Femininity by Susan Brownmiller

Author:Susan Brownmiller [Brownmiller, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Social Science, Feminism & Feminist Theory, Women's Studies, History, Social History
ISBN: 9780449901427
Google: DZmqAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00EZEX9D2
Publisher: Ballantine
Published: 1984-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Movement

ATHENE, GODDESS OF WISDOM and goddess of war, protector of cities and patron-inventor of the technological arts, also invented a remarkable flute. Pleased with her accomplishment and its beautiful music, she played one day at an Olympian banquet, expecting a generous round of applause. Instead, she noticed Hera and Aphrodite laughing behind their hands. Repairing in confusion to a stream in the woods, Athene picked up the flute and watched her reflection in the water. Suddenly she understood. In the strain of transforming her breath into music, her cheeks puffed out comically; her features were distorted. Athene threw away her fine invention with a curse. (According to scholars of classical Greek, this story comes late in the cycle of myths.)

My mother gave me curtsy lessons before I was five. At the drop of the cue, “And this is our daughter, Susan,” I’d gather the ends of my short, pleated skirt—elbows in, wrists down, fingers up—and fall to the ground on one tender-skinned knee. Grownups were enchanted. So was I, for Shirley Temple, Deanna Durbin and all the storybook princesses stood at my side. I had mastered my first serious training in feminine movement, and found it was something at which I excelled.

I always excelled in feminine movement. I’m lissome, I’m fluid, even in trousers. Want to see me raise my eyebrow? I used to practice for hours in front of a mirror. Notice how I roll my eyes when I say something clever and crinkle my nose when I laugh? Teen queen flirtation, consciously applied. The slight tilt to my chin? Copied from Paula E——, the most popular girl in grade school. The arch of my neck, the curved alignment of my raised arm and hand? Poses I learned from ballet. My fluttery wave goodbye? An adaptation of Queen Elizabeth in a motorcade. I never jab a finger—Mother always said “Don’t point,” and I still relax on the sofa in a kittenish curl.

Inspired by classical sculpture, Chinese ivories and Florentine art, I’m an adept practitioner of the oblique gesture, the softened motion, the twisting torso, the widening eyes. I rarely stand straight, preferring to lean sideways from the waist with one knee slightly flexed, one hip extended. I lower my shoulder when I lift my arm, adjusting the balance of elbow, wrist and fingers, breaking the line at each critical joint. Without conscious effort I smoke a cigarette, eat a sandwich, regard my hand, climb into a taxi with full assurance of the feminine effect. I’ve been doing it for a lifetime; I never forget.

Or do I? What about when I hurry through a crowded street, when I lose myself in a heated discussion, when I make a wisecrack that is aggressively cutting? Hunched shoulders, clenched jaw, narrowing eye and head thrust forward like a lowering bull. Torso rigid, neck strained, thumb jerking strongly. Nothing is feminine about these postures—where did they come from? I shrink from the knowledge that my reliably trained body can slip so easily over the line, and I remind myself to watch it.

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