Every child goes through a "NO!" phase; it's an important part of learning how to individuate oneself. And it eventually evolves into a more sophisticated comprehension of the concept of Choice, and how one's life path is forged by little choices every step of the way.
When I was very very young, I thought that I ought to have a choice about who I was & who I would be, regardless of what I was born with. And I tried to wrap my head around Growing Up As A Boy.
I remember being overcome with dread, and thinking, I am so glad I am not a boy; I don't know how they survive it. To choose to be a boy was to choose to be vulnerable to all the hard knocks that a boy was expected to tough out. A boy's life seemed fraught with risk and overburdened with responsibility.
When I look back now, I think that perception of what it was to grow up as a boy may have been partially influenced by stories of my dad's childhood.
He had been born into a overly large and underfunded family, and so he was put to work while still very young. At age six, he had a paper route; at age twelve, he was digging ditches; and at age fourteen, he had a job in an ice cream factory where accidental spillage of some coolant ~ I think it may have been liquid nitrogen? ~ ran down into his boots and left his legs scarred. And those are just some of the highlights. Sounds Dickensian, but it's true. He still carries a little bit of resentment, I think, that he wasn't allowed to have a carefree childhood. But, he told us, he has continued to work hard so we wouldn't have to suffer the same way.
Dad's experience aside, the prospects of even your average boyhood were at the time very painful to apprehend. Yes, boys are tough; but you've got to be tough to be a boy. And they make it tough on each other, too.
So, from a child's point of view, it made sense to be Beautiful instead.
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{Now, let's not start splitting hairs about inner beauty vs. outer beauty; when I say Beauty, I'm talking about a harmonious combination of winning personality & sensitive human soul in an aesthetically appealling physical wrapping. I mean the whole Beauty package.}
Beautiful meant I would not have to suffer the rigours imposed on boys.
Beautiful meant people would be instantly well-disposed towards me. I would be taken care of, nurtured, prized & photographed, like a rare orchid; I would be protected, inaccessible, untouchable & set on a pedestal, like a precious work of art; I could be intimidating, dangerous, enigmatic & self-possessed, like a fictitious femme fatale.
Beautiful meant people would take me on trips around the world. And buy me cool stuff. And I would never have to struggle for money, or even work for a living. And everybody would want to be my friend. And I wouldn't get drafted into the army, and I wouldn't get bullied, and I wouldn't be expected to go down into the coal mines or to have my spirit ground down to powder between the hours of 9 to 5 for five days a week in order to support a family. And I wouldn't be expected to cook. Or clean. Or get stressed out over anything. And life would be beautiful & simple thing because I was simply a beautiful thing. It would be magic.
Beautiful meant Freedom. Freedom from want, freedom of choice, freedom of self-expression, freedom from fear, freedom from prejudice, freedom to act & to be self-actualized.
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You can imagine how it's just a wee bit disturbing to look back on that attitude to beauty now...
...not to say that I've entirely gotten over it. No, despite Naomi Wolf, etc., I haven't managed to part with it ~~ probably because I can't throw anything away. So instead it has been stuffed down deep into an inner breast pocket of an old jacket worn by a skeleton in a closet of my psyche. Should you find this pocket, and dig past the wadded tissues, you'd find a forgotten yearning still keen after all these years. And were you sharp-sighted enough, you'd be able to read this infinitesimal inscription in an elaborate curlicued font, on its finest edge:
An exquisite beauty so utterly sublime that my path through life would be illuminated by the eyes which lit up at the sight of me.
...which brings to mind an image of me as a moth constantly drawn to the eyes of admirers.
Yes, yes, yes; "Beauty is a curse." Money doesn't buy happiness, either; but it pays the bills. And rooted deep in my heart is a conviction that "Beauty opens doors" ~ sort of like being a member of the Freemasons, but without the secret handshake. ;)
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Mind you... it had never occurred to me, until composing this post, to put my yearning for Beauty in the frame of reference of my dad's childhood. {I mean, jeeze, what two things could be further away from each other than my dad's childhood and mine?} In this light, my yearning for Beauty looks like cowardice and a craving to remain infantalized.
Perhaps I'm still not out of my "NO!" phase.
Hmmm... {think, think, ponder, ponder, mull, mull....}
Nope, self~psychoanalysis didn't work; the craving is still there.
Maybe I need The Patch.
Posted by edgar at July 3, 2003 11:22 AM