Who's Afraid of Pink?
Why are we still associating any color with a gendered stereotype?
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When I left my apartment building last Monday to head to Columbia Business School for a lunchtime book talk, I felt like everyone was watching me.
No, it wasn’t because of an unfortunate haircut— the product of instructions for a simple trim tragically lost in translation. It also wasn’t because I was wearing high-heeled shoes that made me totter unstably like a baby giraffe. I was not. I’ve never owned a pair of stilettos. In fact, it was because of an unassuming sliver of bright pink fabric that was peeking out of the cuffs and neckline of my black winter coat. The audacity.
Wearing pink, as it turns out, isn’t something trivial for me. I’ve never been what I think of as a brave dresser. I prefer muted colors: blacks and navies and grays. I like unremarkable things that don’t draw attention, that some might describe as low-risk, maybe inoffensive. And my relationship with the color pink has been weird. I love pink when others wear it. My friend Charlotte positively radiates joy when she—as she more often than not does—wears a beautiful shade of rose or even a bold neon. But I’ve always had a difficult time getting comfortable with it myself. And that, as I’ve come to understand, is because of association.
Years ago, when I first started reporting and writing about gender in the workplace, the home and beyond, I regularly wrote about the perils of stereotypes and dangerous generalizations: that all boys are one thing and all girls another; that men should like one thing and women something else. I was conscious of never wanting to play a part in reinforcing those stereotypes, especially because of the barriers some of them might construct in the minds of children, a generation we’ve already implicitly handed the gargantuan task of making our world a better place.
I bit my lip as relatives gifted my newborn daughter delicate dresses in tones ranging from salmon to coral to blush. Meanwhile, I bulk-bought the white, cotton, unisex rompers—unadorned. They’d soon be stained with all kinds of bodily and non-bodily fluids anyway, I figured. Green and yellow were acceptable. Sometimes even Blue was cute.
When the discussion arose about the cover design for my book, I told my editor and agent that I was basically ok with anything; no pink please, though. My book was for everyone, regardless of their gender. I didn’t want people to feel alienated by the implications of an unnecessary pop of color. That would just be wasteful.
When the design came back, I absolutely loved it (as I still do). Alison Forner, in my opinion, had excelled. It was simple, unpretentious, and powerful. And unmistakably, it was pink. My agent called me to ask me what I thought. “I think it’s great,” I said, honestly. “But there is pink.”
“Well,” he responded. “It’s actually fuchsia.”
That was the first time I had a conversation with myself about this entirely baseless pink-phobia I seemed to have developed. The cover design really spoke to me. It so elegantly conveyed the identity of my book, I thought. So why should I care about a color that might be construed as pink? Why was I pretending that pink signaled some sort of anti-equality sentiment? Why had I conjured up an idea in my head that liking pink, dressing in pink and having a pink book would somehow undermine my principles and beliefs? Why was I fighting a very innocuous and ultimately quite mundane truth: that I actually really do quite like pink? And far more fundamentally, did I really think that men were so basic that they’d be repelled by a book with some pink on the cover?
And so, when I started to tackle the inevitable but (for me) uncomfortable question of what to wear to various book talks and presentations that I was about to give as part of the launch, I gently entertained the idea of mixing up my safe and familiar gray and black palette. I started cautiously and consulted my pink-clad friend Charlotte. For the first event, a reading at a bookstore, I bought a high-collared velvet blazer in dark cherry. Unobtrusive enough to make me feel comfortable but definitely not black. I wore a black shirt and wide-legged black trousers, out from under which peeped pale pink glittery sneakers.
Later in the week, for an event in a more formal setting, I wore a pale rose blazer that I’d bought in 2012 and had worn maybe three times over the last twelve years. I didn’t feel unmoored by the experience. The world kept turning.
Which brings me to Monday. Who knows why—perhaps because of the creepily-smart algorithms in my phone, or because of a simple case of noticing something because it’s suddenly relevant to you—but one day, while procrastinating on Instagram, I was metaphorically slapped in the face with an ad for a sweatshirt in raspberry. I scrolled past it. Then I scrolled back. It was boxy and wide-cut, a sort of athletic style in a scuba fabric that I like. The color almost vibrated off the screen. I spent more money than a responsible person with the income of a freelance writer should, but was happy to support a women-led, independent fashion brand that happens to be owned by someone I know. It arrived over the weekend before my book talk.
I think I’ll probably always be most comfortable wearing black. It’s easy and feels elegant. Black goes with everything and clashes with nothing. It takes pressure off that early morning decision. In other words, like Henry Ford, I often can’t be bothered to tackle the color decision before coffee. But I like my new sweatshirt and I think I’ll wear it again.
Pink for many of us might always be associated with femininity, but that doesn’t mean we have to subscribe to that association. As I’ve heard others say about this particular topic, we can reclaim the narrative that pink symbolizes something.
My book talk at Columbia Business School was in collaboration with an exceptional woman whose name is Neale Godfrey. Neale was one of the first female executives at Chase Manhattan Bank. She’s spent her entire career defying norms and that’s why I chose to profile her in one of the chapters of my book. Neale is also what I’ve come to think of as a perma-pink-wearer. When I arrived on Monday to find her in a fuchsia ensemble and glittery pink boots, she complimented my outfit choice and I told her about my twisted-yet-evolving relationship with the color.
After our talk she asked me how I was doing; whether I’d felt like people were looking at me differently because of what I was wearing.
“It’s probably going to take me a little before I feel fully confident in pink,” I admitted.
“That’s so funny,” she responded, genuinely sounding a little baffled. “I’ve never ever considered not feeling confident in pink. It sounds really tiring.”
A Refresher on ‘Moral Eunuchs’
Elsewhere last week and on a completely different note, Supreme Court Justices Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito repeatedly invoked the Comstock Act during oral arguments in a case related to the question of whether the Biden administration’s efforts to expand access to mifepristone—the abortion pill—was constitutional or not.
Last year, I wrote a pretty length newsletter about the namesake of this wretched Act that’s still haunting us from history. Considering the news cycle, I’ll offer a quick refresher.
Anthony Comstock was a 19th-century dry goods merchant who dedicated his life to fighting sexual liberties and suppressing reproductive rights. In his time, Comstock was ridiculed as a geekish prude.
Emma Goldman, the Russian-born anarchist writer, referred to him as the leader of America's "moral eunuchs." Indeed, in the cartoon from 1906 below (courtesy Library of Congress), he’s depicted as a monk thwarting shameless displays of excessive flesh, whether that of women, horses, or dogs. But for all the criticism we can level at him, we must also credit him with changing the course of history.
In 1873, the portly man from New Canaan, Connecticut, convinced Congress to pass the Comstock Act which made it illegal and punishable by fines, imprisonment, or both, to send six types of material through the mail: erotica, contraceptive medications or devices, abortifacients (substances that trigger abortions), sexual implements (what we’d today call sex toys), contraceptive information, and advertisements for contraception, abortion, or sexual implements.
As the twentieth century got under way, the Comstock Act gradually lost its teeth, thanks to various pieces of legislation coming into effect (look up Hannah Stone and the United States v. One Package case, for example. And later the landmark Griswold v. Connecticut decision…or, you know, read my book). And then— exactly 100 years after it passed—the Supreme Court in 1973 decided Roe v Wade, guaranteeing a pregnant person’s constitutional right to an abortion.
The Comstock Act still technically existed but much had changed. It was meant to be a fascinating but outdated relic of the past; something with little, if any, modern relevance. And yet, over the last two years as America has come to grips with the potential implications of the fall of Roe, it’s become obvious that the spirit of Anthony Comstock lives on. Specifically, opponents of abortion rights have started to invoke the Comstock Act as a legal basis for preventing the mailing of abortion medication and, most recently, for preventing access to Mifepristone.
Whether, or to what extent, they’ll succeed is still unknown, but even the prospect of Anthony Comstock controlling our bodies from the grave is terrifying. Here’s an article by Nathaniel Weixel of The Hill which does a great job of spelling out the legal arguments being pitched by both sides. I’m sure there will be much more to say and write on this topic in the months to come.
WOMEN MONEY POWER: The Book
That’s all from me this week because my daughter is on spring break from school, but a quick mention of the fact that I’ve had another week of pinch-me brilliant events and conversations celebrating the launch of WOMEN MONEY POWER.
Thank you to Dear Mama, in Harlem, for hosting me in conversation with Anushka Salinas, the outgoing President and COO of Rent the Runway. I edited and re-wrote large chunks of the book manuscript while sipping on their delicious tea and coffee last year, so the event felt like one of those lovely full-circle moments.
I also had the distinct pleasure of joining an event hosted by Live Nation Women. Thank you to Ali Harnell, president and chief strategy officer for Live Nation Women, for being a tireless champion of my work and for moderating a superb conversation with my friend, the phenomenal reporter Brittany Jones-Cooper.
Finally, I’m thrilled to share the PBS NewsHour segment that aired last week. I actually still can’t really believe this happened. It features my book, Mae Krier (the Rosie the Riveter from chapter one) and Pauli Murray’s niece, Rosita Stevens-Holsey. Rosita is doing tremendous work to celebrate her aunt’s achievements and legacy.
Profound thanks to correspondent Amna Nawaz and her entire team for bringing WOMEN MONEY POWER to an even bigger audience.
And one final, shameless request this week. If you’ve read the book, I would massively appreciate it if you could take just 30 seconds to post a review on Amazon using this link. If Goodreads is your jam, that’s just as great and you can leave a review it here. Thank you so much for your support, as ever!
Upcoming Public Events
LONDON
April 8 (7pm) I’ll be at Waterstones, Trafalgar Square, in conversation with the author of WOMEN WHO WON, Ros Ball. Buy your ticket here!
April 11 (6pm) I’ll be at The Conduit Club in conversation with Paul van Zyl, Co-Founder of The Conduit. Register here!
I can totally relate to this Josie. For me it wasn’t just pink that was out of bounds but also red, bright yellow, purple! Now I am also experimenting with these colours and it is a revelation that I can do that and still be a feminist!