BY ====== May 8, 2020
That was my second-grade secret. Though was it much of a secret? Maybe not. My guy friends knew this and thought it was cool. Maybe it was the only reason that they were friends with me. As a seven-year-old, I saw how girls my age dressed and acted, and didn’t want to be like them. I hated the clothes that my mom dressed me in, hated how most girls were seen as “girly”. I wanted to be more like my guy friends. They liked the things that I liked: pokemon, bakugan and such. These were things that are generally catered toward young boys, rather than girls. I always felt like I had to prove myself to others, that I wasn’t a girly girl. I denounced the color pink, and called everyone “dude” or “bro”. I always had to be on the defensive, for fear of being seen as a girl, when in fact, it was just the image of a stereotypical “girly girl”. However, because the stereotypical girly girl was tied so closely to girls in general in people’s minds, I didn’t want to be a girl at all.
As junior high and high school rolled around, I started wearing clothing from the men’s section. The look was appealing to me, and the looser clothing was more comfortable. I also started to bind my chest with layers of unpadded sports bras, constantly wishing for a flat chest. They did the trick nicely—normal bras were extremely uncomfortable, didn’t reduce motion whatsoever, and bulged out awkwardly from underneath my clothes. Since my mom wouldn’t let me get a proper binder, I had to make do with my layering of tight sports bras. In order to actually purchase some of the clothing, I had to either trick my mom into thinking that they were from the girl’s section, or bother her long enough that she would just order them to get me to leave her alone.
Just because my mom eventually caved and let me wear boy’s clothing doesn’t mean that she approved, and she made sure that I knew it. Often after seeing what I was wearing, she would make comments, asking why I couldn’t just dress like a normal girl, and that I’m an embarrassment and people will think I’m weird. She never seemed to care about how I felt in these clothes, only what I looked like to other people and how they would react, how my clothing choices would make her look bad, how people would silently judge and discriminate against me because I wore weird clothes. I did my best to ignore her looks of disappointment and disgust. Why was it my fault that I didn’t find girls clothes appealing? Why was I getting yelled at for being different? Subconsciously, I took everything my mom said to heart, constantly criticizing myself just like she and my sister criticized me. I hated myself; I grew up hating myself.
My mom’s constant criticism of and concern with what I looked like took a large toll on our relationship and my self-esteem. I hated my body so much, believed that I was so ugly and nobody would ever think that I was beautiful all because I wore big, baggy men’s clothing instead of tight, fitted women’s clothing. I was self conscious because the people around me made me feel that way about myself. In a study done on the influence of friends and family on body image dissatisfaction, Dr. Cate Curtis and Cushla Loomans discuss a couple other studies that mention how “negative communication regarding body image from family members, including critical comments, teasing, and encouragement to diet, have been associated with the development of [body image dissatisfaction] and eating disorder symptomatology” (as cited in Curtis & Loomans, 2014). Those who are closest to us have the biggest impacts on us. How we think about ourselves, and even what we become. My family members constantly making fun of me really fueled my self-loathing.These negative impacts enforce and reinforce negative perceptions of ourselves until they solidify, leaving us with little to no self worth.
It was clear that my parents, more specifically my mom, didn’t support me. At that stage in our lives, when we are starting to question our identities and trying to navigate the world to find them, the role of parental support is essential. In their 1986 study, Victor Gecas and Michael L. Schwalbe mention that “the main effect of parental support, interest, and participation seems to be in that it conveys to the child information about his or her inherent worth” (1986). Our parents are the ones closest to us for most of our lives, the biggest influences for a significant portion of our early lives. Having validation and support from them is what helps us to develop confidence and self-assurance. Children who don’t receive support from their parents, whether that be in the form of discouragement or in the form of indifference, ultimately suffer, their self-worth becoming diminished over time. In my case, the lack of support from my family for my clothing choices lowered my self-worth. I was a disappointment in their eyes because of my refusal to follow socio-cultural gender norms.
Not only do we benefit from support, but we also benefit from autonomy. Gecas and Schwalbe found that when parents allow their child to have freedom, the child then has greater opportunity to explore and learn for themselves, which improves upon their efficacy. On top of that, it suggests to the child that the parent trusts them and considers them responsible, which improves the self-esteem of the child as well (1986). I wasn’t granted that autonomy. My mom always tried to control everything, so I was never really able to learn things on my own through exploration. My clothing choices were an example of that. I was never allowed to buy anything without approval, never allowed to try things out for myself. My parents never deemed me trustworthy or responsible enough to make decisions for myself. However, this may also be a problem with the way they were raised, and why they were raised that way.
My parents were born and raised until young-adulthood in the Indian subcontinent of Asia. To be more specific, Pakistan and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). From what I’ve gathered growing up, Pakistani culture tends to be more conservative. Since the country is not secular, the influence of the official religion of Islam is a key factor in people’s ideals. Traditional gender roles are still very much in play there. The norms there are different from the norms in a more liberal society like America. My parents came to America a long time ago, and have therefore have had a long time to adapt to the culture here. At the same time though, they wanted to keep their culture alive so it doesn’t become lost. In a study about gendered acculturation, Maheen Haider found that many of the Pakistani students she interviewed that were studying in the U.S. adhered to some of the cultural and religious norms that were present in Pakistan, such as wearing clothing that is not revealing, and drinking alcohol (2020). In a different study done in 2007, Megan Durell, Catherine Chiong and Juan Battle found that “homophobic attitudes are linked to traditional gender expectations” (Durell et al., 2007). With both of these things in mind, perhaps what made my parents so critical of me wearing men's clothing was due to the influence of Pakistan’s traditional gender roles that they grew up with.
Despite being in America for longer than they were in Pakistan, the fundamental way that they think was almost solidified by the time that they came here. So although they consciously moved away from the severe gender expectations of their own childhoods in Pakistan, those expectations were fossilized inside of them, still affecting the way they think—and in turn, the way they saw me. My choice to wear men’s clothing may have registered in their minds as ruining the traditional expectations and they may have associated my actions as a kind of queer expression, producing a subconscious homophobic or queer-phobic reaction. This isn’t to say that they aren’t accepting of the LGBTQ+ movement, however, this might also be because of the lack of education about things like LGBTQ+ that was in Pakistan when they grew up there. On top of all of this, Pakistan, like most Asian countries, is a more collectivist society. Your actions reflect your family and their reputation (Gelfand et al., 2012). Perhaps my family didn’t support me in fear of my “abnormal” actions (such as wearing men’s clothing) reflecting negatively upon my family in our religious community, as the people that are part of that community also have more traditional values. But why do we care so much about what other people think about us? Maybe we just want to fit in somewhere, accepted into a community rather than outcast for being different. Because of my clothing choices, I felt like an outcast.
Clothing is a way of expressing ourselves. However, it never really seemed all that expressive or freeing to me during my childhood and adolescence. It seemed as though I was supposed to only wear clothes that were marketed for girls, nothing more. Is this really freedom of expression, if we are conditioned to think in such a limited way? Rather than give kids a choice in what they want to wear, the choice is made for them. If your parents consider you a girl, you should be actively trying to appear feminine. If they consider you a boy, you should actively try to appear masculine. There seems to be no room for those who are gender nonconforming. If someone decides not to conform to this limited way of thinking, they often get cast out, made fun of for being different—for not being “normal”, which in this case, means conforming to the strict expectations of gender expression. If a boy wants to wear clothes that are deemed as “feminine” or “for girls”, such as princess dresses or skirts, he would be heavily discouraged, even forbidden from wearing them, and taunted by insults that refer to him as another sex. My interest in wearing men’s clothing led to my family insulting me by calling me a boy. Apparently, not liking nail polish or earrings also automatically meant that I was a boy. Why is it that we use gender as an insult, and why is it that gender norms and expectations are so strict? It’s like I’m not allowed to have preferences that don’t conform to what society associates a girl with. How did these gender associations even come to be? The main incentive, as is for many things: money.
Starting when we are just born and continuing as we grow and develop, we are surrounded by subconscious hints that we take in and incorporate into our existences. We get older, and these things get reinforced. Take gender reveals, for example. Pink means that the baby is a girl, blue for a boy. But why are these specific colors representative of a certain sex? Who decided that? As the baby grows up, it seems like they are surrounded by the color that marks their sex, further enforcing this social construct of a gender binary. But, gender isn’t binary at all. Many would argue that gender is fluid rather than inflexible, and is on spectrum (Bain, 2015). It isn’t right to shove people into a category, especially when there are such limited categories that they don’t fit in them.
At seven years old, I started to denounce the color pink because it’s a “girly” color and I didn’t want to be seen as girly. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys. We can see this prevalent everywhere, from gender reveals, to picking out clothes, to toys for children. Why has society assigned such strict gender roles to things like colors? It didn’t used to be that way. According to Peggy Orenstein (2011), author of Cinderella Ate My Daughter, before things like washing machines existed, babies were dressed in white, gender-neutral dresses, since the only way of cleaning clothes was to boil them. Items such as toys weren’t catered towards a certain sex, either.
Surprisingly, gendering items with colors was actually an idea that companies came up with to increase their sales. If parents had a son and a daughter, instead of passing down clothing or items to the younger child, the parents would have to buy separate clothing and items for the other child (p. 49). Thus, allowing for companies to make more money. Additionally, when colors were introduced to label items by sex, pink represented masculinity, and blue represented femininity. The color pink originates from red, which symbolized strength. Meanwhile, the color blue, found on the Virgin Mary, represented faithfulness (p. 39). Although these gendered colors were completely the opposite of today's norms, the cause of the beginning of strict associations of colors with sex was clear: greedy companies that wanted to make bank. They clearly succeeded with that, as evidenced by countless amounts of gendered merchandise that seem to brainwash people into believing that kids can only play with the toys that are more “suited” for their assigned gender.
Today, certain clothing items such as skirts, dresses, and high heels are associated with femininity, and we are taught from a younger age that only girls wear certain things, while only boys can wear other things. These gender expectations are severely limiting, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and ultimately make no sense. Clothes being made for girls versus boys is maddeningly different. Sara Clemence of The New York Times discusses this in “The Gender Divide in Preschoolers’ Closets”. Clemence comments on how different clothes for her preschoolers are depending on what section they come from, even though according to Francesca Sammaritano, a childrenswear designer, kids develop in pretty much the same way until around age six (cited in Clemence, 2018). Clemence notes that “boys’ clothes are largely designed to be practical, while girls’ are designed to be pretty,” and that there is a “subtle and discouraging message that’s woven right into girls’ garments: you are dressed to decorate, not to do” (2018). From birth, girls are constantly being taught that they should sit and be pretty. Some suggestions are obvious and some are subconscious, but the fact is that girls are discouraged from doing things that boys are encouraged to do, and vice versa, ultimately painting the image that only men are capable of power and intelligence, while women are less intelligent, & should be doing mundane tasks and caring about how pretty they look in order to please others. In fact, researchers Kaitlin Graff, Sarah Murnen, and Linda Smolak found that adults viewed fifth-grade girls who wore sexualized clothing as less competent and intelligent than others who didn’t (2012). The objectification and sexualization of women throughout history has caused us to perceive even young girls as unintelligent and incompetent, just based on how they look. Women were always seen as less capable than men, so perhaps this sexualized “look” is associated with female subordination, especially since women have always been sexual objects. Their duties as baby-makers to serve a man’s desire and not much else significantly impacts how we see women who have a more sexualized “look” today. Another key item that contributes to this sexualization of women can also relate to clothing: shoes. More specifically, high heels.
High heels today are typically worn by women, and are associated closely with women’s fashion. They are often associated with a woman’s attractiveness and sex appeal, as most women’s clothing is, and actually enforces the subordinate sexual role of women (Graff et al., 2012). But when high heeled shoes were originally invented, they actually had nothing to do with women at all. In fact, high heels were shoes for men. Men from horseback riding cultures such as the Mongols as early as the 10th century wore heeled boots since the heels provided an easier way to keep their feet in the stirrups, especially those who would fight standing up on horseback in Persia in the late 1500s (Origin of Everything, 2018). Later on, Europeans started to wear high heeled shoes too. They became popular among wealthy aristocratic men, as wearing shoes that you couldn’t walk much in was a sign of wealth (Origin of Everything, 2018; Parmentier, 2016). Women started wearing heels too, and eventually, these high heeled shoes started to be associated with women. Men abandoned them and associated the impracticality of the shoes with women (Origin of Everything, 2018). As we know today, it’s stayed that way.
Scotland and Ireland have a history of the kilt, a traditional skirt-like garment worn by men. The kilt was seen as a practical clothing item for men. Unlike breeches, a kilt didn’t need to be tailored or replaced frequently (MacCorkill, 1997) The kilt was warm, comfortable, and even mostly waterproof, due to the tightly woven wool, proving to be useful in all kinds of weather; and allowed for a wide range & freedom of movement (MacCorkill, 1997; Locharron of Scotland, 2017; Scotland.com, 2019). Though we seem to be conditioned to believe that skirts are only for women, we can see here that the kilt, a form of skirt, is something designated for men.
One of the biggest problems with all of this is how powerful the influence of the media is, and what they’re doing with that power. The media constantly portrays bogus standards and expectations on both children and adults alike. In the age of the internet and technology, suggestive standards and expectations appear everywhere. Unfortunately, the media encourages objectification, which significantly affects the self-esteem of kids and adults alike. The media exaggerates these features of beauty that are set by society, such as body shape, and this negatively impacts people’s psychological health (Ahmadpanah et al., 2019). Young boys are pressured to follow the “macho”, manly expectation, girls are pressured to follow the thin and pretty expectation, and there doesn’t seem to be space to accommodate those anywhere else on the spectrum. In a study done on adolescent self-esteem & gender, Mary Polce-Lynch, Barbara J. Myers, Wendy Kliewer, and Christopher Kilmartin found:
It may seem surprising that girls report lower self esteem, given the similar social and physical changes that both sexes experience during early puberty. However, as explained by Frederickson and Roberts’ (1997) objectification theory, girls are more fully initiated than boys into the culture of objectification with pubertal changes: “Men and boys ‘notice’ and comment on girls’ breasts as they develop [...] for perhaps for the first time, then, an adolescent girl recognizes that she will be seen and evaluated by others as a body [italics added]” (p. 194). (Polce-Lynch et al., 2001)
Society encourages us to feel bad about our bodies through the media. It sets up an ideal, unrealistic beauty standard, associating beauty with a certain weight, body shape, features, etc., and those who don’t fit into that or don’t strive to fit in to that feel self-conscious. In particular, girls with low self-esteem are even more vulnerable to falling for the “ideal body” that is shown in western media, even though these images are heavily edited (Mcleod, 2012). Even women that are a normal, healthy weight feel as though they have to be thinner for society to consider them beautiful. This doesn’t just apply to the adolescent and young-adult population, either. In a study of 1000 adult women in Switzerland, aged 30–74 years, though 73% of the women were considered normal weight, more than 70% of them said that they wanted to be skinnier (as cited in Linardon, 2020).
It’s crucial that we learn to accept our bodies and the bodies of others how they are and dispose of the toxic, unrealistic expectation about our bodies that has been set. I will admit, we have made some progress in this. Movements such as Aerie’s #AerieREAL campaign have been spreading positivity with their refusal to retouch images of their models, as well as including models of varying body types. Not only are they actively including models of different races and body types, but also those with disabilities. The other day as I was scrolling through their website trying to find some underwear, I saw a model with an ostomy bag. Ostomy bags are commonly used for people with severe inflammatory bowel diseases such as Ulcerative Colitis or Crohn’s disease who need to have severely diseased and damaged intestines removed. It was shocking. To see that, a slight possibility of my future with Ulcerative Colitis, but more importantly, the reality for many others like me, was amazing, and I actually teared up when I saw it. Aerie refers to their models as “Role Models”, because they’re not just models. Among them are actors, olympians & special olympians, scientists, CEOs, sustainability activists, and more, and the company is doing an incredible job of representing our bodies.
This is just one example of the importance of representation. But aside from this, kids have been exposed to so many other negative expectations that limit their imaginations of just how varied bodies can be. Zanthe Taylor, author of “The Glories of Nudity”, wrote the article after experiencing a Korean spa—nudity required—with her daughter for the first time. Taylor writes:
My daughters are too young to understand this yet, but I'm hoping that as they grow older they will know, in a way that goes beyond the abstract, that real real women have bumps and lumps, cellulite in places you didn't even know you could have cellulite, scars, tattoos, and funny-shaped breasts and areolas. Skinny girls can have flabby tummies, and fat women can be gorgeous. I would say that nudity is the great equalizer, except it's actually the opposite: nudity reveals how immensely varied we are. And it also demonstrates how grossly manipulated we've been when it comes to seeing our own bodies. (Taylor, 2017)
Her experience at that Korean spa made her realize just how different bodies can be, which has clearly not been represented very well in the media. Since most forms of media just focus on their “ideal” body type, such as Victoria’s Secret, we forget that there are other body types, and that people actually have them. Representation is key. But, what about people who are nonbinary, who fall somewhere in between the two poles of the gender spectrum?
Recently, we have seen a rise in androgynous fashion and activism. Belgian rapper, singer, and songwriter Stromae has been using his music to address important topics without taboos. His song “Papaoutai” includes an important message about a child with an absent father. “Moules Frites” addresses STIs such as HIV that are spread through unprotected sex. He addresses gender stereotypes through his song “Tous Les Mêmes”, both with the lyrics as well as the video. Throughout the music video, Stromae constantly switches between a stereotypical male persona and a stereotypical female persona, with the typical gendered colors as well.
Stromae's activism isn't just present in his music, though. He designed an androgynous, African-inspired clothing line with his wife, Coralie Barbier, working to defy gender stereotypes (Moen, 2016). Companies like The Phluid Project offer completely gender-neutral fashion, as opposed to a select number of androgynous options (Salam, 2019). Jeffrey Marsh, a nonbinary LGBTQ+ activist and actor, spreads positivity and love through their keynote talks and posts on social media. They are currently developing TV shows about LGBTQ+ issues and identity, and is an amazing, positive role model, not only for those who identify as LGBTQ+ and nonbinary, but for anyone in general as well. Many of their messages also focus on loving and accepting yourself, which is something that many of us struggle with.
These images of the beautiful diversity of girlness have been transformative for me. I may have thought that I wanted to be a boy when I was younger, but finally learning that girl doesn't have to mean girly meant learning that I was really just trying to escape society’s expectation of what a girl should be like. It took me quite a while to realize that, but when I did, I could finally be myself.
--- is an NYU student who hails from the suburbs of Chicago. She enjoys eating good food, watching anime, taking photos, listening & singing along to music, playing dungeons and dragons, and analyzing languages. She can usually be seen wearing a big hoodie and joggers or basketball shorts, obsessively playing solitaire on her phone. She always complains about being tired and literally cannot ever properly sit in a chair.
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