Image: Annie Konst
A few weekends ago I read this piece by Emmeline Clein. She compares trad wives to bimbos, and basically says bimbo life is #notfeminist and capitalism’s new hottie pied piper.
Maybe it was the stern font, or how many times she used the word capitalism (8) and patriarchy (12) but, IDK. I was left with a general feeling of “the girls who get it, get it, and the girls who don’t - don’t.”
Beyond Clein, bimbos have been on the brain for a while. What even makes a bimbo a bimbo, anyway? Does there have to be scandal like with Monica Lewinsky, or oversized sexuality like Pamela Anderson? Or is it just somehow related to be being a woman, or being feminine, or feminine energy in general?
Grace Goeble1, writing from Bimbo Summit provides an expansive definition:
“Are you really hot? You’re a bimbo! Are you bad at math? You’re a bimbo! Do you like to copy your friends? You’re a bimbo! Are you an optimist? You’re a bimbo! Do you have boobs? You’re a bimbo! Do you enjoy sex? You’re a bimbo! Do you like the color pink? You’re a bimbo! Do you sometimes forget things? You’re a bimbo! Does your heart beat? You are a bimbo.” [emphasis mine]
So maybe I am! In working through my emotions on bimbos and ultimately Clein’s piece, I became less interested in responding to her, and more interested in tracing the lineage of bimbo and trad wife beliefs and impressions on myself. This reflection isn’t so much a direct rebuttal of Clein’s work but a very personal assessment of how societies impressions of femininity, stereotypes, and feminine sexuality impressed themselves on me.
Is there room for the bimbo to be seen as an active participant in her identity, fully awake and in control? Beyond that, I wondered: How do I relate to my own femininity? What do I ascribe to femininity, and what is actually just internalized misogyny?2
Exploration divided into two parts:
(1) No Shade - but, my brief response to Clein’s givens and assumptions. Or, why I think who she is and why she’s writing this piece matters a lot.
(2) I’m Just A Girl, a (super) abbreviated history on my experience with femininity: how it was expressed, how it was interpreted.
PART ONE: No Shade, but -
I don’t know if this is true (so sorry if this is actually slander) but Clein seems wealthy(ish) by birth and recently out of college. Which is to say, her life experience hasn’t yet provided the missing information. Not a sin but she’s missing stuff.
Reminder: Clein compares trad wives to bimbos, and basically says bimbo life is #notfeminist and capitalism’s new hottie pied piper. The old pied piper being traditional housewifery. She claims bimbos have given up on the revolution and are exploiting themselves, changing their bodies, and setting society back just to get their bag.
Modern day philosopher, Shera aka “sprinkle sprinkle” lady, speaks for bimbos and for gold diggers everywhere, some real time cross between bimbos and trad wives. Shera’s perspective on romantic love is a little disheartening: She doesn’t believe in it. She would say love is for other women and children but could never exist between men and women, not really.3
While I don’t love her perspective, I respect her practicality. She speaks openly on her social channels about being the first person in her family as far back as she knows to escape poverty. She was able to do it because she embraced, to Clein’s point, a tradwife-bimbo philosophy mash up. Shera would say she’s getting that bag so her children’s children can make whatever choice they want. She is the acorn in the earth, not the tree.
We see Shera’s perspective echo the internal fighting from second wave feminism. White feminists were trying to ensure they weren’t pushed back into homes post world war. Not white feminists were like wait a minute but we want the option financially for there to be only one person working on the household. One person, who can with their one income support a partner, children, elderly, or disabled. Without sweating it - and pension too. That’s what we should be working for. Obviously, that didn’t happen.
So maybe this is why Clein reads as moneyed, and a little out of touch? She’s a beautiful writer, ok! But it’s grave! It’s academic. It’s a little angry for reasons that feel uppity and tight lipped and nose turning upping. Justice for Bimbos!
Taking Clein’s points in the order they arrived to me:
(1) Bimbos are aware that they’re not actually dumb.
(2) Bimbo’s are girl’s girls.
(3) Bimboification is a shield and sword.
(4) Bimbo aesthetics are a form of gender expression.
(5) Bimbos can be found at the front of the revolution.
(1) Bimbos are aware that they’re not actually dumb. They are also not trying to cultivate real dumbness.
Some of us spend a lot of money on drugs and drinks to smooth our mind’s away. Why go through all that trouble if it’s as easy as telling yourself you don’t have one?
Marilyn Monroe embraced a breathless voice and startling innocence coupled with dripping sexuality. She seems clueless, helpless most of the time. Is she actually? Of course not. Historical accounts love to mention the hefty psych or acting theory she carried around, how her nose was always in a book. She was dating the President for god’s sake.
Dolly Parton, when asked if she is worried people will think she is a dumb blonde has said, “No, because I know I’m not dumb. I also know I’m not blonde.” Dolly gets it.
(2) Bimbo’s are girl’s girls.
Clein suggests that bimboism pits women against each other, “for the affection of men.”
While I admit the fight for aesthetic preference and objectification is a real thing that’s really happening - real bimbos, as I know them anyway, are vengefully for the girls.
Fleesky, famous TikTok bimbo, has an entire video content strategy around being hot for yourself, and getting rid of dusty, insecure men who want to bring you down. It's an explicitly for the girl’s take. Fleeksy is one of many.
Outside of what is viewable online: The most bimboified women I know are burlesque dancers. Notably, burlesque isn’t about being hot for men. It’s about being hot for you. From the mouth of Mistress Jo from the Burlesque Academy in New York, “In a world where people look at you anyway - you’re telling them, go ahead and look. Go ahead. Look.” Everyone gets to be hot in burlesque in their unique way.
Clein seems unconvinced that bimbo aesthetics truly embrace all bodies. While some dancer’s do fit traditional beauty ideals many do not, historically speaking and today. I guess it depends on which side of the internet road you’re looking at and how selective you want to be with that evidence. Statistically, the audiences are also mostly women. The dancer’s are sometimes straight but also disproportionately queer. The vibes are high. The love is palpable. For. The. Girls.
(3) Bimboification is a shield and sword.
For reasons already mentioned, sometimes it’s to your advantage to play dumb. It protects you. In a very practical way you’re letting other people decide who they think you are - and they were probably going to do that anyway.
Bimbo Summit retells the racing story of how Paris Hilton, when forced into an abusive camp to reform her errant ways (her main bad thing btw being when her TEACHER made out with her in his car outside of her home), used her blonde (apparent) vapidness to trick the counselors into letting her go to the bathroom where she then climbed out a window and attempted to escape!
Why not, “use what you’ve got”?
4) Bimbo aesthetics are a form of gender expression.
Clein notes that bimbo aesthetics and their hyperfemininity have roots in oppressive gay culture. I’m having a very UGH reaction to this.
Should we go down all the list of kinks that are socially unacceptable and trace their lineage in the American psyche?
If we find them, does that make them “bad” automatically?
Does it mean we should stop doing them? Aren’t kinks ultimately there to work something out, in their highest expression, anyway? I ache for a more nuanced take.
(5) Bimbos can be found at the front of the revolution.
Clein suggests that bimbos generally have given up on fighting capitalism and their place on the picket line so they can “preserve their sultry whispers.”
The bimbo-iest people I know are almost always also organizers, nod back to burlesque dancers. They’re on the picket lines, or arranging the events to get people organized, or using their high profile social media accounts and other various flavors of fame to spread the word.
A few public examples:
Paris Hilton speaks out against institutional child abuse.
Pamela Anderson fights for the rights of animals.
Marilyn Monroe famously sat in the front row of Aretha Franklin’s club to ensure she had the right to continue singing and used her own fame to draw media attention to Aretha’s work. In general, Monroe didn’t just support civil rights but was famously a huge weirdo and generally left of field in all areas. But left-left-left you know? Stratosphere strange.
The list goes on! And on. And on.
PART TWO: I’m Just A Girl
She was 3.
I have pretty bad eyesight. I received my first pair of glasses at three years old. Apparently I was bumping into a lot of walls. They were pink. I’ll say it again: they were pink. To put it lightly, I felt betrayed.
I ran to the bedroom I shared with my brother, hot tears rolling down my face, ripped my brand new glasses off and stepped on them as hard as I could. At some point I realized they weren’t going to break.
To my little three year old brain, this was sobering. I took a few shuddering breaths, and picked them up to take a closer look. Crooked.
I thought for the first time “Uh oh. Maybe breaking them is a bad idea” and tried to bend them back into shape. No one talked about it, and they were crooked until the next pair.
I think about this every couple of months for the rest of my life. Why was I so angry? So disgusted? So shocked? What did I know at the age of three about what it meant about who I was?
I mostly hung out with my brother and his friends, all boys. I was happy to ride my bike and go on adventures and play in the dirt.
Occasionally, though, I would be called out for being a girl, or left out for being a girl. Pink glasses were definitely going to up the amount of times this happened.
When it did happen I knew that I needed to look to my brother to offer me a hall pass. And I would look, with rage in my eyes and clear expectation: SAY SOMETHING.
He would say I’m cool, and they would say ok, and it would pass. Hall pass granted.
She was 14.
My grandparents sent me a purse for Christmas. It was made of beautiful, soft blue leather. Elegant. This is a practical gift. Purses are expensive, and I did need something to hold tampons or pads when I went to the bathroom so I didn’t have to bring my entire backpack.
I traded it in for cash. I was embarrassed by my Dad’s reaction when I opened the package. Subtle disgust. “Well.” he said. “Well, a purse! Hm.”
She was 19
My Dad was invited to Paris with his boss to examine and purchase some new machines for their facility. This was unusual. He doesn’t generally travel, doesn’t like to travel, and honestly that’s the only trip to my knowledge apart from Canada he’s taken internationally in my lifetime. He asked me to go with them so I could help my Mom out since he wanted to take her, too. We went.
My Dad, My Mom, my Dad’s boss and I all shared a car from the airport to the boutique hotel we were staying in. The car wasn’t a limo, but had limo type seats where you’re all facing each other in a circle. This feels important to tell you because it means that my Dad’s boss was looking me directly in the eyes when he asked me if I was going to college to find a husband. He said, “So, Hannah, are you going to college to find a husband.” Technically the words were phrased as a question, but it was said as a statement. It was a joke. It was also not a joke.
I answered anyway with as little emotion as possible. “No.”
She was 25
I was invited to a party in the West Village by an old college friend. Most of the people at this party were in their 40’s or late 50’s. My friend was supposed to talk with his Mom’s lawyer and then we’d go somewhere else.
I’m searching for my friend, passing groups slumped into couches. One extremely tall, man with a boorish voice and a thick mane of hair has a crowd gathered around him. He’s gesturing with his whiskey on the rocks, slurring a little. I slur sometimes even when I haven’t had a drop to drink so, maybe that’s it for him too but. It’s 8pm, and you get the sense it’s taken a lot of drops to get this man’s voice so thick. With a petite, newsboy cap wearing woman tucked into the crook of his free arm he’s bellowing, “My LOVELY wife -- where is she? Ha! Well, currently on MY jet getting fucked by all of MY business contacts!” He takes a big drink from his glass. “But you know - who cares right? We’re open so! Who cares!” The woman on his arm is slightly jostled every time he gestures. Her eyes are spaced out, but she’s smiling.
I see my friend at the back of the room. He’s locked into conversation with the lawyer so I seat myself at the nearby bar, the only empty seat. Smoothing my curls down with my hand, tucking my heels into the bottom rung of the stool.
Two men are on either side: a comic book writer, and a COO, both mid to late 40’s. They warmly introduce themselves.
I try the writer first. I ask him easy questions like, “what part of town do you live in” and “watch anything good recently” Once he’s warmed up, sweat beginning to gleam on his upper forehead, “so, how do you think representing a range of body types in comics would change the industry?” and when a faint cloud passes over his eyes, softening it “Or like, do you think about it haha” He’s flustered. “I like the hyper-sexualization. It’s nice. It’s good. Why not? It’s hot! It sells.” For sure. I admit it was needling and not the most artfully lobbed but, I was hoping he would hurl back a challenge in the form of a joke. Be playful? I turn to the COO.
He’s got Dad energy, whether he wants me to see that or not. We get into some quick banter, swap stories. He’s a better conversationalist. I start to relax. When, 20 minutes in after some challenge of mine (a slight challenge, slight) delivered in the heat of banter, he says with the blank expression of real shock, “Wow, you’re actually really smart!”
I tell this to my Mom on the phone a week later and she dies laughing.
She was 27.
My uncle corners me at a family gathering, beer in hand. It was technically - we were standing against a wall. But you get the feeling of being cornered even if nothing was holding me there except family obligation. Context: He’s a devout Christian. After a little hi hello how are you -
Him: So, Hannah, what’s your take on homeless people?
Me: (I blinked a few times. Then, innocently) What’s my take?
Him: Yeah, your father tells me you really think that we should give homeless people a place to live even if they’re doing drugs and drinking? Ha! Do you?
Me: Oh! (still feigning ignorance) Yeah that. (in a warm tone) Yeah.
Him: (already spinning in a half circle with disbelief) EVEN if they’re doing drugs and drinking? That’s crazy! So they just get to sit around and do drugs all day and what, get paid for it!!
Me: Haha. (I smile, throw a look at this beer) You aren’t jealous? (knowing this is a little too aware, I push my energy back in) Being silly haha - Um, yes.
Him: And you’re fine paying for that.
Me: (with a little nod, and a smile) Mhm.
My Uncle came to speak with me on an issue he knows we don’t agree on because he wanted to be delighted by (and surprised by, somehow it’s new every time) my presence and my intelligence and honestly my pluck. The line between shrew and not shrew is basically age dependent.
I reverted almost automatically to the fawning, emotional management, and ultimately smooth brainedness that most of the women except the matriarchs in the family then labeled as harsh eventually have to play. They drink the kool aid, or they pretend to, which is enough.
I guess I would rather pretend to be vapid, bored, a little more stupid than he remembers than watch that particular expression of surprise (“Wow - you’re actually really smart!) fall over my uncle’s face. He looks so much like my father.
I think about this when I pack, and consider wearing what I actually wear most of the time, styling myself as I usually do. Can I expand to my real size in front of them? Is it safe?
But every time I pack my boxiest, baggiest, plainest fits. I don’t style my hair or put on any makeup. I wear sneakers, which I usually only wear when running errands in NYC.
My feigned ignorance feels like the bimbo behavior Clein is (so passionately, ardently, sternly!) warning us against, in a more lukewarm and family oriented context. Was I abandoning my principles, abandoning my mind? Do bimbos take off their costumes when they go home for family bbq’s? Or is it just the responsibility of the people they love to still see them?
-
I wonder how the lives of these men might change if they didn’t connect femininity and beauty to a lack of intelligence as an automatic. I wonder how we might all feel more free to be ourselves, if we could access our feminine energy and express it without fear of retribution.
In defending bimbos, I find myself defending the right for all us to be complex, express ourselves how we want like Dolly, play trojan horse like Marilyn Monroe, be misunderstood like Paris Hilton, trick and be tricked like Pamela Anderson. Maybe when we embrace the bimbo inside of us we’re not abandoning our intellect or principles but instead challenging what society expects of us and who it expects us to be based on our appearances. Who better understands what’s at stake than bimbos? Who better to safely lead the way toward revolution than bimbos - don’t they anyway in a double edged sword kind of way hold the proverbial hall pass? Maybe I should say, don’t “we.”
She writes an energetic and thoughtful piece on Paris Hilton, and others. Def check her out!!
Sorry to use that word. I know it can be a lot, it can feel aggressive. But that’s what it is so idk what else should I call it. Bad man idealogy. Bad guy virus. You tell me.
This is harsh but this is a thought explored by many other academy vindicated thinkers AKA people who spend all their time and resources thinking and reading and writing about this which doesn’t make them BETTER than random woman Shera sprinkle sprinkle sprinkle lady - I’m just saying that if you wanted to justify her street logic with book logic the paper trail is available
Your stories have a personal touch to them. They are visual, and informative. I felt like I was a time traveler when I read the different ages of Hannah. Little Hannah rocks! Keep the stories rolling!
Wow that was a long one and a good one! I'm always lookingg for you to talk about Hillsboro Hannah, the only one I knew. Though 3 year old Hannah in pink glasses is a fun alternative 🥂