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Subtitle: Security of Tyrants

Reading old entries of Elia Diodati, I found an entry on bound feet which NotAWhisper wrote about it, calling it a facist beauty standards.

My paternal grandma bound her foot when she was young. It was only for a short time, she told us. My grandparents came from well to do families and if there was no war, or communism, or whatever it is that got in between me and the an all-you-can-have buffet style life, we would have been modest gazillionaires and my unborn great-grandchild would have a trust fund the size of Malaysia's GDP. The greek chorus will now sing the folksy ditty 'Such is life'.

Yes, about my grandma and her footbinding. She was the second most beautiful woman of their town, the first being her younger sister. Being a rich and good-looking woman meant that you would be married to a rich and good looking man who has a nice job in the Chinese Imperial Court. Would any parent derive a child of such great prospects? Grim as foot binding is, a loving mother would not buck or set the trend for a girl child to not bind her feet: it was still a badge of belonging. I suppose a loving mother would only comfort the child who had to bind her feet, as her own mother did. Do you need 5 mins to rage against the inhumanity as my grandma had raged in childish tantrams, screaming angrily, pushing aside the lolly and the cajoling womenfolk?

Did it hurt, I asked, touching her toes gingerly as if it was only yesterday and not fifty or sixty years ago when the bindings were cut. Only for a little while, she said. I did not believe her. It must have hurt like hell.

Being rich and good looking has distinct advantages. My grandma was the apple of her father's eye. She was given some education - just a bit, because too much education is bad for women - and she was brought along to Guangzhou and Hong Kong with her father when he travelled. And, I suppose, in between doing business and interacting with others, the bandages were cut. My grandfather, better educated, a son of a magistrate who has in the back of his mind vague scholarly ambitions, also traveling widely thanks to the impending war did not mind the unbound feet - it had lost its symbolism. Luckily for grandma, it hadn't become a burden - her feet retained its delicate smallness, a pretty arch and all ten toes necessary for running from the Japanese.

My grandma died when I was fourteen. Perhaps I was her favourite grandchild, no one but I saw her small feet in my peripheral vision when she returned on the day her spirit was to return.

Like my grandma, I wear my badge of belonging. Looking nice makes things easier. Also true: I am vain and recognise that I need some assistance to look nice so I put on make up, removed or styled hair as appropriate. Is it a burden? To belong is a burden, and I completely understand
NotAWhisper when she says the tortured relationship you develop with food (Nod-Nod-NOD-NOD), and sometimes I tell my friends about my dream of eating barrels of rice, cous-cous with almonds and raisins and, and, oh, pillows and pillows of bread, but if I want my life to be easier, I better get on with it because it's the same problem everywhere. No, not beauty - evolution. observe here and maybe here as well.