Always' "Like A Girl" Commercial
Lately, I have been swept up in the flurry of beautiful videos detailing why what we say to young girls matters – videos from companies like Always and Verizon. Videos that remind me why I am thankful every day to have attended an all-girls school that planted the seeds of early feminism.
I am, perhaps, more attuned to these videos right now. I spend my summer months on staff at a performing arts day camp at which I was a camper for most of my life. Our camp teaches its staff skills in child development and social work. Staff members recall their time as campers and recount how little things their counselors said – cheering them on in rehearsal, congratulating them after a performance, encouraging them in a game at gym – stuck with them as they grew. We think and talk and then some on the subject of how to speak to children, keeping in line with our camp’s philosophy: that we are a place that builds children up and never tears them down.
I have come to believe firmly that we – those adult figures lucky enough to play important roles in the lives of children – have a responsibility to understand how what we say and do can, and will, affect not only the adults they will become, but also the entirety of their childhood.
I was reminded of just how deep this responsibility runs last week, when I was teaching a lesson to the high school campers in our counselor-in-training leadership program. Attempting to teach them this concept, I led them in an activity we called “How To Talk To Kids” and asked them to make two lists: One, of things various adults in their lives – teachers, counselors, parents, coaches – have said that have stuck with them in a positive way and the other, a list of remarks that a lasting, negative impact. Everyone’s lists (both) were lengthy, full, and indicative of just how much what we say sticks.
Later that same day, I went to the pool – as I do every day – with nearly 50 kindergarten, first, and second grade campers. My head full of “How To Talk To Kids,” I got off the bus and headed into the locker room, where I joined a handful of other counselors as we changed into our bathing suits. We took turns in the tiny shower-curtained changing stalls and heading for the mirror, making faces of disgust and sharing complaints over our uncovered backs or our newest blemish or the way our left thigh really looks fat in this suit- our little daily parade of female counselor bathing-suit shame.
When it was my turn to look in the mirror, I saw it, for the first time. Where I usually see a tummy I’m not proud of, the flappy skin between my shoulder and armpit, and the way my uneven boobs look especially lopsided in a one-piece, I saw a hypocrite. I felt like a fair-weather feminist, who, once she dons a bathing suit, espouses self-hate and lets other girls do the same.
I walked out to the pool, where it hit me even harder. I helped a tearful camper into her life-jacket, reminded another how proud I am of her for putting her face in even though she is terrified, and then put on a pair of athletic shorts to hide my thighs. I coached a nervous swimmer through her first day jumping in the water and cheered as others passed their deep-end tests, and tugged at the lycra gathering at my stomach.
I was thinking, for the first time, about what our campers see in the way we see ourselves. How could I be so careful about what I say and never once stop to think about what it does to my young campers – particularly the girls – when they see me cover up in a towel or hear my coworker say how “disgusting” her arms look.
There are so many things I want my campers – especially my girl campers – to know. That how much fun they have on stage matters far more than how “talented” they are, that they light up our days with their humor, their smiles, their love. That we see, in their moments of deep compassion, patience, and kindness, and the thoughtful and considerate adults they will become. That they already are, and that we hope they always stay, brave and bold.
But, perhaps most importantly of all, I want them to know all that they are worth. I want them to see what we see when we look at them, to be as proud of themselves as we are, to love themselves as much as we do.
I want them to know that, no matter what they look like or what they weigh, that they are more beautiful than any mannequin or model.
And I can’t teach them this while covering myself up with a towel.
This is, for me, a symptom of a larger problem. I struggle often to reconcile my unwavering feminism with my wavering body-confidence. When, after a simple glance in the mirror, I open the door and let self-hate and hypercriticism take hold, I feel like a hypocrite.
With only a few weeks left in this summer’s camp season, I am deciding to begin now to chip away at this mammoth paradox and my own struggle to practice what I preach – to see myself in the mirror the way I want my campers to see themselves.
