Women’s March 2018: Madrid

January 23, 2018January 23, 2018 Joseph Lyttleton3 Comments

Over the weekend, protesters and activists gathered in Madrid’s Plaza de Isabel II for a Women’s Rally in solidarity with the Women’s March that took place in cities all over the world.

The original Women’s March, which took place on January 21st, 2017, was centered in Washington D.C., where nearly 500,000 people showed up a day after Donald Trump’s presidential inauguration. In New York City, where I was fortunate enough to be among the crowd last year, hundreds of thousands of people marched, in part to demonstrate against the new administration, but mostly, and more profoundly, to proclaim solidarity with one another. It was a remarkable moment.

Images from 2017

I’ll admit, this year, as I saw the images from the anniversary marches on Saturday popping up all over social media, I was a little jealous and wistful for my time back in New York. There is much in the United States to be dismayed about these days, but the gathering and amplification of marginalized voices is a wonderful salve.

Here in Spain, the Women’s March and the #MeToo movement are not as prominent, for reasons both obvious (the March was organized, in large part, as a response to Donald Trump) and cultural (in a culture where physical touch is the norm, even among strangers, certain notions of sexual misconduct aren’t shared).

Madrid is fairly “liberal” by American standards. While unquestionably a Catholic city (with all the conflicting implications that would suggest), gay couples walk hand-in-hand most everywhere without a second thought and the younger population, at least, tends to express sympathy for refugees. There is also a large expat population here.

On Sunday, a day after the marches in the US, a Women’s March was held in the heart of Madrid. Billed as a “march,” it was, in fact, a rally, contained to the one plaza, with various speakers addressing the crowd of, perhaps, a couple thousand (my estimate is based purely on my view and no scientific analysis).

Speakers came up in pairs, with one person speaking in English and the other interpreting to Spanish (or vice versa). The speakers addressed various topics from many backgrounds, including poets and comedians, both women young and old, and even one man, a representative of the United States’ Democratic Party who was there to encourage Americans to register to vote and vote from abroad.

At times, chants would break out in the middle of the speeches, in pauses between interpretations. Usually those chants were in Spanish, sometimes in English. Mostly, though, the crowd expressed themselves with their signs, again, in a mix of both languages.

Even from a distance of 3,800 miles (or 6.100 kilometers for my Spaniards), there was one man who featured heavily on the signage and in the chants. Can you guess who?

La humanidad contra Trump — “Humanity against Trump.”

In Spain, where U.S. President Trump is more a curiosity (“por que?”) than a direct or existential (or nuclear) threat, his outsized reputation in both the media and on social networks keeps him at the forefront of the conversation about equality, racism, and sexual misconduct. An abundance of signs with expressions like “Impeach Trump” suggest that most in the crowd were Americans making their voices heard from abroad (it’s yet to be seen if those same voices will vote this year).

Despite the tendency of America (and Americans) to take center stage, there were other issues on the minds of those gathered, as represented by some of the signs.

Aborto en Irlanda — “Ask me about the abortion law in Ireland.”

There were two or three different signs (in Spanish) regarding abortion laws in Ireland. I’ll admit my ignorance on the specifics (I didn’t ask her), but I am, of course, aware that Ireland is staunchly Catholic, and abortion rights are always a hotly contested issue.

The crowd was definitely heavily weighted towards Americans and English speakers, but plenty of Spanish women (and men) were in the mix. Like the marches in the United States, people came for different reasons and with individual purposes, but they were unified under a cause of furthering equality, challenging unjust systems, and holding those who abuse their power accountable.

Acabemos — “Let’s end the culture of silence.”

Most broadly, they were there to show unity, as women, as feminists, as LGBT, as Spaniards and Americans, and as global citizens. And as the march in 2017 had been, being among the many impassioned and dedicated women at the rally in Madrid was invigorating and affirming. I was happy to be there, and grateful to be there with many of my friends.

For those who would question the purpose or efficacy of the marches, I have to ask, “Have you been paying attention?” The #MeToo movement was represented by Time’s Person of the Year selection of “The Silence Breakers” while 2017 was awash in conversation about sexual misconduct and assault. Now, in 2018, a record number of women are running for political office in the United States. It’s not a coincidence that last year began with a massive unification of women.

What lies ahead for this political movement and moment is uncertain, but it’s hard to imagine these voices suddenly going silent. If 2017 was the year women finally said, “Enough,” it seems pretty much inevitable 2018 is the year they say, “Now it’s my turn.”

From my vantage point, it’s clear they mean business.

Teachable Moments: The Fragility of Manhood

February 7, 2017February 7, 2017 Joseph Lyttleton

I’m roughly a third of the way through my TEFL Certification course with ITA. The course is designed to prepare students to teach English in a variety of classrooms, both traditional and nontraditional, as well as to work as a private tutor. As I read about different teaching philosophies and method, I can’t help but think about my own experiences as a student.

This particular story isn’t about how a teacher inspired me, or about an innovative teaching style. This is a story about a teacher speaking to his class in an unexpected and, ultimately, sad moment.

(Warning: There is use of a particular slur in this story that some will find offensive.)

When we entered after lunch, Mr. Capp* was at the front of the class as usual, standing straight up in pressed slacks, a button-up shirt, and a solid green tie. He neither dressed formally in suits like Mr. Harkins, the civics teacher, or casually in short-sleeved polos like Mr. Wells who taught English and coached girls’ tennis; he taught Senior Psychology. Having entered into his 30s with an unassuming handsomeness, he watched us in silence.

Of my non-Humanities classes. Psychology was by far my favorite, an interest that would carry on into college. Two sections were of particular interest, the first on human sexuality and the other Depression-related disorders. Mr. Capp approached both subjects with professional nonchalance, covering subjects like homosexuality and suicide – delicate topics in any high school, let alone in the Midwest – with the same matter-of-factness as Ms. Pohl explaining vectors. As his sartorial choices suggested, Mr. Capp straddled the line between Student’s Buddy and Strict Mentor. He knew how to engage with students, but he would commonly remind us that we were seniors and that meant we needed to act like upperclassmen. He had no patience for laziness or entitled students.

This particular Tuesday, he was uncharacteristically tightlipped as we streamed in.

Two weeks prior, in a discussion on gender norms, Mr. Capp had given a remarkably sympathetic and forward-thinking lecture, espousing the potentially controversial stance that one’s biological sex must not necessarily determine one’s gender or how one expressed it. To illustrate this theme, he split the class up into a male and female group and then had the groups compete in a series of stereotypically gender-specific tasks, such as running in heels and throwing a football. The catch was that the teams picked which member from the other team would compete in each activity.

Being a mostly anonymous student at the school, I assumed (and hoped) I would be able to ride out the whole competition in the background. To my great chagrin, I was chosen to participate in one event: I had to fasten a hinge between two blocks of wood. Apparently the ladies had figured I might not be the “manliest” kid in the class – perceptive, these ones. Their astute observation paid off as I was defeated handily by my female competitor. If it was any consolation to my team, the guys did win the high heels race.

Despite my embarrassment – and I was still young and insecure enough for the loss to feel deeply shameful – I enjoyed the section and found the topic to be reassuring.

This is what made the strange occurrence in Mr. Capp’s class that Tuesday all the more confusing. With all the students settled into their seats, Mr. Capp remained briefly silent. This was already an odd start since he was not one to waste any of the class period. We had just started the section on Bipolar Disorder, but when he finally did speak, it was not to begin the lecture.

“Last night, after school let out, I went to visit my mother.” I think most of us assumed Mr. Capp was telling us a story to illustrate the lesson. We quickly realized that wasn’t the case. “While I was in her house, some coward vandalized her property.” I don’t recall now if he actually said the word or merely suggested it, but either way, we all knew what had happened: Someone spray-painted the word ‘faggot’ on his mother’s driveway. “We know it was a student and the police will be thoroughly investigating.”

He continued through contained rage on the subject of respect and maturity. The entire class listened with the kind of rapt attention most teachers could only dream of. The speech Mr. Capp delivered probably only lasted five minutes, but it felt like it took up the whole class. There was undeniable fury seething behind Mr. Capp’s stony expression, his commitment to total professionalism losing out to filial devotion. He tried to focus his anger through derision, mocking the perpetrator for being dumb enough to not even graffiti the right house, but there was no mirth in his tone.

Then the venting took an unexpected turn.

“If there’s anyone here who questions whether I’m a man, we can go outside right now and I’ll prove it. Are you man enough to fight me? Or just a coward vandalizing an old woman’s house in the dark?” It would have been laughable if it hadn’t been stated with such virulence.

What were we supposed to make of this bizarre presentation? How could someone who had just weeks earlier taught us that gender norms were a societal construct now face us and insist that he would defend his manhood through the most banal display of machismo?

The simplest answer is that sometimes we can know something intellectually but not internalize that knowledge. In heightened emotional states, in those moments when we need them the most, we rarely maintain our grasp on our ideals. The whole display – his anger, his barely maintained façade, his hypocrisy – was in its own way one of the most profound lessons I’ve ever received.

It didn’t take long for someone to find the ID of a student in the lawn of Mr. Capp’s mother. It belonged to Brady, a rich kid who no one seemed to actually like yet who occupied the center of the most popular social circle, an argument for class privilege if you ever needed one. One of those seniors who intended to ride out his final year in pud classes, it’s no surprise that Brady ran afoul of Mr. Capp and bristled at being asked to put in actual effort.

As Seniors, we thought of ourselves as the elder statesmen, but Brady proved, we were still just kids.

I have no idea if Mr. Capp still teaches or whether anyone ever took him up on his challenge. I also don’t know what happened to Brady, though I suspect very little in terms of punishment or lasting consequence. Despite the disheartening display that Tuesday afternoon, I still think of Mr. Capp’s class as one of the most influential factors in my educational path, one that included many more psychology courses and has continued well beyond the formal classroom.

I wonder if Mr. Capp still thinks back on that day; if so, does he regrets his words? Maybe he’s ashamed, or maybe he feels it was justified. Perhaps, due to cognitive dissonance – a concept I’d only study later in my college psych courses – he has somehow mentally rearranged the incident into something heroic or even noble, crafting a personal narrative in which he stood before his classroom and displayed the model of an enlightened, post-gender male. I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter.

It might be strange to say this but, I actually did learn a lot from this experience. It was the beginning of a long arc for me, coming to terms with my own idea of masculinity and strength. It’s a lesson we continue to learn every day, as Mr. Capp proved.

It’s also a reminder that, whether in front of a classroom or tutoring a student one-on-one, any moment as a teacher can be significant.

*All names are made up.

[“Calvin and Hobbes” created by Bill Watterson.]

What can a white, heterosexual, cisgender male do? Listen.

November 15, 2016November 15, 2016 Joseph Lyttleton

This past week has been loud.

Our entrance into the Gilded Phage erupted in protests, violence, and hate speech, while Twitter fights, Facebook rants, and, most vital, thoughtful blog posts remain at pre-Election levels. Voices are still reaching the cheap seats as dire warnings of an encroaching wave of racism and bigotry are met with caustic dismissals demanding people “Wait and see” and “Stop whining.” It’s a wall of sound that would make Phil Spector tumescent.

This election proved one thing: there are a lot of white, heterosexual, cisgender males in this country, and despite assertions that they are the new oppressed minority, they remain both the most powerful and vocal force in American politics. As a member of that demographic, I have never felt so dismayed to be so visible.

For the last year, ever since I completed 10 Cities, I’ve been largely silent. Up until last week, this website had gone dark and I had minimized my Facebook presence (I’ve remained somewhat active on Twitter; my apologies). I’ve been practicing a skill that doesn’t come naturally to me: Listening.

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Listening to voices that aren’t white, heterosexual, cisgender, and/or male is critical for the continued growth of our society and for our growth as individuals. We only need look at last Tuesday to know what’s at stake when we don’t.

One of the ways I’ve been reminding myself to be a better listener is intentionally seeking out voices that wouldn’t naturally enter my sphere of interests. As a white, heterosexual, cisgender male, I’m striving to engage with the points of view of those who aren’t. I’ve not intentionally avoided or ignored those voices in the past, but by nature of our societal structure, I’ve done it all the same.

So far, this endeavor has had the greatest impact in my consumption of art, particularly music and literature. I’ve read assault narratives and about rape culture (Alice Sebold and Kate Harding), read fiction from people of color (Colson Whitehead and Zadie Smith; Zadie pisses me off because her first novel is just so damn good) as well as non-American authors (Arturo Perez-Reverte). I’ve read many other authors (including plenty of white males) this last year, but I hope to find even more diverse voices next year.

Additionally, and to a much greater extent, I’ve been listening to a more varied slate of musical artists. My musical taste has always been eclectic, but my go-tos have generally been white, straight dudes. It seems like a trivial thing because it’s an easy thing; I love music and I love finding new artists. And yet, as easy as it is to do, it still had to be a conscious choice. Ultimately, that minimum effort to expand my palate has been deeply enriching.

To that end, I’m concluding this post with a by-no-means-exhaustive list of artists who are not white, or not male, or not straight, or not cisgender. The list could expand indefinitely, but these just happen to be some that I’ve come to really appreciate over the last year and who, importantly, offer a broader perspective.

And, finally, to my fellow white, heterosexual, cisgender males: There’s no prize for listening, no pat on the back; there’s just the pleasant reality that so many voices deserve our attention and we are invariably enriched by the simple experience of hearing a new perspective.

I hope you enjoy the music and that you’ll keep listening.

Gallant – Episode

Against Me! – Black Me Out

Tegan and Sara – Boyfriend

Lydia Loveless – Midwestern Guys

Solange – Don’t Touch My Hair

Be A Secret Feminist

September 30, 2014October 22, 2014 Joseph Lyttleton

At some point in the last 50 years, some marketing genius in the vein of Don Draper came up with one of the greatest advertising schemes ever: They claimed that if you use the same soap on your face that you use on your body, you will die an ugly, unloved spinster.

And we bought it. Not just women, men, too. One of my roommates currently has upwards of 7 different bottles of bizarre scented chemicals standing in our shared shower. I’m sure each and every one of them does something magical for every individual part of his body, from the tips of his hair to the calloused skin of the feet. There is probably a taint softener somewhere in there.

I have two items in the shower: A combination shampoo/conditioner and a bar of soap.

I assure you, I am a hideous, unlovable troll. But I think that’s just a coincidence.

What Kind of Feminist Are You?

Feminism is all the rage these days. And by “all the rage,” I mean, the mention of the ‘f-word’ makes people want to Joe Pesci someone’s neck. There’s a civil war erupting right now between 40-something feminists and 30-something feminists and 20-something feminists and then the (mostly) teenagers who are #womenagainstfeminism.

I suppose this kind of rift was inevitable. Every group will splinter, every religion develops sects. Feminism has existed long enough for it to go from a political movement with easily definable goals to an ideology with nebulous theories on ‘equality.’ It’s not so much that the ideology is flawed or wrong, it’s that the message isn’t being conveyed very elegantly.

The speech that Emma Watson recently gave at the U.N. for the #HeForShe movement (and that movement itself) is precisely the kind of feminism I signed up for when I was in college and first being exposed to the cause. It’s a movement of inclusion, not exclusion. It’s a movement that says, We lift women up, not by knocking men down, but by helping each reach a higher level.

As Emma said in her speech, “It seems uncomplicated to me.”

So it is.

But there are a lot of future women (and men) growing up today that, while they would agree with the individual checkmarks of feminist equality (equal pay for equal work; women’s right to choose; anti-discriminatory policies; etc.), don’t want to be saddled with the Feminist tag. And I get it.

I’ve been a feminist for over a decade, but waking up to a Twitter feed that is positively exploding with abusive rhetoric (on all sides) makes me want nothing to do with the label. Whether it’s about “rape culture,” “gamergate,” “misogynistic atheists” or some other hot button topic, I find myself compelled by the arguments. Compelled to turn off my computer and run away.

I’ve never been one to shy away from giving my opinion, but the ferocity of the debates has encouraged me to stay back. I don’t engage, I don’t respond. If I see an article that makes some interesting points (even if I don’t agree wholeheartedly with it), I’ll surreptitiously retweet it, but otherwise I keep my mouth shut.

I have become a Secret Feminist.

Be A Secret Feminist

For the young girls and boys growing up today that think gender equality is a no-brainer but have only ever known the term “feminist” to come with scare quotes, it can be hard to feel like there is a movement that represents them. This is especially true for white teens who for all intents and purposes are living in the utopian future that feminists of the 19th and early 20th century envisioned.

(Keep in mind: Equality doesn’t mean nothing bad will ever happen to a girl. Life is still life, shit happens.)

The thing is, sexism is not as overt as it used to be. The Mad Men office environment would never fly today, and there are laws intended to make sure that’s the case. But that doesn’t mean sexism in the workplace has been eliminated, and it certainly doesn’t mean that feminism has won the fight and can now be put back in the closet next to your Sexy Snowman Halloween costume.

But for a large subset of the younger generation, there is a huge disconnect between the rhetoric of Feminism’s most outspoken members and the world they actually live in. Activists tend to believe that people will fall into complacency if they let off the gas at all, but that sort of gung-ho advocacy can be repellent to people who aren’t confronted with inequality in their daily lives.*

So, how does Feminism rehabilitate its image? That’s a tough question, and something that isn’t going to be answered in a 1500 word essay. I do know, though, that it’s possible to be a feminist and stand up equality without wearing pins and starting every conversation with, “Well, I’m a feminist, so…”

It’s okay to be a Secret Feminist.

I grew up in an excitable Christian community that would have had a term for that kind of devotion to the cause: Luke warm. Well, who asked them?

The world needs activists. It needs proud, outspoken proponents for causes. Without them, important issues would fall between the cracks and change would never happen. But the world also needs regular people who don’t fight over every little detail and live in relative harmony with their fellow humans, even when they have fundamentally different worldviews.

What was the biggest boon to the equal rights campaign for homosexuality in America? Not marches or parades, not politicians or scientists. It was Ellen on television every weekday afternoon. It was Neil Patrick Harris charming the (figurative) pants off of Middle America. Ellen Degeneres, the Lesbian sitcom character, disappeared from TV in a scandalized flash, but Ellen the flamboyant TV host is the new Oprah.

So, how does your average, mellow citizen live as a feminist without turning into a caricature? The easiest thing I can think of is finding the little nuggets of sexism in your life and pushing them out. For instance? you ask.

Stop buying into the beauty lies of an industry that insists every natural part of you is an abomination. And I mean that literally: stop buying their products. Yes, when these companies came up with these marketing tricks, they were just making up things for us to be insecure about. They were fake problems. Now, though, society has embraced those standards of beauty and they are ‘real’ (as real as any cultural standard can be).

It’s nice to say, “You’re beautiful just the way you are,” but that’s a bunch of greeting card horseshit, and while you’re embracing your inner beauty, someone else is getting made up and winning the heart of the guy/gal you wanted. It’s a brutal world out there. Sometimes you really do have to fight for what you want.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t hit back at the industry that birthed this monstrous culture. The easiest way is pretty obvious: Stop buying those stupid fucking magazines. Women’s magazines are more pornographic than Maxim. Why are you buying them? (I mean, I get it if you’re a teenage boy and you can’t get your hands on Playboy, but even then, have you not heard of the internet??)

If you really must have those beauty tips, may I suggest doing what housewives have done for decades: Get in the longest line at the grocery store and read it there. Those magazines are 90% ads and about 6 pages of content, so you should be able to get through 3 or 4 different issues by the time Widow Henderson finds her $.50 coupon for that 30-pack of toilet paper.

For crissake, cancel that damn subscription (may I suggest getting something else instead).

There are a lot of insidious ways that sexism has seeped into all of our lives, but none of them is more pervasive than these beauty standards. Some might see the new impossible beauty standards for men to be a step in the right direction; after all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. But that’s the poisonous mentality that is hurting feminism. We shouldn’t be hoping for a worse world for men, we should be hoping for a better world for everyone.**

It’s not easy to push back against the tide of mass culture and the multi-billion dollar beauty industry, but a million individuals making a small change in their life is more impactful than an angry Twitter feud or a dozen articulate blog screeds (of which this is attempting not to be). Enough small steps become massive marches.

The beauty industry’s profits rely on you hating yourself. I’m not saying that the answer is to just “Love yourself.” I’m saying the answer is to hate them back. If you must participate in the zero sum game that is Cosmetic Beauty, do it without feeding their coffers. Self-esteem is hard; spite is easy.

(Now, I would never suggest that you steal beauty supplies, but…)

*Some feminists would argue that we are all, daily, living in a world that is shaped by inequality and sexism. While this is likely true, it’s in ways so subtle that an innocent bystander can’t be blamed for not necessary seeing everything through those lenses.

**Standards of beauty aren’t all inherently bad. It’s part of our very biology to seek them out and I’m not going to pretend that I don’t find some people more attractive than others. There comes a time, though, when those standards grow so unrealistic that they cross over to the level of satire.

I Don’t Want To Be A Feminist.

August 16, 2013September 28, 2014 Joseph Lyttleton5 Comments

I don’t want to be a feminist.

I don’t want to use the term.

I don’t want the term to even exist.

But you can’t always get what you want.

Feminism shouldn’t exist. It’s preposterous that in our age, we would need a movement whose purpose is fostering equality and respect between the sexes. Can there really be anyone today who would stand in the way of women having equality with men?

Sadly, yes.

Which is why, with great reluctance (and, frankly, annoyance) I must continue to be burdened with the label of ‘Feminist.’

The world I want to live in is a world where the sex of an individual represents nothing more than a biological distinction. Much as race, eye color and height represent a biological distinction. I don’t want to live in a world where we foolishly ignore what makes each gender distinct. Of course there are differences. I just don’t want those differences to be exploited.

Women aren’t better than men, but that’s never what true feminism has been about.

Women should be held to the same standard as men. Women are capable of wronging others. Women are capable of selfishness. Women are capable of evil. Women are, after all, human beings. Just like men. Not more than men, not less than men. Just like men. I don’t want to live in a world where women are held to a different standard than men.

But I do live in that world.

And such a world corrupts even the best of intentions.

I live in a world of reactionaries. In an attempt to battle misogyny, sexism, gender inequality and rampant physical, mental and emotional abuse, there are those who would advocate a type of extreme feminism that condones battling fire with fire. I understand the motivation behind this philosophy. You could call it the “If you can’t beat ’em…” philosophy.

I hate that philosophy.

In high school, I read and abhorred Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. I recognized where Chopin was coming from, but the underlying message, that a woman must assert her self-reliance by behaving as reprehensibly as her male counterpart, bothered me. It struck me as a Cold War mentality: If they hurt us, we’ll retaliate.

I don’t believe feminism wins by lowering itself to the standards of the basest among us. It wins by elevating everyone, male and female alike, to a higher standard.

If only it were that simple.

At times, being a feminist is like being in a battle where the enemy doesn’t adhere to the laws of war. When the adversary seemingly has no regard for basic human decency, it’s tempting to get down in the mud. Make no mistake, feminists have made missteps, just as all movements do. But those missteps would never have occurred if feminism didn’t need to exist. And it does.

Feminism should be an obsolete movement. In a nation where same-sex marriage is on the verge of being the rule, not the exception, and we can have a black president, the idea that we would still need a movement that fights for gender equality is mind blowing.

I don’t want to be a feminist. But I will be one as long as women aren’t paid precisely the same as male counterparts for the same work. I will be as long as all-male panels make decisions concerning women’s health. I will be as long as women are only allowed to be sluts or virgins. I will be as long as women have more to fear on a dark street than I do.

I will be as long as ignorant ‘activists’ like the Men’s Rights Movement exists. If only such groups didn’t antagonize feminists but rather sought to find common ground, they would solve the concerns of women and men alike. Men and women aren’t enemies.

I want to live in a world where a person is held accountable for their actions, not for their gender.

I want to live in a world where being a woman isn’t the first strike.

I want to live in a world where a young girl knows she has the same opportunities that I had when I was a boy.

I don’t want to live in a world where being a straight male makes me feel the need to apologize.

I want to live in a world where I don’t have to be a feminist.

But until then…

Fake Women Don’t Have Curves

February 26, 2013April 8, 2015 Joseph Lyttleton4 Comments

I’m not sure when I first heard the phrase, “Real women have curves,” but I do know that it’s always struck me as odd.

I understand it, of course. Both as a physiological point of true femininity and a feminist statement about body image, I get why the message is out there. Our culture definitely puts a heavy emphasis on the appearance of women and little girls are raised up often being pressured to pursue a difficult (if not flat-out impossible) standard of beauty.

The common refrain is that “these days” we expect women to be stick figures with barely any curves, whereas in the past (ah, the nostalgia) we used to think women with a little meat on them were beautiful. Remember Marilyn Monroe?

That icon of beauty would be considered a heffer by today’s standards, or at least that’s the common wisdom.

But this “fact” ignores a couple of things. One, while Monroe for a few years was THE torchbearer for Hollywood beauty, she wasn’t the only one. And two, she really wasn’t that big. People talk about her like she was Roseanne Barr. Hardly. She had some thickness to her, but she was still rather svelte, even by “today’s standards” (whatever those are).

You know who else was a Hollywood superstar in the same years that Marilyn was going around being all Ms. Fatty McFatcheeks? Audrey Hepburn.

Marilyn might have been the bigger star for her looks alone, but no one was going around calling Aubrey Hepburn an ug-o.

Here is my admission: While I think Marilyn was a gorgeous woman, I personally feel Audrey was one of the most beautiful women to ever grace a negative. The wonderful thing about this world is that both beautiful women can exist and they don’t undermine the other.

Anorexic?

Let’s fast forward to our modern day, where the only women we’re forced to be attracted to are anorexic sticks. At least, that’s what I keep hearing. The fashion industry only uses models with bodies like teenage boys who puke up every meal while their ribs stick out from behind their -A cup breasts.

But wait, men are berated for being obsessed with bimbos with big, fake boobs. So, what is it? Are men into big-titted whores or translucent Skeletors?

Is it possible that men aren’t actually one size fits all and some of us like women with curves and some of us like skinny women and even more of us like both, depending on a multitude of factors? No, that can’t be it, men aren’t that complex.

Curves?

The problem I’ve always had with the phrase “real women have curves” is that it’s insanely sexist, both to men and women. First, it implies that women need a counterattack against all the mindless cavemen who only drool over runway models (pro tip: It’s mostly gay men picking those models, not straight dudes). The truth is, males, the multifaceted gender that can’t be summed up in sitcom tropes, actually like women of all sizes.

The above women probably draw about equal shares of salacious attention from male internet commentators, though, admittedly, I haven’t done the research. Jennifer Lawrence, Aubrey Plaza and Christina Hendricks couldn’t be any more different in body types (other than, of course, all being white), yet they all play into male sexual fantasies.*

Men don’t need to be told that women can have curves, we are all very aware of it.

But the truly sexist aspect of the “real women” phrase is aimed at women. What an odd notion this is: a woman is only ‘real’ if she has curves. So all those naturally thin women who have small breasts and/or straight hips are clearly not “real women.” What a gross and utterly hateful way to supposedly assert feminist strength.

It always bothers me when, in an attempt to battle one societal ill, a group swings in the complete opposite direction and creates an equally vile counterattack. The worst part is that this disenfranchisement of ‘skinny women’ (and I’m not talking about thin, Victoria’s Secret Supermodels, I’m talking about true skinny women) has spread to men. Those ‘Gender Study’-taking, enlightened males who would never insult a heavyset woman feel no compunction when mocking a naturally skinny woman as being a ‘skeleton’ or ‘gross.’

Is this really better? Is this actually helping?

I get it. When a person is made to feel bad about themselves, the first reaction is to lash out against someone else. But this natural instinct has solidified into a movement where skinny women, women who can no more naturally change their bodies than ‘fat’ women can, have suddenly become open target for our societal mockery.

Progress? I think not.

If you want to celebrate the women with curves, celebrate the women without them, too.

As for me, big or small breasts, hips or not, I am forever a leg man.

*A conversation like this almost necessarily must reduce any female examples to their purely physical appeal. All of these women are very talented in their art, but for the purpose of the conversation at hand I’m merely focusing on the physical.