On a Saturday morning in the middle of summer I returned Orwell’s 1984 and you said, “That’s some heavy reading for an eleven year old.” I said, “Maybe.” You asked what was next and when I shrugged you said, “I’ve got something for you,” handed me Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and changed my life.

This gratitude is 18 years overdue, but I want to say it anyway. Thank you!

Sincerely,
Elizabeth.

I mean, if the women who are currently in the careers you wish to pursue would slight you for having an eye for good design, and denigrate your seriousness for your appreciation of aesthetically pleasing objects — would you still want to be in their clogs?

Of the hubub, Dr. Isis writes:

A woman who is aggressive, or who proclaims to anyone who will listen that she has the potential to achieve great things, is not a bitch. A woman who chooses to wear high-heeled shoes is not a slut, a bimbo, or a tramp. We need not be ashamed of the things that make us women (though, granted, we all embrace and express our femininity differently and that should always be acceptable). Neither our bodies, the social/gender roles we may choose to embrace, or our decision to or not to parent children, should ever have the capacity to limit our academic success.

Zuska also responds in The Proper Way to be a Woman in Science:

“If you disagree with what Dr. Isis says about science, or you don’t care for her interest in footwear, or you simply dislike her writing style, fine. But if Dr. Isis bothers you because she “makes female scientists sound like shoe fettish ignorant bimbos” then perhaps it’s worth spending some time thinking more about why that bothers you so. Who gains, really, if Dr. Isis is required to restrain and constrain her self-expression – and what are they gaining?”

My own take, as a non-scientist, but also as a woman who is interested in science, literature, design, etc., is simply this:

I don’t expect mathematicians to only discuss numbers, just like I don’t expect chefs to only be interested in food, in much the same way I would be dreadfully incapable of maintaining a worthwhile friendship with an artist who would only talk about her medium and focus area. I expect the people I surround myself with to be well-rounded. Why would my friends in science fields be any different?

Isn’t it refreshing to know that there are fashionistas out there who not only love science but have careers in it? Fashionista scientists! Tell your nieces and little sisters! Having other interests, even in fashion does not make them ill-suited for engineering, math, and science. These are fields that are certainly big enough to be inclusive. Let’s not push anyone away from such important careers because they speak to a different (and new, and much needed) audience!

I look at trends and subcultures as a cycle of rebellion. That makes it sound much more negative than I intend. — Rebellion, to me, is not limited to aggressive upheaval of norms; I’m talking about even the smallest acts that teenagers commit in their quest for perceived individuality. (I will be the first to admit that my youthful interest in alternative genres of music was actually counter to the goal of setting myself apart.)

I grew up under the rule of my stepfather’s dictatorship. He saw little value in the things I was interested in: literature and art. One evening after school when I was in third grade he spent over an hour looming over me at the kitchen table shouting, “What’s 4×6? What’s 4×6? What’s 4×6?” over and over, without pausing. A year before that he’d broken the clock that my mother and I had had longer than him, pushing the hands around, thumping its face, demanding I tell him “What time is it now? And now? And now?” My best friend, Melvin, who did his homework at our house until his mother came home from work, shrunk down into his chair, frozen as The Monster (as we called him in secret) shouted at me to stop crying and answer these simple questions in a voice that could be heard. No stammering! No tears! Wipe that nose! It didn’t matter that I was at the top of the grade in reading and writing and got As in social studies and Pennsylvania history. The stars on my book reports and “Elizabeth is a joy to have in class” comments in letters from teachers meant nothing if I couldn’t memorize the multiplication table as fast as everyone else. Math was the most important thing and if I couldn’t get with the program I was a failure and always would be. I believed him.

“Great. Someday you can write a book about how mean I was to you.”

School became a nightmare until the principal of the arts magnet school came to see us in junior high. A whole high school with four different types of English every year! I was determined to get in and threw myself into preparing for my writing audition, and an application/sample for a summer arts program at the university I would eventually attend. Both accepted me. “Great. Someday you can write a book about how mean I was to you,” I remember him saying. “You’re not going to get anywhere else without math.” As if taking longer to solve algebra equations than some people meant I couldn’t do them at all.

Fortunately, when I was in high school his job as a cop kept him out all night and asleep most of the day. Keeping my distance, I focused on friends, novels, and my sketch and notebooks. Anything math or science related scared the shit out of me. (Not having books thrown over my head when I ask for clarification on things I don’t understand has definitely helped me get over that.)

My brother, eight years younger, got it worse. He was a happy kid and quite a ham on stage at Sunday school holiday programs. Today, I don’t think you could get him to open his mouth in front of more than one stranger. There can be no other word than abuse to describe the afternoons that poor child spent trying to catch footballs and not fall off his bicycle because “a real son” just could. Imagine a six year old who can stay composed and unflinching as a large chunk of glass is taken from his bloody knee, but pales and starts quaking when he hears, “Don’t worry, here comes your dad.” This was my brother’s childhood. He made friends with two physically and mentally handicapped boys and became another target for the neighborhood bullies that threw rocks and insults at them. Woe, woe be upon him if he didn’t win the resulting fights. (I had my fair share of tussles with their older sisters when I got home from the magnet school downtown.) Eventually we moved to the sticks of Western Pennsylvania and our differences, and our new seclusion escalated the bullying at home and in school. My brother snapped and went from a gentle giant into a rage fueled storm-in-a-can getting into fights at any provocation from his classmates. I graduated and moved on to campus. He got into computers, and video games – things that don’t require getting other people involved. We ran out of things to talk to each other about. I eventually was kicked out of the house and moved to Los Angeles. When I returned to this side of the country, my brother was unrecognizable – painfully shy and socially awkward.

Did I ever really like Nurse with Wound or Skinny Puppy?

The writer in me sees an alternative family history. If he’d only left us years ago, my brother would be a successful, beloved television meteorologist. (He had a thing for weather radio.) My mother would’ve gotten back in touch with her bohemian poet and fashion designer friends and would have built a healthy network of support to nurture her creativity. I imagine we would’ve stayed in Philadelphia. I’m not sure who I would be. I feel like my entire personality was shaped by rejection of his authority and prejudices. In my early teens anything that would piss him off became instantly attractive. Did I ever really like Nurse With Wound or Skinny Puppy? Or did I just really enjoy his confusion and frustrated outrage. Not that anyone develops alone in a vacuum, but would I have gone in the same direction without the fear of being even remotely like him urging me farther and farther away?

I suspect most teenage rebellion/subculture trends are due, in part, to some variety of daddy complexes. Which makes me wonder what the children of geeks will do when they want to be different. In the teenage quest for individuality, even if your parents are awesome, aren’t you still going to want to do something different?

Related links to friends discussing labels, identity, and teenage life:

Laura discusses being a gamer and geek.
Mark’s awesome series:

• Because nobody demanded it: Tales of a Teenage Pagan Superhero
• Tales of a teenage pagan superhero: Sarah and the Dragon Mage, part one
• Tales of a Teenage Pagan Superhero: The Cat’s Name Is Sun (an Interlude)

That’s right. Butterflies, perfume, unicorns, and princess gardens.

I was reading a news magazine featuring a dinosaur skeleton cover shot and young Justice, the older of the two boys (about 8), informs me matter-o-factly that “Dinosaurs aren’t real” and that I was a girl. His father pulled him away telling him not to speak to strangers. The oldest girl asks, “But, Daddy, what about witnessing?”

I wanted to hear his answer too, but as usual there’s never an answer to Fatherly contradictions.

Whenever I am reminded of (read: outraged by) Texas I buy a dinosaur book for a friend or neighbor’s kid. I’ve been reminded of Texas a lot the past few days and I think this week I’m going to donate a large chunk of elementary-level dino reading to the local holiday gift drive. The Toys for Tots collection at my office is next week too, so I’ve got to find some fun thing, like one of those young archaeologist kits where you dig your own dino and it makes a big mess and your mom gets real mad so you know it is awesome. (Everyone always donates toddler toys. What about the bigger kids?) One thing is certain though — I definitely won’t be hitting the Perfume & Spa Science section of Toys R Us. That makes me want to buy even more science books for kids. The cycle is maddeningly never-ending!