Thought of the day: Racism/Sexism and Privilege, and why it is still a Thing, even if you don’t think so

You read a Want Ad that says “Women and People of Color Encouraged to Apply.” What’s your reaction?

• Straight up Sexism: “Well, that’s the problem with Affirmative Action. Everyone knows women can’t do that job as well as men.”
  
•  Straight up Racism: “Well, that’s the problem with Affirmative Action. People of color are always less qualified.”

Fortunately, most people with a basic education wouldn’t say these things. A lot who DO think them wouldn’t say them out loud “for fear” of being called a sexist/racist/etc, and the vast majority of folks in this country know that both these statements are, at their core, not really true. Most of us have come across people in our lives of a different race or gender who were pretty ding dang remarkable. We know, somewhere, that people different than us, but better than us at various skills, exist. It takes a Trump sized ego to walk around believing you or your group is just BETTER at all the things by virtue of being WHAT you are rather than WHO you are as an individual.

So…. Most of us aren’t straight up racists or misogynists. And that’s good because only a few decades ago, you would have heard a lot of those types of statements made and assumed to be true. So, for all the folks who keep insisting that this is a post-racial country….. there’s some truth in that UP TO A POINT.

(SIDEBAR: I DO know people who still say those things. Those are not people I respect. Those aren’t people many people respect. Please try to grow and change and get over yourself if that is you.)

But let’s move on to privilege. This is something that is FAR more interesting anyway.

Go back to that Want Ad. “Women and People of Color Encouraged to Apply.” If you really want that job and are qualified for it (specifically my white male friends) it is perfectly OK for you to be a little nervous about the fact that you might not get the job over a woman or a person of color. After all, you want the job, and you might not get it because of WHAT you are when you are perfectly qualified to do said job. It isn’t racist or sexist or even privileged to be bummed out by that and wish it wasn’t the case. 

Here are some reactions that aren’t straight up racist or sexist, but ARE a mark of the privilege white, straight men receive in this country and often don’t want to acknowledge. Consider what you think when you see these words. Here are some typical gems:

• “This is the problem with Affirmative Action. Companies are forced to accept lesser candidates to make quotas.”
  
• “This is the problem with government interference and overreach. They tell private businesses who they can hire and who they can’t.”
  
• “This is political correctness bullshit.”
  
• “This is reverse racism/ sexism.”

First off, this isn’t the way Affirmative Action works. There is nothing in the words “Women and People of Color Encouraged to Apply” that shows coercion. No company has ever been shut down because the Census Bureau or the IRS came in and said, “You don’t have enough black people working for you. I’m pulling your license.” Stop peddling that lie unless you can cite specific examples. You can’t, so stop.

All three also make an assumption, though, that is at the HEART of White Male Privilege. There is the idea that the idea of wanting someone of color or a woman specifically is always a forced decision and probably a lesser one. It rarely occurs to you that perhaps the conversation may have gone something like this (and these are just a few of MANY possible scenarios):

1. “We’re reaching a small percentage of market share here. How can we attract a broader range of customers? Let’s seek out members of those groups to get their input so our marketing can reach communities we aren’t reaching now.”
   
2. “Our thinking is becoming very routine because all of our workers are very similar. Perhaps getting people on board with different life experiences can make our work processes more flexible and fluid.”
   
   
3. “Studies repeatedly show that more diverse workplaces are more dynamic which often makes them more efficient and more profitable. We have a lot of white guys here. Let’s branch out.”

I don’t know if that’s the logic behind our hypothetical company’s Want Ad. Being aware of privilege isn’t about knowing those things for sure. Privilege is in the fact that none of those scenarios would OCCUR to many white men. Those words in a want ad are seen as an attack. Often, when someone not like us is promoted as being a more ideal candidate than we are, especially because of reasons we can’t change and didn’t choose, we fail to see the dozens of ads before and after that one that DON’T specifically ask for a type. 

So…. Be bummed you aren’t the ideal candidate. Be pissed off there’s nothing you can do to make yourself the ideal candidate. But lay off playing the victim. We all have times in our lives we’re the Belle of the Ball, and we all have times when we sit in the corner and wait. 

I promise it is rarely personal. You will survive.

Dog Day Afternoon

Boogieman's Thoughts Over the Past Two hours, in order:

• Ooo.... What's that?
• Smells interesting -- Wonder what it would smell like on my back?
• Oh.... HELL yeah!
• OK... Time to go inside!
• Mommy is looking at me funny. I love her; why would she look at me like that?
• Now, she's talking to Daddy.
• They are looking at me strange.
• Oooo.... Mommy's going upstairs.
• Hunh, I wonder why Daddy is walking upstairs with that plastic bowl.
• I hear water running.
• I better check this out.
• That's weird. Mommy and Daddy aren't usually in the bathroom together.
• They WANT me to go in there. Maybe they need help with something.
  
  
  (Looks around. Mental calc)
  
  

• Oh, HELL, no!

• Mommy's shutting the door!
• Why is Daddy picking me up?
• DO. NOT. WANT.
• Betrayed! Betrayed by the woman I love. I knew Daddy was suspect..... but.... Mommy too?
• This is torture.
• They are trying to kill me.
• How do Mommy and Daddy ENDURE this every day?
• I am NOT going to make it.
• I, Boogie McCarthy, leave all my worldly possessions to NOT Mommy, NOT Daddy, and NOT Sister.
• OK, Fine. Maybe I am dying, but if I'm going down.... I'm taking everybody with me!
• These assholes will RUE the day. RUE it!
• Don't you come at me with that towel!
• One of them HAS to make a mistake some time.....
• Mommy's heading to the door. Sucker!
• I'M FREE!!!
• Screw you, former-Mommy and former-Daddy!
• Oh, carpet. I love you. You understand me. I shall roll on you for comfort.

The Lake is Calm

My high school principal just died. It's a strange feeling when someone you once spent a lot of time with but haven't thought about in decades dies. I spent some time reading the outpouring of grief in the commentary section of the press release and become confused. After pages and pages of "he was always there for me" and "I've never known someone more supportive of kids" and the like, I had to return to the article to make sure we were talking about the same person. That didn't describe the Doctor Alexander I knew at all. The Dr. Alexander I knew was a jerk.

Please keep reading. It's going to end nice. I promise.

Seriously? That was my first thought. I don't remember endless support of students. The Laurens High School of my day was a relic that I hope to all the higher deities no longer exists, even in the South. Dr. Alexander ran a school with the idea that adults were smart and kids were dumb and the amount they talked should match that philosophy. He oversaw his kingdom where segregation wasn't the focus, but wasn't a distant memory by any stretch of the imagination.

I remembered the day a whole bunch of us were caught skipping school and dragged back. I remembered that many kids got suspended while my parents weren't even called. I remembered in school suspension being handed out like candy to some, while no teachers even saw the point of asking me for a hall pass. But what I remember the most is the one day I DID get in trouble. Big trouble. Trouble that would reverberate throughout our town for what seemed like a long time in my 16 year old psyche.

To give background: I went to high school from the fall of 1986 until the Spring of 1990. For most of that time, I was heavily involved with my school newspaper. Those were the years when the Supreme Court ruled that student journalists did NOT have a free press, even if they paid for 100% of their newspaper production costs.

Here's the case: 
http://scholar.google.com/scholar_case?case=2391207692241045857&q=hazelwood+v.+kuhlmeier&hl=en&as_sdt=2,30&as_vis=1

Here's the Cliff Notes version:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hazelwood_v._Kuhlmeier

I was proud of my work on the school newspaper. I might have wound up on the staff because scuffles with a terrible band director (that's a whole different post) left me searching for Fine Arts credits, but from the moment I stepped in the door, I was home. The staff became my best friends, and the whole process probably turned me from a Queen Bee to more of a Floater (granted, with QB tendencies). We did good work, for scholastic journalists.

The Big Problem came because of an article I wrote on some of my fellow students who were being beaten by their parents (don't worry. I said I would take your names to my grave. I will take your names to my grave). This was the first time I had a meeting in Dr. Alexander's office. He told me I wasn't a good writer, and I lacked sensitivity in handling difficult matters. He threatened to suspend me if I didn't give all the names so he could contact their parents (seriously?). Long story short, I was put on notice. Everything I even thought about writing was going through the filter. He threw the Supreme Court case in my face with more glee than I think is becoming in an adult even now.

That article had already been printed, and it eventually won an award as the best feature story from any school newspaper that year. Seriously. It wasn't just me.

Something about that meeting sparked something in me. I became better read on that court case and other legal cases involving student rights than probably anyone in SC at the time (it was the days before Google: cut me some slack).

Thinking about all of this this morning sparked something else. I remember walking out of that office knowing my life was turning a corner. At that moment, I stopped believing people who were older than me necessarily knew more than me. Dr. Alexander was wrong. He used his position and his authority to say hurtful untrue things in order to get his way, but I had held my ground and defended my principles. I was determined at that moment to be more than almost all the people in my tiny town dreamed of being.

I'm aware that when famous people write things like this, it packs a heavier punch.

But I also got to thinking about how one 15 minute meeting turned me from a fairly apathetic and miserable kid stuck in a town she hated into a young woman with an increased sense of compassion for others (who would reveal the names of people who had shared their heartbreaking stories, especially knowing it would mean they were ratted out?) and a finely honed sense of the lack of justice in the world and the importance of working against that injustice. I like to think these are the principles that guide me to this day.

I was also reminded of one of my favorite kids' novels, Frindle by Andrew Clements. I won't go into the whole plot, but, in the end of the novel, the hero, now a college graduate, receives a letter from the villain of the story, his 5th grade teacher. She writes the letter when he is in 5th grade, and makes the hero sign the envelope without reading the letter so that he will know she had written it when the story unfolds. In it, she explains that she has always known she had to be the villain. That sometimes, to become great, a hero needs a nemesis. She says we must all accept our role in the journey of those around us.

I don't know if Dr. Alexander knew the role he was playing. I read the pages of support for him and his time as principal, and I think maybe he did. Maybe he saw me as I was: a kind of bratty, self-involved teenager who desperately needed something to believe in and something to show her a larger purpose. As a teacher now, I know that both the punishment AND the accolades often have to be adapted to best suit the individual child. I'd like to believe he knew showing me injustice would make me want to battle it wherever I saw it.

No matter what, that's what he did, and I thank him for it.

Farewell, Dr. Alexander. You played your role well, no matter what it was, and I thank you for playing it.

"But time is our friend as well as our enemy. In that great sea of memory, time collapses and we are all together in that place where time doesn't exist. We can be quiet and see our worlds collide. The old become young again; the children grow up and have new children. The dead return to hike and fish. Our grandchildren go crawling into the laps of our great-grandparents. We are all at the table. We can see everything. We can talk to one another. The lake is calm."

                --Mary Pipher

Ann Romney does NOT work. There. I said it.

My social networking sites have been overloaded with the typical miasma of political postings and political correctness as of late. This is hardly surprising just 4 1/2 months before a Presidential campaign. While we're all throwing our topical hats in the ring, I'd like to respond, at length, to something that keeps lurking on my Facebook wall. The conversation beginning with a Democratic spokesman (not affiliated with the President or his campaign) saying that Ann Romney has never held a job and therefore does not work. If you don't remember, this caused a big shit storm across the country ending in puffed up Republicans reminding women of their sacred duty to be breeders and soccer moms all across the country asking their friends to hold their earrings while they collectively went after this poor woman who, perhaps, worded her sentiment differently than she meant. I'd like to weigh in on that for just a moment.

Ann. Romney. Does. Not. Work. (and she never has).

There. I said it. Before the soccer mom hordes descend on me, let's play a little game. It is now a Sunday. I want all you Mothers out there (working outside the home and stay at home moms alike) to take a moment (or, more likely, an hour) to make a list of everything you have to do this week. Make a second list of all the things that are stressing you out, especially those concerning your children. Go ahead. Take your time. I have a cup of coffee and a load of wash to fold.

All done? OK. Let's look at your list and compare it to the Ann workload.

• Chores: Do you have to cook dinner every night? Scratch that one off Ann's list. She has a staff. Ditto cleaning the house, mowing the lawn, washing the car, washing the dishes or doing the laundry. Imagine all of that was carried out by someone else. How does your week look now?
•  Errands: I'm assuming most of you have to go to the grocery store and the dry cleaners and the bank and about a hundred other places. Scratch all those off the list too. Romneys don't do these things. They MIGHT, but they don't HAVE to if it isn't convenient. In the Romney household, I bet the mail carrier takes the mail, and the stamps magically appear. Even if old Ann IS responsible for planning the menus, there is no WAY she's heading down to the Harris Teeter and slapping the stuff in the cart. If she is even responsible for the procurement of the groceries, I would bet a lot of money that at the very least, she's using PeaPod or HomeRuns. So scratch all those.
• Organizing: You know that closet you just haven't been able to get to? Yeah, well, the Romney's have 5 houses. There's a place for everything. I bet their attics aren't even filled up.
• Money Matters: Do you think for a minute Ann Romney knows what day of the month the electric bill is due? There's a guy for that. There's a ton of guys for all of that.
• Job job: some of you have to do all this AND work for someone else 40 hours or more a week. Dear Ann? Not so much.

Now, let's look at your stress list. The number one reason people might dismiss my opinion is that I don't have children. Two overly dependent dogs is not the same as children. I get that. I also concede that no amount of money allows you to sleep really deeply when your kid is out past 10 on a school night driving the car. Fair enough. But let's look at some other common stresses and how money DOES make them completely disappear:

• School: Say your child has problems in school. Can you afford a tutor? Do you have time in between all the chores Ann Romney does NOT have to help them yourself? Maybe you would still worry, but if your kid is having a hard time getting ready for the science fair, being able to hire Steven Hawking to help out probably eases the mind.
• College: Ann Romney does NOT have to worry about whether or not the little Romney bots are going to have to forego private college, if this is their dream, because they didn't get a full ride.
• Ten billion sporting events: Money doesn't take away scheduling conflicts for games, but having someone on staff to squire the little folks around sure does make getting to 5 different sporting events at once easier.

This is a short list created by someone who doesn't have children. I bet most parents could add to it lengthily. Why now? I spent last week on a cruise ship in the Bahamas. This was my first experience on a big boat. Cruise ships are made for anticipating your needs and your wants. You wake up, and breakfast is there. You head out to the pool, and when you come back to your room, and it has been cleaned and all your stuff is hung up. The whole goal of your cruise staff is to give you what you want the moment you want it.

Next door to the Crimefighter and I were our in-laws, a happy family of two working parents and their children. During the cruise, their experience was different than ours. We were completely care free and self motivated. They had to think about their kids all the time. Even with all the help, they had to factor in activities that were appropriate for their kids. When bedtime came, one had to go back to the room and give up their adult fun to be with the kids. The experience, as I said, had a different flavor than ours.

In essence, their cruise was Ann Romney's life, but they still referred to it as vacation, not work.



 

So.... What have you been up to?

Yeah yeah yeah. It's been a year. I've been..... busy. Real busy. With.... important stuff. Anyway, stop judging. Here's my attempt at a new leaf:

I’ve been hearing a lot about the fiasco that is the Facebook IPO. Apparently, our fair young leader lost something like $5 billion in about a week. I have to say, for such a smart guy, Zuckerberg is kind of stupid on this one. I don’t really understand why he decided to take the Paragon of Time Suck public in the first place. Does he not know that is the death knell of every cool thing on the Internet EVER?

Let’s check the scorecard:

• Anyone else remember when eBay was fun and cool and you wound up sitting in your jammies bidding furiously at 3 am because you simply HAD to have the Grandmother doll from the Sunshine Family that you played with as a kid in the 70s? Now? Ebay is a clearing house for cheap knockoffs from the Far East. There might still be cool things to bid on, but who can wade through the melee to find them?
• Anyone else remember getting fridge magnets and bookmarks from Amazon when you bought your latest mystery novel fix? I used to get as excited about the toy as I did about the books, and for a dork like me, that’s saying something. It was the adult equivalent of the prize in the cereal box (which has also gone by the wayside – really, General Mills? You think your average third grader wants to follow a lame maze on the back of the box to arrive at the secret surprise which is something like an encoded message telling them how much effing Fiber is in their Crispy Sweetie Bits? You guys got your finger on the pulse of a generation all right.). It was grown-ups playing with the cardboard box as much as the Christmas present that came in it, and it was glorious.
• A lesser known fiasco is Television Without Pity (formerly MightyBigTV.com). I used to spend many happy hours reading recaps of my favorite cheesy television.  We got to know the writers and secretly thought they redefined lame cool. They were hip without being hipsters -- a sardonic treat at the end of the day. It was also fascinatingly smart writing. Making a link between Sex and the City and Fraggle Rock? Not an easy feat. Brilliant, covered in a Secret Sauce of sublime. Then someone in a suit somewhere decided it was a good “brand.” The result? It’s now a page that, I think, copies recaps from official network broadcasting, suffering from SERIOUS Snark Deficiency.

But now I’m sad, so back to Facebook.

It seems to me that Zuckerberg’s largest problem is that he keeps attempting to reinvent a wheel when most people are perfectly happy with the wheel they’ve got.

Perhaps it’s because Zuckerberg grew up in an environment that gets a fairly regular kid in the Ivies. Maybe it’s because, since dropping out, he surrounded himself with young Silicon Valley folk who have the attention span of my Boston Terrier and the intensity of a ferret on meth, but it seems the most important memo he missed was the one that says American people are nothing if not content to be lazy, and while that is not a good thing if you are looking for a valued employee, it can be your greatest asset when deciding whether to spend millions to innovate and re-conceptualize a service into which billions of people are already happy to serve up their personal data for five more minutes on Farmville, or whether to sit on your yacht and eat Cheetos.

Contrary to popular belief, I do believe in hard work and the American spirit of choosing what is ambitious and difficult over what is easy, just not where the “lazy choice” still nets you billions of dollars.  I love Vegas. I believe in gambling rather than playing the sure thing. I believe in risk and reward. I also believe that sometimes it is time to take your jackpot winnings, walk away from the table, and go see the naked ladies dance at the Tropicana. If you already have $10 billion, who cares if the faucet is slowing down to a smaller drip? You have $10 billion, Mark. For the love of all that is time-sucking and holy, let the faucet drip and go look at the boobies.

I get that we aren’t his concern. I’ve spent no small amount of time laughing at people who think they are a customer of Zuckerberg’s and threatening to “pull their business.” Maybe it isn’t nice to laugh at people, but you had to miss an awful lot of classes not to figure out that when someone gives you something as complicated as Facebook for free, you aren’t the customer; you’re the product. Admit it. You will sit in front of Facebook shelling out your information for ten more minutes of whatever it is that blows your hair back, and for that I do not judge. We’re all in the same pot of self-delusion.

That said, there ARE other options, and while it will take a long time, eventually the tweak will come where many people will take their marketed choices and head somewhere else no matter what he does. The point is that it’s going to happen anyway. Something will replace Harry Potter, something will be cooler than the iPad, and something will supplant Facebook.  Such is the way of the world, and adding Timeline to User’s walls isn’t going to change that fact.

Mark? Go have a beer. Seriously.

In which the Suz invites you to Witness the Violence Inherent in the System

Perhaps it is the rising temperatures. Perhaps I'm riled up from the ending of the book about In-N-Out Burger. Perhaps I'm finally gaining steam on that slippery slope down to Bitchy Old Woman. Whatever. I'm a little pissed, and contemplating becoming more so. Wanna hear why?

Of course you do. What isn't fun about a Bitchy Old Woman?

This morning, I went in for the ritual of the Bitchy Old Woman in Training -- I got my hair colored. With a Mom who went gray early (not that anyone could offer photographic proof, mind you) and a paternal Grandmother who went totally white-haired before 40, this is a common ritual, and a local spa gets the privilege of my company and a nice chunk of my hard-earned wages every six weeks. Until one of my minions reports back to me with the location of that Fountain of Youth, I'm a sure thing, so they're generally nice to me at my little spa.

Today, I was about 10 minutes into my process when a stylist, not my own, asks me if I got married. An odd question since I didn't have a ring on my left hand last time, and I didn't have one on this time. I told her no, and asked why she asked (while looking at my left hand). She made a comment that I used to drive in in a little Pontiac and today I showed up in an Audi S4.

For the uninformed, you can buy a good half dozen rusted out Pontiac's for the price of an S4 in worse condition than the one I was driving. I wouldn't have known that either until I was told that as part of the Pretest to driving the S4 in question. (Yes, there is a pretest. There were essay questions.)

But I digress. The stylist's question turned my Bitchy Old Woman Ire up so fast that I felt like an Extra in The Fast and the Furious.

Yes, I showed up in a nice car. Why does that mean its likely I've hitched my wagon to a big fat wallet with a man attached? I believe this is indicative of a larger problem in the perception of Bitchy Old Women in this country. Yes, I was driving the Crimefighter's car, but that isn't the only way the scenario could have gone down.

So the next time you find yourself next to a woman whose circumstances have become rosy, let's consider alternative reasons she could have quadrupled my car wealth in 6 weeks. shall we?

• I just finished my dissertation and received tenure.
• I just sold my screenplay.
• I got a big promotion based on years of hard work.
• I've been scrimping and saving since I first got a job and finally bought myself the car of my dreams.
• I borrowed it from a friend.
• I did REALLY well in Vegas.
• I took my crappy car into the shop, and have an OUTSTANDING loaner car.
• I stole this car and decided to get a little pretty on before beginning my life on the lam.

There are a whole lot of reasons why I might have upgraded my car on my own merit. Why not consider one of those first? If the Crimefighter suddenly showed up in a Jaguar, how many people would think I or any other woman had anything to do with his being able to afford it?

If all of my other options are so unbelievable, how's about trying one other possibility:

• It's none of your business.

On the upside, my hair looks FABULOUS.

The Suz wonders whether she sparkles

I have a lot of free time in the summer. A lot. It's totally by design, and this won't be a post where I apologize for it. Last time: I eat a lot of pasta in the winter, I don't have kids, and I chose well in that my job is closed in the summer. If it helps you to think I'll die alone in some sort of diabetic coma.... well, you go right ahead and think that. I'll be over in aisle ten buying something cool I don't really need in every color they make it in.

Life is choices.

That said, a lot of free time means I spend a lot of time unwisely. I always have high hopes for the summer: daily overdoing it at the gym, writing the great American novel, actually cleaning out closets I don't remember filling..... but then the temp hits 90 one day, and I realize I'm done for the summer. Whatever. I'll attempt to change the lives of others after Labor Day.

One of the things I love about summer is the ability to catch up on my DVR. It's all I can do from Labor Day til Memorial Day to keep the darn thing from filling, as I enjoy a lot of mindless television the Crimefighter can't stomach. I watch it in snatches every time he heads out. A well timed trip to the Home Depot for him can net me a good episode and a half of Jerseylicious for me.

Yeah, I love reality TV. Not all of it, but what I love, I love purely. I know it's fake (I do a whole unit in the Spring concerning how fake it is and how it produces unhealthy views of race and gender to an unsuspecting nation), but sometimes you just want the heat to stop and the grey matter in your brain to drain slowly out, if only for a time.

Wednesday was, perhaps, the high point of the crappy reality TV summer season -- the season premiere of Toddlers & Tiaras. I actually did DVR this, but not because it's a program I watch regularly. It was mentioned in Peggy Oresnstein's Cinderella Ate my Daughter, and I thought she made some good points. In her discussion of The Princess Beast that Ate American Girls, she went on the road with some of the more famous contestants and offered a perspective not given by the meritorious producers of our show. One of the "stars" of the show, if a child routinely exploited by both her parents and the powers that be in the show can be referred to as the "star," actually got into the pageant world because she has a sibling with catastrophic disabilities who requires almost constant care from both parents 24/7. Her mother wanted to be able to give her able-bodied daughter some time to be in the spotlight since she does not get the same amount of time with her parents as her brother does. This must be concentrated into small bursts, like one glitz-filled pageant every two months. Toddlers & Tiaras doesn't show this because it is a "downer," but the show does pay for all the pageant fees these parents couldn't otherwise afford due to medical expenses. Talk about a rock and a hard place for parents.

Toddlers & Tiaras is, when it comes to criticism either television or culture based, shooting fish in a very small barrel. That said, I think the American public is aiming its criticism in completely the wrong place. Sure, I find it disturbing to see little girls dressed up like they are shooting the new Britney Spears video. Sure, the mothers doing the dances on the sidelines are more than a little grotesque, but I think both parties can be excused somewhat. We live in an age of extremely permissive, child-desires-based parenting, and beauty pageants seem to be just another, albeit extremely expensive and weird, branch in a pretty well-accepted, deeply-rooted tree. The contestants themselves? Well, any Child Psych 101 textbook will tell you that anything that garners positive attention is going to hit the mark with your average toddler. I even understand the people who organize the pageants. They charge a grand to enter the pageant of 150 girls and give out $5000 total prize money and about $4.25 worth of cheap plastic trophies. This is the cash cow that will not die.

Yes, I know these shows promote the image that to be a successful female means to be beautiful, and I know that the spectrum of what constitutes beauty is quite narrow (not to mention a little slutty). I know that families bankrupt themselves and cause their daughters to become spoiled divas only focused on image. That said, these messages hardly occur in a vacuum, and at least in pageants they get a trophy and a crown. You don't get that from reading books and graduating from a top-tiered school. Trust me. I know. I looked.

So we feel scornful, but we need a place to heap that scorn..... and this is where I find myself looking at..... the judges. On the season opener of Toddlers & Tiaras, I thought for a moment I was watching that old Kirstie Allie classic Drop Dead Gorgeous. Who ARE these people? I get wanting to strut your stuff on stage. I get wanting to see your daughter be told she's the best. I get wanting to make fat cash by exploiting the weaknesses of women who have done nothing with their lives other than procreate and have a desperate need to get a physical sign that they've done so well.

What I don't get is who gets up on a Saturday morning, dons a sequined cocktail dress, and spends their day evaluating the "sexiness and sparkle" of 4 year old girls in spray tans and hair pieces? These are attractive women in their twenties who must have had a better offer for their Friday night and Saturday morning than sitting in the ballroom of the Howard Johnson's judging the relative merits of some strip mall dentist's fake teeth and some overworked seamstress from the 3rd world's beadwork. Hell, I'm 5'2", 38, rarely wear makeup, and inherited my mother's ankles (or lack thereof) and *I* have better offers.

Then again, maybe I just lack sparkle.