Response to My Seminar (Barbie Doll by Marge Piercy)
In Marge Piercy’s “Barbie Doll”, there are a lot of comparisons to be made between my life and the life of the ‘girlchild’ in the poem. Likely, that is intentional – Piercy intended for this poem to be familiar to as many readers as possible in order to make the maximum amount of impact. I think she succeeded. Upon reading this poem, my mind was immediately filled with thoughts on how Piercy treated the ‘girlchild’ in the poem, and how society treats females. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that having a daughter would be cause for tears, not celebration. In parts of the world, that actually does happen. One infamous news story comes to my mind. A woman died because her husband made her have an abortion 4 times. All because the sex of the baby turned out to be female. Unfortunately, that’s the world we live in today, and while it’s changed quite a bit (feminism has really made an impact in the rights of women all around the world), it isn’t foolproof. Nor is it perfect.
In this day and age, society holds females up to what seems like a golden standard, a double-edged sword. Especially teenage girls. If a girl likes the color pink, she’s a “girly-girl” and “holding up to society’s false standards”. If she doesn’t, she’s a “tomboy” and “doesn’t meet society’s standards”. A teenage girl can’t be interested in politics and current events before being calling a feminist (because increasingly, feminism is viewed in a rather negative light). She also can’t be not interested in them, because then she’s called an idiot. If she dates people, she’s called. If she doesn’t date people, she’s called a prude. And then there’s the heaping mountain of social pressure, because not all pressure comes from society.
Pressure doesn’t only come in the form of picture-perfect Instagram models, or famously pretty influencers, or TikTokers with two million followers. Some pressure comes from those closest to them. Their classmates, their friends, teachers, parents, guardians. All people that have an important role to play in their life, that shape it to a staggering degree. Teenagers can be the most cruel people in existence. Self-aware enough to notice and target at weak spots, insecurities, flaws, personal ideals, and convictions. But selfish and absorbed enough not to care about the aftermath (until it’s far too late, or just never at all), or notice the damage done, or actually apologize when a hurt is given. I say this with full confidence as a teenager myself.
And so this is where I end. Marge Piercy came, intending to educate others on the double standards and pressure society has on females. I’m of the opinion that people already know about it. They know about the hurt and stress they put women under, and they still follow through with it because “It’s just the status quo; who cares?” I think that focus should be shifted – less on educating others, because people are as educated as they’re going to get, at this rate, and more on making people care enough to do things about it.
Response to Other Seminar (Siren Song by Margaret Atwood)
I reach out to him. I am monstrous, but pathetic in my monstrosity. Many men scorn my visage, drawing themselves away from my hooked talons and long claws. They see my hideousness, and decree that I have no use to them. It is a man-like thing to do, so much so that I feel no surprise when they turn their backs.
Some men view themselves as the paragon of virtue and see themselves as heroic in manner. My personal savior, they think to themselves, and hide their shudder of inward revulsions with skill. Not skilled enough for me, of course, but skilled enough nonetheless for other women to have taken the offer, and end up in whatever form they have been forced to. The honey drips from their lips glistening gold but with a ringing, sour note. I enjoy these type of men the most.
But in the end, I suppose it matters not. They are all men – foolish in their self-assured superiority, and pathetically easy to manipulate. I say it is only fair. We sing, and let them flock to Us. All three of Us. One for discord, Two for balance, and Three for perfect harmony. Whether that harmony favors the men or Us – well, that is an easy question, with an even easier answer. We are the beginning, the middle, and the end, and they go through those life stages faster than flies in the dead of winter.
I call for help, and twist myself into a long-lost maiden of their choosing. Golden curls here, smooth white skin there, appealing eyes – and I’ve gotten them, hooked on to my bait like stupid, stupid guppies. After all, my story is one that stirs pity, incites the man-like emotions of self-righteous help, the need to come on top.
And they come in droves. Oh, how they come!
Half are lost to the raging, unforgiving seas of Scylla and Charybdis. It is Our rent to them, so to speak, and they feast on Our offerings. Others go insane from their lack of assistance, go insane from our deadly song, and end up frothing at the mouth. Dionysus himself joins in Our revelry, his madness wild and his drink wilder. A rare few make it to Our shores, crawly up on the seemingly golden sand. One that will soon turn to harsh pebbles and sharp rocks, tearing away at their clothes and flesh. An appetizer for what is to come, and We extend Our hands, still singing. They will make good eating until the next offering comes.
But of course, it is no matter in the end. All are amusement to Us.
I wrote a sort of short story in response to Atwood’s poem. It takes place from the siren’s point of view, and traverses through her thoughts as she goes through her daily purpose, which is to drown and feed on men. In here, the reader can see her classify men into two basic premises, and can also see how clearly she dismisses them. Though she puts some thought into classifying them, she also doesn’t care. All she cares is that in the end, they are gone, and she can continue with her lifestyle. I chose to write this because while Atwood’s poem does go through some sort of thought process, it doesn’t directly follow the reasoning of the siren as she sings her song – and I wished to do so.
