New to the hobby in 2008, I assumed women could box in the Olympics, and was surprised to find this wasn’t reliably the case and thrilled when things changed. Having failed to secure tickets, I nearly nosebled with excitement when a friend offered to sell me hers. Katie Taylor‘s competing! Hero worship explosion!

So. That’s the background to this post. But what I want to talk about today is the Amateur International Boxing Association’s latest statement about women and boxing, which the Beeb reports thusly:

The latest talking point is not whether women’s boxing should become the newest Olympic discipline at London 2012, but what the boxers will actually wear when they compete.

During last year’s World Championships, the Amateur International Boxing Association (AIBA) presented competitors with skirts, rather than the usual shorts, which it wanted to “phase in for international competitions”.

AIBA asked boxers to trial the skirts, which they said would allow spectators to distinguish them from men.

There’s this, too:

“By wearing skirts, in my opinion, it gives a good impression, a womanly impression,” Poland coach Leszek Piotrowski told BBC Sport. “Wearing shorts is not a good way for women boxers to dress.”

My initial reaction? More flail than the semaphore alphabet. I’ve now slept on it and had a bucket of calming tea. There’s a lot of justified rage already out there. This is a shitty patronising move by AIBA, and one I find quite insulting, but no doubt this surprises nobody. So rather than just spitting WHAT THE BILLIONTH FUCK? about the place forever, here’s a bit of history and a bit of telly, via which we can consider for a moment what all this says about the neurosis we have about women who punch things.

I’m gonna start with Popeye. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

She’s A Knockout

Never Kick A Woman, a six-minute short in which Olive, with the aid of Popeye’s spinach, goes toe-to-toe for his affections with a Mae West-a-like female boxer who throws punches in a skirt and heeled boots, came out in August 1936.

Contemporary with the Berlin Olympics, this springs from a place where women didn’t commonly box at high profile, and the interaction between Olive, who transforms into a cat for her fighting sequence, and the boxer bombshell, is all a bit ooh-matron (“Not bad for the weaker sex!” remarks Popeye, before declaring a desire to sample “her equipment”). However, women were competing with pretty solid regularity, as they had been throughout the nineteenth century, in underground/amateur events, with varying levels of safety and credence afforded them, although they were often fetishised by the small press coverage they received. In the Victorian and Edwardian eras, the overall feel of women’s events was that of a circus prizefight. There’re many surviving photographs of women boxing from this period, some in skirts, some in bloomers. But things develop, and from about 1920 onwards, if you look at the images on this webpage, they’re also commonly wearing shorts, revealing that Poland coach Leszek “not a way for women boxers to dress” Piotrowski doesn’t really go in for research. Or even Google Images.

Prize-Fighting Amazons

That article also nails the early social response to women’s boxing in the 20th century:

While the battered body of the male boxer was a symbol of the defeat of heroic masculinity, the battered body of the female boxer was the very denial of the supposed essence of femininity and a symbol of brutalization and dehumanization, at the same time creating an image of exciting and animalistic sensuality. For that reason, women’s boxing always attracted male voyeurs – not only working men, but also local dignitaries and businessmen.

This attitude prevails – YouTube’s comments are often a bear garden, but comments left on the Popeye cartoon include quite seriously invested gems like “I love that sexy blonde beating Olive senseless”. Amazon’s fancy dress catalogue also includes some heavily eroticised “boxer babe” outfits, almost all of which are pink and satin, and some of which have skirts.

All of which is to say: skirts in boxing generally collide in two contexts: erotic fancy dress, or “vintage” prizefights as we might popularly imagine them – even if in reality they might’ve looked like this, this or this – it seems to have been a matter of personal preference and the general variation across continents and regional scenes. Reintroducing skirts at this stage in the development of women’s boxing is a bit like citing Edwardian paintings of ‘women wrestling nude in ancient Sparta’ where they’re all looking conveniently sexy and liberated as definite historical fact for what that shit was really like – it’s easy to throw up your hands and say “this is the traditional feminine way for women to box” when the historical truth, or the reality of who this is all for, may contain extra layers of complexity. Exoticising women who box professionally does them no favours, and because it carries with it the aesthetic of prizefighting, insisting they skirt up will do just that. There’s no easy way to divorce the garment from this sort of context, and especially not the way the AIBA are handling it. It reeks of “Cor blimey these girls can punch!” and when tabloid joshing and Popeye-style “wanna check out that goyl’s equipment!” are being encouraged by the governing body… that’s a very sexist problem there.

Rather than promoting the boxers themselves, who work unbelievably hard to get where they are with sweet FA big press recognition, AIBA, whether it intends to or not, is pandering to prizefight imagery with this decision. This, in turn, selects the kind of schoolboy-tabloid-YouTube-comment response to women in boxing as the primary favoured response. Women shouldn’t have to feel that they’re perfecting their footwork for a panel whose engagement with basic principles of equality barely extends beyond the level of a Popeye cartoon. What else are we supposed to feel?

A skirt is not, of course, disempowering in and of itself. Roller derby, for example, makes frequent use of skirts, booty shorts, and so on. The difference is one of context. Derby’s given rise to the whole idea of the ‘rollergirl’, who is free to mix feminine costume elements – thigh-socks, pleats, and so on – with imagery that subversively references horror, punk and violence. It has a consolidated identity as a predominantly female sport. Derby aesthetic pitches at an audience with heavy female participation, and has a significant queer following – so there’s a sense that the skirts aren’t really “for” a dominant privileged gender group, or being imposed from on high on the players. (I do wonder, if male Derby players wanted to wear skirts, whether they’d necessarily be stopped.)¹

Mantastic

Boxing, on the other hand, has deep roots in understandings of masculinity and male violence. “White collar boxing” and “chess boxing” (a round of violence, a round of chess, a round of violence) are popular phenomena within the boxing scene, and usually aimed near-exclusively at male participants. It crosses class boundaries in its universal appeal as a sport for men.

Just as it’s popular in media portrayals of working class male environments – Rocky channels his frustrations, while Billy Elliott longs to escape his mandatory classes – boxing also has a relationship with upper class expressions of masculinity around honour and gentlemanliness: Queensberry rules, and all that. But when we put women in the ring, there’s just something about the purity of action boxing involves – simply punching someone else, with an emphasis on the upper body as the weapon – that makes people actively dislike women across all social classes going near it. In a way that kickboxing or judo doesn’t. Amir Khan expressed his distaste about it a while ago, following in the footsteps of Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier, who laughed it up in 1978. (Gotta assume they later revised their opinions, since both their daughters went on to box and even fought each other.)

Women have enough crap to deal with in the boxing world without having to get in the ring with AIBA just to earn the right to a pair of shorts. This is a serious sport, which carries a risk of serious injury, and caricaturing women’s involvement in it does them a great disservice. There’s a lot of romance in boxing – the image of the boxer in film is universally that of a lone struggler, with personal issues, addictions and anger management all channelled into the ring. For female protagonists, usually that gritty struggle involves a fight with sexism too. The image these women cut is powerful and often inspiring – but whatever you think of Million Dollar Baby you can’t quite see Hilary Swank shutting up and donning a skirt.

My favourite boxing film? Girlfight. It’s supposed to show fictional examples of sexist behaviour in boxing and in life – partly as part of the pattern all boxing movies tend to follow of lone-struggler-makes-good, and partly in order to affirm a positive message specifically to women who want to go there. It’s depressing to realise just how much truth there is in that film, and how far we have to go.

I hope Katie Taylor’s forthright dismissal of the skirt issue as “a disgrace” forecasts the failure of AIBA’s suggestion; the last thing anyone who’s fought that hard to get into the ring needs is a constant reminder that they’re still being cast as some sort of other.

1. If anyone has tried this, let me know how it went.

When you’re biting down on a piece of hot plastic you boiled in a saucepan, making sure to follow the instructions to the letter, carefully pressing the chewy, artificial tasting stuff around each of your teeth in turn, it’s hard not to wonder, what if I get hurt?

What if you get hurt? asked my mother, when I told her. My mother and I have an arrangement. She’s had both hips replaced; I’m allowed to tell her to slow down and be careful, and don’t start climbing up ladders and repainting your bathroom when you’re supposed to be recovering from major surgery. In return she’s the only person in the world allowed to tell me not to walk down dark big city streets alone at night, without getting a lecture on third wave feminism. We live in different cities. We worry about each other. I find myself filled with filial guilt that starting roller derby will worry my mother.

My dad was a boxer, as was his dad, and his dad before him. My great granddad was, apparently, a boxer who boxed illegally on the streets of Liverpool. Made a good living from it, I hear. My granddad’s house was full of my dad’s boxing trophies, and my dad would point at professional boxers on our TV and claim to have fought them in his youth. I have no doubt that, were I a boy, I would have been encouraged to be a boxer too.

I also have no doubt that, because I was a girl, I wasn’t. My suspicions are corroborated by the appeals to my vanity which came from both parents when I suggested the possibility. “But you’re so pretty,” they said. “Don’t you want to look pretty?” I did want to look pretty, I agreed. Even my heroes Jean Grey and Catwoman looked pretty when they were kicking ass; I didn’t want to lose that.¹

When, as a child, my nose was broken in a non-boxing related incident, I was as terrified as my parents that I would have a ‘boxer’s nose’. It’s still a bit weird-looking, to be honest.

I cracked a tooth last year. In a restaurant. At a business meeting. I played it cool, got drunk, laughed about it (even when one of the authors I was with tweeted about it), then got home, saw the big black gap where my front tooth should have been in the mirror and cried and cried! Could barely smile at my own boyfriend for the two weeks it took to get a false tooth put in.² I cannot begin to imagine what a blow to your self-esteem real, serious external injuries can be. Burns, scars, facial disfigurement. Charities such as Changing Faces are doing a lot to combat this stigma, but as a society we’re not there yet.

There is nothing wrong with wanting your child to be pretty – ‘pretty’ or at least ‘conventional-looking’ people have an easier life, in lots of respects. There is nothing wrong with wanting, yourself, to be ‘pretty’. (Common misconception about feminists, that.)

Technically, my false tooth was cosmetic surgery. Not life-threatening, not a source of pain when the old tooth is gone completely, not a medical condition. But I damn well wanted that cosmetic surgery. And there was small difference between me having that done, and an older woman replacing what she’s lost by having botox on her forehead. I don’t think I’d ever have botox, but I’m not going to condemn anyone for wanting it. How could I, as some magazines do, laugh at the ‘false’ breasts of an actress when part of me, when a part of my appeal (my smile) is false?

So yes, it is okay to want to be pretty. I can worry about getting seriously hurt, but I can also worry about suffering a cosmetic injury, (for instance, breaking my nose again,) without being ‘unfeminist’. I don’t need to feel bad that eight year-old me decided not to be a boxer, nor do I need to feel bad that, starting a dangerous sport, I am still a little afraid. This might seem obvious to some of you, but it took me a little while to not feel guilty about feeling this fear.

However, none of this changes the fact that society still finds it much easier to deal with men getting hurt than with women getting hurt.

I once had a conversation with a very sincere ex-co-worker about how when they’re talking about British soldiers on the news, if a woman soldier has died or been injured, it makes him furious. Angry that girls are allowed to go to war, angry that her family let her, angry that she wanted to go. He doesn’t have the same reaction to male soldiers. Historically and even now, the reaction of men to the death and injury of female soldiers is used as a reason why women shouldn’t go to war. (Which seems like such utterly backwards logic to me. If the men can’t deal with it, aren’t they the problem?) In the UK, among many other things they’re not allowed to do in the military, women still can’t fight on the front line. So much for equality in the workplace, I guess.

It’s understandable, if you look at the messages we’re fed every day. Don’t hit girls, save girls from danger – that’s the message pop culture gives us. So what does the hero do, if the girl’s willingly putting herself in danger? Get angry, as above, or try to persuade her otherwise?

If, as a woman, you start a dangerous sport, or make another decision that seems like it could damage your health (I remember the reactions from friends and family when I briefly wanted to join the police force), you will meet with a lot of resistance. I doubt that many men have to face the same concerns from their loved ones when they start a sport like boxing or rugby, even though there’s danger of death, serious injury, and the fact that no one seems to come out of these sports with their looks intact! Just ask rugby player Daryl Gibson’s nose or boxer Evander Holyfield’s ear. But it’s much more acceptable for a male sports celebrity to wear his scars with pride than for a woman to do the same.

If you’re a woman and you want to do something dangerous, you will meet with resistance to the idea. This resistance might come from a well-meaning place, from those who love you, it may even come from inside you. It’s okay to listen, but it can be useful to interrogate how your gender plays a role in the dialogue.

1. In fact, the only time I’ve ever known a comic book superhero to have her looks compromised by kicking ass was when Emma Frost had her nose broken by Sublime, in Grant Morrison’s New X-Men #118. As the X-Men’s resident high-class rich blonde bitch (well, it’s true), she’s also one of the only superheroes I’ve ever known admit to having plastic surgery, and therefore the ‘reset’ button could be pressed and Emma could be drawn with a perfect nose in all following issues.
2. Team BadRep’s editor Miranda only managed to get me out of the house by promising me alcohol and telling me the missing tooth made me look like a lady pirate of the high seas.