-career thing but the dual-academic-career thing. I was unconvinced. If children dropped into our laps as five-year-olds, or even toddlers, maybe we could make a way. But pregnancy was going to cause trouble, almost inevitably.

Jeremiah continued to encourage me to not give up, so I bought a book called Mama, PhD. Through the essays of these real-life mothering grad students and professors, my suspicions were confirmed. A PhD just wouldn’t work for me right now, not only because of its length, but also because of everything that comes after—the pressure to publish and to find a tenure-track position. It felt wussy, in a way, to back down just because things would be hard, but in the end, I was convinced: I would much rather give up a PhD for now (with the option of returning later) than be miserable fighting the system for the next 10+ years.

All of this came as a surprise to me, as I’d never considered how much pregnancy itself would frustrate my plans. Somehow I’d neglected to consider how sexism (via inflexible systems and bad attitudes of superiors) could affect my career, regardless of how egalitarian my marriage was. I also simply hadn’t thought much about kids before, as I was in no rush to have them. I thought waiting five years for kids (till 29 or so) was my minimum anyway. I thought I would work full-time with kids, even very young ones. I thought I wanted the sort of career that would let me stand out as an over-achiever, as an intelligent woman, that would put those frumpy stay-at-home moms to shame. It was hard to believe that anything could change those desires.

But something did change. As I try to make sense of it all, it seems the only variable to shift was the proximity of the possibility of having a child—something that is impossible to anticipate your feelings toward—and my embarrassing realization that I do actually want kids. A realization not because it was brand new information but information with new meaning; embarrassing because I wasn’t supposed to be the sort of woman who gets gushy over these things.

One’s self concept must go through certain changes, however, when reality proves it wrong. I wasn’t sure what to make of the reality that a negative pregnancy test in February made me cry over a non-existent unplanned baby who would have screwed up our educations, finances, and years of extended adolescence and marital bliss. It is clear, however, that beneath my sometimes bitchy and proud (insecure?) feminist exterior there are plenty of uncomfortable feelings for me to explore, if I ever get brave enough to do so.

I’m still trying to figure out a lot of what this means about what I do want to do during the next ten years or so and when I do want to have kids. And I still may end up working a lot. I’m still planning on more school. I could even end up waiting for babies until 30. But I’m wrestling with these questions in a way I didn’t anticipate ever having to wrestle with them, and definitely long before I’d imagined I’d begin.

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Filed under Kids

When a feminist dies…

When a feminist dies, I don’t advise calling on the president of a Southern Baptist seminary to write the report.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Crosswalk.com did this past week after the death of “post-Christian” lesbian feminist Mary Daly, who taught theology at Boston College (until we was ousted for barring men from her higher-level courses of feminist thought…).

Albert Mohler, who frequently writes on current events and culture for the conservative Christian website and is President of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, was called upon to reflect on Daly’s death. Mohler makes certain to point out radical Daly’s ironic prejudice towards transsexuals and pokes fun at her belief that women were, in some sense, victims of “gynocide” at the hands of Christianity. While he called her story “tragic,” it is triumphalism, rather than lament that seems to characterize his piece.

After reading Mohler’s article, I had two wishes:

First, that Christians would be sensitive to the personal connections of various authors and in the future, and perhaps choose an author who might not have the same prominence in a very anti-feminist denomination for a piece on the death of a feminist. I’m not saying, necessarily, that the author couldn’t be a complementarian when it comes to women in ministry, but I’ve met a lot of very gracious complementarians that would be much better suited to write such a piece than a member of the Council for Biblical Manhood and Womanhood’s governing body. Mohler was also instrumental in the addition of a statement about women’s submission to the 2000 version of the “non-creedal” creed of the Southern Baptists, the Baptist Faith and Message. I mean, according to wikipedia and from what I’ve heard, this guy is critical of anyone who chooses not to have kids, critical of birth control, opposed to all alcohol use… I don’t know why a more moderate complementarian could not be found who wouldn’t carry the same baggage into the conversation by mere virtue of his name and fame.

Secondly, I wish that we would truly lament Daly’s death in a manner befitting Christians. It just seemed unnecessary to harp on Daly for her views toward transsexuals–perhaps I read it wrong, but it seemed to be a, “Ha, you hypocrite radicals, you!” I also found it insensitive to scoff at her death from “declining health” versus “gynocide.” Just because she had an extreme view, doesn’t make her an idiot, and even if she were an idiot, what does that matter? There is no response we should have to this but sorrow: sorrow that sexism has tainted the church since its birth, sorrow that sexism continues to be inadequately addressed by Christians, sorrow that individuals feel they must choose between Christianity and feminism, sorrow that anyone would feel the Christian God was “phallocentric” or otherwise unconcerned with the lives of women.

Besides our sorrow over the state of things and over the story of this one woman, we also must be sensitive in how we write about such matters, that we not take lightly the death of someone who was others’ daughter, sister, lover, and friend. Additionally, as Daly began as a Christian, she likely knew Christians that cared for her deeply and were hurt profoundly by her apostasy. Regardless of what we make of her views, we must recognize the frustration and pain she apparently felt as a woman and the frustration and pain others felt on her behalf when she went down this path. Let us not let another’s bitterness towards Christianity lead to our own callousness at her death.

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Filed under Gender, Social Justice, Theology & Ministry