The precise dissection of intersectional oppression against women is no simple subject to discuss; it’s simultaneously heartbreaking yet inspiring to have so much to say about the liberation of female-identifying people.
How many times must girls allude to the severe cultural impact of America Ferrera’s monologue in “Barbie” before non-women not only genuinely understand and empathize with the impossibility of the female experience but also act on their sentiments in an attempt to make having a vagina less burdensome?
The gracious gifts of non-consensual dick pics, blatant eye contact with my breasts, and never feeling like I will be seen as anything more than a body was the driving force behind my previous article on the hypersexualization of women, and yet as I continue to consume media, I can’t help but note the incredibly unattainable expectations for women under direct Hollywood lighting. While the number of successful, A-list women who are disregarded for their talents and instead promoted for the way their skin wraps around their bones is most definitely infinite, my current fury lies in the defense of Emily Ratajkowski.
“To me, girls sexualizing themselves wasn’t the issue, as feminists and anti-feminists would have us believe, but shaming them was. Why were we the ones being asked to adjust? To cover up and apologize for our bodies? I was tired of feeling guilty for the way I presented myself.” (“My Body,” 3).
There is no doubt Emily Ratajkowski is stunning. With her deep brown eyes, unbelievable curves, pouty smile, and deep connection with the scope of a camera, she is an undeniable global sex symbol. Girls seek to be like her and men seek to, well … be in her.
Although Ratajkowski solidified her influential status as a model over a decade ago, it may be difficult to understand her as anything more than another appealing woman unless you really take the time to read her novel “My Body”.
Before I encountered the vulnerable essay collection which is “My Body,” I didn’t even follow Emily Ratajkowski on social media, much less value her as a feminist icon. Oh how I was wrong: I inhaled the 5 hours of the “My Body” audiobook in one sitting. “My Body” is a bible for the female soul: I clung to each of Ratajkowski’s words, cried my way through her tales of sexual assault, took frantic and inspired notes on her complex takes on the contradictory impacts of being a model, and when the book came to a close, immediately ordered a paper copy so I could re-experience her tale all over again. “My Body” by Emily Ratajkowski ignited a storm in my eager mind and I think: now I get it.
Until everyone I know has read “My Body,” I will not stop defending her. This book pries open and splays out the intersectional struggles of being woman: to be wealthy and beautiful and successful does not signify the absence of pain. She – like many celebrities of our time – lies on a steaming burner whether she is in front of a camera or not. With each Instagram post she uploads, each movie she acts in, and each campaign she is the face of, Emily Ratajkowski is judged: Bimbo. Attention-seeker. Slut. Goddess. Whore. Anti-feminist. She cannot escape the label of “sex symbol” – which looms over her entire existence.
If you Google her novel, the reviews are sickening.
“Is the book about how hard life is as a pretty, skinny, white girl?”
“I feel like she’s important in her own mind because she hasn’t DONE anything. And I don’t know if she’s trying to spin her sexiness into some sort of activist career, but no thank you. When your qualifications for activist leader is being attractive and starting in an unsavory music video that exploited women and a swimsuit line that brings attention to women’s bodies, you are not only under qualified but also confused.”
“kinda amazing how her pr team works… she’s just a slightly more literate karashian/jenner yet according to some parts of the internet and some media outlets she’s an intellectual, lol”
“It’s just difficult to take her seriously as a champion for body autonomy when she has one of the most perfect and unattainable figures I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s not a bad writer and much more self aware than the average model/instagram hottie, but it is a little grating to hear her complain so much about attention that she very much brings onto herself. It kind of bugs me that she doesn’t seem able to even attempt to present herself in anything other than a super sexualized way (eg how she dresses to go to a protest, etc) but then is resentful of that view.”
So let me set the record straight for those stubborn readers who refuse to acknowledge Emily Ratajkowski as anything more than an object of desire: to be feminist is so much more than equal rights.
It’s about not bringing other women down, whether they chose to wear hijabs or turtlenecks or g-strings or leather pants, because only respecting women when they mask their sexualities, hide their skin, or avoid their cleavage is not respecting women.
Women can post bikini pictures and still write intelligent, insightful, and incredibly stunning pieces of literature. Women can work in the modeling industry and embrace their nudity while also aspiring for a more “respectable” job. Women can dance in thongs in music videos and still represent feminist empowerment.
There are no set-in-stone rules for what makes a “good” woman, but I can guarantee if there were, one of them would be not dragging other women through your cesspool of stale envy and bitter loathing for having different views on feminism than you.
Similarly, putting women into boxes as either sexy or feminist, with no room for overlap, is an absurdly disgraceful and ironic take on what it means to be a woman.
While I personally don’t relate to the specific struggles highlighted in “My Body,” Ratajkowski precisely encapsulates some nauseating themes of womanhood: hypersexualization, unrealistic expectations, impossible judgment, and self-esteem issues.
Certainly, if one of the world’s most beautiful, well-known, and successful models still hasn’t discovered acceptance because of the consistent pressures intertwined with femininity, “My Body” proves the generalized disrespect against women in our society is not just a normal-people thing, but in fact, an institutionalized way of silencing half of our population no matter what they do just because they lack a Y chromosome.
I am tired of being disrespected by men who I assumed were my allies, watching my peers avoid mirrors because of their intense self-hatred, and witnessing stars – women young girls look up to – consistently being discredited for achievements beyond their appearances. I’m tired of hearing people describe movie stars as “the blonde with the big tits” instead of “the girl who played Cassie in ‘Euphoria.’” I am tired of noticing what seems like everyone who shares my gender identity being discounted, discarded, and disgraced for what adds up to be no reason at all.
Women are not allowed to be pretty and self conscious. We cannot present ourselves two-dimensionally, challenge the titles we did not ask for but were so gloriously crowned, nor escape the bimbo stereotype. How many times do women have to stand up for themselves before someone sees us as more than commodities put on earth to please men?
If you struggle to grasp the concept that maybe, quite possibly, a beautiful girl can also be smart, then I fear you will never understand exactly what Emily Ratajkowski addresses in “My Body.” If you don’t get it by now, then you never will.