The Essential Wrongness of Complimenting Physical Beauty.

Yes, there is something essentially wrong about complimenting another woman on her physical appearance. If you're already flailing about in disagreement, let's take a look at a few of the most heavily trafficked social media sites. If there's nothing damaging about females praising each other's physical appearance, why then, are scores of young girls reblogging the same images of frighteningly skinny women and saying "I wish I looked like this!" or why is it that the young women with the most "likes" or "Omg! You're so pretty!" comments on Facebook commonly feature a similar facial structure, body type, and ethnicity? Not to mention, phrases like "I'll be happy when I'm skinny" or "I need to stop eating." that appear all over young women's twitter accounts.

Firstly, society's definition of physical beauty is far more exclusive than it is inclusive. With the majority of women left out of this narrow ideal, a cycle of pursuing unobtainable goals, and the failure that follows such unrealistic desires traps many women into a series of low-self esteem, lack of self-confidence, and even self-hate. Compliments on the basis of outward physical beauty place a heightened importance on physical appearance. If it is the women who happen to fit into this narrow perception of beauty that are repeatedly praised and admired, where does that leave all the women who don’t adhere to this ideal, rather it be due to size, race, sexual identity, etc., etc. Not only are these women not seen as beautiful, but they are not seen as something society has deemed of utmost significance.

Women’s complimenting other women on their looks perpetuates a notion of women as objects of beauty designed to satisfy a male-dominated culture. When beauty is for what women receive acknowledgement, than beauty is what women will strive to obtain, instead of developing intellectually, artistically, or emotionally. Rewarding women for their appearance feeds into a culture that asserts a woman's value is determined by her looks. As women, it is our duty to dismantle societal pressure to adhere to one standard of beauty.

If we are going to focus on the concept of beauty at all, in order for it to be a positive message that does not leave masses feeling less than, it needs to be an all inclusive movement. That is, humanity, as a species, is praised as beautiful, not a specific set of ideals in which one may fit into due to dumb luck or strive to achieve. Imagine a world where a size 14 transgender African American women who prefers to wear her hair natural and does not usually wear make-up has the same worth, and is seen as equally beautiful, as a size 4 blonde 20 something with long mermaid-esque blonde hair, perky breasts, killer abs, and a wide-eyed appearance perfected by MAC cosmetics. Imagine a world where models can have wrinkles, scars, tattoos, and cellulite. Imagine a world where pop stars can be post-menopausal, a billboard woman proudly sports her hijab, and the commercial actress attempting to sell you the latest gotta-have-it product is a plus size Asian with acne.

'Tis much more beneficial to be part of a movement that reminds us, both male and female, of the subjectivity of beauty and disarms the construct that society has too long brainwashed mass culture into worshiping and adhering. As no one chooses the arrangement of their facial features or the thickness of their bone structure, we should pride one another on all that we can control. Instead of reinforcing the idea that the most valuable thing a woman can be is “pretty,” we should appreciate qualities of strength, such as intelligence, humor, courage, talent, and creativity in each other, preferring to possess such character traits ourselves over being “pretty” or “hot.” Our appearances should be something to have fun and playfully experiment, but little more.

If Only.

If the average straight white male

grew as disgusted with slut-shaming as he does Taylor Swift's new single or teenage girls setting their profile pictures to "duck-face" selfies,

was as enraged with men who think having sex with intoxicated women is perfectly legal and justifiable as he is with his hometown's star athlete upon signing with another city's team,

or turned his back to rape jokes as quickly as he does overweight women,

spent half as much time as he does fixated on sports educating his friends on how to respect females,

were as eager to participate in protests addressing the consequences of victim-blaming as he is to lose his virginity, 

were as humiliated to belong to a sex in which 58% would "force a woman to have sex" if they could get away with it as he is when someone suggests he is homosexual

viewed treating women as his equal as "manly" or "masculine" as he does guns, fishing, and hunting

or associated sexual violence and assault with the same weakness he transcribes to crying in public and "chick flicks"

the perpetuation of rape culture would cease to exist. 

Note: Statistic taken from Margo Maine's Body Wars.

It's Me.

Holy flashback, a piece written in the dog days of freshmen year.

It’s Me

Long waves crash on the ocean of her back

as bangs frame her face preparing for a picture perfect headshot;

with lips that dance like her hearts’ open flames she opens her mouth

like an oyster showcasing a valley of pearls and a cloudy puff of peppermint aroma.

Her eyes are rimmed with a delicate powder

the color of seashells, wet with the moon’s reflection.

She always thought maybe she deserved a little more

than a bed to sleep in, or the bigger piece of pie

because of all those faces that have entered

windows she swears to have had locked and

entered her body without invitation sitting oh so,

coyly on that windowsill, now chipped with secrets.

You could never tell by looking at her, but place a scale beneath her feet

and you will see that something is not weighing up

for soggy saturated memories flood the burden that is her soul,

mind carries barrels of pictures of a few not-so-precious moments she’d rather

forget. However, her heart is an open gate letting people in an out freely, but the people

she keeps there do not return the favor, for those she lets rest inside her do not exist, but

are just as real as you and I. The people who love her are the people she bans from napping beneath her chest because she hates them for the very fact, they love her.

I hope that you read this, behind black bars

know that it’s you in that faded blue t-shirt with the frayed hem with

sharp cruel eyes that don’t match your enticing smile, but rather your

actions, I hope that you read this knowing

it’s me. 

White Steed.

White steed is a key to a door without a keyhole.
Perhaps it's some security, the widening threat of never awakening.
One pinpoint to make you whole; a hunger for death's kiss fails to feed your soul.
Slip off into a dream, still pondering this loss of freedom - what is your role?

Harlow Blake, we'd call her, spat from the womb of a blackened spoon
and rocked asleep by bruised arms under a sorrowful moon,
only to be awoken each mourn with the alarm of a romanticized smack.
The ultimate maternal crime, a baby soothed on toxic milk's corrupt croon.

Misery courses through many a vein,
leaving you drooling in an all white facade,
'tis a sick recipe without a prescription, as a distorted euphoria lays across your brain.
Sanity and control: no longer can we feign.

Mama, papa, oh where to place blame?
Diluted into a puddle, drained into a cup, swallowed right up,
mere pawn in someone else's game.
So bright, so handsome, so the gentle words surround, "What a shame." 

You think that because she smiles that you turn off her dials.

Atop a stage so bare a song escapes from a virgin's cracked lips. Twas written for a creature in whom she loves, yet her glossed wide eyes fail to see a fragile face amidst the crowd. Raising her stentorian voice, she pleads someone to listen, but Erie devours and travelers trample the echo until all her lover receives is nonsense. Surprisingly, her already heavy veins make room for chagrin. Acceptance that you've heard nothing plants the seeds of respite and leads her offstage with naked shoulders.

Is it me or is it her in whom you wish to destroy? Am I truly this intuitive or is it just paranoia? Violence is not a fancy among the educated nor the warrior, so who is the vain one, is it I or is it you?

Bedroom floor heaps because whores aren't allowed "Good Mornings."

Still wearing her sweatshirt, I curl into you so the name serves as a split between us. The same name that you and I both know means nothing because tonight, the only thing that will be wearing it is your bedroom floor. Put your arms around me and tell me that no one will love me better than you do, because this time I’ll try to believe you. Is life nothing more than pretty song titles and the lyrics to accompany them? One things for certain, storytelling is the sweetest sex I've ever had. Meeting, ringing, ignored and unanswered, the Azure Ray whisper serves as a gentle reminder of that distant, yet tarnished beam of light.

So you'll take me to some fancy doctors and get all in my head. You'll cook some exotic dinner in attempt to get something past my lips and I'll promise that I'm just doing homework on your custom ordered computer. You'll tell me that I'm beautiful without any words and I won't be awake for school tomorrow morning, but being your little Daisy Buchanan ain't all that bad.

Eating Disorders: you don't have to be a thirteen year old rich white girl.

Similarly to many concerns in our society, African American, Latina, Asian, and Native American women have more often than not gone completely ignored when it comes to our nation's perception of eating disorders. So too have women belonging to the LGBTQ community and/or a low socioeconomic class.

If minorities were to become recognized, we would be forced to challenge our notion of eating disorders as something breed from sexism that only affects white middle/upper class heterosexuals. Newsflash, sexism is not the only system of oppression leading to eating disorders nor are financially stable Caucasian tweens & teen girls the only ones affected. How does race, socioeconomic class, and sexual identity influence a woman's appetite and concept of beauty?

In addition, the median onset of women with eating disorders is eleven and over two thirds of women who have been diagnosed with an eating disorder have had the disorder more than half of their life. Why is that information significant you ask? These two statistics discredit the popular belief that eating disorders are adolescent problems or purely transitory. Further dismantling our nation's ignorant yet mainstream ideas in regards to such diseases, nearly two thirds of women with eating disorders are survivors of sexual assault. This statistic asks us to examine how one's exposure to trauma affects one's likelihood of developing such a disease. That is, how does eating become a coping strategy or medium of control , particularly in times when one's life may appear ridiculously untamed. A little nature versus nurture, aye?

Perhaps if we cast aside our outdated hetero-normative money-in-the-bank white privilege long enough to reexamine body dismorphic disorders we, as a nation, would have a better understanding of the catalysts of such disorders, and could better treat and prevent them.

Let's not forget, incidents of eating disorders among males are increasing. Obviously, body dysmorphic disorders are not limited to females. Please, don't confuse this post's focus on women as ignoring that truth.