Do I want to wear gowns or do I want human rights?

The desire to be the person I truly am VS. The desire to be seen as attractive finally do battle in this epic showdown.

I often think of how hot I’d be considered had I been born in 1500’s England. Queen Elizabeth was top dog back then, leading the way in both matters of state and standards of beauty. The hottest features you could possess during her reign was a redhead with a big forehead (which, by the way, is my face exactly). But even if I hadn’t borne an uncanny resemblance to the reigning monarch, I still think I would have slayed… because of the gowns. Medieval corset numbers, 1800’s empire waist dresses, gilded age ball gowns, even plain peasant frocks - I can pull off any style! No lie! I just look really, really good in gowns and I feel good too. It feels like reaching the full potential of my beauty. It’s such a shame, I think to myself, staring in awe at Kiera Knightley’s snatched waist during my Pride & Prejudice rewatch. Such a damn shame! Why was I born into the one time period in which women don’t wear gowns every day? I would’ve been the hottest bitch in the village back then! I used to say this out loud instead of in my head, but stopped due to a lack of support from my so-called “friends” and “family” that  apparently “just wanted to enjoy the movie in peace.” 

“But you can wear a gown every day? No one’s stopping you,” my roommate once pointed out. As if I didn’t know that already! Yes, I know I could technically wear a gown every day - it’s not illegal. But it is considered pretty weird! “I don’t want to be the only person in the Spectrum Wireless store wearing a hoop skirt,” I explained, “I want to live in a time period in which wearing a gown every day is normal!” They rolled their eyes and unpaused the movie, just in time for me to hear Mrs. Bennett’s lengthy monologue detailing all the human rights she and her daughters lack in 19th century England. Just in time for me to feel totally ashamed and curse myself for being such a bad feminist. 

Those girls in the beautiful gowns on the screen? They can’t marry who they want, they can’t inherit anything from their father, they can’t vote, they can’t wear pants, they can’t have sex before marriage, they can’t initiate a lawsuit, they can’t leave anything to their children, they can’t divorce their husbands, they can’t do anything! Yet here I am, wishing I lived in that era because I feel pretty in gowns. How shallow! How stupid! How antifeminist of me! Yes, if I lived in the world of Pride & Prejudice, I’d look fabulous 24/7. But I wouldn’t have any goddamn rights! So how could I have ever wanted such a thing in the first place? 

I certainly haven’t lived long enough to make authoritative statements on what being a woman truly means. But during these past twenty four years of living, I’ve started to get a lay of the land, and from what I can tell, the lay of woman-land is largely made up of negotiations. Making tradeoffs, if you will. This is very annoying for me as I despise not getting everything I want all the time immediately. However, it seems that things are looking up for ole womankind, that as the merciless hand of time marches on, women gain more and more leverage at the negotiation table of life. So maybe there will come a day when I won’t have to compromise anymore. “Can the modern woman really have it all?” We’ve dedicated magazines, six season premium HBO series, movies of all genres, and an entire subsection of the self-help aisle at the bookstore to the pursuit of answering this question. Yet no consensus! This one’s a real stumper. 

Answering a question when it pertains to all womankind is a tricky business so I will not attempt to do so here. I can only answer the question on behalf of myself. Can I have it all? Of course not! Impossible! Duh! My desires can never be fulfilled simultaneously - they cancel each other out. America Ferrara touched on this conundrum in the Barbie movie, outlining the conflicting expectations put on women in a monologue that I’m sure the NYU Tisch School of the Arts college admissions panel will become well acquainted with during this year’s round of acting auditions. Some viewers found the monologue extremely moving, while others (like myself) were left asking “And…?” 

Not to yuck anyone’s cinematic yum, but hearing America Ferrera say, “You have to answer for men's bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you're accused of complaining. You're supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much,” was like hearing someone point out how the sky is blue. Tell me something I don’t know! Tell me something I didn’t already know at eight years old! Seriously though! When external forces thrust a set of contradictory expectations onto you, it rarely goes unnoticed. Think of Cinderella! Think of when the Evil Stepmother tells Cinderella she can only attend the ball on the condition she complete a week’s worth of chores in one night. Children instantly clock this as a raw deal and appropriately lose their minds. “But that’s IMPOSSIBLE! But that’s NOT FAIR,” they wail and wail. And just when you think they’ve shrieked themselves out, they scream, “I HATE THE EVIL STEPMOTHER!! SHE IS SO EVIL!!” An illuminating reaction, to be sure, one which demonstrates their keen comprehension skills. Not only do they recognize the conditions and standards placed on Cinderella as unfair, they also understand that placing these expectations on Cinderella makes the Stepmother a bad person. 

Noticing the contradictory nature of expectations you are held to is easy - even a four year old can do it. What’s harder, what causes me to wrestle with genuine moral conflict as a twenty four year old adult woman, is recognizing how my internal desires contradict one another. For me, the longest and most troubling battle of all can be summarized as: the desire to be the person I truly am versus the desire to be perceived as a beautiful, attractive woman. 

The earliest case of this showdown that I can remember took place when I was nine years old and auditioned for my school’s annual production of The Wizard of Oz. I find it tough to get across in writing just how big of a deal this musical tradition was and still remains to this day in my elementary school. It’s not just some drama teacher running this show, oh no, it’s a veteran theater director and choreographer on hire. It’s not taking place in a dinky school gym, get real, it’s running for three nights at a legitimate theater house and you bet your ass that tickets sell out FAST. The cast is comprised solely of fourth graders, most of whom saw their older siblings participate in earlier productions and have been itching for their chance to take to stage ever since. Auditions are cutthroat from the start, even for parents. In order for your child to participate, parents must race to the house of the PTA president on a Sunday morning and pray to whatever god they worship that there’s still a spot left on the list. 

The PTA president during my year was Mrs. Kat Taylor, the mom of my fellow classmate, Michael Taylor. He landed the role of The Tin Man and gave quite a performance, one that my parents still remember to this day (he spoke his lines so quietly not even the second row could hear him). By the time I hit the fourth grade, my parents were already quite chummy with Mrs. Taylor because her eldest was in the same grade as my older sister. A very lucky turn of events on my end since Mrs. Taylor was a very powerful woman when it came to The Wizard of Oz signups. Seizing his moment to capitalize on a friendship, my father gathered intel from Mrs. Taylor at the dog park weeks in advance. The whole neighborhood was abuzz! After weeks of hounding, Mrs. Taylor finally sent out an email informing parents that the signup sheet would be posted outside the Taylor household at 10:00 am that coming Sunday. Some parents read this email and thought to themselves, “I’ll get there at 9:45 just to be on the safe side.” Amateurs! My dad, alongside a select group of parents in the know, were lined up outside the Taylor residence at 5:00 am. My dad even brought a lawn chair. I did of course pity my classmates whose parents were too slow on the draw. Anyone with a heart would feel the same! But after about thirty seconds of thinking of others, my thoughts quickly turned back to myself and my upcoming audition.

I wanted to be Dorothy, no question about it. She’s the star of the show and notably, the only girl character of the four leads. She’s the pretty, main girl. And when I was in fourth grade, that was the role I desperately wanted to fill both on and off the stage. Because boys, well, they did not see me as the star of the show. Shocking, I know. Sure, boys would laugh at my jokes, but they’d never “like like” me. That emotion was always reserved for my friends. I wanted boys to think I was pretty and instantly fall in love with me and I believed playing Dorothy would finally do the trick. They’d see me wearing the dainty dress and ruby red slippers and realize what a bombshell had been sitting under their nose all along! But in order for me to make my fantasy a reality, I would have to beat some steep competition. 

Nearly every girl in the production had their sights set on the role of Dorothy. But I had an edge. Most of my competition had little to no experience in the world of musical theater by this point. But me? I was a veteran. They’d dedicated their summers to swim teams or vacations or horseback riding whereas I’d devoted my time off to honing my craft. Where, you ask? Why, the premier training ground for actors ages five through twelve of course, the Adventure Theater Camp. With roles such as Pirate #6 in Pirates of Penzance and Bird Girl #3 in Seussical Jr under my belt, I felt confident in the knowledge that I had paid my dues. 

Thus began my acting preparation process, which in this case amounted to learning the lines to Somewhere Over the Rainbow and singing it aloud for my mother. I informed her of my intentions to play Dorothy, sat her down in the playroom, and assured her I was open to notes and well-meaning critique. I spent the entirety of this private performance reminding myself to sing from my diaphragm and look wistful. Once finished, I bowed my head and held for applause. My mother obliged me with a fast, little clap and praised my vocal ability. But instead of reassuring me that I had the role of Dorothy on lock as I expected, she said, “You know… Dorothy’s not really very funny, is she? But you - you ARE really funny! Wouldn’t you rather play a part that makes people laugh? Like the Scarecrow! He’s the comic relief of the whole show!” 

Upon hearing this I let out a little gasp, not because I was offended, but because she was so obviously correct. My mind raced with this new epiphany. Wait a second… I AM really funny! That’s my main thing - the thing that all my teachers tell my parents - the thing that all my friends tell me! I want to make people feel the way Steve Martin does! I want to make them laugh! Why the hell would I let someone else take all the funny lines?What’s the point of saying lines in the first place if they don’t make someone laugh?

I had been so obsessed with the idea of everyone seeing me as the pretty, main girl that I never stopped to consider whether or not that role would actually make me happy. I had needed my mother, in all her infinite wisdom, to snap some sense into me. Because not only would I be better suited to playing the Scarecrow, I would be happier for it. So I tried out for the Scarecrow and… I got the part! *Cue sounds of crowds erupting in cheers!!!*

Come showtime, I triumphed. I didn’t wear a frilly dress or dainty braids or shiny shoes and no one suddenly fell in love with me but I didn’t care. I wore a straw hat and orange face paint and a patchwork jumpsuit and dazzled nonetheless. My neighbor Mr. Lyndon went up to my parents after the show and proclaimed, “Keara lit up the stage!” 

If my life were a movie, this would have been the part where I learned a valuable life lesson. I’d hear the audience sing my praises and vow to always stay true to myself, no matter the opinion of others. My character arc would be complete, neatly wrapped up in a bow of self acceptance. But unfortunately my life is not a feel-good coming of age film, it’s just a life. I’m not a plucky heroine embarking on a journey of self discovery, I’m just a person trying my best. It’s been fifteen years since I played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz and I’m still struggling with the same, old dilemma. I want to be myself, I want to be the funniest person in the room, I want to be a force of nature, I want every human right that a man possesses. But there is also a part of me that wants to be desired, that wants to be fuckable rather than intimidating, that wants to be a great artist’s muse, that wants to live in a time when it’s normal to wear gowns every day. And I hate that no matter how hard I try to destroy this part of me, it never fully goes away. 

I tell myself that I don’t care whether or not men find me attractive. I repeat this mantra over and over as if I’m a witch casting a spell. If I just say the magic words enough times, the curse of caring about my sex appeal will finally be lifted, I think to myself while chanting. Then suddenly, a powerful gust of wind sweeps through the room. I start to believe my spell is working. “Yes! Yes! I’m almost free from the shackles of the male gaze!” I exclaim. But just as the magic is about to take hold, I see a photo of Brad Pitt and swoon so hard I drop. I wake up moments later in a pentagram of black salt, which now looks more like a smudged star of David, and curse Brad Pitt for foiling me once again with his sexiness. I turn on the roomba and watch it inhale what the lady at the Wicca store ASSURED me was GENUINE magic salt. “Never trust a woman in a hemp frock!” I mutter under my breath. I blow out the gothic candles and head towards the exit of my secret, magic lair. On the way out, I scold myself for being such a horrible feminist that not even the Dark Mother herself can save me. 

Or maybe I’m casting the wrong spell. Doesn’t everyone want to be desired? Isn’t that just human nature? Why am I treating a normal, human desire like a piece of damning evidence in the case of Keara Vs. The State of Being a Good Feminist? I ask myself these questions as I emerge from the lair. The sun blinds me at first, forcing my eyes into a thin squint. I need a few moments to readjust - I’m not used to seeing such a full picture. After a few moments of cowering from the sun like Dracula, my eyes slowly start to open. 

Everything is clearer under the light of day, including myself. I could only see the parts of myself I was ashamed of down in the lair. Though gothic candelabras make excellent witch decor, they are only so-so when it comes to room illumination. It’s only in the light that I see something new: grace. It wafts slowly through the air like a dandelion. Using my pointer finger and my thumb, I gently pluck it out from the breeze. I tuck it in my pocket and decide I will give myself grace today. I look up and I see the part of myself that loves to make people laugh, the part of myself that doesn’t care if she looks stupid while doing a bit, the part of myself that lit up the stage in an insanely dramatic fourth grade production of The Wizard of Oz. 

And I see that this part of me is growing.