Why Do I Facebook?

A friend on Facebook recently posed this question in her status, and it really got me thinking...

My Facebook page is a contradiction to anyone paying attention. The pictures show smiling kids, romantic bouquets of flowers, peaceful sunsets, and other beautiful images that I'm sure make anyone outside of my family and close circle of friends gag.

But my status reports often hint at the fact that I am stressed out, restless, discontent, and insecure.

So what's the truth?

Well, Facebook is not exactly where people go to find truth, is it? You can't know someone by their Facebook page. And yet, that's my basis for connection with most people I know, unless I see them regularly face to face.

People reading my Facebook page might imagine that I have nothing but free time--enough time to take, edit and post several pictures on Instagram everyday. They might also think I am the kind of person who knows how to appreciate beauty and is living the good life. They might think I have the perfect family but have to post that I'm stressed out once in awhile so people don't get jealous.

The truth is, Facebook has become the tool by which I process fleeting moments of experience. I have a feeling, and I post something to see how my feeling looks and sounds in a world where others will interact with it. Facebook doesn't begin to represent who I am or what my life is like, but it does provide a pretty accurate timeline of the moods I go through.

And more than anything, I want to be understood. I want to be known and loved for being uniquely me. So I post representations of my moods in the hopes that people will find them lovely.

Sad? Maybe. But at the end of the day I'm grateful for finding this outlet that fits my schedule and short attention span (and doesn't require any artistic talent).

So...why do YOU Facebook?

Transformations

I have been obsessed with aging. I see every new wrinkle as it comes in. I sit and think about what my bald head will look like when I'm 70 years old. And, lately, I have been trying out these photo-aging programs online.

Here's a fun one: The St. Andrews Face Transformer.
Totally hilarious. Not only can I see myself as I might appear years from now, I can also see myself as a West Asian, a half-chimp, or even a man!

Here is the photo I used as the control:

Here's me as an "older adult":

Afro-Caribbean me:

Get ready to be freaked out--here I am as a man in drag:

It's a fine line, right?! (Some of you will never be able to look at me the same way again...)


Okay, so getting really brave I tried it with this photo:

Sadly, the transformer didn't know what to do with my bald head. But I'm still pretty happy with the results...

Older me:

East Asian me:

Monkey me:

Try the site out--it's a hoot! And it will make you appreciate your own fine features that much more when you're done. :)

Why Can't You Be Like...

My daughter won't let me brush her hair. At all. Ever. And she looks like Mowgli from The Jungle Book.

So we get to school the other day, with her unbrushed hair, and her teacher tries to brush it, achieving the same results as I always do: nuthin.

She then proceeds to bring other girls in the class over to my daughter so she can see their pretty, perfect hair.

Now, this needs some context. This was the day of the kids' International Assembly at school. They got to dress up in traditional clothes from their culture/country of origin. My daughter was wearing her galabeyah from Egypt (something like this) with brown sandals.

The teacher was telling kids to take their T-Shirts off from under their clothes so it wouldn't look too casual. She had one girl remove her glasses, for heaven's sake. She clearly wanted everything to look just right.

I can't blame her, but I also wanted to laugh and remind her that these were first graders. Let the girl wear her glasses. Let that boy keep his T-shirt on.

Now, when it came to my daughter, I was torn. I had been trying to get her to brush her day all morning, too. I wanted her to look "nice" and put-together. I tried to use language promoting self respect rather than comparisons and advice to conform to culturally-defined standards of beauty. But this teacher flat out told Esther to compare herself to all the other girls, who also had make up on.

So my question is: How do we help our kids feel good about themselves without setting them up for a life of "If only I looked like..."? Should I force my daughter to brush her hair if she really, REALLY doesn't want to? Should I wait and see if the social pressure at school gives her a push in the direction of a neater appearance? Should I tell them all to stuff it?

Opinions, please. And check this out for a somewhat enlightening/somewhat pathetic discussion about why supermodels don't brush their hair. :)

For Women Only

I'm serious. If you are a man and you are still reading this, consider yourself warned.

I had to go into Victoria's Secret the other day for some bridal shower gifts. I came out feeling totally deflated. I almost mean that literally. The Victoria's Secret models, whose boobies were everywhere I turned, seemed to be taunting me with their full curves. I looked around the store a bit for myself, but quickly realized (as I knew before I walked in) that I couldn't fill out anything hanging on their racks. (Pun intended).

So naturally I have been feeling a little...well, little. I feel like I don't have the basic equipment required for playing on the women's team, so to speak. I suddenly can't find clothes that make me feel good about my shape. I don't want to walk around in a padded bra, advertising something I don't actually carry in stock. (Yes, I think it counts as advertising even when it's just your husband looking.) But I do want to feel feminine.

Today I found hope! A beautiful blog called "Small Bust, Big Heart". I'm so thrilled to find this, because the biggest problem I have is feeling like I'm the only woman who is trapped in a 12-year-old's body. Now I see that I may actually be part of a larger subgroup than I thought. Go check it out--even if you don't have a small bust, it's nice to recognize and celebrate women of all different shapes and sizes. The blog had links to online stores for small-busted women, like Little Women. Now I can choose the places I shop, places that reflect my needs and my reality. Just browsing the styles online is so fun, because the models look like me!

This all goes to show that self-image is largely contextual. I mean, we all need to build a foundation of self-love in which we recognize our God-given beauty and accept that it is more than enough. But we also need to consciously avoid situations where we know we will represent a counter-image or counter-message if we are not standing solidly on that foundation yet. I know I'm not in a place where I can comfortably go into a Victoria's Secret store and feel beautiful. But I hope to get there someday once I have exposed myself to more realistic images of beauty and come to accept, love and flaunt my own shape. After all, if Audrey Hepburn could remain one of the icons of beauty with her distinctly un-Victoria's Secret-like chest, then maybe I can learn to appreciate my own little "chiquitas" too!

Picture Day

Yesterday was the dreaded Picture Day at my daughter's school. I say "dreaded" for two reasons.

One is that my daughter is solidly "anti-grooming". She never lets me touch her head with a brush or comb. She doesn't let me wipe crumbs off her mouth, and it never seems to bother her that they're there. She picks outfits by how they feel on her body, not necessarily by how the colors go together (or don't). So yesterday's pictures were taken with her wearing a beautiful white sweater that I picked out--underneath a T-shirt that she picked out--and the remnants of a granola bar stuck to her bold smile. And the hair? Well, at least it was clean. That's all I can say.

The other reason I dread Picture Day is, of course, all about me. Oh, the memories of ill-fated picture days that come flooding back...like the time as a junior in high school that my eyes were half-closed in my yearbook picture, which many people gladly pointed out to me...or worse yet, the day I forgot I was having my senior pictures taken and had to run out the door without makeup (which I had no idea how to wear anyway) and a frumpy outfit I pulled from my mother's closet. My senior picture was so embarrassing to me that I almost didn't buy a high school yearbook. The other girls in my class looked like models, or at least looked their age. As usual, I was the extra-late bloomer who looked like a twelve-year-old in my picture. I looked like a Quaker, actually. I had some pantsuit on with a big white lace collar.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

So, naturally, my daughter's experiences are forcing me through the wormhole, back to relive my own school days. The shame of bad school pictures. The pressure to "look nice" on picture day.

As we waited in line outside the school yesterday morning before the bell, I saw the other girls in my daughter's class with their bows, curled hair, and shiny shoes. I wondered if my girl would feel the same inferiority and lack of femininity that I felt on my picture days. She did comment on their hair, but it was more like "Wow, that's different", instead of "Why don't I look like that?".

Once we got in the classroom, after fighting a losing battle with her over her unkempt hair and face, I almost threw my order form in the trash. I wasn't going to pay money for pictures of her if she didn't look nice and cute. (Again, we come back to the issue of "cuteness".)

But then an unbelievable sense of shallowness and shame actually stopped me in my tracks. For real. Why wouldn't I pay money for pictures of my baby? She's growing so fast, and whatever she ends up looking like in the photo, it's a chance to get a close up of her sitting still. And years from now, when she has learned to brush her hair, I will look back at these pictures and laugh over her quirkiness and boundless energy, her untainted sense of self, and her fearless way of living.

Why do we get all dressed up for pictures, anyway? Why don't we want to capture real life? Why do some people refuse to have their picture taken on Christmas morning because they are in their pajamas? (Okay, maybe I get that one. I guess it all depends on the type of pajamas, and the intended viewers of the photo...)

Who are the pictures for, after all? Do we only allow the best-dressed and prettiest to grace our mantles because others' opinions of the photos will reflect on us and our worth? Or am I thinking too hard about this? Is it just that we like, and deserve, special moments where we put on our best and capture a bit of magic?

Personally, I hate getting dolled up for photos. If you don't like how I look, that's your problem. I am who I am.

BUT...once I get them back I always wish I had take better care of my appearance. If I can't see the face I want every day in the mirror, at least let me have one picture, frozen in time, where I looked like a princess.

You see how conflicted I am about this. I don't want my daughter thinking that she has to change who she is for other people. And yet, I want her to feel lovely. Same old dilemma I have written about over and over.

At any rate, I ordered the pictures. I have no idea what I'll get, but I know they will be the most beautiful pictures any parent has ever seen.

"Cuteness"

This weekend, my husband and I added to our family. We chose a child to sponsor in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Her name is Lydia. She is our second sponsored child. It was an interesting process for me, looking through the pictures of children on the website.

I asked my husband, "How are we supposed to choose?"

I figured I would see the picture of a child we were "meant" to sponsor, and I would feel...something. I imagined looking at a pair of eyes that seemed to speak just to me. A connection.

As we scrolled through, I saw several little faces that melted my heart. Chubby little cheeks, puppy dog eyes, lovely features that looked somehow familiar. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to choose a "cute" kid. Cynically, I figured these kids would have no trouble getting sponsored. You can't help but get attached to some of these kids. They are little angels.

No, in the end I was struck by an older girl whose face was not the cherubic image that is usually featured on mailings and commercials. This girl is not what I would describe as "cute". She looks about as different from me as one can get. Except for her head--she has a beautiful head, unencumbered by lots of hair.

I saw her, and she looked so unhappy. None of these kids look happy, but she looked world weary already, at the age of 8. I read her bio, and apparently she is an orphan who lives with her uncle. My husband had wanted to find a child who was an orphan, so I wrote her name down as a possibility. We kept looking through pictures, but I couldn't forget her. Truthfully, I was immediately mistrustful of the fact that she lives with her uncle. It's horrible to admit, but I tend to assume the worst about male family members in certain parts of the world. I hope to be wrong enough times in the future to change my view on that. But her eyes--they have something in them besides hunger, sadness, or fear. They have hard edges, perhaps formed by bitterness or anger. I can't tell. All I know is that my thoughts kept returning to her. No other child seemed as urgently in need of help as she.

I know, I know. Here I am, the "white savior", assuming a plight that may or may not really exist. And I know she and her uncle are fully rounded human beings. At least, I am trying to intentionally remind myself of that. But whatever her reality is, whether there is abuse in the picture or just the daily grind of poverty, I have resources that she desperately needs.

So back to the night we chose her. When I told my husband that she was the one, we tried to go back and find her picture, but we couldn't! The pictures didn't appear in the same order as the first time we had scrolled through. We did a search for her name, for kids her age, everything we could think of--for about 20 minutes. I was so frustrated, but we had decided that by 8:50 pm we had to choose a child. It was 8:49. We settled on choosing the next child who was an orphan. We clicked to the next child, and the story came up before the picture loaded. I saw the word "uncle", held my breath, and Lydia's face appeared. The clock turned to 8:50. She was for us.

My husband wanted to share her photo on Facebook, which he did, but I was hesitant. Not really for security reasons, I don't think. After all, World Vision has these photos available for anyone to see. No, I think my hesitation was because she is not "cute". I could imagine people looking at her and not feeling anything, because she doesn't make you say "awww...". Maybe I was embarrassed. That would be awful, but I think it's probably the truth.

Lately I have noticed that this value we place on "cuteness" in children is really pervasive and harmful in a lot of ways. My six-year-old daughter has been lapsing back into baby talk and whining, which I think has to do with the fact that her two-year-old brother really is stinkin' cute. He knows it, we know it. When he does something cute, we "ooh" and "ahh" and laugh. When she tries to get the same reaction from us by doing the same thing, we find it annoying. Or, at the very least, just not new and cute anymore.

I have to really be careful to give my daughter affirmation for things she does that I know she wants me to think are "cute". I want her to grow up too, but right now I think it's really important to her that I still fawn over the things she says and does. Because to her, "cute" means "important".

This post has maybe been a bit rambling, but I really need to process my own complicity in a society that values "cuteness" and figure out how to open myself to different kinds of beauty and sweetness. Of course, "cute" kids deserve every bit of the love (and sponsorship) they get. And of course, not everyone doles out favor according to "cuteness". But I recognize the tendency in me to be attracted to it and repelled by anything else.

Gerber shouldn't get to trademark "cuteness" and define it for us. Recognize the beauty of every face, the innocence of every child, and the sweetness in every age.

Look unto others...

Life is funny. Four years ago, I held my breath as I took off my scarf to reveal my bald head to my two-year-old daughter for the first time. I was so worried she would start screaming and that we would both be traumatized. But I kept it light, and she was fine. Curious, but fine.

Last Saturday night, I decided to wear my favorite wig to a dinner I was going to with my husband. It's a cute wig, but very bold: jet black wedge with purple in the bangs. I put it on and went out to say goodbye to my kids, and my two-year-old son started backing away, frowning. "I don't like it, take it off", he said. Far from being traumatized though, I simply chuckled and took it off, donning it later in the car.

I used to worry and worry about how my kids felt about having a mommy with no hair. Now, as I toy with the idea of getting several cheap, funky wigs that I can have fun with more often, I worry about them getting confused or shaken as they witness their mommy, the person who should always be rock solid, changing appearance so drastically.

I haven't gotten to the point yet where I can comfortably throw one wig off and another one on. For me, it highlights the fact that I am able to change hairstyles so quickly--in other words, the fact that I have no hair. But I am thinking about it, and I am faced with this question of responsibility for the feelings of others versus personal choice and fulfillment.

As a mom, do I have a responsibility to appear to my kids in a form they are comfortable with and feel loved by? Or is my responsibility to teach them about true beauty and acceptance, no matter how freaked out they get when they see me in "costumes"? Is there a certain age when it's more okay to make bolder choices with my appearance (I mean the ages of my children, not me)?

This brings up a whole host of other questions: Do I have a responsibility to make my adult ESL students feel comfortable around me? How can I dress professionally while also helping myself to feel confident in the classroom?

Do I have a responsibility to my husband to tailor my appearance to his desires? Does he have that responsibility toward me?

I just think it's interesting that, by the time I get comfortable with my own appearance (not an easy thing to accomplish), I begin to worry about whether others are comfortable with it.