There’s a woman named Whitney Uland who calls herself a “fame coach” and makes a living teaching people how to become celebrities. She often says that the resource of fame is having people’s attention, and the way to attract it is by allowing the world to see who we authentically are.
I think about her a lot when I write these posts. The whole goal of this practice was to put myself out there, and sometimes, I can’t tell if it’s helping or hurting my cause. I mean, the writing part has merit, of course. It’s the publishing part I’m not so sure of.
I’m not ashamed of who I am or the things I’ve done. On the contrary, I’m quite proud of my life and accomplishments. It’s just that I know other people will judge me for my identity, and that’s why I question how much of it I want to share. I’ve always felt that I have an unrelatable existence, and by that measure, I wonder whether or not I'm a good candidate for a public platform.
For starters, I am objectively hot. Like, in the ninetieth percentile of the population by modern, euro-centric beauty standards. Let’s unpack the many layers of that statement, starting with the visceral reaction that it inspires in many people, including some who are reading this, when I dare to make such an arrogant proclamation. But. It’s the truth. Every experience in my life reflects that reality.
I was arbitrarily gifted with a particular set of genetics that granted me a certain favor in society, and no more than one can choose their biological gender, race, or the socioeconomic class they were born into, neither can I change the fact that I look like a model. I grew up in the 2010s, arguably the height of female objectification, on a steady diet of America’s Next Top Model and Victoria’s Secret fashion shows during my formative years.
The chief way of being noticed, of obtaining any sort of power during that era, was to be sexy. An emphasis on sexual conquests by any means necessary was woven into the fabric of our culture through movies, songs, and advertisements, both overtly and subliminally linking the procurement of material assets and status with sexual subjugation of attractive young women.
To be a model was an unthinkable dream that we gawked at all across the nation for decades on end. It’s so much more than a job title. It’s a status symbol that conveys the sexual value of women. It’s a measure of currency.
“He only dates models.”
“There will be tons of models at the party.”
“We need models for the music video.”
At some point, I don’t know when, the nightlife industry figured out how to package and sell men’s desire to be validated by the attractive women they surrounded themselves with (and therefore, were perceived to be sleeping with) by hiring promoters to bring models to the clubs. Men with money wanted to be where the models were in order to prove their alpha status to other men. And these women by and large were regarded as members of high society who got to live in this fairytale dream of a never-ending party.
Mind you, this was a world before botox, filler, and all the other anti-aging procedures that we now have at our disposal to even the playing field for everyone else. These women were prizes to be had, butterflies to be captured, and that made them a target.
Yes, beautiful women enjoy many perks. There are gifts, trips, parties, access, and special treatments. But on the other side of that same coin is a distinct hatred, usually perpetuated by other women who envy their glittery existences. And that’s the second layer of unrelatability attached to my self-proclaimed hotness: stereotypical judgement of character.
And of course, I can’t talk about these things. Because that would require categorizing myself as a exceptionally beautiful, which is totally cringe. Also, no one really gives a flying fuck that pretty people are judged for being pretty. Boo hoo. It’s just a vapid, shallow complaint that makes for some really bad PR. So, the pretty girls shut up, smile, overcompensate with niceties in order to prove they aren’t terrible people, and try not to take the resentment personally.
To be fair, there are far worse problems to have in the grand scheme of things. I’m just saying, it can be lonely.
However, I would be remiss if I said I didn’t relish in the advantages of my physicality. In fact, it was sensational, the power I had over men and what they would do for me. I danced through life like I was Mary fuckin’ Poppins, as everything always seemed to go my way. Power is a drug, a damn good one, and unless you’ve experienced it for yourself, you can’t possibly know how hard it is to give up.
That said, we now face the moral questions that are ever-present in my mind. I mentioned before that I had no choice in the matter, that I was born this way, which is true. But as time goes on and I adopt more and more ways of maximizing my sex appeal–– expensive facials, hyper-feminine wardrobe, vigorous exercise routines, etc.–– at what point do I deserve the judgment that’s passed on me for my prioritization of superficiality?
To be clear, such strenuous efforts do take up a tremendous amount of energy, mental real estate that could be spent on more virtuous things. When does it cross the line from self-care into pure, unchecked vanity? Because if I altogether halted any efforts to be attractive, well then, certainly, I would lose some footing. Perhaps, with reclaimed concentration, I would find a new identity in another purpose or profession, putting me on a new path as a human being.
There are many paths in this life, and we all choose our own through the collection of our individual decisions, most of them unconscious, until we stop to ask ourselves why we do the things we do, the things we think are “normal.”
I’m still trying to figure out how much of my sexuality belongs in my identity, and more specifically, my art. How do I want to dress on stage? What lyrics do I want to write? What kinds of relationships and experiences do I want to have?
Now that we live in a world where women have ample avenues to their own kinds of power, I can redefine the rules of success. It’s refreshing, but it’s also kind of terrifying because I have no idea how to be this new version of myself. What I do know, is though others might, I have no desire for condemnation of the old me.
In any case, this is a journey of self-discovery. Authentic self-discovery. Which is what art is supposed to be. And in that context, I can honestly say that I’m excited for the things I am finding the freedom to create.
Ttyt,
Hannah