I want to be free of the shell. I want to ride like Lady Godiva, I want to lay naked in the sun, alone and unafraid and uncritical. No single thought crossing my mind in worry of what should happen if I were discovered, the dangers of being a woman and exposed, how I look or if I shift just a little would I look better? No worries of being judged, no labels or assumptions, just me, completely free inside myself, warming in the rays of the sun.
I want to be alluring, not as a doll, no “perfect” plastic body, no trashy talk or shallow flirtation. But as a siren… a fertility goddess, guarded by miles of jungle – beautiful and deadly, where only the steadfast and pure of heart have a chance of finding me. No drastic attempts to feel wanted or loved, just a thread of sensuality woven through the fabric of my being, living in my confidence, my caring, my passion, my heart, unable to stand apart from everything else that is me.
Last night I was spending time with some male friends and they put on a show (obviously geared toward a male audience) about college, football, and the many faceless but “beautiful” girls who are more than happy to prostitute themselves to these much-admired football players. At that point I decided to retire for the evening knowing that the alternatives for me would be to bite my tongue or probably ruin the evening of my companions. So I excused myself, bidding them to “enjoy [their] soft-core porn.”
This following morning I’ve begun to process my feelings about the show. My male friends don’t understand my response to what I consider ultra-trashy media. The fact is that within myself, somewhere inside, the Amazon in me, the lady-knight picks up her sword or staff or bow and prepares for the fight of generations of women all over this world.
While I consider myself a feminist, I have no desire to be a man or exactly like one or to be treated exactly like one. I love being a woman. I love feeling beautiful, mysterious, captivating and I appreciate gentlemen for all that they are. What I rebel against, what I cannot stop myself from rebelling against are the attempts at controlling one of the most powerful and beautiful forces in all the world, whatever form those attempts might take.
The force I’m talking about is as powerful as nature’s storms, and as mysterious as the ocean depths, the deepest forests, and the shining heavens. It is the magic, the supernatural beauty of creating new life; the perfect result of union between man and woman. We are equally required and hopefully equally involved in this life-conception and all that comes after. As it happened, whether a result of evolution or of Creation or some mix of the two, though both sexes are required to strike the spark of life, the ember only grows in the hearth of a woman. Because of this she has been marked through time, or at least much of sedentary human life as one of the wild forces of nature. And just as man levels forests, poisons rivers, slowly chokes the wild-fire of life all around our world and domesticates the rest, he has sought in nearly every culture, to bind, stifle and ultimately control the wild forces in woman.
It’s a point that some people beat to death, but I’ll say it here all the same. The crime is not that our culture shows sex in media, it is how we show it. Do we see respect, admiration, appreciation, love? So often we see the opposite: violence, anger, disrespect, manipulation; or the nothing: stripped of all meaning beyond physical pleasure, it’s like any other sin, people using one another. And I see it all over my little world… young ones wanting the forbidden fruit, far from understanding it’s beauty, it’s gravity, this thing they see everywhere but aren’t supposed to see.
Every little girl wants to be beautiful. We are drawn to beauty, we love it, it is part of us, and it should be. I love watching my niece admiring flowers, gazing in awe at my “pretties” and jewels as I used to gaze at my mothers… one morning not long ago as I came downstairs to get ready for school she looked up at me and with pure honey in her eyes she said, “Auntie, your face looks even prettier than your clothes.” The result of course, was the melting of a piece of my heart and a radiant smile on my lips.
You can imagine how my guts wrench when I think about the torrents that will come on her and that have already started coming. The lasting innocence of my grandparent’s and parent’s childhood years are long, long gone. Soon, like the other little girls growing in our culture, she will be told that her worth is not in her smile, in her sharp wit, or even her beauty and sexuality, but in a shell. Here, in our world, we bid women to hide, not behind a burka, but in a shell of sex and desirability. And that is what I saw and so bristled against last night. The girls from the show I briefly observed are a personification of that shell; no substance, nothing but faceless bodies designated to gratify faceless football players. And so I watch her, my little niece, and hope that when the torrents come she will have the spunk and sass to stand in herself undaunted. That she will be convicted to know herself and know her heart and see the lost and searching souls of this world for what they are. That her personal flame will spark and grow eventually into a fully formed woman, devoid of the shell, complete in her imperfections, intelligence, and yes, her sexiness.
So what do I do about our culture’s mostly crappy attitude about sex and sexuality? Should I get angry? Guilt my male friends? Tell them they’re pigs? Unleash the Amazon inside?
I think I’ll decide that I’ve already won… I’ll stand in my jungle. Because the truth is, among all the shallow, wounded women, there are others like me. And among all the shallow, wounded men, there are some who could make it. There is Indiana Jones… looking for a goddess in the jungle.
