A Cynic's Guide to Girls

Disclaimer: I have nothing new or original to say on this overanalyzed show that others haven't before. Then again, nobody has anything new or original to say ever in a post-Internet world and we all keep saying stuff anyway, so here's my $0.02.

I was determined to hate Girls... Or maybe I just did hate it. I walked away from the pilot with the same criticisms that so many others had and immediately went online to talk about. (It's not funny enough, it's too white, it doesn't represent real NY or real New Yorkers or real girls, the characters are over-priveleged and unlikable.) But something happened when I watched episodes 2 and 3 with my mom this past Sunday.

Something you should know about my mom: She is my constant source of honesty. I surround myself with a bunch of people who are pretty similar to me and let me keep my current mindview on things either because a) they think it's funny when I start ranting, b) they don't care, c) it's polite or d) they are weirded out by my intense aggressive tone and don't feel like arguing. Then every so often, my mom says something true and I am forced to admit that my opinions are shaped by reading the Internet all day, hanging out with comedy nerds all night, and generally being stubborn. My mom does not read the Internet all day. (Case in point: She didn't know what the Hunger Games were.) So she says things that contradict everything I've heard all day and night long and I am stunned into changing my worldview.

So after listening to my running commentary on all the things I found wrong with the show, halfway through episode 3, my mom says, "Why are you criticizing the show so much?" And I had no idea. I was reading an old Emily Gould blogpost called, What Are Women Fighting About?" (I recommend the whole thing, but an excerpt here):

I did not think "A Fortunate Age" by Joanna Smith Rakoff was terrible, not at all. In fact, I found it well-paced and full of extraordinarily acute physical description. But I did hate it. I hated it in the same bitterly guilty way I'd hate a person—a woman, really—who'd garnered some prize that I hadn't been in the running for, that I hadn't been qualified to win and, moreover, that I would have been loathe to admit to desiring.... So I become, once more, the kind of person I can't bear: the female critic who despises any female writer who doesn't project what she feels is the accurate or ideal vision of modern womanhood. This critic believes it is her job to tear down women who are "off-message" because there is only so much publishing space allotted to women, and so more attention for them is less attention for her and other worthy types.

It is tempting to feel resentful when we don’t see ourselves or our stories or our ideals reflected in the prevailing narratives of femaleness. Luckily, there is an alternative: instead of simply criticising other women’s stories, we can take it upon ourselves to make sure that our own stories get told. Creating something takes a lot more effort than writing a bad review or a dismissive blog post. But if we don’t make that effort, if instead we keep insisting that a mere handful of female writers are qualified to speak for us, we'll miss out on the larger truths that are to be found somewhere in the chorus.

And so when Lena Dunham and Allison Williams danced to Robyn, I gave a shit. I wanted them to succeed because Lena Dunham's success does not take away from my personal success, despite the fact that in some way, everyone's success-- especially women's-- always feels like it does. Yes, there are major problems with the fact that there are so many stories that are not told in her story. And yes, networks, TV, pop culture in general need to consider the amount and way they portray people of color, although I am far more offended by the way 2 Broke Girls handles it, than Girls (but that's for another blog post). But it is my responsibility to tell my story, not hers.