The other day a friend on social media asked when she was expected to grow up and not respond to compliments with “Shut up! YOU are.” And I found myself thinking (and typing) “Please tell me it’s at least 43 as it will give me a few weeks to mature.”
I’ve never actually uttered the words, “Shut up you are” in reaction to a compliment, but I do suck at receiving compliments and I have as long as I can remember. I often give the complimenter a suspicious look that says, "why are you doing this to me," and my thank you is often hard and forced and not at all sincere. But this friend’s post made me think about why. Why is my reaction often defensive and wary?
Well, one reason is easy: I don’t trust compliments. One of my earliest memories of a compliment-that-wasn’t was when I was 9. I was in my fourth grade classroom when two boys approached me. One of them said, very sincerely, “Hey Mia, you’re really pretty.” And I remember feeling so pleased, so relieved, so surprised, that someone was saying something nice to me for a change. I turned to say thank you at which point, of course, he said, “pretty ugly.” And they had a good laugh while I turned away, my face burning with embarrassment and anger — not because they made me feel ugly, but because they made me feel stupid. The dumb boys had gotten one over on me. I was socially ostracized my whole time in grade school and high school, so to open myself up to what seemed like it might be a positive social interaction and to have this compliment be a Trojan Horse of sorts reinforced my suspicion that no one was to be trusted at their word.
But upon closer examination I realize that I’m not terrible at taking all compliments. Compliments about skills that I work (or have worked) hard on like my singing or my playwriting or my stand-up comedy, I’ll take those fairly well. It’s nice when people acknowledge the efforts we make. And that translates to appearance as well. If I get all gussied up and no one tells me I look nice all day, I’m gonna be a bit crest-fallen. But when people say “You’re hot,” or even “You’re pretty,” (which is completely different from “You look pretty today,” by the way) it makes me really uncomfortable. Because looks are not a skill, it’s not something I’m working on. I rarely remember to wear make-up. I brush my hair about twice a month. Regardless I have little-to-no control over my attractiveness to anyone else, so it feels weird to take credit for it, and even awkward to acknowledge it.
But I realize, even as I type this, that there’s more. There’s something deeper. And it’s not a problem with me being unable to accept a compliment. It’s a problem of compliments often being thinly veiled accusations and attacks disguised as social niceties. And one could argue that this is my interpretation and not reality, but one would be wrong. I shall explain:
I have a colleague that I’ve known for almost two decades. He has — many times — told me that I’m very pretty, always a sudden non-sequitur, often in front of others. And I’ve tried to take it graciously because he never seemed to be hitting on me and had never done anything else to make me feel uncomfortable. And I’d always felt that it was my problem, my inability to take a compliment that created the discomfort. But then a few months ago when he was telling me how pretty I am, he mentioned admiring my photos on Facebook. And that was a little creepy, like why would you tell me that?
Realizing that, even in the loosey-goosey world of theatre, this qualified as sexual harassment, I told him that he was making me uncomfortable and he needed to stop saying these things to me. I know he heard me, but clearly he didn’t believe me, because a couple months later I found myself alone with him in a small elevator. And he turned to me and said, “you’re so pretty,” to which I responded, “I’ve asked you not to say things like that.” But he didn’t hear that because he was busy still talking.
“And I think you know it, too,” he said.
There it was: the accusation unveiled, the subtext of every compliment he had ever paid me. He was blaming me for being pretty and parading my pretty self about and making him notice.
Had he been another kind of person, I would have been afraid in that elevator, in that moment. Because I’m fairly certain many a rapist has uttered those words: “And I think you know it, too.” The subtext of that of course is, “so what I’m about to do to you is really your fault, because you’re tempting me and you know it.” But I wasn’t afraid because I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, even touch me. But I was sorely disappointed in him because even after I had set boundaries and made it clear that this sort of attention was not ok, he still did it.
But you know what? A piece of me was validated too. Because suddenly I knew that all my years of discomfort over his “compliments” were warranted. I wasn’t overreacting. Feeling defensive and uncomfortable was completely natural because there was a very subtle attack going on; maybe an attack he wasn’t even conscious of, but an attack nonetheless.
So I’d like to end with a lesson. It’s both a grammar lesson and a lesson in objectification.
Most little girls love dresses. They love getting a new dress and bouncing around in it having everyone tell them how pretty they look. When you’re little you can grow out of a dress in less than two dress-worthy occasions, so you cherish each opportunity to wear one you particularly like. Grown women enjoy being complimented on their dresses too. The thing is, “That dress looks good on you,” and “You look good in that dress,” are two very different statements. In the first sentence the dress is the subject and the woman is the object, but the woman is not objectified. In the second sentence the women is the subject of the sentence, but she is objectified.
If I see a woman I don’t know wearing a fabulous outfit and looking fabulous in it, I will often say “That looks great on you.” I do this because I’m thinking it, and I know that a random, unsolicited compliment can brighten an otherwise shitty day, so I say it. I don’t say “You look great in that,” because that’s a bit too personal somehow. It implies that I know how she looks in other things, which I don’t.
NOTE: Unfortunately there are not many situations where a man can compliment a woman he doesn’t know on her appearance and not be taken for creepy. “That looks great on you,” to a stranger when you are the only two people in an elevator (or the only two people anywhere) is not recommended. In passing, on a busy street, when you keep moving and make it clear that you have no intention to stop and harass the woman? That’s usually fine.
Also I’m not saying “You look great in that dress,” should never be spoken. On the contrary, it can be a simple-yet-effective bit of foreplay; a card that can be played early in the evening to lay the ground work for later. But only with someone who is already an intimate. Otherwise the dress should always be the subject of the sentence.
I was at a benefit recently, wearing my favorite party dress, and a stranger in the building — not a benefit attendee, but an employee of the building, I think — said, “Nice dress,” as he passed me in the hallway. I smiled and said thank you over my shoulder, and I felt three years old again in the best possible way. And I felt pretty. And I realized that that’s how a compliment is supposed to make you feel. Not blamed, not accused, just good. Turns out I do know how to take a compliment after all.
© 2013 by Mia McCullough. All Rights Reserved.
I’ve never actually uttered the words, “Shut up you are” in reaction to a compliment, but I do suck at receiving compliments and I have as long as I can remember. I often give the complimenter a suspicious look that says, "why are you doing this to me," and my thank you is often hard and forced and not at all sincere. But this friend’s post made me think about why. Why is my reaction often defensive and wary?
Well, one reason is easy: I don’t trust compliments. One of my earliest memories of a compliment-that-wasn’t was when I was 9. I was in my fourth grade classroom when two boys approached me. One of them said, very sincerely, “Hey Mia, you’re really pretty.” And I remember feeling so pleased, so relieved, so surprised, that someone was saying something nice to me for a change. I turned to say thank you at which point, of course, he said, “pretty ugly.” And they had a good laugh while I turned away, my face burning with embarrassment and anger — not because they made me feel ugly, but because they made me feel stupid. The dumb boys had gotten one over on me. I was socially ostracized my whole time in grade school and high school, so to open myself up to what seemed like it might be a positive social interaction and to have this compliment be a Trojan Horse of sorts reinforced my suspicion that no one was to be trusted at their word.
But upon closer examination I realize that I’m not terrible at taking all compliments. Compliments about skills that I work (or have worked) hard on like my singing or my playwriting or my stand-up comedy, I’ll take those fairly well. It’s nice when people acknowledge the efforts we make. And that translates to appearance as well. If I get all gussied up and no one tells me I look nice all day, I’m gonna be a bit crest-fallen. But when people say “You’re hot,” or even “You’re pretty,” (which is completely different from “You look pretty today,” by the way) it makes me really uncomfortable. Because looks are not a skill, it’s not something I’m working on. I rarely remember to wear make-up. I brush my hair about twice a month. Regardless I have little-to-no control over my attractiveness to anyone else, so it feels weird to take credit for it, and even awkward to acknowledge it.
But I realize, even as I type this, that there’s more. There’s something deeper. And it’s not a problem with me being unable to accept a compliment. It’s a problem of compliments often being thinly veiled accusations and attacks disguised as social niceties. And one could argue that this is my interpretation and not reality, but one would be wrong. I shall explain:
I have a colleague that I’ve known for almost two decades. He has — many times — told me that I’m very pretty, always a sudden non-sequitur, often in front of others. And I’ve tried to take it graciously because he never seemed to be hitting on me and had never done anything else to make me feel uncomfortable. And I’d always felt that it was my problem, my inability to take a compliment that created the discomfort. But then a few months ago when he was telling me how pretty I am, he mentioned admiring my photos on Facebook. And that was a little creepy, like why would you tell me that?
Realizing that, even in the loosey-goosey world of theatre, this qualified as sexual harassment, I told him that he was making me uncomfortable and he needed to stop saying these things to me. I know he heard me, but clearly he didn’t believe me, because a couple months later I found myself alone with him in a small elevator. And he turned to me and said, “you’re so pretty,” to which I responded, “I’ve asked you not to say things like that.” But he didn’t hear that because he was busy still talking.
“And I think you know it, too,” he said.
There it was: the accusation unveiled, the subtext of every compliment he had ever paid me. He was blaming me for being pretty and parading my pretty self about and making him notice.
Had he been another kind of person, I would have been afraid in that elevator, in that moment. Because I’m fairly certain many a rapist has uttered those words: “And I think you know it, too.” The subtext of that of course is, “so what I’m about to do to you is really your fault, because you’re tempting me and you know it.” But I wasn’t afraid because I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, even touch me. But I was sorely disappointed in him because even after I had set boundaries and made it clear that this sort of attention was not ok, he still did it.
But you know what? A piece of me was validated too. Because suddenly I knew that all my years of discomfort over his “compliments” were warranted. I wasn’t overreacting. Feeling defensive and uncomfortable was completely natural because there was a very subtle attack going on; maybe an attack he wasn’t even conscious of, but an attack nonetheless.
So I’d like to end with a lesson. It’s both a grammar lesson and a lesson in objectification.
Most little girls love dresses. They love getting a new dress and bouncing around in it having everyone tell them how pretty they look. When you’re little you can grow out of a dress in less than two dress-worthy occasions, so you cherish each opportunity to wear one you particularly like. Grown women enjoy being complimented on their dresses too. The thing is, “That dress looks good on you,” and “You look good in that dress,” are two very different statements. In the first sentence the dress is the subject and the woman is the object, but the woman is not objectified. In the second sentence the women is the subject of the sentence, but she is objectified.
If I see a woman I don’t know wearing a fabulous outfit and looking fabulous in it, I will often say “That looks great on you.” I do this because I’m thinking it, and I know that a random, unsolicited compliment can brighten an otherwise shitty day, so I say it. I don’t say “You look great in that,” because that’s a bit too personal somehow. It implies that I know how she looks in other things, which I don’t.
NOTE: Unfortunately there are not many situations where a man can compliment a woman he doesn’t know on her appearance and not be taken for creepy. “That looks great on you,” to a stranger when you are the only two people in an elevator (or the only two people anywhere) is not recommended. In passing, on a busy street, when you keep moving and make it clear that you have no intention to stop and harass the woman? That’s usually fine.
Also I’m not saying “You look great in that dress,” should never be spoken. On the contrary, it can be a simple-yet-effective bit of foreplay; a card that can be played early in the evening to lay the ground work for later. But only with someone who is already an intimate. Otherwise the dress should always be the subject of the sentence.
I was at a benefit recently, wearing my favorite party dress, and a stranger in the building — not a benefit attendee, but an employee of the building, I think — said, “Nice dress,” as he passed me in the hallway. I smiled and said thank you over my shoulder, and I felt three years old again in the best possible way. And I felt pretty. And I realized that that’s how a compliment is supposed to make you feel. Not blamed, not accused, just good. Turns out I do know how to take a compliment after all.
© 2013 by Mia McCullough. All Rights Reserved.
