Books for "strong" girls

Okay I spend too much time on the internet. In the last few days I have seen all these reading lists: “Books for Strong Girls”. I’m serious there are so many reading lists titled around this. Now, I don’t like the word choice or the idea.I do not understand this obsession with controlling what little girls read. I realize that the people who made the lists and read the lists have the best of intentions. But... well, here is my counter argument. I'm not attacking anyone, I'm just explaining why I don't agree with this idea.

I would argue we should have both, examples of strong women and weak woman so they can evaluate the contrast. Anna Karenina was one of the best books I read (parts of, I plan to finish someday) for me to understand the importance of healthy relationships. Well, guess what, this is a book full of dysfunctional relationships. I didn’t read it and think “I want my life to be like that” I read it and thought “I love this character. But she has made horrible choices and is dragging people she loves with her. I will NEVER make choices like that.” 

 The idea that we have to choose books that are “strong girl” book suggests we don’t believe our girls will be strong unless they are force fed a steady diet of “strong girl food”. In other words I believe a strong girl can read a book where the protagonist makes a horrible, weak choice and see that it is a horrible weak choice.  I don’t think she will read a book about a girl who makes a mistake and thinks to herself “I want to be just like this. I am just a stupid little girl and can’t see the difference between a plot point and something I am supposed to model my life after. I don’t know any better because I haven’t been shown enough strong girl examples.” 

I think that there are different definitions of strength. I for one seriously don’t like the Bronte’s work. I think Jane Eyre is annoying and Mr. Rochester talks like a pedophile.  But, if I ever had a little girl, I would be fine with her reading this book. Why? Because it still has a protagonist who makes her own choices—even if she is (in my opinion) stupid and her choices lead to worse and worse situations.

Furthermore the movement that we need to feed our little girls “strong girl stuff” insinuates that they are weak by nature and must be MADE strong. What this movement is essentially saying is “The feminist revolution never happened. Your little girl is by nature stupid and weak, you have to control her very carefully or she will fall back on this nature.”

We don’t know what books and stories will do for different people. I LOVE the story Ballet Shoes, which is technically a stupid story about three little girls whose dreams come true. But—when I was little and I read this I realized these girls got their dreams because they fought for them. Because they never stopped practicing. I also, as I got older realized the little girl that was most like me became very unpleasant. I realized it wasn’t acceptable to sacrifice your character for success. These were things I needed as child. But the story is simple and would probably be considered stupid by most critics. 

I also have a deep love for Arthurian Legends. The traditional line is that these medieval stories are bad for little girls because the lead woman is manipulative and unfaithful. Okay. The more I read this legend the more I understood this woman; the more I appreciated that I was so grateful to be born in a time where I wasn’t the property of my dad and husband. I realized that, in my interpretation, Guinevere wasn’t weak. She was strong. She made brave, rash choices; even when everyone around her had tried to suffocate the ability to make her own choices out of her. I would never have sat and thought about these issues if someone had taken the story away from me.

 What we read does influence us. I know this is true. But we are influenced on a personal level. Reading is such an introspective, soul searching process that I don’t think it’s really anyone else's business what we read. 

*Naturally, there should be some control and consideration if you are a parent. You don’t want your kids reading anything strewn with sleaze. But I would say that if they are reading at all then nine times out of ten you are okay. 

Cooking

Cooking.

“I don’t cook.”

 People who know my background give me a strange, confused, look when I state this fact. The look says “But your mom, brother, sisters, and aunts can cook. Your cousin has a degree in culinary arts.”

Ok, if you had those people cooking for you would you learn to cook? Well, maybe you would. But I didn’t. In fact when my mom went out of town when I was growing up my brother cooked for the family and I cleaned. Yes I liked doing dishes rather than making dinner.

There are a few reasons I think I never really started cooking.

1.       Sticky. I don’t like being sticky. You get sticky when you cook.

2.       Stains. I don’t want to stain my clothes with tomato sauce.

3.       Raw meat is so nasty. Probably why I cut so much of it out of my diet.

Anyway, that’s a small list that should give you a good idea of why I don’t cook.

Because I don’t cook it has turned out that I can’t cook.

When I was living in Royal Crest 311 (one of my best roommate arrangements) we had a system developed in early in our first semester of our year together. We ate our own food during the week and on Sunday we had a big apartment dinner. We alternated who cooked every Sunday.

I remember one Sunday I made double stuffed baked potatoes and red velvet cup-cakes. By the end of the day I had broken (thought I’d broken, it revived itself) my roommate’s microwave.  I couldn’t get the potatoes to bake. The cupcakes fell. They also had this odd pink-muscle color instead of a deep rich red. The frosting was gross. The whole thing took me about three hours and calling my mom hysterically about eight times. In the end I scowled all through dinner and my kind roommates tried to assure me it was still good. I have never accepted comfort well.

Another time I tried to make chili and had to call a roommate for help as the meat was smoking so bad and I couldn’t get it to stop.

The following semester most of us were in the same apartment. We kept the arrangement. But I noticed that my name was just somehow never on the rotation. I really didn’t mind. I was all set to eat whatever my roommates made and I’d help clean up. It’s an arrangement that has worked for me.

Well, currently I’m living with my grandparents. Apparently my grandmother has realized that my “I don’t/can’t cook.” is not just something I say to be modest. It is true. (Modesty about my abilities isn’t really something I’ve mastered or bother to practice). It might have been that I made myself toast with Nutella on top for dinner last night.

This morning we were planning our day and my grandma said “Do you want to make your grandfather a cake?”

Um. Sure. I can make a cake mix cake. And of course I want to make a cake for my perfect grandfather. I’m just not sure he would want to eat the final product if I was the artist behind said creation.

Side note, this is the grandfather who ate a cookie with about an inch of frosting, layers of sprinkles and topped off with candy that my sister made him for Christmas one year. This thing was huge and basically looked like a heart attack. You know when there is so much sugar it is bitter? That was this cookie. My grandpa does love sugar, but he ate this thing that only a 3-6 year old would have thought looked good because he knew it would make my sister happy.  

Anyway, if my grandmother asked me to make him a cake I was going to make him a cake. Because they don’t really let me do that much to help out here. So today, after our trip to the library, I started the cake.

I got out the Cake Mix Doctor book and inspected the mixes we had. Unfortunately, we didn’t have plain vanilla cake mix. They had lemon cake mix. I couldn’t find anything to make that required a lemon cake mix and ingredients they had in stock.

My mom said I should just make it like a regular vanilla cake without anything that would taste bad with lemon. I couldn’t find anything.

I couldn’t find anything.

I must have called my mom six times at least. Then, finally, she said “Why don’t you just make it like it says on the back?”

What? Never! I might not be able to cook, but I was not making my grandpa a wimpy back-of-cake-mix-cake!

So I finally found a recipe for “Inside Out Lemon and Pineapple Cake” or something. Anyway, lemon cake mix and canned pineapples.

My grandma did have to show me how to put the hand mixer together. But I did it pretty much by myself.

It fell in the oven because, apparently, if you open the oven constantly to make sure the cake hasn’t become an alien then it falls.

But I was able to get it out of the pan in one piece. Ok my grandma helped me with that too.

But this is it!!!!!It didn't explode or cause a fire or crumble into nothing!!! We haven't tried it yet, but it looks good.

    

Hair Stuff

Guys this weekend I almost did something drastic. I still don’t know what to think or say. Today I decided to dye my hair red. I was on my way to the store and it was like my mental sassy gay friend caught up with me half –way there and was all like “What are you doing? What are you doing? You love your hair color. You love being a blonde. Yes that picture of Rachel Hurt-Wood online looked awesome. Yes you look like her bone structure and coloring wise, but dear, she had thousands of dollars behind that color change. And she had designers doing it. I love you sweetie, but your design skills leave a lot to be desired. Besides, all your clothes and make-up match your current pallet. You can’t afford a whole new wardrobe and beauty arsenal. Let’s go to the craft store and focus and getting the stuff for you stage make-up final.”

So I’ve compiled a list of blondes who I adore, which I will take into consideration next time this urge hits me. I’m not saying I’ve ruled the red-head option out completely, I just need to think about it.

Awesome blondes

1. Bell Rowley from BBC’s The Hour. She is a powerhouse of ambition and talent. I love her. Ok so she’s a little slutty. But she acknowledges her mistakes and chooses the right guy in the end. 

2. Jo Portman. I don’t want to be Jo. Her life is horrible. But she is smart, committed and idealistic. I wouldn’t mind being like Jo.You can't beat her instincts.

3. J.K. Rowling . I heard once that she used to be red-headed. But she has clearly chosen to be blonde. She is amazing.

4. Guinevere—legend sometimes disagree if she as blonde or brunette. I’m claiming her as a blonde.

5. Emma Thomson—She is a talented writer and actress. The combination is not so common.

 

6. Meryl Streep – She is a mom and a talented and successful actress. I want to be her when I grow up. 

7. Anna from Downton Abbey—oh the quiet passion of this woman’s life! She is lovely, bad things happen to her, she is still lovely. In fact I think she might be Lady Mary’s only soft spot. She is never upstaged by Lady Mary’s drama, which is a considerable feat. Let’s face it nice girls, our mean friends often get the spotlight. 

8. Hermione—Shut up, she’s totally blonde. Not even going by Emma Watson, but by the book. Tell me you don’t read Harry Potter and see Hermione as blonde. I didn't include a picture. Just use your mind's eye. You see a blonde girl, don't you.

 

9. On that note Emma Watson is smart, driven and stands up for women on body issues.

10. Nina from Being Human. She’s tough and caring at the same time. She was killed and I quit watching the show.

11. Meggie AND Reasa (is that how you spell her name? my roommate is asleep so I can’t look it up in my book) from Inkheart. Such a beautiful, sad-happy, story. 

12. Kristin Chenoweth—A talented actress who is active in her faith. 

Nothing to say in conclusion.

Guess what?

In my creative writing class we had a contest as our final. We submitted what we considered our best work by genre and then we peer judged genres that we had not submitted under. For example, I submitted a drama piece and I was a judge in fiction.

We have pen names in this class. Brother Babcock gave us clear instructions “I will read allowed the pen-name for each genre winner. If your name is called come on up, accept the prize and read your piece. Okay first genre is drama. Drama winner is “Sonya Evershed” Sonya Evershed, who are you?”

I stood. The class applauded. I crossed the room to where Brother Babcock sat on his professor throne. “Madison great piece, Daddy’s Girl, we saw this a few weeks ago…” I stood there feeling awkward as he talked about my piece. Firstly I was sick. I was dizzy, I felt like I was going to throw up, I just wanted to sleep, I just wanted to eat in spite of also wanting to throw up.

Secondly I was wearing red. This was a mistake. In my defense I hadn’t exactly known I would win, so I hadn’t dressed in a blush-proof way. But then, when you are of my complexion there is no way to dress blush proof. But red made a flustered blush into an “I just ate eight over ripe jalapeño peppers” blush.

Finally I was embarrassed because I was only winning because I was the only person who submitted under the genre of drama. All the other winners would have been competing with three to eightish other writers. I had just written in a genre no one else liked to.  

“Madison, do you want to read this, or read part of this, or act it out, or say anything or none of the above.” Brother Babcock turned to me.

“Um, yeah. Nothing.” Please remember I felt like I had eaten raw fish.

“You don’t want to read?”

“Nope.” I realized I was sounding like a temperamental ungrateful artist; I grappled to regain my dignity. “This is an older draft. I’ve already revised it since I submitted this and I don’t like this draft.” Not a lie. Very true, but not why I didn’t want to read.

“You already revised?” Brother Babcock sounded impressed.  There, at least I didn’t sound like a brat, just like a purist. “Well, Madison we’d like to present you with this fairly Gothic looking candle holder for a job well done.” He smiled, holding up a VERY Gothic looking candle holder. It was wrought iron and looked like something a poor innocent heroine would carry on her way down a dark, windy passage. The candle inside, a deceivingly sweet shade of pink, would illuminate the skeleton she would undoubtedly find in said passage. I could see a heroine who looked suspiciously like me, but with curly hair that reached my lower back, in a long white night gown, the hem slightly damp from the passage staring horrified at the skeleton. She/I would hold the rocking candle as steadily as possible when a noise would be heard behind me/her. As she/I turned the freckles wind would blow out the candle and leave me alone with the skeleton and whatever was behind me.

“Um, thanks.” I said. “I feel very Bronte now.”

Yeah, so, that’s what happened.