A look at Girls' Jessa (and the Manic Pixie Dream Girl)

By Anči

As a fan of the show Girls, I have to say I'm happy with the precarious path that's been laid out for Jessa. It's not that I hate her character or want her to suffer - it's more that I find her fate to be a  refreshing representation of what really goes on inside creatures like her.

Because a long-time pet peeve of feminism's has been film and TVs incessant reliance on the "Manic Pixie Dreamgirl" trope - in place of an actual, fleshed out female character. The manic pixie dreamgirl, for those of you who don't know, is a personality invented by misunderstood male screen writers, as a way to breathe life into the malleable girl of their dreams.

But the reason I stress that she's invented, is because the defining characteristic of an MPDG is her uncomplicated quirkiness unmet by any cares, or concerns that affect real people.  She's funny, and cute, and odd  and innocent - while lacking any real depth or substance - she's also the center of every "indie" romantic comedy starring Zooey Deschanel.

What Girls' does brilliantly is flip the script on on the MPDG in their portrayal of Jessa - a quirky, ethereal, often childishly innocent beauty - with virtually no responsibilities, no sense of urgency, and nothing to tie her down. Her seemingly relaxed approach to relationships is predictably charming to (mostly middle-aged) men, who crave a free spirit to make them feel alive, and have afternoon sex with.

la-di-da...

That's where a MPDG normally begins and ends, (with afternoon sex, typically set to the whimsical vibrations of a ukulele... or coldplay.) That is, at least, according to the standard onscreen portrayals of alluringly flighty women. But Girls does us the much-needed service of further exploring this particular variety of babe with questions like (my words) "what the fuck is this floaty fairy princess's problem that she can't ever  take anything seriously?"

After all, how long can a MPDG survive on childish cheer, and peasant skirts alone? Does she ever get lonely, or start craving routine? And what does she look like when people finally grow tired of her act? According to Girls, she looks something like Jessa, whose wild beauty, and  unattainably free-spirited existence, come crashing to the ground, when her quickie marriage falls apart, and then again, when she winds up in rehab.

MPDGs enjoy peeing in public, and wearing wildflowers in their hair.

It's at that point Hannah makes it clear to her friend that she no longer finds her constant disappearing charming, explaining "It [makes] me remember what it was like in college when you'd say, 'Oh, meet me at the Free Palestine party,' then I'd find out you're over at the Israel house. And so I just wish you would get it that this is not ok behavior for a friend."

(Because contrary to MPDG mythology suddenly taking off without a warning or goodbye, isn't as romantic as it's... emotionally callous, and thoughtless.)

And "thoughtless" is exactly how I'd describe most of Jessa's interactions: including the infuriatingly tone-deaf sequence between herself, and a married man whom she carelessly invites to a party one night, only to appear utterly mystified when he makes a pass at her. It was a brilliantly executed scene, that rightfully robbed Jessa of much of her likeability.

Not to mention that whereas a romantic comedy, might have played up her dopey innocence in an attempt to showcase her childish charm (what? you thought we were going to make out? I just wanted to party with you late at night, after months of flirting back and forth! Because whimsy!) Girls managed to make both her and the married man look like insufferable dicks: him, for obvious reasons, and her, for feigning cluelessness of standard social cues, in order to get a kick out of rejecting a man who was obviously crazy about her.

To sum up, Jessa's character is perhaps the most honest response to the decade-long reign of flaky romantic leads, famously (re)conceived by the whiny musings of Zach Braff. (Remember Garden State, where Braff's character falls in love with an adorable pathological liar played by Natalie Portman? And everything turns out perfectly, despite the fact that his girlfriend is a ticking time-bomb of personality disorders??)

Luckily for us, Girls represents a much-needed shift in that male-dominated vision of intriguing women - which will hopefully soon include, a much more ballsy, badass variety of bitch. (Look out, dudes. Your fantasy is about to wake up and set you straight.)

The time I engaged with a pickup-artist

By Anči

The moment I became flustered, I knew my rejection wouldn't take.  Not that it was my responsibility to project earnestness, when a verbal 'no thank you' should have sufficed.
But something in his expression had alerted me of a cynical tendency to disregard protests like mine.

It's the curse of every anxious woman, whose shaky refusals are rarely afforded the respect they deserve. It's not enough to say no, we also must be convincing- a challenge I am rarely up to.

The fact is, getting approached by strange men makes me nervous--  the last time I turned down a pleasant-looking fellow, he had snapped "you're not even good-looking. You look totally country."
At the time, I had played it cool; swinging my hips as I marched away.  But the encounter had  left me feeling shaken.
Was I going to be insulted every time I refused to indulge some lonely bro's ego?
 I've also been called a slut once, for refusing to engage a leering creep, while sunning myself in a bikini. (How dare I expose my skin, and not expect harassment? ) But the most predictable (and painful) backlash in these types of situations is the classic crack about my stutter.

 This was one one of those times:
"Calm down, you're stuttering a lot," (Really, calm down?  I've had a stutter since I was four year's old, pal.)

I knew I was being negged, and the realization annoyed me, almost as much as it intrigued me.
 No, not like that. Give me some credit: I'm a 26 year old feminist with an aversion to both cologne and bullshit. (in other words, don't waste your time trying.)
  But I've also experienced my share of humiliation at the hands of a man eager to exploit my insecurity and inexperience.
And for some reason I  saw this exchange as my chance to flip the script.

When I was 19, I started dating a 25 year old. 
 A few weeks into our courtship, I agreed to come up to his room. And as we began kissing that night, I started making it clear that things wouldn't progress any further.
 It was only when my rebuffs grew insistent, that he gloomily began winding things down.  Naturally I had been annoyed by his forceful attempts at persuasion, but at the same time, I was a teenage girl who badly wanted the approval, of an 'older man.' So instead of getting up to leave or launching into a speech about consent,  I offered up a weak smile.
He half-heartedly began to caress my shoulder. 
 "What's up?" I asked.  
 "Nothing. Although... I thought you said you liked to work out." 
"I do workout."
"It's kinda hard to tell," he answered, looking me over slowly;  and then I knew I was  being punished for my frigidity.

What I didn't realize, was that that remark would herald the beginning of a culturally indentured servitude to every scorned suitor with the emotional intelligence of a child. 
It was the start of negging seasons.

Now at 26,  I stirred my cappuccino, and observed my new acquaintance; making note of his increasingly aggressive (and ridiculous) posturing: chest out; fingers suggestively encircling the loops of his belt.  And as I stared back icily, I thought "I'm gonna take this negging motherfucker down."

 According to a forum for pick up artists (which I am not going to link to): "A neg can be many things as long as it accomplishes the purpose of diminishing the target’s value in a manner that flies under her radar. A neg should always come off in a way that makes it look accidental or unintentional....You can take anything that is less than stellar about her and draw attention to it while pretending to be charmed in a friendly way. Eventually you will be able to instantly spot things about a woman that can be turned into negs and poked at in front of her friends."
 (Notice here, that women are "targets" not people.)

Luckily for me, I come equipped with an easily-exploited "shortcoming" of my own. My stutter-- and what better way to rattle me, than by drawing unwanted attention to it. (zero points for creativity, though.)

A stutter is a tricky thing to navigate. For one thing it  exists in a grey area of social consciousness, oscillating between a quirk and a handicap. And unlike commensurate quips about a commonly recognized disability, (such as deafness)  digs at my speech aren't necessarily read as cruel.  In fact it's simple to toss in an offhand reference to my disfluency, while keeping the conversation light. (The expectation of course, being that in an attempt to appear laid back, I will laugh along with my bully--- thereby relinquishing the mythical 'upper hand,' along with the rest of my dignity. )

"are you always this shy?" The man continued excitedly.
 Here was my chance. I breathed in through my nose, like my speech therapist had shown me, enunciating every syllable clearly:   "Actually, I'm surprised that you brought up my stutter. I thought that was something only the mean kids did."
I didn't have to wait long for the words to register. In the second it took me to look up, he had become flustered, and remorseful, swearing he hadn't meant any offense. (and unwisely adding that he found my stutter "cute.")
 
I maintained a neutral expression, visibly unmoved by his efforts... as his approach shifted back to nervous 'charm.'
The resulting impression was that of  a formerly cocky "playa"committed to a humiliating (and unsolicited) exercise in verbal self-flagellation. (As evidenced by his readiness to brand himself as "an asshole", about twenty times in succession.)  He paused his ramblings once or twice to breathe, and then again, to work in a  bizarre request for my number. (really?)  As I sat back and watched him squirm, I felt satisfied.  I'd also had enough of this pitiful performance.
Declining his last appeal, I stood up to leave-- nodding once, goodbye.


Turns out that while it's  easy, (and cowardly) to confuse a teenage girl, It's harder to face a woman who's called you on your bullshit.



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