Not too long ago I had my first ever WWHHD moment. Lest you think I’m narcissistic enough to come up with my own spin on the “What Would Jesus Do” slogan, let me assure you that the “HH” here does not refer to my own name. Rather, the H-squared I was thinking of in this case was Hannah Horvath, the hapless heroine of the HBO show, Girls.
From the get go, let me just say that I am well-aware that Girls has all kinds of problems. It’s set in a fictional, almost-all-white New York and its characters are all mashups of love-to-hate-them privileged stereotypes. But despite that, there is something about the writing that feels very true to the Midwest millennial college and young adult experience, even though the show is obviously an exercise in hyperbole. The angst, the coming of age in the middle of an economic bubble bursting, and the coming to terms with the fact that you’re maybe not as special as you thought (or were told) you were…it all strikes a chord.
Hannah’s character in particular is a fascinating mix of confidence and insecurity; self-critique and ego; narcissism and big love. And, as has oft been noted by promoters and haters of the show alike, Hannah spends a lot of her onscreen time naked, even though her body is both a source of insecurity for her and doesn’t fit the toned, tanned and sculpted mold that so often limits women’s bodies in the media. As Jennifer Keishin Armstrong notes, Hannah’s “prodigious nakedness” has drawn both critique and acclaim, partly because of “her insistence on hitting us constantly with her sexuality while refusing to be ‘sexy.'”
So what was I doing when I had this WWHHD moment? I was staring at myself in a mirror, trying to schmuck myself into my first-ever shapewear undergarment. It was a week before I knew I would be onstage—if only for a matter of minutes—in front of thousands of Mennonites, and I was feeling acutely aware that, no matter what I say publicly, 30 is not the new 20 when it comes to my body and birthing two babies had taken its toll.
I stared at myself in the mirror and wondered, what would that other Hannah do? Would she just let it all hang out? Would she be proud and insecure about her curves all at the same time? Would she even come within a yard of these shellacked-on spandex garments?
And as I sat there, looking in the mirror, trying to literally shrink and smooth myself, I was struck by how often this is what I do. This is what my friends do. We try to tamp ourselves down or contort ourselves into positions that aren’t a natural, comfortable fit. I compartmentalize and shrink parts of my life so as not to make waves. I work behind the scenes to make the best possible impressions.
Yesterday I saw a video featuring Carly Fiorina (admittedly another questionable leader for women’s rights) that parodied the ways women are belittled and “boxed” in the workplace: everything from being continuously defined by their role as a mother to having their appearance or eating habits remarked upon to being on the receiving end of thinly veiled passive insults (i.e. “I hope you all can work together without being catty…”) to being interrupted and talked over.
I would be the first to say that I’ve had some great bosses who have been supportive of me—all of who I am—in the workplace. But there were pieces of this parody that hit way too close to home. And especially as someone whose short career has mostly been in the context of church organizations, I think I’ve felt extra disappointed that the church isn’t better. That I still feel the need to manage my identity so as not to let too much “hang out.” That good leadership is too often characterized as fundamentally neutral. And I know these sentiments–this need to manage one’s identity in order to succeed and survive– is not unique to women, but is well-known to other workers and church members who aren’t part of the dominant culture (and who knows this better than African-Americans in the United States during what Regina Shands Stoltzfus has called “the summer of grief”).
I wish the ending to this story was that I looked at myself in that mirror and decided to just be me and chucked the shapewear and all its metaphorical “schmuckiness” out the window. But that’s not this story. I’m too much of a pragmatist and, to be honest, the shapewear really adds an extra boost of confidence if you want to try out styles like this spring’s stretchy pencil skirts. And if I stick with third wave feminist mantras, beauty and style are not things to be feared, but choices that one can choose to adopt and to use.
But the symbolism is all still there, literally and figuratively under the surface, reminding me each time I move or stretch or bend too far that I’m (we’re) not quite free.
