Response to “The Gravity of Pink”
I was originally attracted to this essay because of the title. Over the past few months, I have had several discussions with friends and participated in a few interviews and conversations about feminism, and immediately I knew that this essay would be about feminism. On the first reading, I was fascinated by Eden Abigail Trooboff’s ideas about chosen identities (56) versus those we cannot choose; “the given identities, especially sexual identity, which … becomes problematic in the context of Biblical gender roles … I was born into this role of temptress and scapegoat without any say” (57). I also found her claims: “I have become protective of my gravity” (58) and “The process of finding identity becomes emotional rather than intellectual when the loss of control means abuse” (58) particularly thought provoking. I, too, have felt a sort of tug-of-war between loving and hating my body – the way I can or cannot dress it; what it says to other people about me and my priorities, my habits, my confidence (or lack thereof); how people look at me and judge me and, hopefully, how I can surprise them; how all of this shapes my identity when I walk into a room, before I can even say anything. As a slight woman, I find it particularly difficult to command attention in a room, and I find that people – mostly men – tend to treat me differently than they would other men before they get to know me. I, too, have become very protective of the identity I have chosen rather than the one chosen for me. I want to make sure that people know I am emotionally and physically strong, despite my lack of obvious muscle; I want people to know I am not afraid to share opinions and speak up loudly when I need to, despite sometimes seeming (or looking) sweet and meek. Perhaps, like Trooboff, I work hard on my chosen identity because the one I could not choose, my gender, defines me before all else.
In rereading the essay, however, I found a point I completely disagree with. Trooboff says, “I feel sick to my stomach when I wear pink, as though my insides had lost the weight that keeps them together” (58) and “I am very self-conscious about my hands, but also very proud of how used and unkempt my left hand looks – the leathery writer’s bump, the guitar calluses, the nails cut below the quick” (59). I truly believe that statements like this are how feminism gets a bad wrap. In all of my conversations about feminism, I have found women who refuse to identify themselves as feminists because they like painting their nails and wearing dresses and want to get married and have children, and they think that feminism refutes these options for women. Feminism, in my belief, does just the opposite. Instead of dictating that feminists should not be feminine, feminism gives women options for how they want to live their lives. For example, I boasted pink for two days last weekend (and several days before) as I walked 39.3 miles around Chicago to raise awareness and money for breast cancer research and treatment. I wore pink and walked for two days because I am proud of being a woman, and I am proud of what pink means. I also wear dresses, get manicures, and want to get married and raise a family some day. Does this mean that I’m not a feminist? Quite the opposite: it means I am a feminist who has exercised her right to choose pink.
Work Cited
Trooboff, Eden Abigail. “The Gravity of Pink.” Beyond Borders: A Cultural Reader. Ed. Randall Bass and Joy Young. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2003. 56-59.