The Princess Problem

I admit it. When Kate Middleton burst into the spotlight with her fabulous fascinators and polished suits, I was overcome with jealousy. For weeks, I withdrew into existential malaise, ruminating over her good fortune—she had ascended from a commoner to a princess simply because she had charmed the buck-toothed heir to the British throne. The fact that she would someday wear a bejeweled crown, ride in a horse-drawn carriage, and live in a historic palace while I continued to toil in plebeian anonymity felt like the most brutal of all injustices.

To cope with my rampant case of princess envy, I decided to overhaul my wardrobe. If I couldn’t be a princess, I could at least dress like one. I acquired beautiful, leather Ralph Lauren riding boots, tailored pencil skirts, elegant nude pumps, bold Derby hats, tweed blazers, crisp wool trousers, linen shift dresses, elbow-length satin gloves—even an intricately embroidered turban-like headband, a vague homage to princesses from kingdoms more closely intertwined with my own heritage. Thus attired, the fantasy of royalty felt more attainable.

Fortunately for my rapidly dwindling savings account, buyer’s remorse eventually overpowered my outlandish delusions of grandeur, and most of my princess costumes were returned by the time the Royal Wedding aired. I listlessly watched as Kate, in her infuriatingly lovely and tasteful wedding dress, became Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge. I reluctantly acknowledged that no amount of fancy new clothes could make me into a princess; you’re either born royal, or you marry someone who was. You can’t be awarded a crown because you studied hard or you scored highly on an exam, and you can’t sit on a throne because you organized a successful campaign and convinced people to support your cause. Being a princess is honor without accomplishment.

In Disney movies, princesses are invariably beautiful, kind, feminine, clever, and either helpless or willful, depending on the era. It wasn’t until the very recent Disney/Pixar hit Brave that a princess was portrayed as a genuinely spunky tomboy whose storyline was not dominated by the quest for a husband. As a child, I never questioned the soulless homogeneity of Disney princesses. I memorized their songs, dressed like them for Halloween (and sometimes on other days as well), and daydreamed about sitting on a throne and bossing people around. But eventually, I began to wonder: what actually made these characters special? Did being a princess mean that they were innately superior? Was everyone who wasn’t a princess somehow unworthy? I knew that couldn’t be true; my parents had emphasized the importance of education, a good work ethic, and dedication to one’s career as being the central tenets of success, so I knew that being innately superior had nothing to do with it. Then wasn’t all this princess nonsense just a bunch of elitist horseshit?

As I aged and progressed in my education, I noticed that the anecdotal use of the word “princess” had a negative connotation, and was often used as a synonym for “entitled” or “demanding”. Many of the girls who went to my college and majored in Elementary Education—the ones who wore Uggs and donned false eyelashes to go to the gym and socialize next to the elliptical machines—were derogatorily referred to as “princesses”.  There was a tacit implication, amongst observers and the girls themselves, that they had no real desire to work, and were hoping to marry wealthy men. Such girls were generally regarded as prissy, high-maintenance, and unambitious.

Bravo’s much-maligned new series Princesses: Long Island presents a particularly unflattering portrayal of young Jewish women from economically privileged families, colloquially referred to as JAPs, or Jewish-American Princesses. For the most part, the women on the show are entitled, shallow, immature, pampered, unintelligent, overly indulged, inarticulate slobs who drink too much and have no marketable skills. Unduly impressed with their own looks, they all labor under the delusion that a prosperous, handsome man is waiting for each of them in the great wide somewhere, desperate to wed and grant them eternal comfort and elysian bliss. They seem unperturbed by the fact that they bring nothing to the table: no remarkable insight, no personal accomplishments, no interesting experiences, no ambitions of their own—not even the subtle, traditionally “feminine” qualities of being a good homemaker and mother. The simple designation of being a “princess” apparently earns them the right to be cherished and adored.

After all, being a princess has nothing to do with your own accomplishments. You’re treated like you’re worthy of respect and reverence only because you’ve arbitrarily been designated as superior. Your status depends on the perceived inferiority of others and on the continuation of your father’s or husband’s sovereignty. At least princes and kings have historically been known to win battles and make important decisions; princesses are rarely more than commodities, bargaining tools, and figureheads. This is a hardly a role to which any modern woman should aspire.

What I’m about to say will probably seem unnecessarily harsh, but I’ll say it anyway. Women, stop behaving as if being female and/or attractive and/or the daughter of well-to-do parents makes you inherently superior.

The monarchy is a dying breed; civilization has finally started to wise up to the fact that nobody is born inherently superior to anyone else. Monarchy has flourished as long as it has because people have believed in the divine right of individuals who bear a certain genetic lineage to rule. Throughout history, hundreds of thousands have died in revolt against the monarchy, yet modern “princesses” uphold the belief that being arguably attractive and having been raised in a privileged environment gives them the right to certain luxuries. It doesn’t. Misogyny, like the monarchy, is also getting phased out. No one has to pay for your drinks, buy you expensive bags, and marry you simply because you exist. Modern women in the western world have every opportunity to buy their own drinks and expensive bags, because our predecessors have fought and struggled and advocated for women’s equality. It seems rather hypocritical to subvert decades of feminist advocacy so that we can view ourselves as “princesses”, because being a princess is a silly, childish fantasy that’s inaccessible to 99.999% of the female population. What is accessible to all of us who were fortunate enough to be born into middle-class families in the western world is equal pay, equal opportunities, equal education, and an equal chance to succeed. Those who live in developing countries where women are subjugated and commodified surely view our reality as a fantasy.

I’m a woman. I’m attractive. I’m the daughter of well-to-do parents. And I’m studying to be a doctor. Some women have no desire to work, and that’s fine. Kate Middleton is probably a wonderful princess, and that’s fine too. But I’m not a princess, and I never will be. I’m happy to have the opportunity to take ownership of my future and create my own stability. I’ve been give the chance to be anything I want to be, to take risks, to devise my own timeline, to marry if and when I choose. If I were a princess, all of those decisions would be made for me. Being a commodity means sacrificing autonomy, and autonomy is precious to me—much more precious than a sapphire heirloom engagement ring.

Some women have no problem with being a commodity, and I wish them well. I would also caution them to remember that, by labeling oneself as a commodity, one has no right to demand respect or equal partnership. If you’re to be coddled and pampered like a princess, you had better be prepared to be patronized and controlled as well. Don’t say no one warned you.

I won’t claim that I will never, ever don a rhinestone tiara and gaze wistfully at myself in the mirror, wishing for something more genteel and glamorous than the dreary hospital wards and lifeless white coats. Fantasy can be a harmless coping mechanism. But I will always remember to be grateful for my reality: choices, opportunities, autonomy, and self-respect. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but I’m happy to carry the burdens that I’ve chosen for myself.

Writer's Block.

For the last five years, I have been making a valiant effort to write a novel. Not a coming-of-age, small-town-girl-in-a-big-city, bildungsroman--oh no, that would be far too philistine for my tastes--rather, I've decided to designate myself as the author of the next great American fantasy novel, solely because fantasy is my favorite genre. It speaks to me, if you will.

However, it has come to my attention that I have literally nothing original to contribute to the fantasy lexicon. Nothing. This may sound absurd, since the defining quality of fantasy is its boundless opportunity for novelty, but in reality, fantasy (like any other genre) abides by a set of unspoken rules. You must have a hero or a heroine, for example (unless you're George R. R. Martin). Well, this poses a problem, as it makes your narrative inherently predictable. A story built around a single central character demands that that character survive all events of that story, thus eliminating any sense of jeopardy. Martin successfully circumvents this by having numerous "central" characters who are all equally likely to get offed, but Martin I am not. Another principle of fantasy by which it is particularly difficult to abide is the expectation that there will be a large-scale, epic battle scene at some point. Now, these are the sort of scenes that I love to read but hate to write. My forte is dialogue and character development, not endless paragraphs' worth of play-by-plays. So you see, I've encountered a bit of an impasse.

What's even worse is the fact that I truly believe that the greatest fantasy novels have already been written. What could I contribute that would surpass Tolkien? Would I be able to subvert a prototype that has withstood the test of many decades--and should that prototype be subverted in the first place?

Somewhat dejected, I halfheartedly considered writing my novel about something other than dragons and princesses and knights. How about a historical epic? Too much research required to do it right. A gentle contemporary novel about a dysfunctional family? Boring and insincere. A sexy murder mystery? Hmmm, now there was a possibility...but no, I'm too obtuse for murder mysteries; every mystery I've ever written has been woefully transparent. I felt burdened by the responsibility that one must shoulder when one decides to write a novel: the responsibility to entertain, to inspire, to communicate coherently and elegantly, and to strive for originality. The pressure of creating that elusive  element of surprise and wonder that defines every great novel I've ever read began to suffocate me before I could even devise an outline.

I decided to blame med school, lacking as I was for any other explanation for this abrupt cessation of my formerly prolific writing career. Med school, I deemed, was robbing me of my creativity. All my energy was being diverted towards sustaining good grades, performing tasks related to hygiene, and nurturing relationships with loved ones. For God's sake, before med school, I was able to write a song in fifteen minutes. A good song, at that! Nowadays, when I sit down at the keyboard to write a song, the phrase "twat waffle" keeps buzzing bleakly in my ears and I can write nothing of value. There is simply no room in my life for hobbies! Or so I convinced myself, in order to avoid taking responsibility for my own raging case of writer's block.

In reality, it would appear that I'm gradually starving my creative spirit to death by simply not writing frequently enough. (Similarly, I'm bludgeoning my music chops by not playing enough...or at all.) Creative muscles, like any other muscles, need to be kept in shape, or they will atrophy and leave you weak and talentless. I fear that, if I continue along this trajectory, my writer's block will devolve into full-blown Absence of Talent. The problem is, while med school is clearly not the SOLE perpetrator, being generally rather busy doesn't do much in terms of providing creative outlets. When I come home after a long day of rectal exams and verbal abuse, I generally feel inclined to avoid expending any more mental and emotional energy by eating Nutella and watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Failure to replenish these energy stores generally results in tearful breakdowns and 23-hour sleeping benders.

One must always try to define one's priorities in life, and it appears that I've made the unfortunate and unwitting decision to strike writing off my list of priorities. But was this decision for the best? Or will I be a better doctor if I continue to challenge myself to be well-rounded?

Perhaps this is a sign that I should go back to basics and write my own story, in true philistine form: a touching tale of a curly-haired Indian girl raised on the East Coast of America who grows up to possess balls of steel and talk a lot of shit while hiding many neuroses from the general public. Would you read that? No? Damn.