My daughter is beautiful. At least, I’ve always thought so and, like many mothers of babies and toddlers, I enjoyed the recognition of her gorgeousness from others. “Isn’t she cute?” “Her eyes are so pretty!” “Wow, what lovely thick hair!”
There are, of course, many other wonderful things about my youngest – her voracious appetite for books and wicked comic timing for a start – but, as she morphed from baby to toddler to young lady, I noticed how strangers commented on her looks much more than they did with my son.
To my surprise, I found that I was doing the same thing. My daughter and I loved choosing outfits together and learning how to style hair in buns and braids, whereas – the occasional demand for a mullet notwithstanding – my son showed far less interest in his appearance.
I assuaged my guilt over whether I was reinforcing stereotypes with the truth that there is creativity in outward expression, and made sure to remind my child that there are more important things than looks.
Then came the party. My daughter was no longer a little girl but an 11-year-old. Sparkling in a midnight-blue jumpsuit, she was excited about dancing and cake. Together, we mingled with family, friends and strangers. A man in his 70s approached us: a kind-faced, jolly type who was delighted with the surprisingly good weather and his gin. Then, without prompting, he ran his eyes the length of my daughter.
“You’re a very attractive young lady, aren’t you?”
Technically, his question was merely a variation on the compliments we had exchanged with other women and girls at the party just minutes before. But I felt the mood shift.
My daughter’s smile became awkward. Suddenly everything about her – her dipped head, her flushed cheeks, her shoulders, which curled a fraction to make her seem ever so slightly smaller – conveyed a sense of embarrassment and shame.
The man who “complimented” my 11-year-old displayed no similar signs of discomfort. In his eyes, I imagine he had done nothing wrong. But, witnessing my daughter’s obvious unease, I was angry. Could he not see he had made her feel self-conscious? Did he really believe that voicing his opinion on a child’s appearance was acceptable? I asked him neither of these questions of course, silenced by good manners. I didn’t want to make him feel awkward. I was afraid to make a scene.
It was only later that I apologised to my daughter. I had prioritised a stranger’s comfort over her own and potentially taught her to do the same. My mum and I have long joked about how, when I was a student, I worked the phrase “discovering her own self-worth” into every English literature essay I submitted, from GCSE to degree-level. But, apparently, it was something I struggled to put into practice. In that moment, my response felt like a feminist fail.
Only it wasn’t. My daughter and I have often spoken about that afternoon, with my son and husband in on the conversation, too. I’ve shared many of my own uncomfortable experiences, from the man who shouted at me “look at the tits on her” when I was 12, to the cafe manager who touched my bum while I worked as a waitress, when I was 15. After the latter, I snuck off in tears to call my mum, who whisked me away, concocting a forgotten appointment as an excuse for my sudden departure. Neither of us challenged the manager about what he had done.
I tell my children these stories to place my daughter’s experience at the party into cultural and generational context. For so long, society has encouraged women and girls to be accommodating of men, while simultaneously normalising the sexism, objectification and violence they so often experience at their hands. As a result, many of us still find it difficult to articulate our unease. That incident prompted my daughter and I to discuss alternative responses to comments or requests that leave us feeling uneasy: “I’m not comfortable with what you said”, or “I don’t find that funny”, or “No”.
I still find that last one the hardest. Its monosyllabic brevity feels rude – but I’d rather the discomfort that comes from saying “no” than the horror of what can come from saying nothing.
I continue to teach my daughter not to smile or say thank you in the face of unwanted compliments. And if she is perceived as bad mannered, I’m OK with that. Men’s egos are no longer the priority. And what is? My daughter – discovering her own self-worth.
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Bad Manners by Amy Beashel is published on 27 March (HarperNorth, £16.99). To support the Guardian and the Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.