Girlhood, shame, and cherry bag charms
We all saw it, right? The “joke” at the Golden Globes. Because of course we saw it. This shit is inescapable.
And I know you’re tired of hearing about it. I’m tired of hearing about it. It’s that same exhaustion that I see on the faces of the women in the audience that night. It’s the bone deep weariness I hear in America Ferrera’s speech in the movie in question. “It turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.” Be as faultless and perfect and extraordinary as you can, as long as you remember you’re still just a pair of boobs. Thanks so much, male comedian, we needed you to spell it out.
The cursed friendship bracelet between girlhood and shame
In therapy last year, I ended up doing a lot of inner child work (she’s working on herself!) and it’s got me thinking and percolating and noodling on shame.
Before therapy, I would do inner child meditations (the fun ASMR ones, lest you think I was out here meditating every day. I don’t have nearly enough inner peace for that) and picture the halcyon days — scrabbling around in the backyard of our apartment, dragging our upstairs neighbor out to play pirates and tag and tree forts. And it was lovely, tiny me was well-adjusted as hell. Protected in the teflon-coating of youth, privileged to have a roof over my head and the space to be a kid. But now I’ve realized that where my inner child actually needed to be healed was a little further along, in that middle time of tweenangerdom where nothing makes sense at all, especially as a girl.
I always joke with my best friend that middle school was my ugliest time, because I felt so, so exposed. It’s that aching process of becoming a woman while simultaneously being told everything that is “wrong” with womanhood and most especially, everything that is wrong with the way you perform it.
It felt so bad in middle school because it was all new, and strange, and horribly inescapable. I went from an elementary school where my graduating class in 5th grade was literally four students (including me) and then got dropped into a building where the halls echoed and the staircases fit six people across. Suddenly there was this whole language I didn’t understand.
I remember so vividly this white t-shirt I had, covered in a tiny cherry print. I loved this shirt. It was cute!! Girlhood is CUTE. But cherries were a no-no. You better not be caught dead wearing anything with cherry print, because it somehow became some kind of secret code for wanting to have your “cherry popped.” Reminder: we were all twelve.
Why is it so hard to have what we like taken seriously?
It all gets so twisted, you know? We like something, as women, and it’s instantly relegated to this secondary place. It’s unserious. It’s shameful. “Oh you like cherries? You must be a slut, then.”
It’s Oppenheimer being a film worthy of discussion, accolades, prestige… while Barbie is about a “plastic doll with big boobies.” And listen, I saw Oppenheimer. It was okay!! Will I ever see it again? Strong no. Did the depictions of women make me cringe? Oh, absolutely. (As most Christopher Nolan depictions of women do, honestly, has that man met a real woman?) But Oppenheimer is “serious” because it’s a film about men, with men, for men. God forbid something be pink and sparkly and also meaningful.
And I truly believe that of those two films, Barbie is a far more compelling, historical, fun achievement. We’ve all seen a movie like Oppenheimer before (I know it’s technically advanced from a filmmaking perspective, but STILL). It’s the whole “man invents something” genre. We get it already!
Leaning in to the delight, again
The Cherry Charm
Coach
It’s sold out right now (because it’s cute, duh), but good ol’ eBay has some in stock.
I was scrolling Tiktok the other day (my best friend and I have a game — every time I mention Tiktok she mimes taking a shot. She frequently dies of alcohol poisoning before the day is done) and I saw a creator filled with such genuine excitement over the new Coach bag she’d bought, and most especially, the cherry charm she’d attached to the swinging handle of the bag. And my thought process went: “Omg CUTE I love it. Wait, aren’t cherries bad?”
It’s so deeply ingrained now. That instant second guess gut punch. I didn’t even remember why at first. And after I untangled it, it made me want that f*cking cherry charm so bad. Because to hell with all that nonsense, you know? I want to give the girl I was — that desperate-to-be-liked version of myself — her joy back. The joy of wearing a really cute shirt with a bunch of tiny little cherries on it. Just because you love it.
The confidence to enjoy what I enjoy, without the shame. Romance novels, pop music, K-dramas, makeup. Pretty things. Girly things.
I think all the time about this quote I saw (on where else, Tiktok — take the shot!), that I’ll paraphrase here because I can’t for the life of me find the original. It was about how women are expected to appreciate and enjoy and celebrate books or movies or media written by men, which often feature women being hurt, abused, or left off screen entirely. But women are lambasted for enjoying romance novels, romcoms, and the like — which are made for women and show women thriving, falling in love, living beautiful lives. That’s the real joke of it all. And no, it isn’t funny either.
Hey, Kelly here. Welcome to The Landline. Dial in for gentle deep dives into anything and everything I'm obsessing over at the moment (mostly sane, always silly). Grab your Diet Coke, wind that phone cord around your finger, and let's get to it.