Where Are the Role Models For My Daughter?
October 04, 2011, By Josh Katzowitz 6 comments
My son doesn’t need to look for role models. They’re all around him. Some good, some bad, some indifferent to how the kids see them. But still, they’re there. They’re athletes and they’re good-looking movie stars and, hell, they’re plumbers and carpenters. Men who have worked hard to get to where they are, men who have put in the hours, men who have gone to school, men who have honed special skills.
Yet, I know how fleeting those heroes can be. I know they can stand in front of us and lie. I know they can make us feel like fools for ever believing in them. I know what it is to worship false prophets.
When I was growing up, as a baseball player from the time I was five years old until my senior year in high school, my hero was Oakland A’s first baseman Mark McGwire. He was a redhead like me, and he had these enormous forearms and he hit these tremendous home runs (49 in his 1987 rookie season). He was godlike, and I collected every baseball card, hung up every poster and cut out every newspaper article I could find.
But eventually, we found out much of his myth-making was based on lies from McGwire and from the baseball establishment that didn’t seem to mind. I can’t say I was crushed, because by then, I was a sports writer who already had grown cynical at some of the garbage that lies behind the curtains of athletics. But my eight-year-old self probably was devastated.
Probably the same as those who admire(d) Barry Bonds or Lyle Alzado or Ben Johnson or Marion Jones.
My son, Noah, whether by myth or by media hype, has plenty of people to emulate.
But what about my twin daughter, Stella? Who can she look up to when she’s feeling down? Who can make her feel comfortable about her self-image? Who can inspire her to be the best Stella that she can be?
Not movie stars, because often those actresses are soon headed to a) rehab, b) a mediocre country singing career or c) the unemployment line when the beauty fades.
And certainly not supermodels.
Not just because those models feed into the stereotype that in order to be desirable, you need to measure 36-24-36, own gloriously high cheekbones and have legs that ride up to your Adam’s apple, but also because it’s a vain lifestyle.



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