My #YesAllWomen Post

Look. It's been a big week, full of emotionally-charged news, and I'm just having trouble sitting still right now.

Whenever a massive act of violence occurs, there is that sick sensation that gathers in the pits of our stomachs as we try to digest the horrific news. Word of Friday's shooting in Isla Vista was accompanied by that terrible feeling, that deep-down frightening and sad voice that seems to say, "My God, it's happened again." We mourned innocent lives taken by a sick, depraved human being. We read articles expelling details of his manifesto, which revealed that he wanted to seek revenge on women for not sleeping with him. We sat there baffled that any person's mind could actually exist with such high volumes of toxicity.

And then a conversation began.

Perhaps I am being a bit optimistic, but the #YesAllWomen conversation is encouraging to me. If you don't know what it's all about -- in the days following Friday's shooting, the hashtag #NotAllMen began circulating on Twitter. It was created as an attempt for men to distance themselves from the psychopathy and blatant misogyny of Elliot Rodger. In response came #YesAllWomen, a statement intended to declare that certainly not all men are harassers, but all women, every single one, are the regular targets of harassment.

Abuse, both verbal and physical. Unwanted sexual advances. Violence. Rape. Discrimination in professional environments. Discrepancies in pay. Barriers in religious settings. Being seen as simply less.

These issues are ones that span all of womankind. Yes, all of womankind.

Elliot Rodger's mind was completely contaminated. We know that. But in many ways, his worldview can be seen as a heightened version of the way some men really see the women in their lives -- as objects to which they are entitled, as beings which owe them certain servitudes: sex, devotion, laughter.

I have many examples of this in my own life, but one of the most consistent illustrations for me would probably have to be the parade of spectator-men I face every day while walking to the subway. Just about every woman in New York City (or any city with considerable foot-traffic) deals with this. Of course, the comments range from the very gross ("I want to put your feet in my mouth") to the almost-cliche ("Hey baby, I love to see you smile"). What I find fascinating about street harassment is that if I am with my husband, it ceases completely. The same man who would ordinarily be tormenting me on my daily commute is suddenly silent. I feel like the boy who cried wolf. "I swear he usually wants me to put my feet in his mouth!"

That is part of why some men remain oblivious to the continued plight of women. Those who would normally be the aggressors of harassment only seize the opportunity when other men aren't around (Slate ran a great article on this phenomenon yesterday). Because of this, men who don't cat-call women or actively attempt to hurt them (or at least they don't think they do), these men are often able to escape the sad reality which has affected their wives, daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends for centuries.

But that is why, even though it may be a sometimes flawed conversation, I appreciate the spirit of #YesAllWomen. I love the totality of it, the boldness of it. By popularizing a message that says that, yes, all women deal with some form of misogyny, we effectively take away the blind-eye excuse. The word is out there. It's your move, world.

My husband, who, like me, considers himself a feminist, asked me a really cool question regarding #YesAllWomen that I've been thinking about a lot today: "So what should I be doing, like, right now?"

Great question. The answer I had for him, and the answer I have for all men, is first to listen to the women in your lives. Ask them how they have been personally affected by sexism, how they have felt harassed, how they have been made to feel like less than what they are. Allow yourself to be shocked as you hear their stories. Have empathy for them, and resolve to live as a champion for their rights. Partner with the women you know and commit to making a real difference. Be bold enough to say, "Enough is enough."

Again, it's possible that I believe far too strongly in the power of a hashtag like #YesAllWomen. We all know we have seen this before. People get excited about a branding strategy for a human rights issue, and then it falls by the wayside. To a degree, I completely understand the cynicism that surrounds hashtag activism. 

But even though I know it will cease trending on Twitter in just a few days time, I can't help but be excited about words which so powerfully encapsulate the essence of this truth -- that all women, whether they even realize it or not, are the targets of a flawed belief that has persisted for far too long. And it will take the commitment of all women and all men to really put an end to it.

I know these aren't the usual issues discussed on this blog, and I promise I will get you back to cat photo shoots and breakfast posts as soon as possible, but I just couldn't stomach being silent on this platform. In the same way that I encourage men to listen to the women in their lives, I think it is important for women to share their stories with each other. I would love to hear your thoughts on #YesAllWomen. Leave a comment below with some of your experiences.

Little Miss Photogenic

A couple of weeks back, I told you guys about an event I'd be performing in called Spring Forth. It was a night of music & storytelling put on by OSNY to raise money for City Harvest. I told a story that night, which I had prepped by writing an essay. I realized this week that I just had this written story sitting around now, so I decided why not share it? For anyone who missed the event, below is a story of childhood dreams, feminism, and friendship. I've included some pictures just to add a little razzle dazzle.

When I was six-years-old, I was sitting in the bed of my dad’s truck while watching the Cornyval parade in my hometown of Helotes, Texas. There were several floats going by on Bandera road, each featuring some organization from the town, but there was one in particular that stood out to me.

It was a larger float covered in white fluffy crepe paper, and on it were different tiers on which three attractive women stood like brides on a very sexy wedding cake. On the very top stood a woman with bleach-blonde hair, a sequined form-fitting dress, and a tiara glittering like nothing I had ever seen before. She was Miss Helotes, and when she waved, her hands were like spoons – the fingers stuck together so determinedly that they looked as if they might be webbed. Her smile was impeccable, and I thought she was perfect.

A more recent scene from the Cornyval (Via)

Now, at this time, all of the women who would eventually become my role models in life had not really risen to prominence, or if they had, I just hadn’t heard of them yet (because I was six, so give me a break) – women like Flannery O’Connor, Tina Fey, Betty Friedan, Beyoncé. So when I saw these sparkly women that day at the Cornyval parade, I revered them as the pinnacle of female existence, and I decided that I needed to do whatever it might take to get on that float.

Ugh, why wasn't a children's version of this available for me in the 90s?

And there was hope because at the bottom of the float stood three miniature versions of the women up on top. These were the Little Miss Helotes contestants, and they were my age. Their dresses were slightly less form-fitting, but they each had tiaras and they each embodied everything I wanted out of life, especially the one in the middle…because she had the biggest tiara.

So a year later, I approached my mom to tell her that I wanted to enter the Little Miss Helotes pageant. I don’t really know what I was expecting in terms of her response, but she looked at me a bit puzzled, and just said, “…Why?” Now, this was pre-Toddlers & Tiaras, so her hesitation did not stem from the stigma that is now associated with kids being in pageants. I mean, the world had yet to even meet this glorious creature:

Instead, as she has reluctantly told me in my later years, my mom was afraid that I wouldn’t win. This was weird to me because up until this point, everything she had been telling me throughout my entire life had indicated the opposite. As far as I knew, I was the cutest, sweetest, most gifted child my mother had ever met. I mean, every picture I brought home went straight on the fridge, every time I said “Mom, watch me!” before belly-flopping into the pool, she had indeed watched me and had even applauded when I emerged from the water. Like, I was special – potentially the most special…at least that’s what I figured.

I do think it’s important that you know that in reality, I was kind of a squatty, weird little kid whose biggest accomplishment up until that point had been not peeing my pants more than thrice in a calendar-year. I was also missing four of my top front teeth and I had a decent unibrow forming, which held a very special place in my mother’s heart, but I’m sure she questioned whether the world would have such an open mind.

But she conceded, and so began a series of rigorous practices to ready me for the big pageant. I went to the local Presbyterian Church every Thursday to practice alongside the other contestants with our coach. She was a woman with smoky breath who I remember as having a thick Long Island accent, but it was Texas, so I now think that memory may be corrupted from things I’ve seen on TV. Anyway, from this gruff woman, we learned how to stand properly, how to walk properly, and how to speak properly – all of which were things I thought I already knew from, like, being a person, but it turns out I did not.

Coming into this whole thing, I knew I was the youngest girl in the pageant, which despite my inflated self-esteem, did intimidate me. My mom told me that in order to overcome this fear, I needed to “stand out”. She took me to a hairdresser who gave me a new signature style, which coincidentally, was also the signature style for Mary Tyler Moore in 1973.

Via

So the big day came – I had my signature Mary Tyler hairstyle prepped, a pink dress from Dillards, and my eye was on the prize. There were three different times that I was supposed to appear on stage: The First Look (where I’d just be introduced to the crowd), The Interview with the emcee, and The Beauty Walk. During First Look, my name was called and as far as I knew, I had won it right there. I smiled at the judges, piercing them with my eye contact. It was in the bag.

Immediately after came the interview. We all lined up as the cheesy emcee approached us with the mic. The questions were related to profiles we’d submitted beforehand that our moms had filled out. Right before me, a girl named Cindy was asked why her horse was named Prince, and she responded, without skipping a beat, “Because he’s a prince to me” (and by the way, she pronounced "me" as "may"). At this, the audience collectively lost their minds. They thought it was so cute, and it was. It was perfect -- almost like she’d rehearsed her answer – like instead of spending time clearing a place on her shelf for her new tiara (like I did), she had actually thought about what words were going to come out of her mouth on a stage in front of her entire town.

When the mic got around to me, I was in the midst of an existential crisis. Why the hell hadn’t I practiced the interview portion? I tried to shake it off by telling myself that I could get through this if I just responded in a mature manner – the way a grownup would. So the emcee leaned in towards me and said, “So you play softball for the Helotes Little League. What else do you like to do?” A very generous question. Should have been easy, but for some reason I was drawing a blank. What did I like to do? Did I like to do things?

I knew that my answer was “I don’t know,” but I wanted to say it in a classier way, so I leaned into the mic, locked eyes with the emcee as though I were trying to put him in a trace, and I said, “…I can’t say...."

Now, what I meant by that was, “Hmm, gee, I can’t really say!” (another way of saying "dunno") but because of the ultra creepy way in which I chose to say it, it ended up sounding like I couldn’t say because the thing I liked to do might involve murder or watching people sleep.

"...I can't say..." (Via)

The audience erupted with laughter, and I felt deflated. Backstage, I was kicking myself, thinking of all of the things I liked to do. Watch television, make mud pies, draw pictures of frogs. 

Nailed it.

I was certain that my interview had been a spectacular failure, but I was hoping that all of the work I’d put into my beauty walk would pay off.

When I got out there, I moved to the middle of the stage and got into a perfect t-stance (this is where you put your feet in the shape of a “T” because otherwise you’re standing like an animal). The crowd was still abuzz. I was sure they were still talking about my interview, and honestly, in my mind I started to get exasperated with these people. I mean, come on, guys, that was before…look at all this beauty happening in front of you. I walked all over that stage, incapable of smiling because of the rowdy crowd, and when I got backstage I realized that they actually weren’t laughing about my interview anymore. As it turns out, I had walked on stage with my dress tucked deeply into my pantyhose like a sausage stuffed into its casing. God only knows how I managed to do that, but I super did.

So I did about as badly as one can do in a pageant, but my self-esteem was so inflated that when it came time to announce the winners, I still somehow thought I had a shot. At the very least, I was sure to get 2^nd runner up, right? We all lined up on stage for the last time. Smaller awards were given first. Then they started with the big ones. First they announced 2^nd runner up – not me. Okay. Then 1^st runner up – not me again…I started to get excited…I guess I did better than I thought…

Then the emcee announced, “And your new Little Miss Helotes IS….”

Not me. Duh. It was Cindy. The girl with the horse. Serves me right for entering a Texas beauty pageant without owning a horse.

I should mention that I did leave with an award that day and a tiara. In the smaller awards section, I was crowned “Little Miss Photogenic”, which even then I knew was the most BS title I could possibly get. The judges had made this call based on professional photos we’d taken a while back, and guys, here’s mine:

"...I can't say..."

Now, that looks like the face of a terrifying little girl who can’t say what she likes to do in her spare time.

Like, if the criteria for the title of “Little Miss Photogenic” was being present for the photo, then I guess I nailed it. But besides that, I’m missing four very important teeth, my hair is other-worldly, and as my husband has pointed out when looking at this picture, I’ve got “those cold, dead shark eyes.” Plus, whose shower curtain am I wearing?

After this experience, I was devastated. Devastated in a way that I hope no daughter of mine ever has to be. I cried the whole way home, tiara on my head, dress still partially tucked into my pantyhose because it’s an easier mistake to make than you would think. 

Something you may have noticed in this story, something that always sticks out to me, at least, is that it includes no real details of my relationships with the other contestants, no fun anecdotes from the friendships that I formed. That’s because I didn’t really form any. The other little girls in that pageant were just hurdles to overcome, annoying things that stood between me and my crown.

That was the problem with having Miss Helotes as my role model. Because I wanted to stand at the top of the float, because I wanted to wear the sparkly dress and the biggest tiara, I subconsciously felt that any girl who wanted the same thing must be a villain. Sweet girls who would normally have been my friends actually became my enemies.

But as the years went by, I developed some new role models – women who taught me that we win through relationship with one another, not by pitting ourselves against each other...over a tiara, no less. I mean, believe it or not, we can all just buy a bunch of tiaras on Amazon.com (they’re like $8), wear them with sparkly dresses if that’s what we want, and then get down to the real business of making the world a better place through collaboration, not competition.

See? (Via)

I’m honestly glad I did not win Little Miss Helotes. I’m glad I walked away from that experience with the crappiest title and with the entire town thinking I had a weird hobby I couldn’t talk about. It taught me an important lesson about losing, but it taught me an even greater lesson about friendship. I never did another pageant after that, but you may be wondering, did I hold onto my Little Miss Photogenic tiara? And do I still sometimes wear it around my apartment if I’m having a bad day?

…I can’t say...

Progressively Married at Twenty-Two

“So, you’re married at twenty-two? Why? That seems pretty young.”

This question, before several other logical ones, was the first asked on a phone interview for a nanny position in Austin, Texas back in the fall of 2011. I had just gotten married, and I was looking for transitional work in-between a disappointing stint at Anthropologie and what I assumed would be my big break. To be fair, this mother probably had little-to-no experience with conducting a professional interview, but nonetheless, the question she asked was jarring. Immediately, I was in the position of having to defend a decision that seemed to have nothing to do with my qualifications as a nanny.

I felt slightly electrocuted by this question, but when I think about where she was coming from, I mostly get it. This mom was reading my Care.com profile, saw that I got married right out of college, and suddenly she was picturing me with long fingernails and an ankle-length denim skirt. She’s imagining me teaching her daughter the dangers of book-reading and that belief in dinosaurs is an evil akin to murder. 

Needless to say, I did not get the job. It was at this time that I realized that I was going to need a pre-packaged defense, and whatever it was needed to make me sound as normal as possible. Since moving to New York and starting a job where I talk to new people every day, I am asked the married-at-twenty-two question on an almost-daily basis. Usually people ask it with a face that looks like they just ate a bug. A preemptive response has not really formed yet for me, and it usually goes something like, “Yeah, I know. It’s weird. I mean, I don’t even own a long denim skirt. Wait. I mean, I do, but it’s calf-length. Anyway…and we dated for a long time…and I’m not saying I recommend it for everyone, or anyone even, but you know. It’s just like…”

It also doesn’t help that, at twenty-three-years-old, I look way younger than my age. I don’t know what exactly happened, but at the age of thirteen, my body was like I’m just going to camp out here until you’re thirty, and at that point I’ll just skip ahead to about eighty-three (I’m assuming this is what is going to happen, and I’m terrified). When people ask me why I got married so young, they might also be wondering if it was difficult for me to plan a wedding while teething or if I had my blankey with me on our honeymoon.

But I digress…

I’ve had a pretty long time to process this whole married-at-twenty-two question, and the more I think about it, the more I wonder why I even have to answer it at all. I am supremely proud of my marriage. My husband is brilliant, loyal, strong, patient, hilarious, handsome as a Disney prince, and he legitimately enjoys watching Project Runway with me. Through the six years that we dated, our relationship grew in maturity on a foundation of trust and patience. In terms of my decision to marry him, I am nothing but confident.

Don’t we seem confident? By the way, the thirteen-year-old boy is me and the smoldering gentlemen is my husband. Also, we don’t usually dress this way, but we wish we did.

Throughout our first year of marriage, it has become more and more clear that there exists a kind of quasi-prejudice against women who marry out of college. It’s not so strong that it keeps us from getting work (unless you want to be a nanny for that one lady’s kids, I guess) or that it infringes on any basic human rights, but it is enough to make me, and others like me, feel sort of dismissed.

I was reflecting on these feelings one day when my sister sent me an op-ed piece written by a woman in a similar situation. Her name is Lauren Ambler and she is also married at the ripe age of twenty-two. She titles her piece, I’m Married Young and I’m Ashamed of It, which struck me initially as a tongue-and-cheek way of saying some of the same things that I had been thinking. I thought this girl and I were going to relate, and I would give her a big high-five by way of the comments-section.

Tragically, Lauren Ambler and I do not exactly relate. Feel free to check out her article. Having married her boyfriend under unique circumstances (he needed a visa to stay in the country), she is definitely not exactly like me, but in many ways she is. Like Ambler, I never fantasized as a child about my wedding or even about a husband. I also agree that seeing marriage as a goal is dangerous for women on both an individual and ultimately larger scale. I certainly understand feeling the need to convince my single friends that I am not going to fall asleep if we go get margaritas (I might, but I just have a really strong tequila response).

I do sympathize with some of Ambler’s hesitations about the institution of marriage. We easily recall a time when most women in America married at young ages (a large percentage, as early as nineteen-years-old), never to work towards goals outside of their own homes. If these women did work, it was to bide their time as they prayed against spinsterhood. Homemaking was revered as a woman’s great American duty. While I see absolutely nothing wrong with stay-at-home moms (I know several and they crush it 24/7), I am happy to live in a world with options.

Where I differ most with Ambler, apart from the fact that I totally disagree on her stance that marriage should be open, is when she calls herself a “child bride”. This is the thing that we millenials are constantly criticized for: that we prolong our childhood in a way that makes us helpless even at an age where we should be considered adults. I am not a child. My married friends of the same age are, by no means, children. We are adults who have made a choice, and we are sticking by it.

Now, that being said, I do not think this is for everyone. If it exists, I will not be joining the Coalition to Increase Young Marriages (It doesn’t exist. I just googled it). I think getting married young is largely a mistake for many for the same reasons that some would assume it is a mistake for me. We all know the potential damage that this could cause for a woman. She could drop all of her dreams. She could lose all of her friends. She could decide he’s a skeevy dirt-bag and suffer through a senseless divorce only to find that she has no support left. This kind of thing really does happen all of the time, and it is a shame.

But certainly this is not a uniform fate for every woman who marries young. Certainly there are those of us who feel logically compelled to make this decision based on our lengthy commitment, our unfaltering love for our husbands, and our determination to pursue our passions alongside the ones we love, not despite them.

You might call us the exception to the rule, but I don’t think I even like the rule to begin with. American women are far more progressive than that. Being “single” and being a “spinster” are no longer synonymous terms. You can be a mom and an astronaut and a tattoo artist and a grad student four times over, and in all of that, you don’t have to marry anyone, and everyone is (or should be) totally cool with that. We owe a huge debt of gratitude to those who went before us and awakened the world to a new realm of legitimate options for women.

All I ask is that you at least consider the legitimacy of my option as well. Could we be progressive enough to reappropriate marriage-after-college to be a respectable choice instead of an enslaving fun-sucker? Are we that radical yet?

It probably isn’t entirely fair to appeal to your sense of rebellion. Use that revolutionary instinct to tackle far more important women’s issues, like promoting economic justice and getting Lindsay Lohan back to her Parent Trap days.

Just let me, in all of my marriedness, come with you.

Smart Girls Have More Fun

Think back to the first time you fell in love with Amy Poehler. Was it when she dazzled you as the precocious pre-teen Kaitlin alongside her stepfather REE-ICK? Perhaps it was when, with utter flatulence, she boasted in her one leggedness (jealous?) as the grossly loveable Amber. Your heart definitely skipped a beat when you watched her co-anchor Weekend Update with the separate-but-equally awesome Tina Fey, and you’ll never forget the moment you first heard her say, “Your stupid space car locked me in!”

What's not to love?

You are in love with Amy Poehler. We all are. And like the best kind of love, we continually find new reasons to love her more. I thought that her performance on Parks and Recreation was just it for me. I truly thought if I squeezed anymore love in my heart for Amy Poehler I wouldn’t have room for more practical loves like my love of hygiene and my love of plucking my potential unibrow.

But dadgum, she’s done it again, and my eyebrows are still separated by a substantial distance, thank God. I think I’m a little late to this party, but have you guys heard of Smart Girls at the Party? If you have, you already love it. My sister told me about it last week, and I watched every episode in one night. It was pretty easy to do considering that each episode is less than ten minutes long.

For those who haven’t seen it, Smart Girls at the Party is a web series created by best friends Amy Poehler, Amy Miles, and Meredith Walker. The show is essentially an interview between Amy Poehler and a girl…who is smart. These smart girls are kids with special abilities and interests who deserve to be celebrated with a dance party (which is how every episode ends). The show’s tagline is probably the best way to describe its intent: “the show that celebrates extraordinary individuals who are changing the world by being themselves.”

There was this episode with a rock band comprised of twelve-year-olds that call themselves Care Bears on Fire (I mean, in terms of branding, that’s probably not a great name, but whatever. They are freaking TWELVE and amazing). Another episode focused on these two sisters who actually liked each other and didn’t want to freeze each other’s training bras or fart on each other’s pillows. In still another episode, this wonderfully sweet girl takes the Amys and Meredith to the community garden she created. It made me wish for just a second that I wasn’t the accidental plant-murderer that I am.

One episode I would particularly like to direct your attention to is this one with the effervescent Ruby:

While I think we can all agree that Ruby might need to take a few deep breaths, this is pretty much amazing. From the moment the word “feminism” crawls across the screen, it is clear that this girl is here to talk about something important.

I love how comfortable she is with that word. Feminism. When I was Ruby’s age, I had heard of feminism, but it wasn’t even close to an accurate understanding. From what I had heard growing up in central Texas, feminists were women who burned bras a long time ago for pretty much no reason. For me, this was particularly offensive because I couldn’t wait to wear bras. Come on, feminists!

It wasn’t until I got to college and took an intro to sociology class that this notion was truly abolished. For the first time in my life, I feel like I recognized that some level of unfair treatment of women actually existed. All of a sudden I became furious about the historical discrimination against women, and I became even more furious when I realized that some of this crap was still happening! In the workplace, on television, in classrooms, and in my daily life. Why was it that my only association with feminism had involved some charred bras?

The thing is I am lucky I was awakened in that sociology class because some people in there were totally unaffected. I went to Baylor University, and I don’t at all regret it (in fact I loved it), but diversity is not exactly its strength. In almost any class, 1/3 of the female population is comprised of former prom or homecoming queens. In that class where my brain was exploding, there were other girls there saying, “I mean, like, I just don’t feel like it’s that big of a deal anymore” and “Yeah, but since the man is the leader of the woman in a relationship, isn’t it fine that they are paid less? You know, since Eve came from Adam’s rib and all…” I sat there dumbfounded and also fearful that if they found me out, they might try to steal my ribs to make an even lesser sex.

What I love about little Ruby here is that there is really no ambiguity about what feminism means to her. While feminism is classified by like a million subgroups, Ruby simplifies the underlying reasoning of this movement perfectly: that boys and girls are of equal value.

Ruby means not to diminish in any way the value of boys but instead to illuminate the value of girls. If there is a situation where a woman is treated like she is worth even slightly less than her male counterpart, Ruby doesn’t like it, and she’s going to write a book about it and probably a song too.

I love the activism of Ruby, but I also love that Smart Girls at the Party is not all about fighting the system. Ruby is the sweet exception, but otherwise the show just celebrates these kids for who they are. The disparity between male and female salaries is not discussed. The phrase “glass ceiling” is never uttered. It is assumed that girls are awesome, and that is just a fact of life.

And it’s true, girls are awesome – especially the smart ones. In my time working with kids, I have met some amazing girls. I have met girls who get lost in reading for hours at a time and can talk about almost nothing else. I have met girls who can dance and play guitar and sing like freaking superstars. I have met girls who can paint abstract works of art (intentionally) and girls who play rugby and are missing permanent teeth as a result. I have met girls that dream of being geologists and paleontologists and biologists and, in one rare case, a proctologist. I have met girls who have shared their struggles and cried together. I have met girls who laugh so hard that they can't breathe and girls who cheer each other on no matter what. I have met girls who at first didn’t know each other but ended up becoming sisters.

I love when Ruby gets asked what it means to be a good friend, and she decides it’s when someone is crying and you ask, “Are you okay?” She’s right. I’ve seen it happen with girls Ruby’s age and it is beautiful.

The problem comes when that is not our response. When we see someone crying, and we instead decide to exploit her or say something awful to her or about her or about her family or about her decisions – that is the worst thing we can do. This happens a lot with girls, and I totally get why. In a world where we recognize, either consciously or subconsciously, a need to prove ourselves, we sometimes attempt to outperform our own kind – to disassociate ourselves from women.

This type of thinking does not work and it will never work. As Tina Fey says in the pretty-much-perfect film Mean Girls, “You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and whores” Run and tell that, Tina! Jealousy, subtle secret-fights, deceit, and eye rolls will never advance women. Friendship will, and it is the most powerful tool we have.

I am encouraged by Smart Girls at the Party in the same way that I am encouraged by all of the incredible young girls I have met. I see in these kids things that I struggle to do as an adult like believe in myself and talk to Amy Poehler without crapping my pants. It may be too soon to tell, but I kind of think these girls are going to kick ass when they grow up, and I’m so excited to live in that world.