Capturing, captivated by the feminine mystique

  • Spoiler alert: I will not reference Betty Friedan’s book in this post (click here for free PDF) though it’s on my short list for the week.
  • I am listening to Satellite by Guster while I write this as well. More on this…

I was walking on Newbury Street in Boston, MA last week, a good spot for window shopping and not much else if you’re on, say a grad student’s budget. No complaints here, though — it hasn’t snowed yet and all of Beantown is praying, global warming or not, that the white stuff will stay away for a bit yet.

On my walk, I saw this picture tucked into one of the myriad entrances to little boutiques on my way to the Boston Common:

Dec 2015.JPG

Apologies for the quality. But I think the image has a lot to say, and I’ll bring in Guster (who I just learned is from Boston, in fact) song lyrics to frame the conversation:

Shining like a work of art
Hanging on a wall of stars
Are you what I think you are?

Now, luscious, elusive associations with night-driving aside, I for one am disappointed and yet unsurprised by a song written from a straight male perspective to capture how a love interest is seen. I chose the word “capture” intentionally here. What is it about the male-singer-female-hearer dynamic that so resonates with what we consider “true” in hetero relations?  Being captivated seems the role of the female fan, screaming her head off and losing control, all the while sweaty and gorgeously tilted forward, waiting to be plucked for the deserving flower she is.

Source: “One Direction – From The Beatles to One Direction: 50 years of frenzied fans,” The Telegraph http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/10252245/From-The-Beatles-to-One-Direction-50-years-of-frenzied-fans.html?frame=2648003

Guster sings to the beloved:

You’re my satellite
You’re riding with me tonight
Passenger side, lighting the sky
Always the first star that I find
You’re my satellite

Ornamental, beautiful, obscure, ready at hand and yet mysterious is she (are we, the women). (Oh, and ps I do really like this song.)

Bringing the conversation back to the picture I sneered at–er, saw. The image shows a woman captured, bound by a metal collar (likely gold or platinum, from the indulgent shimmer on it) that leashes itself to a pin of a poodle covering her left breast.

I am not a feminist scholar (yet), nor a critical race scholar (likely, ditto), but between the racialization of the Lisa Bonet look-alike model with light skin and dreads, the bondage chic, and the sexualization/dehumanization of this young woman to fit under the social lens of White male gaze we all walk around using…well, I’m happy I felt something. I think this is precisely the problem: that the mystification of women is just plain regular.

I’m ranging around on this post with a flush of creativity perhaps in part because I’m getting back to the page after months-long silence and it’s a long overdue stream of speak. However, emotions can drive potent expressions of the real. Part of me is compelled to connect an indignant moment in an out-of-reach shopping district I had in downtown Boston with theory. We are interpellated in society, according to Althusser, positioned as subjects by our simultaneous response to and participation in the reinforcement of ideology, in this case, a patriarchal one, i.e., that men are the watchers, the truth-sayers, and women are the observed and the attendant, the ornaments, the ones waited to be captured/captivated.

Yet I have to be honest. Emotionally speaking, I resent, as foolish as it is, the fact that in the romantic marketplace, I am already too old to be objectified as a fainting-away fan or a target of cash-spending, upwardly-mobile eyes. And I am angry that I am drawn into the dialectic of my own femaleness and society’s way of boiling it down to variations on a theme, a conversation I have been raised to be fluent in.

Maybe you will always be
Just a little out of reach

Guster’s last verse (sorry guys) leaves us with deceptively simple. What is out of reach, to whom? Who is “you,” to whom? Is my story out of my own hands, as soon as I open to the first page?

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