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In Elizabeth Wurtzel’s piece in DoubleX today on The Curse of the Good Girl, she writes:
The teenager, which was a 20th century invention (in fact, like Eames chairs, really a midcentury creation), might no longer exist as a subgroup at all, which might be the real tragedy. It looks to me like there is, as there was pre-1950, childhood and adulthood, without the labile adolescent phase in the middle.”
Wurtzel is referring to our current, socially constructed version of the teenager, of course, but still, I paused over the lines, since I recently read a fascinating list in the New Scientist of things about humans that science has yet to satisfactorily explain—and the existence of teenagers was one of the mysteries therein.
We are, it seems, the only species who has this protracted adolescence—even apes get to dodge it. Fossil evidence suggests that, biologically speaking, the teenager was created not at mid-century, but rather between 800,000 and 300,000 years ago, which “pre-dates by a ‘fascinatingly short period’ the great leap forward in human brain size, when our ancestors' brains underwent the last big expansion to reach today's size,” writes NS’s Kate Douglas.
There’s more there on the research behind why gender differences assert themselves in the teen years, but I confess I stopped paying strict attention once the magically permissive words “Science can’t explain” were on the table. The construction Wurtzel dismisses as lost has mysteriously inchoate—and thus romantic—biological underpinnings. We just didn’t get a chance, as a society, to express them fully until mid-century. (And I think we’re expressing them still—for my money, she’s totally wrong that the twinned phenomena of precocious maturity and adultulescence have succeeded in getting rid of that “labile adolescent phase.” Teens don’t like Twitter; grownups don’t like the Jonas Brothers.)
But if it’s such a singularly human phenomenon, maybe it’s not as shallow as we all think to be collectively fixated on eternal youth, or to never outgrow loving teen movies, or to wear miniskirts past the age of rhyme or reason. Instead of chalking it up to nostalgia or arrested development, call it biology. It’s the perfect excuse for, say, loving Taylor Swift—no need to say that it’s your mom side she’s appealing to. Just say her pop-y twang is a distillation of The Human Condition, no offense to Kobayashi or Arendt, who were overthinking things.
Photograph by Getty Images.
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I just came across a fantastic historical footnote (thanks to reader Joe Garland) to the whole send-the-grandparents-to-their-deaths aspect of the health care debate. Drudge today has a banner headline about how some terminally ill patients in Britain are being possibly hastened to their demise. It turns out this is a grand tradition, one that applies to both commoners and kings. King George V, who was inconveniently lingering in a lousy state of health, was euthanized by the royal physician with a dose of morphine and cocaine (a speedball!) in 1936. It was timed so that the death could make the morning edition of The Times. (Those were the days when newspapers had some clout!) Maybe the problem was that the chap had gotten terminally cranky. The initial reports were that his final words were, “How is the Empire?” But his physician noted that before the fatal dose, he was given a shot to help him sleep, at which he exclaimed, “God damn you.” (Possibly the old boy’s bad mood was because he had overhead conversations regarding the next coronation.) This story seems ready-made as proof that if your fate is in the hands of bureaucrats, it doesn’t matter who you are, no one can save you. But remember that this took place long before the creation of Britain’s National Health Service, and that a man who has footmen was quite capable of footing the bill for any medical care he desired.
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Troy Patterson’s piece, “A Dandy’s Guide to Girl Watching,” went up on Thursday morning before 9am. By the end of the work day, there were 140 comments on Troy’s ode to sidewalk gazing, and at this point it is DoubleX’s most commented article ever.
The very first reader response alluded to rape, which provoked a flurry of responses. “[I]t may seem extreme, but when a guy checks a girl out ... there’s a place in the back of her mind that worries about ... the potential for sexual assault,” commenter Psychprof wrote. SomeGuy countered, writing, “just because I look at an attractive female, it doesn’t mean I want to rape her,” a sentiment backed up by RCWilliams, who argued that, though it is wrong to make someone feel uncomfortable, “an appreciative look” that “lingers a bit too long for comfort” is “a gaffe, not an assault.” Humward agreed, saying “we too often fail to even try to differentiate between a man (a) looking briefly and appreciatively at an attractive woman and (b) a man leering, groping, or even raping her.”
A number of commenters said that while they heartily approve of a certain variety of subtle, discreet, visual appreciation, they believe there are important boundaries. As Stevedl26 wrote, “girlwatching should not be overt in order specifically to avoid giving offense. No leering, wolf-whistles, or other such unseemly behavior.”
The most heartfelt reactions came from DoubleX’s female readers. Many found the article to be creepy and unsettling at best, and disrespectful and degrading at worst. P. Starling fumed, “We are TIRED of your shit, okay? We don’t take it as a compliment," though she ultimately conceded that “premeditated objectification and the occasional “Wow!” are different, and I know that.”
Some readers felt betrayed at the article’s being placed on DoubleX at all: “So much for ‘what women really think.’ Instead, his piece is more like shouting at the women readers of the site: ‘Hey you *girls* (not women) ... You think your mind and your heart matter? They don’t. All that matters is whether I think you have great tits,” wrote bumblebee611.
But many women were pro-Patterson and fans of gawking more generally, like freefall127, who wrote, “i’m sure plenty of ladies will disagree on this point but for myself, i find some pleasure in making an old man smile simply because i’m a girl and have the power to brighten his life … i don’t feel like I’m less respected for it and i don’t see anything nasty in it either.” Kate-M wanted everyone to know, “Guess what—I’m a gawker. I totally check out guys. And I’m kind of obvious about it too.”
The last word comes from reader GeeM, who suggests the following “punishment” for Troy: He should be made "to put on his tightest T-shirt, or shorts, or whatever he thinks will turn heads, and see how he fares as ‘the watched.’ ”
Photograph by Getty Images.
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Choice is certainly the word humming at the center of the American viewing public’s fascination with the Duggar family, but Lauren, I’m not so sure that, as you write about the announcement of their impending 19th child, “Mrs. Duggar never had any choice in the matter.” In fact, from what I gather (I don’t watch the show), it’s quite the opposite. She and her husband chose to forego any sort of birth control (which they’d employed earlier in their married life), chose to join the Quiverfull movement, and chose to go on TV. And lots of people who disagree with those particular choices choose to watch them—as mindless entertainment, perhaps, but they’re still registering their vote by flipping to TLC, which means PR people and network execs and the media all learn that, hey, the Duggars equal ratings, which means they’ll get more airtime, and thus, of course, get more exposure for their views. (And how widely was Quiverfull known before they went on the air?)
The word choice, when we’re applying it to the reproductive sphere, often ends up getting defined too narrowly. If you’re pro-choice, that means you don’t want someone else passing judgment on your reproductive decisions, whether they agree with them or not. You might be creeped out by the Duggars’ broader views, Lauren, but it’s a crucial part of being pro-choice to make room for them.
(Disclosure—I’m from a larger-than-average family, so I’ve got a little skin in the game here, and am irked when people make all sort of exptrapolations about what being from a big family implies about my values and upbringing, and those of my parents.)
Image is a screenshot from the Duggar family's Today Show appearance.
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Diane Sawyer is replacing the departing Charles Gibson on ABC's World News Tonight. Now that two out of the three network nightly news anchors are female, the New York Times says, Sawyer's new job will alter "the image of an avuncular male nightly news anchor." But that image of paternal, all-knowing news anchor has been dead for some time. As the Times notes, "In the face of 24-hour news on cable and on the Web, the ratings for all three evening newscasts continue to erode."
Somehow, Sawyer's long wait for this prime position as anchor makes it seem more like a consolation prize. She gets to be anchor, but at a time when network news anchors are less and less powerful and relevant. Not only that, but the people the Times quotes from ABC News don't even sound that excited about Sawyer's ascendance. "Diane was the obvious choice" to replace Gibson, ABC News honcho David Westin said, but only after he said of Gibson's departure, "This was not a result I wanted."
I am a particular fan of Diane Sawyer, I've always found her to be a subtle and smart interviewer. I only wish her bosses were similarly excited about her new position, and that they didn't make it sound like she is getting the job because it was the path of least resistance.
Photograph of Diane Sawyer by Brad Barket/Getty Images.
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Reality TV stars Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar appeared bashful and smiling on the Today show Tuesday morning, along with their gaggle of 18 blondish, slightly bewildered children, to tell Meredith Vieira (and the world) that another sweet Duggar baby is on the way. Naturally, there was a round of congratulations and giggles, because the Duggars are the kind of good-natured people who inspire well-wishes and smiles. Amidst the more immodest, tabloid-ready shows devoted to particularly unflattering snapshots of enormous families (ahem, Jon & Kate Plus 8), 18 Kids and Counting stands out as some sort of emblem of the American family ideal. Sure, they have their creepy moments—on Tuesday night’s episode, the family visited a Washington, D.C., Ethiopian restaurant and stared at the dancers there with the discombobulated facial expressions of Stepford robots whose chips are flashing “Does Not Compute.” But despite their sheltered life and evident religious conservatism, one thing is clear: They know how to raise a family. Particular moments of the show—say, for example, when 10 of the kids are outside tending the garden together without a word of complaint—seem straight out of a fantasy 18th century PSA proselytizing the importance of populating the great American frontier with hard-working Puritans.
But at the very least, it’s problematic to see the Duggars in the spotlight, and to watch Meredith Vieira congratulate Michelle and Jim Bob as if the new addition was just a little surprise for a delightfully folksy American family, and not part of an evangelical movement that aims to populate the country for Christ. Because it’s both. The Duggars adhere to a Christian fringe philosophy called Quiverfull, necessitating that they use no form of birth control or attempt to curb conception in any way. It’s a movement that was born out of a Psalm highlighting the value of birthing heaps of Christian children to use as religious warriors, and one that positions the woman’s body as a function of God’s will, not her own. Of course, reality TV has a way of making everything seem innocuous—it’s just entertainment, after all—and for the most part, I don’t actively think about how the Duggars’ way of life is contrary to oh, just about every modern value I hold dear as I watch 18 Kids and Counting (soon to be called 19 Kids and Counting). But as Vieira grinned at the family and congratulated Michelle on her pregnancy, I couldn’t help but remember—Mrs. Duggar never had any choice in the matter.
Photograph of Michelle Duggar is a screenshot.
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I’m with you, Jessica. Is there really anything left to say about Levi Johnston and the endless mean-spirited dirt he is willing to dish? His new Vanity Fair as-told-to piece leaves no stereotype behind, trashing Sarah Palin as a crap mother, cook, hockey mom, wife, and governor all in one go. And in the way of narcissists everywhere, he also makes himself the modest hero of the Palin clan—grilling meat for their half-starved children; teaching poor Sarah to shoot a gun. But wait. There’s more. Because according to Levi:
When Sarah got home from her office—almost never later than five and sometimes as early as noon—she usually walked in the door, said hello, and then disappeared into her bedroom, where she would hang out. Sometimes she’d take an hour-long bath. Other times she sat on the living-room couch in her two-piece pajama set from Wal-mart—she had all the colors—with her hair down, watching house shows and wedding shows on TV.
So Palin, you see, isn’t just a terrible governor, mother, and wife. She’s also Mrs. Roper!
Photograph by Getty Images.
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