“Navigating” My Insecurities
Colin Kaepernick recently started speaking publicly about his White adoptive parents and how they criticized his hair. He says that part of his upbringing was “problematic,” and perpetuated racism.
Raise your hand if your parents ever critiqued your appearance…
That’s what I thought.
Kaepernick is, of course, free to say whatever he wants and make money in the process. Free Speech and Capitalism are great that way, and neither seems to care about his skin color: Kaepernick’s net worth is estimated to be around $20 million. God Bless America.
Meanwhile, I wish I had a dime for every time one of my parents critiqued my hair, outfit, weight, posture…
“Yeah, Michele, but you and your parents are the same race,” you might retort.
So? My parents had only my best interests at heart. They wanted me to be the best version of myself I could be. I sincerely believe that’s what Kaepernick’s parents wanted for Colin.
Meanwhile, I am an adoptive parent of a beautiful Colombian daughter. Like her, I am hispanic, but my husband is not. But you can bet neither one of us is going to allow our daughter to dress in a way that is inappropriate. Some would call this sexist. I call it wanting my daughter to be the best version of herself.
“But, Michele, what is BEST? Who are YOU to determine what is BEST?”
I’m her parent. That’s who I am. And it is a parent’s job to guide their children according to her values.
I won’t always succeed. My daughter won’t clean up her room to save her life. But I won’t stop trying. (And in the end, one must choose one’s battles.)
My parents did the best they could with me. I was the youngest of four, so they were well practiced… and likely exhausted. I probably got away with things the older kids didn’t.
Because my parents weren’t flush with cash, I got a lot of hand-me-down clothing from my older sisters and even older girls in the neighborhood. One could argue this was problematic in my upbringing, and that my parents were perpetuating middle-classism.
But I won’t say that. I’ll say it was practical.
Anyway, at a certain point something inside me said, “I WANT MY OWN CLOTHES!”
It was around the time I turned 12, and I was becoming keenly aware of my appearance. I was proud of my long, thick hair, but I seriously resented my pudgy build. Body standards in Southern California were/are exceptionally high.
By 13, I was a full-blown anorexic. I blame no one for that. Sure, we could point at the unrealistic expectations foisted upon women by Hollywood, magazines, and the beauty industry.
But like most anorexics, I was simply wired differently. I was an over-achiever who wanted control over her life.
And, as with most anorexics, the disease is still with me. Like alcoholism, anorexia is battled every hour of every day, forever. “I feel fat. How much do I weigh? How do my clothes fit? How many calories have I eaten today? How do I work off those calories?”
Every hour. Every day. Thank God my best friend, Kim, shares the affliction. We help each other through it.
We are not victims. We own our neuroses. We blame no one else, and we have learned to laugh at ourselves while pedaling for hours on our Peloton bikes.
With all of that as a backdrop, it’s amazing I survived all that comes with a career in television. I’m incredibly insecure about my looks. It takes a lot of work to make me feel confident in front of a camera. I worship at the alter of professional hair and makeup artists who have saved me.
But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.
For example, prior to a recent national television appearance, the hair stylist couldn’t get my strands in order. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best hair day, and I had a tough time not being distracted by that fact. I can only hope my performance — what I said and how I comported myself — was not overshadowed by the piece of hair that was out of control on the right side of my head.
As I left the studio and drove to the airport, I couldn’t stop thinking about how MY HAIR may have influenced how viewers perceived me. MY HAIR!
All of this is to say, I’m 58 years old, and I should know better than to let my hair define me. And honestly, I don’t truly believe my hair defines me.
But, I am realistic about the fact that on television, a loud suit, awful makeup, gaudy jewelry, or bad hair, can be distracting to viewers. The focus can easily drift away from one’s words to one’s visage.
Before the advent of TV, voices ruled the day. Through the radio, people only heard words and ideas. A beautiful speaking voice could overcome a lot of shortcomings.
But we are no longer in the radio age. We are in the high-definition television age. My voice only gets me so far.
So I’ve spent my life “navigating that space,” as Kaepernick would say, of being insecure. I often wish I had a prettier nose, bigger boobs, a naturally flat stomach, and nicer teeth.
But that’s just me.
You hear that, Kap? That’s just me. Not society, not my parents, not sexism… just me and MY brain, MY heart, MY soul, and MY mind.
I am not a victim. I ought to be more accepting of myself, but I’ve made the decision to criticize myself at every turn. Maybe some day I’ll change my mind.
ON ANOTHER NOTE:
Bud Grant, the Hall of Fame coach of the Minnesota Vikings died on Saturday, March 11, at the age of 95.
Bud was my friend. I adored the man for his humor, courage, values, kindness, and fortitude. He was a shining example of what a father, coach and man could be in America.
I will miss him. So many people will miss him. Rest in Peace, Coach.
