In This Issue
Ahéhee’
Danielle Emerson 4
(Her)oes
Sydney lo 2 Kahini Mehta 4
Shaped Bonnie / Billie Mckelvie 5
Is Girl Rock an Exclusive Club? Cathy Campo 6
Gilmore Girls
Campo Girls vs.
postCover by Rachel Shin
MAR 8
VOL 23 —
ISSUE 18
FEATURE
(Her)oes
Reflection on the Comic Book Superheroines Who Shaped Me By Sydney lo Illustrated by Sabrina Arezo
N
ext to an out-of-business Herberger’s and a local deli chain, my hometown comic book store sits with cardboard cutouts of superheroes and logos decorating its windows. Above the door, a font reminiscent of the ’80s spells out “Granite City Comics and Games.” When I go back home, I drive past it every once in a while and see its green exterior out of the corner of my eye, a relic from my childhood. I wonder if they ever sold those limited-edition Justice League figurines in the glass displays, or if they put up a poster for Captain Marvel. I wonder what fills the stark white shelves these days. The fictional universes of DC and Marvel have been a part of my life since before I even knew how to read. Growing up in the early 2000s, I spent afternoons watching reruns of Teen Titans, X-Men Evolution, Batman Beyond, and Justice League Unlimited. I had an array of toys (Supergirl, Batman, Green Lantern, etc.) from Happy Meals and birthday presents, and I spent my free time pretending that my brother and I were Johnny and Susan Storm (Human Torch and Invisible Woman). At that age, superheroines were my role models. Perhaps it was the storytelling, or maybe just the cool costumes and powers, but my mind locked onto their stories and personalities with super-strength. I emulated Starfire’s kindness, Raven’s dry humor, Wonder Woman’s leadership, Hawkgirl’s fierceness. I adopted their favorite colors and foods, attempted to learn their fighting skills, and, perhaps most productively, tried to be a leader and hero like them. By the time I entered Granite City Comics and Games for the first time, I had admired the animated versions of these superheroines for years. I knew their mannerisms, appearances, and personalities as intimately as my own, which was slightly less impressive considering I had modeled my personality
after theirs. I followed my dad and brother around the store, poring over the elaborate, plastic-wrapped covers in search of the heroines’ familiar faces. But I didn’t find any, and it was only after I borrowed my brother’s comics that I realized my role models had been there—just not the way I had known them. By the time I began reading comics, my favorite characters’ stories had been veritably chewed up and spit out a thousand times by dozens of different authors and artists. They had gone through timeline corrections, character developments, and costume changes. They had been aged up, then down, then replaced by different characters entirely. I entered a
world of stories that had begun far before I had even been born. The history of U.S. comic book heroes begins around World War II, in the Golden Age of Comics when comic books, according to PBS, were “cheap, portable, and had inspirational, patriotic stories of good triumphing over evil.” In the Silver Age, new creators took over and re-energized iconic characters like Superman with novel interpretations and storylines, many of which, like the reinvention of Green Lantern as Hal Jordan, lasted much longer than the originals. Next came the Bronze Age, which spanned parts of the ’70s and ’80s. Darker tones,
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, It is a truth universally acknowledged that Friday is the best day of the week. The weight of academia is lifted off our shoulders just enough that the world suddenly seems full of possibility. The winter sky looks a bit bluer. The air feels crisp instead of cold. You have high hopes about all you’ll accomplish over the weekend. This Friday also marks an especially significant occasion—International Women’s Day. To celebrate, this issue presents articles exclusively about women, for women. Just in time for the release of Captain Marvel, the feature explores female representation in superhero
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comics. In the Narrative section, women break free from the boxes societies put them in and gratefully reflect on the female influences in their lives. And after reading A&C, you may feel the need to listen to Girlpool or revisit Gilmore Girls. But don’t stay up too late on Saturday night binge-watching because daylight savings is intent on making us feel even more sleep-deprived than usual. Maybe snuggle up with a copy of post- instead.
Happy reading!
Celina
Managing Editor of Narrative
Ways to Not Slip on Ice 1. Don’t go outside 2. Uber everywhere 3. Get a horse, ride the horse to class, and let the horse slip instead 4. Bring a blowtorch with you at all times; use as needed 5. Do balance training on the Wii Fit (alternatively: on the wobbly table at Andrews) 6. Slide on your stomach like a polar bear 7. Supplement the bottom of your shoes with some double-sided tape 8. Move to South India, where it never snows 9. Crawl to class. Can't fall any further if you're already at rock-bottom! 10. Wear Heelys—ice melts under FIRE.
realism, and the subversion of tropes characterized this era, along with major steps towards inclusivity with the creation of characters like Black Panther, She-Hulk, Shang-Chi, and Misty Knight. Finally, the Modern Age, which we are currently in, has so far been marked by universe reboots, which have attempted to remove half a century’s worth of baggage of DC and Marvel characters, and interplay with TV and movies, whose popularization has informed the importance and characterization of their book counterparts. I won’t claim to have read the whole of Marvel or DC’s oeuvres, or even the whole of a single character’s comic books. Instead, I encountered comic book issues out of order based on what I could find and what my allowance could afford: the first few issues of Teen Titans Volume 3, Marvel’s Civil War, House of M, and Young Inhumans, to name a few. In addition, my brother and I shared two massive DC and Marvel comic book encyclopedias that we would page through when bored. Through these, I was able to learn about the experiences my favorite superheroines had in their original mediums. Initially, this was incredibly exciting; it was like finding out your favorite TV show had five extra seasons you’d never seen and had also been renewed indefinitely. I began with Raven, who in the cartoon had been the serious but kindhearted telekinetic and empath who struggled with her evil father (a literal demon) and her own abilities. She was surprisingly similar in the comics, although her story was much darker (i.e. more deaths, resurrections, and demonic possessions), and her costume was much more revealing—a trend I would notice as I continued through my rediscovery of superheroines. Nevertheless, I was ecstatic to see my favorite character continuing to defeat evil forces while working to be her own person and make friends, a journey that resonated with me deeply as a young girl, albeit on a smaller scale. I sought out Ororo Munroe (Storm) next, eager to see what had become of the X-Men member who possessed the ability to control the weather. In the comics, she was the daughter of a Kenyan princess, and had in fact been the leader of the X-Men on several occasions. In addition, she was married to T’Challa (Black Panther) and was Queen of Wakanda, a fictional African country. I was overjoyed to see that Storm was even more important and respected in recent comics, given positions of leadership that might have gone to male characters in previous ages. Moreover, she continues to be wonderful example of representation as a confident and multifaceted African American woman. Of course, I read about Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman) as well. Having existed longer than Storm, Raven, or, really, any other female character, she had an even more complex history. Initially created as a suffragist and secretary to the Justice Society of America, she eventually gained enough popularity to have her own comic book series. However, by the 1960s pressure from the Comics Code Authority forced her to give up her superpowers to focus on romance with her Steve Trevor. The rise of a Wonder Woman TV show and the use of her image in women’s movement iconography brought her back to full superheroism in the 1970s, where
she has existed in some form since, most recently as an ambassador and government agent. Many of her later iterations also worked to expand her character, exploring her bisexuality, her conflicted identity, and her relationships with other Amazonians and superheroines. It was a relief to see that, despite a sometimes-problematic past and the pressures of being the go-to example of female superhero, Wonder Woman hasn't shied away from her radical feminism and power. As wonderful as it was to see that the hearts of my favorite superheroines’ stories remained relatively intact in Modern Age comics—exhibiting all the autonomy and complexity I’d known them to have— they, as well as other female characters, haven’t always been portrayed this way. The history of women in superhero comics has always been a battle between the core themes of superheroism, which champions the idea that anyone is capable of being a hero, and the limiting gender stereotypes of the patriarchy. In the Golden Age of Comics, women were relegated to secretaries and love interests of the male superheroes. As heroines, they tended to be partners or sidekicks, and often still strove to conform to typically femininecoded behaviors such as homemaking, modeling, and caretaking. Furthermore, although they were powerful crime-fighters in their own right, many superheroines’ identities were frequently tied directly to those of pre-existing male superheroes, such as Supergirl with Superman. Superheroines and female stories in general evolved frustratingly slowly from the trope of the submissive superheroine, constantly forced into passive roles and immured in damsel-in-distress, coerced marriage, and infantilization plotlines. Even worse, with darker, more realistic themes in comics also came more aggressive sexist tropes such as fridging, in which
spine-breaking poses with hyper-perfected faces and unrealistic, homogenous bodies. Even while fighting and resting, superheroines were drawn as if they were modeling—which makes sense, given accusations that modern comic book artists like Greg Land use pornography as references for drawing women. I know I found it disappointing to see Starfire, who in the Teen Titans cartoon had sported a feminine but ultimately wearable purple getup, commonly drawn wearing a bright purple one-piece that barely covered her torso, so clearly designed for the male gaze. This trend has declined in recent years, particularly with revitalized efforts to showcase more diverse bodies in comics, such as Muslim-American Kamala Khan (Ms. Marvel) and plus-sized Faith Herbert (though she is published by Valiant Comics, which is independent of Marvel and DC), following the the popularity of superhero movies and comic cons as well as an increase in female viewership. However, for many women, the damage had already been done, even with inspiring superheroines and stories. I stopped reading comics some time in high school after increasingly feeling that they were not for me. Although I loved my superheroines, I grew exhausted of seeing them drawn in such an objectifying, homogenized manner. Moreover, I grew tired of searching for them, given that only 26.7 percent of DC and Marvel characters are female according to a 2017 study of 34,476 comic book characters, and men severely outnumber women in superhero teams (e.g. the Wasp being the only female in the original comic Avengers lineup). Even when they were included, their storylines and emotional developments, while progressive and resonant with me, were often sidelined in favor of other plotlines or male storylines. I no longer wanted to try to force my way into a medium that was not willing to include me and even criticized me for trying.
The history of women in superhero comics has always been a battle between the core themes of superheroism, which champions the idea that anyone is capable of being a hero, and the limiting gender stereotypes of the patriarchy. female characters were murdered or brutalized in viciously sensationalized ways in order to motivate the male characters and garner shock from the reader (e.g. the paralysis of Barbara Gordon in The Killing Joke). It wouldn’t be until the 1980s that a female character would have a leadership role (Wasp as chairwoman of the Avengers in 1982), or even superpowers that eclipsed those of a male superhero. In the Modern Age, following a rise in criticism of female representation in comics, superheroines were eventually given more liberated storylines and allowed to pursue powerful careers and goals, live without traditional nuclear families, and essentially have their own lives. However, they also became hypersexualized in order to sell comics in an increasingly uninterested market, dressed in costumes that resembled swimsuits more than practical crime-fighting attire (a stark contrast to their armored male counterparts) and drawn in
Nevertheless, my role models have remained with me. I’ve learned to pick and choose the parts of the superheroines and their stories that I enjoy; I’ve learned to emulate their passion for justice and criticize the issues that live within and beyond their comic books. I’ve rediscovered my love of superheroines through movies and TV, which have made major strides in updating the characters for the Modern Age, even though they still have a long way to go (Captain Marvel is still only the second female-centered DC or Marvel comic book movie). Moreover, I’ve become aware of the creators behind my favorite versions of superheroines, such as Amy Wolfram, one of the screenwriters of Teen Titans. These women have paved the way for more inclusive and unique stories, both in and beyond the comic books' pages. These are real-life superheroines, who renew my hope that comic book stores could be a space for me once again.
“You have the music taste of a Forever 21 playlist.” “Kiwis are, like, an invasive force.”
march 8, 2018 3
NARRATIVE
Ahéhee’
May You Walk in Beauty by Danielle Emerson Illustrated by Halle Krieger The Navajo community is a strong matrilineal society. Following Diné tradition, my formal introduction presents both my maternal and paternal clan. I am Tł’ááshchí’í (my mother’s clan). I was born for Ta'neeszahnii (my father’s clan). That’s who I am. I carry my mother’s being with me—for we are one. I walk in the footsteps of the women in my family, heading towards the sunset as they lead. We stand hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder. Facing hardships head on, we’re a force of artists, cooks, storytellers, and leaders. Believers, caretakers, and fighters. This is my thanks to them. They have all taught me, through love and support, that: I am strong. I am resilient. I am powerful. Mom. My Shima. To those early Sunday mornings when we shared smiles over warm coffee. To those summer nights we spent curled up in shimasani’s backroom whispering secrets. To the evenings we sat and sang together in the car on our way home from town. To the days I’d return from school crying over the taunts of bullies, tears streaming down my face, boogers clumping in my nose. You’d pull me aside, hands gripping my shoulders, and tell me I should be proud. That there’s nothing wrong with my skin color. That there’s nothing wrong with the braids in my hair. There’s nothing wrong with being Native. “Be proud of where you come from.” These memories, despite the hardships, taught me resilience. You instilled in me a sense of pride. You believed in me when it felt like no one else did. Ahéhee’ (thank you). Grandma Betty. My Shinali. Our fingers were covered in clay as you taught me how to mold animals and pots. I’d watch, from an alcove in your craft room, as you shaped miniature hogans and Native men and women in Navajo regalia. I’d listen to you sing and hum along to the morning radio as you prepared clay and paint. “Raise your head higher. Take pride in what you create.” I can taste the crisp morning air as you tended to our livestock while my brother and I rounded up the cows into the corral. Your love for animals and art has created an extensive collection of figurines— collectables I protect with my life to this day. You
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illuminated a sense of pride in my culture. Hand in hand, we attended Native American Art festivals, my side pressed up against yours. Your art guided my sense of belonging. Ahéhee’. Grandma Decker. My Shimasani. On cold winter nights, as the snow settled outside, you taught me string games. I remember looking into your weary eyes as you whispered, “Hush, shiyazhi, listen.” Your hands mirroring mine as we produced Diyogí (The Rug) and K’aalógii (The Butterfly). Your warm embrace after I spent the day outside rolling in the snow. How soft the tips of your fingers were as you placed ash along the edge of my nose and forehead to keep away nightmares. You rose before the sun each morning to tend to our farmland. You retreated to bed late each night to care for shicheii (my grandfather) and cousins. On fall evenings, we’d sit outside, munching on roasted corn, reveling in its sweet taste. On summer afternoons, we’d collect fresh watermelon from the fields with my band of cousins for devouring later. Each time, you shared stories of your past and of our culture. This knowledge will live within me forever. You are a force of love and strength to be reckoned with. Ahéhee’. Aunt Angie. My Shima yazhi, which directly translates to “little mother.” You opened your house to my family. I learned how to make frybread under your expert instruction. You’d take my hands in yours, demonstrating the perfect bread-making technique. “Don’t pull at the dough! Coax it.” My first few attempts were lopsided and bulky, but you’d laugh and eat them anyway. You’d feed our entire family, turning meals into buffets. Food became an art form, a unifying force—something we’d gather together around the table for. You communicated love and acceptance through an old recipe of steamed corn stew and frybread. Ahéhee’. The women in my family have held the world on their shoulders and marched onwards. They’ve stood eye to eye with their oppressors and fought for their loved ones. These are the women I look up to— whose footsteps I will follow. Without their guidance, I wouldn’t have my chance at roping the moon and climbing among the constellations. Among my people we have a saying that conveys both self-empowerment and spiritual balance: May you walk in beauty. This is a teaching I carry with me, a teaching I live by. To all the womxn reading this—never forget: You are strong. You are resilient. You are powerful. May you all continue to walk in beauty.
Shaped
From Contortionist to Woman By Kahini Mehta Illustrated by Gaby Trevino From the day I set foot in my first school, I knew what I was. I was not a woman. I was not a girl. I was a contortionist: bending my limbs and entangling my arms until I could fit into whatever box felt the snuggest around my hips. The box was like one made of cardboard, so that I could be shuffled around or hidden away, like unwanted items in storage. When I was thirteen years old, with a rotund stomach and a round face, no box felt big enough to contain me. Girls flitted around me, petite fey folk with tutus wrapped around their waists, laughing and tinkling as they watched my body protruding out of its cardboard prison. As for the boys, they paid no heed unless it was to tip the box over or pull at strands of my hair as they jeered. I watched helplessly as they scribbled across my cardboard home with permanent marker. I was out of place. Or maybe just out of shape. When my friend was thirteen, she was crowned Queen of the Fairies. But the boys wouldn’t let her be. They pulled at her frocks, yanked at her crown, mussed up her hair, and leered into her cardboard box until she’d had enough. The day she gave up her crown and joined me on the sidelines, her box was in tatters. She had to find a new one. But the new box was far too spacious for her—loose around her shoulders, too spacious around her chest. The boys didn’t like it either. When my friend and I rejoined the fairies years later, I befriended a boy for the first time. It was no longer taboo. “It feels so good not to be cooped up anymore,” I told him. “What do you mean?” he asked, arms perpetually extended in flight. He and I, we came from difference. Over the years, I returned to my box less and less. Women around me were retiring their boxes, too. I felt hope. I felt wings sprouting from my back, and I wanted to have the world at my feet. When I was nineteen though, the world brought me back to my knees. “What’s a girl like you doing in chemistry?” my friend said, his condescension so sharp and caustic that I immediately retreated to my box. Months later, he sought me out. He implored me to leave my cardboard box, to join him. Some part of me was tempted by the offer. The other half remembered his condescension. After I said no, he told me I would die a virgin. “It takes a certain type of girl to go into STEM, you know. You’ll never find a guy. You’re not even pretty. You’re lucky I liked you at all.” I slapped him so hard, the recoil shot up to my shoulders. Then I ran. For a few years, I dabbled in arts and music. I thought that maybe I could leave behind my box, if I was doing what girls were “supposed” to. But it didn’t quite work that way. When I did what I was supposed to, my teachers told me this meant going back to my box. I had to fit neatly, or not at all. I couldn’t just have one foot in the box, they told me. That was ridiculous. I couldn’t be a STEM girl who liked art. I couldn’t be an artist who liked physics. I couldn’t be a girly-girl who liked rock, and I couldn’t be a tomboy who liked pink. What sort of box would I inhabit if I did? Surely, I had to have a better understanding of how the world worked. I was a fully-grown woman. I had to know it was all or nothing. A simple binary.
ARTS&CULTURE Reaching adulthood, I didn’t know whether I wanted life outside the box or in it. I sensed that the women growing up around me felt the same. I watched my sisters struggle with their boxes. Flap half-open, flap cut off—flap reinforced with two layers of cardboard. When I look back now, I can't pinpoint exactly when recycling bins began to overflow with cardboard boxes. I just know that it was the start of an era, an era of revolution. Today, I stand atop a mountain of flattened boxes. Sisters, mothers, daughters, and lovers, all alike—we stand to reject the boxes that constrained our spirits. No girl, no woman, no human, should have to trap themselves within cardboard walls. Not again. Now I stand hand-in-hand with those around me, a wall of humanity blockading the passage of time, obstructing the way of outdated rites. Now that I haven’t felt the weight of a box in years, I finally know. Know that I am not a performer. I am not a contortionist. I am a woman.
Is Girl Rock an Exclusive Club?
lose 50 percent of it? Now that Cleo had come out to the world, was he supposed to pack up and leave?
While these lines paint a funny image of Cleo as an energized dad at at his son’s sports game, they also
I remember that when I started questioning
quietly reference a deeper sense of gender euphoria
my gender, I’d wonder if transitioning meant letting
and arrival, declaring that he’s “back on the bench” but
everything that’s femme-coded go: my special bond
with a new perspective. He does note, however, that
with my sister and mom, these Girl Rock bands I grew
he still carries with him the memories of his struggle
up with? I even remember lying on the floor of my
navigating his gender identity in the Girl Rock space.
dorm room thinking, If everything has already been
The next phrase, “lying on your back,” may refer to
associated with female or male leanings, does gender
Cleo’s reliance on his fellow band member Harmony
queerness mean having nothing? When we ask whether
Tividad when feeling pressure to lean into femininity
For years, the female-fronted rock scene has been
the future of Girl Rock is trans-inclusive, beneath that
in order to sell records. This short investigation into
connecting loyal audiences with female personalities.
lies a fear that we won’t have a seat on the boat we built.
“Hire” is just a small glimpse into the self-aware poetics
In a genre dominated by men who have laid claim to
I worry that I won’t be afforded a ticket on the next ride
Girlpool brings to their latest project, which tackles
the “Rock God” persona, female-led rock movements
beyond this place, that the entertainment I consume
the deep complexity of the subgenre, the act of making
like Riot Grrrl have cut against the grain. But despite
will leave me stranded.
music, gender, and the internal conversations we have
Girlpool, Cleo Tucker, and the Future of Gender-Defined Spaces By Bonnie / Billie Mckelvie Illustrated by Ashley Hernandez
efforts to subvert industry toxicity, an unwelcome
Needless to say, I was excited for this February’s
deposit of transphobia within the subgenre has caused
release of the new Girlpool album, titled What Chaos
with ourselves about the spaces in which we belong. Even outside of this album, the band seems to
some listeners to disavow the community entirely,
have positioned itself as a real changemaker in the
while others are calling for change from within.
Girl Rock scene. Both members have been vocal
During the last few years, the Girl Rock scene has
about the invasion of racism and transphobia into the
been consumed with questions about gender identity,
community, wielding their own music to transform
implicating the name of the genre itself and the culture
the subgenre’s culture. In live shows, Cleo has adapted
organized beneath that title. If the movement is going
old Girlpool favorites to work better with his “new”
to have girl in the name, how are we defining “girl?”
voice and often points out the differences on stage.
What are we saying the word means (or doesn’t)?
This isn’t to say that Girlpool is single-handedly
Trans-exclusionary feminists have tried to stake a
changing all of Riot Grrrl, but their actions still help
claim to Riot Grrrl and all its iterations, claiming
make Girl Rock a more intersectional and inclusive
that the female-led space was created explicitly for
space. Encouragingly, Girlpool’s latest album has been
cis women to air grievances about the larger rock
received by many as their best yet, suggesting a growing
genre and—through their performances—play into a
demand for inclusivity and genre critique.
femininity suppressed by the sexist rock hierarchy. This
Is Imaginary, and for how it might interact with these
So, what does Girl Rock mean now? While
take doesn’t sit well with many people, including me,
questions of mine. The album opens slowly (but
the definition is ever-changing, I see an especially
and is steadily losing favor as understandings of non-
not quietly) with “Lucy’s.” The song pointedly and
important evolution in the subgenre’s relationship with
binary genders, gender fluidity, and gender-bending
unapologetically centers Cleo’s voice, lower now after
femininity, where “girliness” is beginning to describe
performance become more widespread. Instead, trans
hormone replacement therapy and voice training,
an experience, way of being, sensitivity, or exploration
activists argue that the Riot Grrrl space should be one
backed by heavy guitars. It’s hard for me to listen to
without a strict biological or identity standard. As we
where all people who don’t benefit from cis patriarchy
the first lyrics without reading them as a nod to his
learn to see and feel gender as fluid, it’s important to
can explore, perform, and celebrate femininity in its
experience in the genre:
consider what spaces we’ve built constrictive walls
An unfamiliar place where you'd rather stay
around and framed as cis-exclusive clubs. Personally,
A meditation plan when you sway and sink
I’ve only ever asked a few things of Girl Rock. I want
about the genre, I was anxious to see how these new
The album as a whole doesn’t shy away from
to be able to work through my response to patriarchy
intersectional philosophies would play out in real life.
the topic of Cleo’s transition. Instead of fading into
with someone by my side. I want to know that some
Would broader audiences be welcoming when a trans
the background with an unannounced change in his
people, maybe even a crowd of people, understand
person was leading a high-profile group? Then, in the
voice, Cleo jumps into the upbeat track “Hire” with
the frustration I feel and are willing to hear me. I
spring of 2018, it happened. Cleo Tucker (he/him), one
an unabashed energy that proclaims gender euphoria
want to be able to reflect on, feel, perform, and play
of the leads of the iconic indie rock duo Girlpool, came
rather than fear. A C-major key and 4/4 time signature
with “girliness.” For a while, I felt that love go away. I
out as trans-masculine/non-binary. Not only was this
keep the song filled with a lightness that builds to meet
began to see this escape as a new kind of trap, and I was
a major band in the genre that literally had the word
Cleo’s joyful belting on the chorus. He sings:
waiting to get caught and thrown out. I’m not saying
many forms. While queer fans seemed to be winning debates
“girl” in its title, but it was also a group known for its
Now I'm the ref and a phone call cutting out
that Girlpool, Cleo Tucker, or What Chaos Is Imaginary
crooning hyper-femme harmonies on tracks like “Cut
Back on the bench I fall into the month I think about
fixed that completely, but now I’m starting to feel as
Your Bangs” and “Ideal World.” What would it mean for
How I sold seven doves when I was lying on your
though I can exhale, and enjoy something just because
a band seemingly defined by its “girliness” to suddenly
back
it feels right.
march 8, 2018 5
ARTS&CULTURE
Campo Girls vs. Gilmore Girls
The Realities of Single Parenting By Cathy Campo illustrated by katie fliegel I am the only person I know who drunk-calls their mom instead of their ex. In a slurred half-cry, I’ll tell her I miss her and then ask what she thought of last week’s episode of The Bachelor. In the way that a normal person might have a best friend, someone to FaceTime every night to spill the tea about the latest boy they’re dating or divulge which friend is driving them up a wall, I have a mom. She’s been a bachelorette since 2001, which I guess makes me her life partner. If you’re even slightly relevant in my life, my mom knows your name—and also where you’re from, what your concentration is, how we met, and every interaction we’ve ever had. There’s an alternate universe in which you might be able to convince me that this behavior is weird, that nobody should ever be this close with their mom, but I’ve seen Gilmore Girls, and I know I’m not alone. The network comedy, which debuted in 2000 and ran for seven glorious seasons, follows the close relationship between single mother Lorelai Gilmore and her teenage daughter, Rory. The two gossip about each other’s current beaus, borrow one another’s clothes; they basically invented the term “bingewatching.” I laughed with the mother-daughter duo as they threw deviled eggs at Rory’s ex-boyfriend’s car (let’s be real; he deserved it), and I cried at Rory’s high school graduation speech: “My mother never gave me any ideas that I couldn’t do whatever I wanted to do or be whomever I wanted to be. I don’t know if she ever realized that the person I most wanted to be was her.” Cue tears. But if it sounds like our relationship is exactly the same, there’s one thing you should know about my mom and me: Growing up, I almost never saw her. A business-owner and single parent like Lorelai, she was often too busy to help with my homework or pick me up from rehearsal—tasks she left for a nanny until I was able to care for myself (so, a sophomore in high school). I watched with envy as Lorelai dropped Rory off for her first day of school at Chilton. (In Lorelai fashion, of course: a tie-dye shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and cowboy boots but—Oh no!—She doesn’t know she has a meeting with the headmaster!) Don’t get me wrong, my mom was still the largest presence in my life, determining which colleges I would apply to and how I would spend my summers. But that’s just it—she was a presence, there-but-not-there, like a ghost or phantom.
If my life were a TV show, my mom would probably spend most of each season off-camera. For a long time, I wanted Lorelai to be my mom. She’s fiercely independent, strong-willed, and, well, cool. Then I realized my mom is just like Lorelai, she just has less free time—or, at least the appearance of less free time. What you aren’t aware of when you’re watching the show is that, since so much time is spent depicting the sweet moments Lorelai and Rory share, it skips the hours and hours they must spend apart. The series does many things well: it has witty dialogue and multifaceted characters. But if you’re looking for an accurate representation of the time single parents are realistically able to give their children, this is not it. Amy Sherman-Palladino, who created the series and wrote many of its episodes, grew up with married parents. Figures. Thus, the writers are left unable to portray the single most heartbreaking struggle of any singleparent/child relationship: resentment. I love my mom. I’m thankful every day for the sacrifices she has made to support us. But it would be a lie to say that I don’t still resent her for skipping my fifteenth birthday for a business trip—that I don’t feel a pang of heartache when I remember that she also missed my Halloween parades, my back-to-school nights, my college acceptance letter arriving in the mail. My mom sometimes feels absent even when she’s sitting right next to me. On our last vacation, after several meals together, she remarked that I never ordered soda. I wanted to tell her I haven’t drank soda in a decade. A single-parent/child relationship is kind of like a long-distance relationship. You’re overjoyed when you’re with your loved one, but in the interim, they miss a lot. FaceTiming every night helps to bridge this gap, but until Elon Musk invents phones that can replicate hugs (which, if you ask me, should be of higher priority than getting to Mars), it’s just not the same. Is my mom the reason that I have an irrational fear of all my loved ones abandoning me? Yes. Is she the
“I am going to suffocate him with one of his own odiferous boxers.” Jack Sparrow, “To fulfill a vendetta” 3.9.17
“These friends and I joke that my alter ego is a 12-year-old altar boy from rural Ohio: Billy Olson, born 1949.” Anna Harvey, “Flavored Vodka and Cheekbone Glitter” 3.9.17
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reason that we have a roof over our heads, the reason I’m able to afford Brown’s astronomical tuition? Also yes. In Gilmore Girls, it’s easy for the writers to show Rory’s resentment for her father—he’s almost entirely absent. But she never expresses the same feelings about Lorelai, who owns and runs an inn (and, at one point, is simultaneously enrolled in business school), yet is somehow never neglectful. The series gave me a model for the kind of motherdaughter relationship I desired, but it wasn’t until college that I was able to achieve anything close to it. Between classes, rehearsals, internship interviews, and my need to stay up-to-date on the latest TV, I’ve learned to empathize with my mom and her lack of free time. We’ll chat on her drive home from work and my walk to Andrews, or while she’s folding laundry and I’m doing my makeup. As I’ve grown older, I’ve required less from her, as I, too, only have so much to give. I don’t need her to see every play or proofread every essay. The talking is enough. That is, until I need that hug that Elon Musk hasn’t quite figured out yet. Gilmore Girls doesn’t accurately portray the amount of time single parents are really able to spend with their children, but it does correctly depict how precious that time together is. And it’s true; when she’s not around, I feel momsickness like some feel homesickness, and that feeling goes both ways. When I was going through a period of depression two years ago, my mom would sometimes spend her Saturdays making the three-hour journey to visit me for the day. It was like Carole King’s lyrics for the show’s opening theme song come to life: Any time I was “feeling lonely,” I could just remember that my mom would “be there on the next train.” When she’d arrive, I would cry to her about how unhappy I was, and she’d give me one of those hugs that only moms can give. Then we’d order in sushi and watch an episode of The Bachelor. I may not have seen my mom every episode of my own life, but I know that, in moments like those, we would look like Lorelai and Rory.
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