Marty Gellhorn, and 'Girls'

Watching Lena Dunham's 'Girls', the much hyped (and thank god for that, because FINALLY, and thank you) HBO show as a follow up to Dunham's nothing short of Pure Genius (and possibly timing, and luck) "Tiny Furniture" I had...I had quite a few thoughts. I saw "Tiny Furniture" at the Denver Film Festival and was relieved, blown away, comforted, led to fits of giggles. It was one of the bravest, airiest, most subtly confident movies I've ever seen. In the film, Dunham shows a character reading Woody Allen's 'Without Feathers' or possibly 'Side Effects.' Maybe a wink to a knowing audience that she's fully aware that she could be a 22 year old Woody Allen or that inevitably, any movie with an NYC backdrop about human interaction might be compared to Allen's films. Regardless, she makes the case that inadequacy and self-perceived failure, or being at a complete loss for answers can be hilarious, and bravely goes where she clearly has been, but few dare to repeat even to some friends.

On Girls...

One, obviously, get a job. Seriously. The work will do you good. Any Buddhist monk will show you the path to enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. Having to get along in the world without your parents money doesn't make for a very long storyline or a very compelling drama. Especially in a timeslot directly following 'Game of Thrones.' It makes a little bit of comedy, and that all due to Dunham's great voice. It does, of course, beg for a very tiny whiny violin.

But it was the pilot and I'm no TV Critic thank god because who DOES that, and anyway I'm here to fully support the creation of art by women, and voice openly my disagreement with it if necessary. I hope that Dunham is given plenty of room to discover her voice and her artistry and that the haters are not even more harsh than they would be on, say, Two and a Half men, that is to say, not at fucking all.

But watching these young girls flail about is not just the right amount of squeamish needed for some comedy, it's truly painful. It hurts me to watch this girl get fucked and told to 'play the quiet game', but it's excruciating to watch her ask for his approval, forgiveness, and that he not be disgusted by her. I want to walk in, yank her up, slap her, tell her to leave the room, beat the shit outta the guy, let him know he will NEVER deserve a woman of this much talent, wit, and beauty, and then buy HER a drink. And set her straight. Or, at least, shed some light in the infuriating darkness that is being Female in your 20s.

The other thing that strikes me is that, with these girls, as with all women, there is a distinct lack of mentorship or older, wiser (?) sisterhood around them. Lena's character seemingly only has 1. girls her age in her similar predicament, and 2. Her mother. And this isn't just in the show; this is everywhere, at least in America. Where is Lena Dunham's Martha Gellhorn to me? Are these women only to be found in dead female writers and artists? WHY isn't there more of a network? Young people won't listen, and those who have been through their own knocks sigh wistfully at the audacity and lack of foresight of youth, and know that one day, they'll know as well. But wouldn't it be grand if we all, all of us women, had some manner of network, some sisterhood outside of family and condescending female bosses that you could really talk to and bounce things off of? Wouldn't it feel better to hear, in your 20s, from someone in their 30s (hi there!), that you just seriously won't give a shit about these things in a few years? Well. I'll do my best. For anyone reading.

Girls, girls, girls. Sigh. Your 20s are all about boys, and your body. Whatever thoughts you may have had in high school about either, they'll be magnified times 100 after college, or in your 20s regardless of higher education, no matter how many feminist theory books you've read or naked female bodily acceptance parties you went to. Because the difference is: now you're an adult. Now, you're supposed to get it. You're supposed to know.

You spend your whole 20s kind of thinking about your career, debating going to the gym, and ALL of the time wondering why he didn't call/email/text/whatever digital form of socializing torture they've invented. When you're 30? You just stop giving a shit. You know why he didn't call? Because he's a fucking idiot. You know why he treats you like shit? Because he wants to see if he can. You know why he fucked you? Because he thought he could. You know why he ran away? Because he fucking got scared and he's a fucking child and you should RUN the OTHER WAY as fast and as furiously as you possibly fucking can. It doesn't matter how much money you have, it doesn't matter if you do work out, it doesn't matter if you're skinny or fat or shave your legs or wear more eye makeup or wear less makeup the boys don't notice, don't care, won't remember, and DO NOT DESERVE YOU. Have a drink, have, like, LOTS of them, see if you can manage to forget about him, fuck as many as you want (SAFELY god dammit and if he won't wear a condom, beat the shit out of him and kick him out on the streets because it won't be him waiting to get that abortion now will it.)

I'm re-reading letters from Martha Gellhorn (famously and tragically known as Hemingway's third wife, but a writer and war reporter fully within her own right and reputation). I tracked these down from a New Yorker article (she also wrote for the New Yorker in the 20s and 30s) that I had vaguely remembered from back in MY 20s. I remembered one photo of Gellhorn, or somebody, I couldn't remember who, but of that ex-pat WWII generation, holding a rifle (must be Hemingway related, right?), with a quote underneath. I tracked it down in the NYorker archives and remembered the great cover, which, among many other paintings, clippings, photographs, and images I had pasted around my sweet 3rd Street Bachelorette in my 20s in Long Beach.



This woman burned herself into my memory like nothing else. That image of her holding a rifle, looking at the camera lens like "why are you even looking at me." And that fateful quote at the bottom, has been in my mind all these years since until I finally found it again.

I remember how painful it was, and I've never been the type of girl that needed a boyfriend, or a partner, or even a best friend. I was born to be alone, no matter how painful, and I'm best alone. And I still remember the books and books of journals and poetry and nights crying over red wine. Whyyyyyyy!?!? Why won't he love me? Why won't he call? Why her? Why not me? I look back. The journals have been burned (too repetitive, I felt it was time to finally leave the past behind. What a grave mistake. Never burn history. Never.), but they were all about two things: I only want to do what I was born to do, what I need to do to live, and get paid for it. And 2. WHYYYYYYYYY???? I've always been engendered with a pretty healthy sense of confidence and self esteem, but rejection is rejection. Now, I can't remember any of them that I was worried about, and I downright fucking god damn laugh at the others. THEY were the fools, and I was so much the better for not ever being any more involved than I was.

I was fortunate that I sook out women like Dorothy Parker, Martha Gellhorn, Sylvia Plath, Joan Didion...those rare women who dared to live and tell every last honest detail about it all. So that the rest of us could feel like we weren't alone, that we weren't crazy (although the world will continue to try to make a woman 'crazy' if she at all expresses herself).

Lena Dunham is one of these women.

She's just so young.

If the character doesn't learn to love herself, I surely hope that Dunham, throughout her career and travels and hopefully every once in a while, truly decent and deserving man, does.

The quote at the bottom of the photo of Gellhorn etched into my brain almost 15 years ago was this:

"Men wanted me and became furious when they found out that I was separate from them, with my own ideas, needs, plans, actions."

Make your own plans, girls. Make your own action. Have your own needs.

And get what you want. Because Honey, I can nearly damn guarantee he isn't worth a second thought. No matter how much thought you've already given it, it's too much.

Save yourself. It's the only thing that will matter.