Feminists of the World: In Defense/Attack of Disney
Part I: When Did Cinderella Take Precedence Over Mommy?
Ladies, feminists, we need to have a chat.
It has come to my attention lately that I am now the proud
owner of a three year-old daughter. This three year-old model has a few
upgrades from my most recent two year-old model. First, she speaks (translate argues) rationally now…. Or at least
with her own version of rational. She asks endless (endless, oh so endless)
questions about the world around her. And she pretends she is—well, everything
that a three year-old fantasizes about being: Tinkerbell or some other generic
fairy, a mom, a dog kennel owner, a pirate, a dog/cat, a monster, She-Hulk (and
this one came unprompted by mom, brother, or media, to my enormous pride)...and,
yes, a princess. My three year-old pretends she is a princess.
And does she ever love princesses! Now, my girl is subtle,
stoic, with a poker face to mystify even the greatest cons out there. So she
doesn’t flounce her love of princess much: No demands for big, pink, frilly
dresses; no asking us to call her “Your Highness” (though she definitely
commands and expects that deference in other ways); no wishing to be sparkly,
dainty or proper, per se. But her regular tea parties are important. She needs
her bling, from crown to jewels to painted toenails. She gets herself married
to her prince (aka her brother, mom, or the nearest stuffed animal) on an
almost daily basis. On Tuesday she is “Tangled” and Friday she is “Brave” and
Monday next she is Cinderella. Yes, she has bought into the princess
charm/fame/phase/whatever you want to call it. It’s a big new part of her three
year-old worldview.
And now may I confess something, dear feminists: I actually
don’t mind. Not a bit. I love her twirling around on my living room rug,
telling me how she is about to get married. I love her stepping out of her room
in twelve necklaces, sixty bracelets and something from the toy box she diy’ed
to resemble a head-covering. I love her gasp and her grin when she spots a
Merida nightgown or an Ariel lunchbox at the store. And I am more than happy to sit and watch
Sleeping Beauty or Beauty and the Beast at her request (and, yep, you guessed it,
often at my own). Because the truth is (here it comes, brace yourselves) I want her to know and love all the Disney
classics I grew up with. I hope she thrills in them as I still do, twenty-something years after they were introduced to me.
I hope she has favorites that will obviously change over the years. I wish her
to suspend her disbelief—my three year-old—and fall headlong in love with fairy
tales, in all their ultra-simplistic, magical glory.
Why, You gasp? Why on earth?! Why subject your daughter to
such stereotypical, old-fashioned notions of women and feminism?
Reason #1: Because I am a serious reader!...and fairy tales are our first introduction to
stories. Because fairy tales—with their one-dimensional heroes and heroines and
villains—are our first steps into the concepts of storyline and human
motivation and human weakness and dark vs. light and striving against odds and
underdogs succeeding through wit and talent. One of my favorite quotes is from
Einstein—you know Einstein? That scientist-genius-physicist who has really
nothing to do with literature or fairy tales or this entire conversation,
right? Anyway, here’s what he said once: “If you want your children to be
intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent,
read them more fairy tales.” Not that I need Albert Einstein’s endorsements,
but hey, I’ll take ‘em! The archetypes of fairy tales are woven into the fabric
of our modern, everyday life. You just try to tell me they’re not. Tell me we
don’t think of three as a magic number (three wishes, three strikes you’re out,
three stoplight colors, for the love….). Tell me we don’t make wishes at wells.
Tell me we don’t commonly make references to kissing frogs, wicked stepmothers,
and glass slippers. Fairy tales are part of our cultural history, and frankly,
a beautiful part I’d like to hold on to forever, thank you very much.
Now, Reason #2, and the point of this first part of my
three-part tirade…and just beware, because I think this is the part we don’t
like to hear: Cinderella is not my daughter’s mother. She is not her nanny, her
teacher, or her mentor. I am. I am
the guardian of the hearth. I am the nurturer. I am the example and the
trendsetter and the greatest influence over my children’s lives. The greatest. Or at least I should be.
And therein lies my problem with the whole Disney princess/weak feminine
example argument. Yes, I agree 100% with the notion that we are influenced by
the media we expose ourselves to; no doubt about it. But if the pull of the
media within my home is the strongest influence within these walls, I have
obviously clocked out of parenting, because in order for an 80 minute cartoon
to become my daughter’s sole reference to the world, I would have to have
stopped being her mother. Seriously. For this to happen, I’d have to stop
having conversations with her; stop reading her non-Disney books; stop taking
her on walks to see the world around her; stop having family nights where we
play games and make projects; stop telling her about why Daddy goes to work,
why I am doing laundry, why we have to go to the grocery store, etc; stop limiting
her time in front of the screen, instead letting her bask in hours and hours of
those 80 minute cartoons a day; stop disciplining her when she makes sad
choices and explaining to her why it
was a sad choice….
Does this sound a little exaggerated? A little far-fetched? It’s because it is, but not on my end. When we feminists claim that Aurora or Snow White or Cinderella are a significant negative influence on our girls (significant, mind you--everything has an influence, great or small), we are essentially saying that we have relinquished our responsibility to be the first, the most powerful builders of our child’s worldview. And if we were talking about teenagers, this might not be such a stretch, when a teenager’s daily world has expanded to myriad voices and influences. But when we make such claims in reference to a three year-old, a four year-old, or a six-year old, the only cause for such usurpation of power is a total and complete cop-out on our side. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but there it is. The only way my three-year old daughter—who spends all but one or two of her waking hours with me as her companion—forms the idea that she should listen to and emulate Cinderella above all others is if I am spending those many daily hours ignoring and neglecting her. It is the only way! Because the minute I engage with her, she is introduced to a different—hopefully healthier—worldview. And every day is a chance for minutes upon minutes of new worldviews. And those minutes turn into hours and days and months and years and…. Oh yeah, remember that cute movie about that princess whose fairy godmother gives her glass slippers and she wins the hand of a prince? Wasn’t that a cute story? Let’s go watch it again, honey. And then we can finish your homework. And when Dad gets home, you can tell him about your newest long-jump record and that boy that wants to take you out this weekend and how you decided not to cheat on your math test today, even when your friend offered you the chance.
