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Dec. 29th, 2004 01:10 pmI am back in Berkeley. Back where things make a little more sense to me. Back where I feel I fit (more or less), or at least can breathe. Santee and southern California are foreign places to me.
The last day I spent there we went to two malls. The first, in El Cajon, was the middle/working class mall. A Wal-mart, a JC Penny, plenty of stores called things like "Trendy!" selling cheap clothes and shiny plastic objects. I think the "nicest" store was an Abercrombie-esque place I'd never heard of before. These sorts of malls make me feel dirty. I am grossed out by the abundance of poorly made, tacky crap, and appalled that people want to buy this stuff, that this crap somehow fills a void in people's souls and makes them feel good about themselves. Then, I think I am being an elitist bitch. Am I being socially concious because Wal-mart is the devil and expoits lower class workers and most of these stores make their goods in off-shore sweatshops? I'm not so sure. I don't have enough money these days to purchase even a single item from one of these cheap stores, so it can't be that my pocket book calls me to nicer stores.
And then there are the people. Boys acting like the men they are raised to be, girls acting like the women they hope to become. An intricate but flimsy dance is enacted in these kind of malls across the country, in places that look the same. I could have been anywhere in the US; take away the dry sunshine and palmtrees and East County and I could've been anywhere. These girls in short short skirts, painted on pants, tight shirts or low-cut tanks that reveal their bodies to be tits and ass, legs that lead to pussy, blank stares and flirtatious smiles that also reveal that this is their role and they know how to play it. This is the cheap sex of youth, but these girls don't seem to know any better, they don't seem to understand the consequences of their desired, and very successful, effect. What might they have to say? It is impossible to hear their voices when their bodies are screaming so loudly. This too makes me feel stained.
The second mall we went to was one in an upscale part of San Diego, some mall with Fashion in the title. Stores like Louis Vuitton, a mac store, Sephora, Tiffany's, Banana Repubic, Bestey Johnson, etc, were here. This mall, too, made me feel dirty. The women and men were not children and all were dressed quite stylishly. Many still dressed to be looked at, but their bits remained tastefully covered. Do these women feel that their money buys their voices and therefore they don't have to communicate only through with their flesh? I'm not sure I know the answer when so many looked so similar. I felt proud to have my messy cropped haircut: no one else came even close to having hair like mine. But despite my false sense of pride, I felt like a hypocrite. I know these stores are no more noble than the ones in the first mall. Most of these clothes and wares are also made by small children in third world countries. Still, I covet the wool-blend, finely stitched slacks at Banana Republic; I know they'll last years and years and they are so "classy," whatever that word means anymore. I love the bold colors and unique designs of Betsey Johnson's dresses. I love the sleek, so fun and functional items at the Mac store. Yes, in this place I feel chastised and dirty.
We are all for sale.
And I wonder about men and women, what is being played out at places like these, in communities like these. I wonder about my own complicity. And I sit and I read the gender-neutral cutefest's term paper "Beyond Bi-genderality" (look for it soon in feminist journals near you) and wonder how we can move beyond this masculine/male-feminine/female dichotomy that is enacted everyday, how we can resist this consumerism that we allow to define ourselves in a hundred little subtle ways. Look for my continued thoughts on her paper. I must away to work.
The last day I spent there we went to two malls. The first, in El Cajon, was the middle/working class mall. A Wal-mart, a JC Penny, plenty of stores called things like "Trendy!" selling cheap clothes and shiny plastic objects. I think the "nicest" store was an Abercrombie-esque place I'd never heard of before. These sorts of malls make me feel dirty. I am grossed out by the abundance of poorly made, tacky crap, and appalled that people want to buy this stuff, that this crap somehow fills a void in people's souls and makes them feel good about themselves. Then, I think I am being an elitist bitch. Am I being socially concious because Wal-mart is the devil and expoits lower class workers and most of these stores make their goods in off-shore sweatshops? I'm not so sure. I don't have enough money these days to purchase even a single item from one of these cheap stores, so it can't be that my pocket book calls me to nicer stores.
And then there are the people. Boys acting like the men they are raised to be, girls acting like the women they hope to become. An intricate but flimsy dance is enacted in these kind of malls across the country, in places that look the same. I could have been anywhere in the US; take away the dry sunshine and palmtrees and East County and I could've been anywhere. These girls in short short skirts, painted on pants, tight shirts or low-cut tanks that reveal their bodies to be tits and ass, legs that lead to pussy, blank stares and flirtatious smiles that also reveal that this is their role and they know how to play it. This is the cheap sex of youth, but these girls don't seem to know any better, they don't seem to understand the consequences of their desired, and very successful, effect. What might they have to say? It is impossible to hear their voices when their bodies are screaming so loudly. This too makes me feel stained.
The second mall we went to was one in an upscale part of San Diego, some mall with Fashion in the title. Stores like Louis Vuitton, a mac store, Sephora, Tiffany's, Banana Repubic, Bestey Johnson, etc, were here. This mall, too, made me feel dirty. The women and men were not children and all were dressed quite stylishly. Many still dressed to be looked at, but their bits remained tastefully covered. Do these women feel that their money buys their voices and therefore they don't have to communicate only through with their flesh? I'm not sure I know the answer when so many looked so similar. I felt proud to have my messy cropped haircut: no one else came even close to having hair like mine. But despite my false sense of pride, I felt like a hypocrite. I know these stores are no more noble than the ones in the first mall. Most of these clothes and wares are also made by small children in third world countries. Still, I covet the wool-blend, finely stitched slacks at Banana Republic; I know they'll last years and years and they are so "classy," whatever that word means anymore. I love the bold colors and unique designs of Betsey Johnson's dresses. I love the sleek, so fun and functional items at the Mac store. Yes, in this place I feel chastised and dirty.
We are all for sale.
And I wonder about men and women, what is being played out at places like these, in communities like these. I wonder about my own complicity. And I sit and I read the gender-neutral cutefest's term paper "Beyond Bi-genderality" (look for it soon in feminist journals near you) and wonder how we can move beyond this masculine/male-feminine/female dichotomy that is enacted everyday, how we can resist this consumerism that we allow to define ourselves in a hundred little subtle ways. Look for my continued thoughts on her paper. I must away to work.