Why I Hate Lean In + Reconciling Feminine

Weak and feeble women make me angry. The notion that women should be weak and feeble makes me angry. Women who pride themselves in being weak and feeble make me angry.

I realize this is mostly my issue, because I think I'm right and being seen as the 1920s picture of "female" is wrong, but it’s the way I feel none the less. 

Women have been largely placed into two categories – feminine, delicate, motherly and demure; and strong-willed, aggressive, masculine and successful. It might seem obvious, but I'll say it anyway - these categories are not definite, they are stereotypes.

I believe if you asked any woman, she would put up a fight but could say which category she more closely aligns with.

I am the later. I am bossy.

It seems then that I should be on board with Sheryl Sandberg and her Lean In personal brand, Getty image series, and the latest – "Ban Bossy."

Instead of feeling supportive, I feel annoyed. It took me a while to realize why I was annoyed. Sheryl become the unasked for representation for all strong-willed, aggressive, masculine, successful women.

She has productized the working woman and working mom, and quite frankly I’m a bit disgusted with it.

OK, fine, if you twist my arm I’m thankful the conversation is happening and women who might not naturally find themselves fitting into the latter category are asking for raises, demanding promotions, and being downright bossy, but I’m still irritated.

If I had my pick, I’d go for someone intentionally flying under the radar, someone rough around the edges, someone who wears cranberry colored lip gloss and heels with her tattered boyfriend jeans. Likely because I'm human and therefore inherently selfish and I'd rather have someone writing books who more closely aligns with me. 

I would not have selected Sheryl Sandberg.  

//

Somewhere along the way I realized I wouldn't become a stay-at-home mom like my mother. I knew that I didn't want a life in the suburbs, an early marriage and the sole responsibility of managing a house. 

My mom grew up with a working mother and resented her latch key childhood. I grew up with a doting, loving, sacrificial stay-at-home mom and resented the way my my dad treated her. I vowed I would not be in a marriage where my husband could hold my stay-at-home status against me. I would not be powerless. 

It does not take a psychologist to see where this is going, but as a result of this decision and my natural strong personality, I didn't know how to be a girl. I was not gentile, caring or pretty. I ordered my sister around when we played together and threw rocks at boys on the playground. 

I find I'm still figuring out how to be me, the best version of me, and how that me would be in a marriage. How does this fit in with what I've seen in healthy marriages, in what God asks of me, in what the church often wrongfully projects, in what society has tried to fracture, and in what my hometown in the south preaches? 

This is what I saw and learned growing up: 

This image is now inconsistent with what I know of who God made me to be and what the text in the Bible says. 

Besides my childhood, I can name off the top of my head two important things (although there are others) that contributed to my quest for discovering the balance between femininity and strength - a college sociology class (American Marriage, Family and Male-Female Relationships) and the book Captivating.

Not fitting into the traditional role of woman was a struggle for me starting in high school, and one I still figuring out. 

//

I'm 29. I'm still navigating womanhood. I don't want Sheryl Sandberg to be my role model, but I'm glad people are listening and discussing. I cannot mold to the standard I was raised in, but I'm thankful for the strong and supportive mother who raised me. 

It is counter intuitive to consider yourself in the category of "bossy" and to then whine about how "hard it is to be a strong woman today," so instead I'll continue to search for women to partner with, for conversations moving egalitarian marriages forward, and I'll seek to ask forgiveness for my anger towards a type of woman I've actively decided not to become. 

Beneath the Dirt

The first time I visited New York City as an adult I left remembering that it was dirty. 

I was staying with a friend in Washington Heights and the streets were lined with black garbage bags. The trash never managed to stay in the garbage bags and would spill onto the streets, collecting in corners.

Amidst the trash were pigeons. Pigeons look almost magical from a distance, but they are repulsive up close, missing toes and legs, attacking each other over bits of discarded trash and making constant guttural noises.

Once I navigated past the trash and pigeons I entered the subway where I was met with another form of dirty; dirty smells, dirty water, dirty rats; dirty beggars. 

To an outsider, the homeless population with their unrestrained panhandling, smells and constant presence can be alarming.

It didn’t feel like home, because home was clean. So I left and wondered why people liked such a dirty city. 

//

Dirty. It’s an unavoidably offensive word. No one wants to be associated with dirty.

That woman is dirty. That man’s money is dirty. Their kids have a dirty mouth. Her car is always dirty. Have you seen the way she lets her baby play on the floor at the mall, its dirty?

When did we become a culture obsessed with outward cleanliness, but fine with inward filth?

 //

The next time I visited New York I was in a different frame of mind. Instead of dirt when I walked around the city, I saw independence, culture, differentness, acceptance and life. 

I noticed the man in the business suit handing the homeless man money, the cherry blossoms were blooming, the cute cafes had tables spilling onto the sidewalks where friends had brunch.

Beneath the dirt, I discovered the first place in my adult life that felt like an authentic home. 

On Losing Your Voice

I’m not sure where God and I stand these days. Since He doesn't change, it seems I don’t know where I stand in relation to him.

Am I directly in front of him but looking to the side?

Am I crying in the corner, shaking, shrugging off his hands?

Am I sitting on a chair having a staring contest?

Am I yelling with tears, at my end in frustration?

I think I’m behind him. My back turned to his back, holding a pretty cocktail talking to someone else at a party, and I’m telling myself I don’t care, but I do care – more than a little. My party eye shadow and flirty hand gestures aren't fooling anyone. I’m a bit lost and I avoid confrontation with the one party guest I’m there to see, playing some childish game of hard to get.

I've previously spent most of my life having the yelling contest, or conversely curled up in God’s lap. Our bi-polar relationship came to an end, around the same time my anxiety came to an end, around the same time my wrong relationship came to an end, around the same time I moved with three suitcases from Dallas, Texas, to New York City, around the same time I stopped writing with passion.

And here we are – at a cocktail party fooling no one. I should just put down my fancy drink, tear off my false eyelashes and walk in front of God and ask him why I’m being made a fool. Why I believed for 5 years that he would heal my knee, but 16 doctors, the last of which were at the best hospital for joints in the US, can’t help me. And the one person who can help me is silent.  

I've lost my gumption and my voice. So I finish my cocktail and leave the party.