Now that Halloween has passed and the holiday 
season encroaches upon us, my anticipation for 
a relatively new “holiday” tradition has begun. 
Like many other Spotify users, early November is 
when I begin both eagerly awaiting and bracing 
myself for Spotify’s 2021 Wrapped. Launched by 
the music streaming giant in 2015 and originally 
called “Year in Music,” Spotify Wrapped gives 
listeners a summary of their streaming habits over 
the past year. And social media sharing is integral to 
Wrapped’s marketing model, since Spotify provides 
graphics about listening stats which can be added to 
Instagram stories or shared on Twitter.
This social aspect is why some users, including 
myself, may feel a slight sense of dread as the New 
Year approaches: What embarrassing realities 
might Spotify expose about my music taste? I didn’t 
listen to that many “Glee” songs this year, did I? 
What about all those late-night study sessions spent 
singing along to Broadway show tunes? Or, for those 
of us who pride ourselves on our “alternative” tastes, 
could we be surprised to find Wrapped reveals our 
listening habits to be a bit, well, basic?
It’s possible that a few cringe-worthy tracks will 
end up in my Wrapped playlist. But the musical 
shame I’m most bracing myself for this Wrapped 
season is not a question, but instead a certainty: the 
English rock band the Smiths will definitely repeat 
as my most-played artist of the year.
My shame about the Smiths has nothing to do 
with concerns about having cheesy, basic or “bad” 
taste. They’re considered one of the most influential 
bands of the 1980s and British music website 
“NME” ranks their album The Queen is Dead as 
the greatest album ever. Beyond their sound, they 
were subversive and anti-establishment during 
an especially conservative era in British politics, 
utilizing their influence to challenge then-Prime 
Minister Margaret Thatcher. The working title for 
The Queen is Dead, in fact, was Margaret on the 
Guillotine. More personally, as someone who has at 
times felt isolated by my convictions about animal 
exploitation, their 1985 track Meat is Murder is a 
frequent comfort, and one of the only animal rights 
songs I’ve found to be a pleasant and powerful listen 
rather than overly self-congratulatory.
Clearly, the Smiths were an important and high-
caliber band, both musically and politically. So if it’s 
not embarrassing taste I’m concerned about, what 
exactly is my issue with the Smiths topping my 
Spotify Wrapped once again this year?
It boils down to one name, a name that has 
probably already invaded the mind of anyone 
familiar with the Smiths: Morrissey.
Stephen Morrissey, mononymously referred to 

by his last name, served as the Smiths frontman 
and is responsible for the lyrics that have resonated 
with so many from the 1980s through today. This 
includes those on “Bigmouth Strikes Again,” which 
Morrissey wrote to poke fun at the music media 
for overanalyzing everything he said. In recent 
years, however, “Bigmouth” has become an apt 
characterization of Morrissey. And I’d wager pretty 
much every Smiths fan desperately wishes he would 
just shut up.
Unfortunately, his big mouth strikes again and 
again. For example, during a performance on “The 
Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon” in 2019, 
Morrissey wore a “For Britain” badge, solidifying 
his support for the far-right political party founded 
by anti-Islamic activist Anne Marie Waters. (Even 
former right-wing politician Nigel Farage, known 
as Mr. Brexit, has characterized her supporters 
as “Nazis and racists.”) He has made disparaging 
comments about British politicians of color, 
characterized Chinese people as a “subspecies” and 
claimed everyone “prefers their own race.” And 
during the #MeToo movement, Morrissey victim-
blamed the survivors of Kevin Spacey and Harvey 
Weinstein.
The Guardian writer Tim Jonze argues that 
evidence of Morrissey’s violent views were there 
in the 1980s, such as his distaste for “Black modern 
music.” Still, his takes are jarring and almost absurd 
to anyone familiar with his lyrics or personal 
life. Morrissey is the son of Irish immigrants. 
He is also a product of Manchester, arguably the 
prototypical “working-class” city. He wrote lines 
such as “I am human and I need to be loved / just 
like everybody else does.” He embraced sexual and 
gender ambiguity; for example, he often performed 
with a bunch of gladiolus flowers, a stereotypically 
feminine object, hanging out of his back pocket. 
More than anything, his lyrics were often dedicated 
to feeling unheard and uncared for by the world. 
How could somebody who seemed to stand for 
so many of the right things, to be an advocate for 
the marginalized, turn out to be so wrong and 
misguided?
Perhaps there isn’t an answer to that question. 
But for any Smiths fan that finds themselves as 
vehemently opposed to Morrissey as I do (which 
should be every Smiths fan), there’s a more 
important question to ask ourselves: Well, what am 
I meant to do now?
This question is not unique to fans of the Smiths. 
It’s difficult to completely avoid the works of 
every controversial creator, especially since they 
exist within all forms of content. Maybe John 
Lennon or Michael Jackson will feature in your 
Spotify Wrapped. Maybe Woody Allen or Quentin 
Tarantino directed one of your favorite films.

The first time I can remember considering 
my career was browsing through the games on 
Barbie.com. 
I was 5, maybe 6, squished into a chair with 
my best friend during a playdate. We pecked at 
the keyboard with pointer fingers still sticky 
from snack time, until a glimmering pink 
screen asked us the fateful question:
Which Barbie do you want to be?
We had myriad options to choose from: 
Hairdresser Barbie, Fashion Designer Barbie, 
Sports Barbie, Makeup Artist Barbie, Doctor 
Barbie, Salesgirl Barbie, Lifeguard Barbie, 
Schoolgirl Barbie — the list went on. And these 
days, that list is even longer; Barbie’s become a 
writer, an astronaut, a small business owner 
and president, among other things. 
In some ways, the breadth of her career 
choices is empowering. This toy, a staple that 
many girls have looked up to for generations, is 
telling them that they can have any career they 
aspire to. At the same time, Barbie is offering 
them education on what some of those options 
can be. That’s a really noble, and important, 
message.
But it’s also Barbie. 
Despite all of the aspirational messaging, 
she’s still a plastic, stylishly-dressed, perfectly-
coiffed standard we’re telling girls to live up 
to. Even if Barbie is no longer always white, 
blonde, blue-eyed and stick-thin (which she 
still is the majority of the time), her main appeal 
continues to lie in dressing her up and playing 
with her hair. Her main draw is still her looks. 
And somewhere beneath it all, even with the 
countless impressive careers she’s had over 
the years, Barbie is what she always has been: 
superficial. Making her a pediatrician or salon 
owner or athlete won’t cover up the fact that her 
“progress” feels a little, well, fake. 
The new Barbie is what some might call a 
girlboss. 
“Girlboss” is defined as “to make something 
or someone appear as a feminist idol or 
inspiration for profit, despite the numerous 
flaws of the person.” The term was coined 
by Sophia Amoruso, founder of the fast 
fashion website Nasty Gal, who wrote a 2014 
autobiography titled #GIRLBOSS. Amoruso’s 
literal rags-to-riches storyline was inspiring, 
and she gained a massive following with many 
young professionals looking up to her. That is, 
until Nasty Gal filed for bankruptcy protection 

in 2015, citing “toxic” workplace culture and 
leadership issues.
After the fallout of the ordeal, the term 
slowly became a less aspirational mindset and 
more of a backhanded compliment. My editor, 
whom I would characterize as “take-no-shit, 
badass bitch,” admitted that being called 
“girlboss” makes her uncomfortable and that 
she takes it as more of an insult. The girlboss 
went from an example of ambition and hustle 
to a personification of tokenism and unhealthy 
attitudes. University of Michigan Rackham 
student Megan Kelly, who studies sociology 
with a focus on gender and work explained 
how this developed to me over Zoom. 
“There’s just a broader sort of idea of, what 
are the consequences of saying that the way 
that omen should succeed at work, is to do 
more, the sort of the ‘lean in’ type of thing,” 
Kelly said. “Part of what’s important about that 
is that it’s not just individuals. It’s 
built into the way we structure 
jobs, the way we think 
about work in the United 
States, 
and 
therefore 
encouraging people to 
sort of invest themselves 
more is essentially saying 
that the way to succeed 
is to put more into 
that system and it 
doesn’t 
really 
do 
anything to address 
the root causes. That’s 
problematic 
because 
no 
matter how hard you lean in, 
that’s not going to fix those 
systemic inequalities.”
The 
girlboss 
essentially 
became 
the 
early-2000s 
postfeminist caricature of the 
career woman. You know the 
type: the queen of the stiletto-
heeled 
walk-and-talk, 
she’s 
working 24/7 (she’s the glue 
holding the 
office 

together), constantly cradles her phone 
between her shoulder and her ear so she can 
multitask and has a stylish designer wardrobe 
far beyond what her salary could realistically 
buy. She’s probably played by Katherine Heigl, 
and there is a very strong chance that, at some 
point in the movie, she falls in love with (a) her 
boss, or (b) a man she meets because of the job 
she’s always at. And just like that, with a wave of 
her ever-present PalmPilot or BlackBerry and a 
click of her sky-high, sexy-but-still-professional 
heels, the girlboss fixed everything that was 
wrong with our workplace culture. The 
girlboss gets her career and her happy ending. 
She didn’t need feminism anymore. All the 
progress has been made.
In part, the girlboss became that because the 
goal we gave her was impossible. (Unattainable 
goals for women? Groundbreaking.) We 
wanted the girlboss to fix everything that was 
wrong in our workplaces: the competitiveness, 
the workaholism, the fraternity-style sexist 
collegiality, the racism. The girlboss was 
supposed to represent the change in the 
workplace, but more than that, she was 
supposed to bring that change to the 
workplace. 
Instead, she 
was right at 
home there within 
all of these workaholic, 
toxic patriarchal structures, 
and we couldn’t forgive her for 
it. Instead of changing the system, the 
girlboss just took on those traditional 
leadership roles and claimed the problem 
had been solved by the nature of her 
being there. But, by deeming her “girlboss” 
instead of just “boss,” we kept her separate, 
somehow othered, in the workplace world 
that she’d become a part of. 
“It gets wrapped up with her being a 
woman in a position of authority,” Kelly 
said. “(Girlboss is) an attempt to reconcile 
femininity and being like, 
‘Yes, I can fulfill our 
cultural ideals of 
femininity, 
and at the 
same 

time, I can have a powerful position at work. 
I can combine those two things successfully.’ 
Yeah, when you criticize that term, of course, 
you’re kind of suggesting that those two things 
are not compatible in some way. But I also think 
that there are reasons to think based on our 
culture that those two things are already not 
viewed as compatible.”
Even in the spaces created by, and 
theoretically for, girlbosses, the problems 
remain, proving that the change promised 
by the girlboss was surface-level at best and 
negligent at worst. Nasty Gal had a toxic 
environment. 
Reformation 
and 
Glossier 
(girlboss-founded 
clothing 
and 
makeup 
lines, respectively) had thinly disguised but 
ever-present racism. Those brands are still 
thriving (at least for now), whether it’s because 
of their vocal commitment to change and 
accountability in the wake of these stories, 
or because of their widespread popularity. 
Interestingly, though, the viral fashion blog 
Man Repeller folded after former employees 
called out their ex-(girl)boss for performative 
activism; it likely won’t be the last company, 
female-founded or otherwise, to shutter under 
increased scrutiny for these issues.
These cases made one thing clear, though: 
The girlboss didn’t change the system. She 
was a product of its benevolence, and as a 
result, she became a part of the system. We 
found the chance she affected insufficient, 
as we realized that not only was she a part of 
the broken system, but also that she wasn’t as 
representative of us as we thought (or hoped) 
she was. 
She was white, cis-gendered, straight and 
very often wealthy, and eventually, the actions 
of many so-called (even sometimes self-titled) 
girlbosses reminded us that her gender identity 
alone did not ensure she would fight for change 
that would include everyone.
“It’s possible for a woman to be both a 
feminist and to be racist,” Kelly said. “It is 
possible for people to be working towards 
something that feels liberatory for them as a 
white woman, and for those things to not 
actually represent or perhaps even be 
harmful to women who are not white, 
and so it could be that they’re just 
completely blinkered to the fact 
that the feminist ideals that they 
are advocating for represent 
their own experience as white 
women.”
In the end, the girlboss went 
from iconic to ironic. Maybe 

that’s just a product of our culture, because 
these days, we’re making everything ironic, 
even (maybe especially) things that started 
out sincerely. Or it could be a generational 
gap: girlboss was a millennial ideal, but a 
Gen Z insult. So while millennials may think 
of it as a compliment, Gen Z-ers are taken 
aback by its less-than-shiny implications. But 
for ever-increasing numbers of us, girlboss 
falls somewhere on the spectrum between 
backhanded compliment and outright insult.
And let’s not lose sight of the fact that in 
this use of the term, we’re still denigrating 
ambitious women in the professional space. I 
don’t mean that the problematic examples this 
article discusses should be forgiven because 
they’re women, nor do I mean to minimize their 
very real shortcomings. But by using “girlboss” 
as an insult, are we implying that it’s degrading 
to be compared to career-driven women? 
Are we implying that that’s a bad thing for a 
woman to be? There’s something off-putting 
about insulting someone by comparing them to 
career-driven women, like we still see ambition 
as a bad thing for a woman to have. 
“The question is, can we criticize the parts 
of the individual’s actions that are problematic 
without criticizing her as without, without 
also criticizing her for being a woman who is 
ambitious in her career and has pursued certain 
goals?” Kelly said.
Ultimately, there are so many complexities 
lurking beneath the pale-pink, boldface-type 
package of the #girlboss. It’s a tangled web 
she’s been woven into, and it’s unclear whether 
unraveling it is even possible or desirable. The 
girlboss has come to represent so much toxicity, 
but we still want — we still need — the change she 
claimed to champion and represent. But how do 
we get there without becoming something of her 
ourselves? It seems to be yet another impossible 
task set by the patriarchy, now in the looming 
shadow of our past problems. 
In the face of this seemingly perpetual 
conundrum, I’d like to hold onto a little of that 
girlboss optimism. Don’t get me wrong — 
she was unhealthily committed to her job, to 
outdated, harmful power structures and ideals 
and her empowerment was often exclusionary. 
I don’t endorse any of that. But at the same 
time, the girlboss was so sure she could make 
a difference, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t 
envy her in that regard. In the end, the girlboss 
isn’t the answer to the problem (in some ways, 
she even helped perpetuate it). But maybe, 
somewhere in her story, there’s a lesson to be 
learned on how to solve it. 

Gaslight, gatekeep: How “girlboss” went from aspirational to insulting

My favorite high school French teacher, 
Madame Orlowsky, began each school year 
by telling her students a story. She told us to 
close our eyes and picture ourselves within 
the narrative she was about to tell.
The tale went like this: You are out 
camping in the middle of the woods when you 
hear a rustle of branches nearby. Suddenly, a 
huge bear enters the clearing with two cubs 
following in her footsteps. She immediately 
sets her eyes on you, recognizing a threat 
to the safety of her children. The bear gets 
visibly more aggressive as her protective 
instincts activate. 
Possible plans of action flood through 
your head, common dilemmas of fight-or-
flight: Are you going to freeze up in fear? 
Should you run away? 
Ultimately, you decide to stand your 
ground. You stand up, put your hands on 
your hips, and tell the bear, “I’m no threat 
to you, and you don’t scare me.” You make it 
clear that you have established a temporary 
space for yourself, and though you don’t 
mean her or her cubs any harm, you are not 
going to pack up your trip because of a single 
brush-up with danger. You remain confident 
despite any distress you might feel. The bear 
recognizes your self-assuredness and her 
aggression subsides. She walks to the edge 
of the clearing, her children in tow, and 
disappears back into the woods.
The metaphor in Madame Orlowsky’s 
story was clear. Her fictitious tale highlighted 
how challenges are unpredictable and 
inevitable. They force you to reflect, to assess 
your situation and determine how you will 
endure it. If you approach the circumstances 
with conviction, rather than weighing 
yourself down with panic, your problems 
may just walk away.
By beginning her classes each year with 
this story — even before cracking open a 
single page of a French textbook — our 
teacher encouraged an atmosphere of 
fortitude and positivity in the classroom. I 
recognized the significance of her narrative 
upon hearing it for the first time.
I would not learn the depth of its real-life 
applicability until much later.
***
Gathered in a clearing, me, my parents 
and the rest of our hiking group began 
walking single-file onto the path, folding us 
into a world of towering pines. The Alaskan 

wilderness seemed incredibly alive, the 
rushing of the river and singing of birds — 
the constant soundtrack of our day at Katmai 
National Park and Preserve. As we walked, 
we talked about the exciting prospect of 
seeing some of the most thrilling wildlife in 
North America: the grizzly bears. 
My brother’s baseball team was 
participating in several tournaments 
throughout Alaska. My parents, wanting 
to both explore the legendary Alaskan 
landscape and escape from the endless 
baseball games, brought me on a day trip 
to the remote national park. We’d been to 
Alaska over a decade before, but on our 
second trip, my mother made a visit to 
Katmai a priority. It was almost guaranteed 
that you would see at least a handful of 
large grizzly bears gathered at the river 
that ran through the park. The trails from 
the rangers’ lodge led you right to the 
Brooks River, where you could see bears 
catching live salmon jumping out from the 
waterfalls. The prospect of witnessing this 
feat of nature astounded me; it seemed like 
a scene out of “Brother Bear” rather than a 
real-life possibility.
My head was filled with a mix of 
anticipation, elation and nervousness. 
Our group had just finished our bear 
safety training in which park rangers 
simultaneously 
emphasized 
the 
magnificence of the animals as well as the 
necessity of extreme caution. We were in 
their home, and one stupid human action 
could result in alarming consequences for all. 
I was at the front of our small procession, 
looking up at the canopies while keeping 
my eyes peeled for unexpected animals. 
I breathed in the fresh air, reveling in the 
remoteness for a moment when my peace 
was disrupted by a panicked shout of “Get 
off the path!”
I looked back, hearing another round of 
“Get off the path!” from a few others before 
I registered that my parents were flinging 
themselves into the surrounding woods 
adjacent to the trail. My mind processed 
what my body did not immediately register: 
There was a bear, running full speed, 
coming directly at me. If I didn’t move, it 
would plow right through me.
I followed my parents’ lead and jumped 
to the side and hurdled into the woods and 
over a fallen tree milliseconds before I was 
trampled by the racing bear. The creature 
was so close that if I had reached out my 
hand, I would have been able to stroke its 
thick brown fur. The safety course warned 

us not to make sudden movements because 
they startle the animals. But in this case, 
moving rapidly out of the way was the only 
way to prevent any serious bodily harm.
I took in the people standing within 
the trees around me, still not believing 
what just transpired. We all seemed to be 
wondering the same thing: What was the 
bear running from?

We got our answer seconds later as 
another bear came charging in. It slowed 
down, coming to a stop directly in front 
of me, less than 20 feet away. Cantering in 
close behind it were two cubs, following 
their mother as she ran off the previous 
young male bear who came too close to her 
offspring.
We remained silent, not believing that this 
had happened less than five minutes into our 
Katmai adventure. The mother proceeded to 
take in her surroundings, her glance settling 
on the people crowded into the trees.
The rangers advised us to give the bears 
a wide berth of 50 feet and to move aside if 
we saw them walking on the trail, granting 
them the path for their own foot travel. I 
had quickly broken this first rule — I was 
definitely less than 50 feet away. But, abiding 
by the rangers’ instructions, we all moved 
deeper into the woods, slowly giving her the 
path while keeping an eye on her movements. 
She remained there for several moments, 
staring back at us. For the moment, I simply 
absorbed the bear family’s beauty and the 
wildness of the moment.
After no more than 30 seconds, she and 
her children continued on their way, now 
rid of the foolish male that had threatened 
her family.
I don’t think Madame Orlowsky ever 
expected me to experience a real-life 
manifestation of her metaphor. Upon 
reflecting on my encounter, I now see that 
I didn’t run away, freeze or stand up to the 
bear like she had outlined in her narrative. 
Instead, I took a literal step back, observed 
the bear and respected her dominance 
within the woods. 

Artist on the guillotine
Confronting the bear in the woods

ABBY SNYDER
Statement Correspondent

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
6 — Wednesday, November 17, 2021

S T A T E M E N T

MARY ROLFES
Statement Correspondent

SARAH STOLAR
Statement Correspondent

Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com

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