Just Read It: CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER by Peggy Orenstein

2011 at 5am     Posted by Rebecca Joines Schinsky

Published January 25, 2011 by Harper Collins

I devoured this book in one sitting—ironically, on my e-reader, which lives in a bright pink case—and it is fan-freaking-tastic. And I’m going to rave about it. You’ve been warned.

Beginning with the question, “Since when did every little girl become a princess?” Orenstein examines the products, culture, and messages about femininity marketed to young girls and analyzes their potential impact on the women of tomorrow. She acknowledges that today’s girls live in a world that tells them the way to get what they want is to look like Cinderella, and that is simply not acceptable.

And it starts with Disney, whose line of Disney Princess products has a whopping 26,000 (TWENTY-SIX THOUSAND!) items on the market and boasted sales exceeding $4 billion in 2009. And that’s just the Disney stuff! Sure, Disney says they are just giving little girls what they want, but as Orenstein points out, “when you’re talking about 26,000 items…it’s a little hard to say where ‘want’ ends and ‘coercion’ begins.” American Girl products initially appear to stand in contradiction to the Disney Princess ridiculousness. They feature young girls whose stories are set throughout history and are more about personal identity and achievement than finding Prince Charming, but while “the books preach against materialism…you could blow the college fund on the gear.”

So what gives? Why has girlhood been reduced to conspicuous consumption of all things pink and glittery?

Orenstein postulates that parents buy into the princess and American Girl crazes because they tap into both their own nostalgia and their fears that their girls will grow up too soon. The marketing world calls this KGOY for “kids getting older younger,” how’s that for disturbing? Both American Girl and Disney Princesses “tacitly promise to keep girls young and “safe” from sexualization.” The problem is that “they also introduce them to a consumer culture that will ultimately encourage the opposite.” And it will do so by segmenting the market to magnify gender differences and sell girls the “I am woman, see me shop” brand of feminism (if you can call it that) made popular by Barbie, Elle Woods, and Carrie Bradshaw.

Throughout Cinderella Ate My Daughter, Orenstein ponders the question of nature versus nurture and questions how much of the difference between girls’ and boys’ play patterns can really be attributed to a natural preference for pink over blue or dolls over dump trucks. Her take on gender differences? “The ones that exist become amplified by the two different cultures boys and girls are immersed in from birth. That contributes to the way their emotional and cognitive circuits get wired.”

To better understand how that happens, Orenstein visits trade shows, the American Girl store, and child beauty pageants (as featured on the trainwreck known as TLC’s “Toddlers and Tiaras”). She polls parents, toy industry pros, Disney marketers, and contemporary feminists. She asks how the IRL Disney Princesses (think Miley, Hilary, Britney, et al) go from “wholesome to whoredom,” and she looks to Grimm’s Fairy Tales for alternatives to the pinky-pink psuedo-girl-power picture books for which her daughter is the target audience. She marvels at the success of Twilight, noting that Bella Swan “is the true horror show…at least as a female role model,” but considers that perhaps her appeal lies in the fact that she is “so insipid, so ordinary, so clumsy, so Not Hot.”

Orenstein explores digital culture and the effect that 24/7 packaging of one’s every thought and experience has on young women in a world where “friends become your consumers, an audience for whom you perform.” Of course, girls aren’t just performing online. They’re performing long before that, when they dress up as princesses, or shake their five-year-old rear ends in choreographed dances for which they are at least a decade too young. And this performing comes at a price.

Girls pushed to be sexy too soon can’t really understand what they’re doing…they do not—and may never—learn to connect their performance to erotic feelings or intimacy. They learn how to act desirable but not how to desire.

When the culture of pink isn’t telling girls to act too sexy for their ages, it is busy fetishizing wholesomeness, which we all know can’t last forever (remember the days when Britney Spears proudly declared her virginity to the world?), setting girls up for a virgin/whore cycle that encourages them to “cast off their values by casting off their clothes” and to “view self-objectification as a feminine rite of passage.”

There is plenty in this book to be outraged about (believe me, I’m just scratching the surface here), and Orenstein responds appropriately, but she never judges other women for the choices they make in raising their daughters. Instead, she argues for the importance of empowering children—especially girls—with media literacy and encouraging them to be skeptical about the messages targeted at them. Orenstein acknowledges from the get-go that raising girls is a Herculean feat in today’s culture, and she never suggests that her choices are the right ones. In fact, she openly discusses decisions she has questioned or regretted. This humility, coupled with the call for awareness rather than a single, prescribed course of action, makes Cinderella Ate My Daughter a can’t-miss read for anyone who is at all involved in raising or educating girls today.

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