Girl Talk

The pink stinks campaign has got me thinking.

I’ve muddled my way through my three boys' early years without much thought of any damage I might be inflicting, not much consideration of role models or gender stereotyping. One of them adores football, another science fiction and the third is happy to refer to himself as a geek: he declares it with some pride. There appears to be room under the umbrella of masculinity for all three of them and their disparate interests and activities.

But it seems to be different for girls. They are bombarded with frivolity and insubstantial role models in the form of fairies, princesses, queens, angels and the unfortunately proportioned Barbie.

Look at these national literacy magnet sets.

Look at the verbs. The boys get climbing, swinging, running, racing and swimming. The girls, cooking, dancing and skipping. The boys have their imaginations stimulated by monsters, dragons, wizards, dinosaurs, treasure and ghosts. The girls get fairies, magic, princess and angels. While the boys’ list includes the nouns helicopter, aeroplane, tractor, scooter, lawnmower and football, the girls are subjected to clothes, lipstick, glitter, handbags, bunnies and FLUFF. This focus on appearance, on the exterior, sits uncomfortably alongside the fact that almost 50% of girls aged 5-8 want to be slimmer (British Journal of Developmental Psychology, 2005 study).

I have a daughter. Recently, we painted her doll’s house bright pink and I know for a fact that Father Christmas has bought equally pink furniture to ensure a complete refurbishment on December 25th, but that’s not really the issue, not for me at least (although I did suggest that she might prefer to paint it red). I worry about raising her in an environment where her gender is used as an insult: ‘don’t be such a girl’ ‘you big girl’s blouse’ ‘you old woman’ etc. I feel obliged to provide some sort of foil to the version of femininity that is paraded in front of her every time she watches television or sets foot in a supermarket. Her brother Jo used to play tennis, if he played badly his coach would humiliate him by shouting ‘Josephine’ across the court, illustrating to all the children present that failure is feminine; to be compared to a girl is the ultimate humiliation.

I don’t know what the answer is, other than to provide a counter to the bubbles and fluff: worms, skeletons, snails, sticks, dirt, conkers and frogs – watch out Alice, they’re coming your way.

Recording Angels

I took my notebook to the school nativity this year. When I pulled it out of my handbag along with a pen, the woman next to me asked, 'what are you doing?' For the first time ever my children’s school has banned photography during performances. Filming is also prohibited. 'I'm recording the performance,' I replied. 'I'm not allowed to take pictures or film it, so I'm going to write about it instead.'

I arrived at the school early so that I could get a good seat. On entering the hall I discovered that the front row was littered with RESERVED signs. Five minutes before the performance began a stream of people, very tall people it seemed, entered the hall and sat down in front of me.

I watched Jo recite a poem. He was supposed to recite the first third, but managed to be subversive by memorising the entire thing and reciting it all. I watched Daniel recite a poem, enunciating every word, with great seriousness. But I was really there to watch Alice. For the first time I was there to watch an angel.

Alice appeared in a white dress, doused with tinsel and smiles. I've watched my boys be innkeepers, shepherds, donkeys, wise men and last year a particularly ferocious Herrod, but this angel thing was new to me. And it got me thinking. Most girls want to be Mary. At my children’s school you can only be Mary if you are in year 2. Alice is in year 1. So what other parts are available to her? Well, there's the part of an angel. There are a couple of slots as an innkeeper’s wife, perhaps even a chance to be a wise man if the school is so inclined, but the possibilities are rather restricted. It occurred to me that the parts for girls are not aspirational. A girl cannot be the mother of god when she grows up and no matter how appealing the idea is to her parents, she will not achieve an immaculate conception. She is also unlikely to be an angel or a man (whether wise or foolish) when she reaches adulthood.

I watched Alice dance angel dances on the staging blocks, squashed by the angel Gabriel, bunches flapping on either side of her tinsel halo, her dimple punctuating every smile. I couldn't write fast enough. I wanted to photograph her earnestness with words. As I scribbled in my notepad, it occurred to me that angels are like writers. They don't play much of a part in the story; they record, announce, summarise and witness. They watch the action unfold from their privileged vantage point, then sing beautiful songs about it. It occurred to me that the job of an angel might not be so bad, after all.

At the conclusion of the nativity we listened to 'One fousand, fousand Christmas lights' - that's what they sang, at least. The head informed us that the school would be filming the performance the following day, presumably to sell to the parents. I wrote a strong protest in my notepad. Then I grabbed my little angel and took a sneaky photograph.