every week or so i get a copy of “the classical post,”minnesota public radio’s e-newsletter. it helps me feel connected to the music scene at home and usually has an interesting human interest story or two. this week’s newsletter featured a blurb about soprano deborah voight, who was featured last year on 60 minutes because she had gastric bypass surgery.
this, in and of itself, is perhaps not particularly interesting…but what is interesting is that ms. voight was fired two years ago from her title role in ariadne auf naxos because the costumer at the royal opera house in covent garden wanted her to wear a “little black dress” in a new, contemporary adaptation of the opera. it was determined that she was simply too overweight to wear the gown and so her contract was terminated. voight’s firing, and the flurry of media surrounding it, subsequently became known as the “little black dress incident.”
voight (who eventually lost 135 pounds), says in the interview with 60 minutes that she didn’t have surgery because of the royal opera house…but because of her health. she was a size 28-30 and was experiencing weakened joints and back pain…and because even climbing stairs was difficult. she also notes in the article that there was some concern over how her voice would fair when she had the surgery. would she still be able to sing without the weight? what if something went wrong in surgery? could she lose her extraordinary gift?
i (personally) am having a really hard time sorting through my emotions on this one. and although i rarely ask my readers to comment (mostly because of a serious fear that they won’t)…i’m curious as to what you all think. should she have had gastric bypass? risked her incredible talent? should opera singers be “allowed” to be overweight in a society that is forever judging everyone else?
this topic is tense. many of us struggle with weight and personal appearance issues (myself included). but i’m not an opera star. so i’m held up to the same, albeit unrealistic, standards as everyone else. but that doesn’t mean i try to get out of them any chance i can get. i can’t tell you how many times a day i tell myself it is “okay” that i’m not beautiful because i’m intelligent. because i’m well read. because i’m funny. because i have so much more going for me than my looks. is that why we sometimes let opera singers off the hook, too? as a women, if you are talented enough, does there come a point when people don’t expect you to be pretty and thin anymore? or are we always held up to those standards?
its the classic smart vs. pretty myth. and all too often society tells us we can’t be both. i’m not proud to say that i participate in this myth on a regular basis. whenever i have a meeting on capitol hill i give scathing glances to what i frequently refer to as the “clackety clacks” or the “skinterns.” the beautiful, well dressed, perfectly groomed women that seem to thrive in abundance anywhere along independence and constitution avenues.
i tell myself that it is okay that i’m not perfectly tanned or that my highlights have grown out…that most people would call me chubby…because I work on human rights. or because I am a feminist. or because I am a liberal. all excuses which could basically be boiled down to “no one expects me to be pretty and thin because i’m smart and empowered instead.” but what happens to the women who are pretty and smart? are they a double threat? or are they simply not taken seriously? and furthermore, what if i started viewing myself as genuinely beautiful in the same way i view myself as genuinely intelligent? then what? would i explode? would i spontaneously combust with the contradiction of it all?
i’m afraid i don’t have an answer to that. self love is a journey i’m still on. so is good health. some days the litany of excuses wins out–“yes, you can have that second piece of pie because you are going to end up with someone who loves you because you read books about the history of the english language for fun, not because you are a size four”–and some days it doesn’t. on those days my self dialogue is a little more like this–”not eating a second piece of pie isn’t going to get you to a size four (only a complete genetic overhaul would do that), but it is putting you on the road to better health. eventually.”
in the end, my hope for myself is that i’ll someday strike a balance between the mental, physical and spiritual aspects of my life. that is why i practice yoga. that is why i pray. that is why i drink eight glasses of water a day even if i end up eating three snickers bars too. i’m on a journey. and what i’m starting to understand is that i have to be patient with myself when there are detours. or when i don’t end up where i expected. and, in the end, i have to be able to laugh at myself. something deborah voight does beautifully in this skit about her return to covent garden:
happy thursday. i wish you all the best on your own journey toward self acceptance.
i am going to tell you a story, but in order to understand the context, i need to first share with you a few key pieces of information:
(1) i am an expatriate minnesotan currently residing in the district of columbia as part of a volunteer corps program
(2) i like to make lists. i have many of them. my lists include “goals for this week” “goals for the next six months” “goals for this year” and a “bucket list” of things i want to do before i die.
(3) on my “bucket list” (besides going to africa and taking at least one clandestine lover) is to ride the tram that goes from underneath the house and senate office buildings to the u.s. capitol.
(4) i am a katie girl.
my story begins sometime last month when a certain d.c. roommate who shall remain nameless signed us up to attend a weekly constituent breakfast with a certain minnesota senator who shall also remain nameless (hint: rhymes with robochar). the breakfast basically consists of doughnuts and coffee in the senator’s office…followed by a few pictures. we were scheduled to go today, so said roommate and i woke up at the crack of dawn to be down to the hart senate office building by 8:30 a.m. for our breakfast with other minnesota constituents. we arrived right on time at the senator’s office, only to see that it was being gutted completely. there were a dozen men (and a few women) in suits waiting to meet the senator outside the office, where a perky intern immediately informed us we would be going over to the capitol building to meet the senator there. with all the men in suits.
now i am never under dressed. i pride myself on never being under dressed. and even though my gut feeling had told me to dress up a bit more…i had opted to wear a khaki skirt and my chaco sandals. i also went by what j. (nameless roommate) was wearing…jeans and a t-shirt. although j. isn’t exactly a style maven, she had gone on the website and seen pictures of the (very casually dressed) constituents who normally participate in this event. we had even giggled as we imagined our white-legged brethren wearing shorts because they were so thrilled about the warm d.c. weather. and maybe even one of those fbi t-shirts. well, let me tell you that there was nary an fbi t-shirt nor a white leg in sight. except for mine.
so the senator’s chief of staff (!) comes to escort us via tram to the u.s. capitol building. insert squeal here. i was actually achieving one of my life goals. something that was on my bucket list. and do you know what i was thinking about? my freaking outfit. and the truth is, i didn’t stop thinking about it for the next hour and a half. and i’m still thinking about it. i’m also thinking about whether a guy would have felt the same way if he had showed up under dressed. would it have mattered nearly as much?
the fact of the matter is, j. and i had an incredible experience this morning. we met a senator. we stood inside the u.s. capitol building. we rode the tram. and i’m still focused on what i was wearing. and how i felt in it. i know they say that clothes make the (wo)man, but what i’m really tired of is how they always seem to unmake me. i am so focused on pants sizes and making sure i carry my kate spade purse label side out that i miss what is really happening around me. a once in a lifetime experience. i am so obsessed with reading about everyone else’s sense of style in fashion magazines, what they weigh, what they eat…that i miss the goodness in my own life. my own style.
the fashion industry makes billions each year exploiting women (and men) by telling them that they have to dress a certain way to be a certain way. that some clothes don’t look good on you unless you weigh 115 pounds. i open up glamour every month and each page becomes a new wish. to be thinner, better dressed, more chic…and while i do believe in the power of a little black dress and kitten heels…what i don’t want, what i’ve never wanted, is for what i wear and how i look to define who i am.
so what i’ve decided is i’m going to have to figure out a way to get back onto that tram. and this time i’m not going to think about what i’m wearing. i’ll be thinking about the sheer awesomeness of democracy (insert audience groan here). or maybe about how surprisingly quickly those bad boys move (and they really do)…or maybe just about the beauty of having an experience you’ve always wanted to have. chacos and all.
