My grandmother picked it up at a garage sale. "You put it up on the wall for decoration, Carmen," she said in her thick German accent. She was pleased as punch.
My little brother and I winced, thinking of our naïve, adorably plump, eighty-something-year-old elder handing over the coins from her change purse. What did those selling the whip think? More importantly, what were they thinking? Did they just decide that morning to slap that thing out between the cracked mugs and the vintage clock and the perfect copy of some W. Somerset Maugham novel they'd found disappointing?
At any rate, Wittmeiers do appreciate absurdity, and so I kept that whip for many years. I put it on my wall, just because it did make my abode a little more homey. And when Bible Study was held at my house in Vancouver, I hung it in the bathroom closet next to the vacuum cleaner--and then proceeded to forget to close the closet door.
It's funny how much time and life experience has changed me.
My young daughter recently received a Monster High Doll as a gift. With a dismissive shrug, she handed me the doll, still in the box, and proceeded to gush about the stickers she'd also received. I stared at the doll, wondering how it was that something this outlandish and sexualized would end up as a little girl's plaything. How does one play creatively with a Monster High doll? I breathed a sigh of relief that it's all about the Lego and the plastic animals and the construction of elaborate animal rescue facilities at our house.
I also recently dodged the Cowboy's bullet--that ugly advertisement featuring breasts and blonde manes and vacuous smiles that graces many a billboard and bus.
"That's really sad," I said to my daughter as she stared, perplexed. "All that the people who made that advertisement seem to care about is women's bodies. Don't women have ideas? Don't they have interests? Don't they have hearts? That ad doesn't show anything about them that matters."
It wasn't too long afterwards that my daughter came back with a biting diatribe against Dora the Explorer.
"I hate Dora!" she pronounced. "Diego is a boy, and he gets to rescue animals. Dora is a girl, and she just asks everyone else for help. And she asks for help for silly things she could easily do on her own!"
I nodded in agreement. Inside I was beaming, wanting to shout out that my daughter might have a chance in this world. Maybe she'd make it through adolescence with a healthy body image. Maybe she wouldn't be among the one in three girls who are sexually abused by age 18. Maybe she'd find a life partner who'd see beauty in every facet of her being, and who would embrace her when those rougher edges showed.
But we live in a culture of Monster High dolls. We exist in a society where women who criticize female media stereotypes are subject to rape threats and are forced to cancel speaking engagements. We live in a culture in which pornography is a staple, and demeaning sex is acceptable, provided it's "consensual."
I no longer have the whip my grandmother bought me, her only granddaughter. I won't be passing it along as the family heirloom, as much as I want the story to live on. Indeed, if I have any say in it, my daughters and granddaughters will inherit the message that they're worth far more than their bodies--that their minds and hearts and courage and integrity are of the highest value.
It might not be quite the conversation piece that that cat o' nine tails was, but I'm fine with that . . .
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