Hankering after a tiara doesn’t mean you can’t be a feminist
All little girls are just queens-in-the-making, says Jerramy Fine
MY mother is a diehard feminist. To this day, she refuses to wear a bra. She sees it as a revolutionary act, insisting that being comfortable is more important than meeting society’s expectations.
I was born in Colorado in the US. My parents gave me a boy’s name, fed me tofu, dressed me in tie-dye and hoped that one day I’d join Greenpeace or (at worst) become a human rights lawyer. They raised me to be an outspoken, independent woman who would be admired above all for my brain — and so, as a daughter, I must have been a terrible disappointment. Because I wanted to be one thing and one thing only: a princess.
My mother says that when I was a toddler and we drove past the towering golden dome of the Denver capitol building, I burst into tears. “I didn’t see the queen!” I wailed.
For months to come I would continue to scan the windows of the building looking for members of the royal family. I harboured a sincere hope that they would recognise me as one of their own and rescue me from my dreadful hippie existence.
My first Disney experience was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs — my dad is an artist and viewed it as an important lesson in animation. But as I sat in that cinema, hand-drawn dwarfs were the last thing on my mind. Just like me, Snow White did not belong with her family, and dreamt that some day someone would whisk her off to a kingdom far away. From that day forward, I knew I was not alone in the world. (My mom claims she would often hear me sobbing: “Snow White, you are the only one who understands!”)
A year later, I watched in awe as Diana Spencer emerged from her carriage, a vision in taffeta, and became Princess of Wales. I was speechless and my career goal was solidified at age four.
You have to give me some credit. Trapped in the rural US, I certainly gave it my all. I collected etiquette books, studied royal family trees, analysed royal fashion, kept elaborate scrapbooks on the world’s reigning princesses and scrawled heartfelt letters to real princes who happened to be my age. Anyone who thought I might grow out of my princess phase soon realised they were terribly mistaken.
When I was 19, I studied in England. At 22, I got accepted to the London School of Economics and moved to London. I spent my evenings at Boujis and Mahiki (nightclubs favoured by the royals), and my weekends at polo matches and charity balls — forever hoping to pin down that elusive “prince”.
My royal marriage didn’t work out, but I wrote a memoir about crossing the Atlantic to pursue my princess dream. And since then, lots of people have pronounced me certifiably insane. I expected that. But I did not expect to be overwhelmed with letters from women who have led everyone to believe they have “outgrown” their own princess dreams, when in reality they just keep them secret — for fear of being called silly, immature, or worst of all: antifeminist.
This last accusation really started to bother me. Is it so unthinkable for a woman to be pro-princess and pro-feminist?
A newspaper headline pushed me over the edge: “I’d happily blow out the brains of any Disney princess!” it read (and the columnist was female). That’s when I’d had enough. Modern feminism isn’t working if bashing women (fictional or otherwise) seems progressive.
Princesses are women too, and if no one else was going to defend them, I would. I was no longer a teenager wanting to marry a prince. I was now a grown woman fighting for the sisterhood. My crusade for princess power began to crystallise and my fight for femininity began to fill the pages of a new book.
My hippie parents taught me to defend the downtrodden, to confront all injustices, and to understand that women are not only equal to men but bring their own unique powers to the table. The irony was not lost on me: in standing up for princesses, I had become the activist they’d hoped for.
Princesses are easy targets because society dismisses anything feminine as weak or second-best. I’m not saying we should remove all critical thinking when watching Disney movies or reading old fairytales, but my real problem with princess-detractors is the attack on girliness itself.
Feminist author Naomi Wolf once said: “Don’t worry if your five-year-old insists on a pink frilly princess dress. It doesn’t mean she wants to subside into froth; it just means that she wants to take over the world.”
This is why the princess dream must live on. Because being a “princess” requires more than a tiara. It’s about embracing the regal virtues of compassion, benevolence and mercy. It’s about standing up for what you believe in, protecting those that can’t protect themselves and using your power and privilege to enhance the wellbeing of your realm. It’s about knowing femininity is a noble strength, not a source of shame.
If more girls (and women) felt allowed to embody the true power of the princess archetype, much would be different. They might stop dating losers. They might ask for a raise. They might aim for goals that are worthy of them. They might stop thinking that a mediocre life is enough.
I agree that girls deserve more choices than endless pink products. And I understand that nonstop princess-themed merchandise offers a one-dimensional view of femininity. But fighting corporate marketing, boycotting pink products, or insisting on gender-neutral child rearing are not the solutions.
Rather than making pink, princessy toys obsolete, we need to start changing our attitudes towards them. Because if we teach our children to shun everything pink, girlie and feminine — where does it end? What else will they turn away from because of feminine connotations? Nurturing? Compassion? Empathy? Parenting?
I don’t believe there is only one way to be a girl. If your daughter wants to wear camouflage, run through the mud and build robots, that’s wonderful, but why is that somehow better than if she wants to wear a princess dress?
Feminine choices are as worthy as masculine ones. We can’t tell our girls they can be anything, and then say: “Except you can’t be a princess.” True feminism is the freedom to be anything we want.
My daughter might become a preschool goth just to annoy me, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s a dazzling queen-inthe-making. My bra is here to stay. But right now, defending princesses is the most feminist thing I can do. — © The Daily Telegraph, London
I watched as Diana became Princess of Wales. My career goal was solidified at age four
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