The Wake

Today, I made the regretful mistake of stepping back in time. Forgetting the two papers looming over my (un-styled) head, I walked aimlessly into Northrop Auditorium on a Saturday afternoon to be blinded by the glare of hot-pink feather boas bouncing to a techno re-mix of “I Know What Boys Like.” It took me a second to realize that under the heavy layers of neon fuzz were dancers. Dancers from the six-year-old very-competitive category, to be more specific. Here, on that same stage that so many bright women have crossed to receive their diplomas, were miniature prim donnas whoring themselves to an audience of adults numb to the horrifying spectacle of their own children.

You know the type. These are the parents you have seen on television, forcing their starving daughters to become fixated on their comparative appearance while eating teaspoons of cottage cheese. The mothers that boo the other little girls on stage, and rush outside for a gulp of cigarette smoke between performances. I guess I thought some of that was for the ratings. Unfortunately, our liberal campus hosted the real deal.

I have nothing against competition. Life seems to be one big contest, and I want my own children to be prepared for the fight, but not at the expense of their self-respect. As a society we are concerned with the ways with which the media has manipulated women’s perception of beauty, and presented them a highly skewed paradigm on the cover of Seventeen magazine. However, I think the problem must begin before any “teen” is involved. I think the problem stLiterary with those most pivotal models in a child’s life—and I am not referencing a runway. I am talking about parents.

No father should be comfortable watching his daughter—or son—gyrate their pre-pubescent hips to lyrics such as “I make them want me/ I like to tease them/ they want to touch me/I never let them.” Doesn’t the acceptance of such raunchy behavior negate the right to judgment when those little girls become mommies a few years down the line? Do the flashy costumes and drag-queen makeup cancel out the message of hip thrusts and come-ons? Do those men, looking out across a sea of daughters, even remember that looking at nearly-naked little girls in any other situation could warrant their arrest?

I didn’t want to be a part of this degrading parade, but I couldn’t stop watching. We all sat there, mesmerized, waiting to see the next set of girls traipse across the stage. Many were quite talented, but I didn’t really notice, because I was too busy staring at them wiggle around much too seductively for an all-ages show.

I do want them to come back to that stage, though, if they work hard enough to earn a degree. I want them to keep dancing, too—or writing, or sewing, or playing basketball, or conducting science experiments, or becoming mommies—if they get a chance to figure out if that’s what they want.

We have come too far as a “research institution” to be providing a venue all about fulfilling the long-lost dreams of former beauty-queen mothers. Little kids shouldn’t be asked to slog through a whole lot of misguided competition—they should be spending their weekends preparing for the real fight, by learning how to be themselves.