If you'd asked me not so long ago how I felt about women who use their sexuality to get ahead in life, I would have probably told you that it was counterproductive to the aims of feminism, would have been fully aware of the danger of contradicting some of my "we need to stop sexualising everything" rants, and would have told you that I choose not to enter into any of that stuff, personally.
But things change. Experiences change.
Without going into any sordid details about my personal life, I've come to understand that regardless of how I view myself and my sexuality, the world will always have its own separate perception. I was barely a teenager when I first started receiving attention from adult men in the street who would comment on my apparent "growth"; I was intimidated by teenage boys who attempted to physically assault me when I refused to go out with one of them; I reported sexual harassment to the police when I was 14; I had a middle-aged man come onto me at a deserted train station at midnight when I was 18 (barely relevant, but I've always looked about two or three years younger than my actual age). I wore jeans and jumpers, flat shoes and long coats. I didn't start wearing makeup until I was 18, and through all of this, regardless of how I looked to these strange leering men, I still felt like a child.
These experiences alone made me aware of the desperate need for the continuation of feminism long after the days of bra-burning, but for a long time, my experiences of having my "sexuality" infringed upon were carried out on the streets, by men I did not know and reasonably assumed I would never see ever again. They weren't men I worked with, or men I assumed to be friends; they weren't men I was in a relationship with, and their impact on my world didn't extend beyond my freedom to walk down the street without being harassed (still not acceptable, but you know what I mean). I felt reasonably safe thinking that so long as the door was closed and bolted and I knew everyone standing behind it, I was safe. Sexism and the exploitation of my sexuality lay on the outside world, not on the inside.
But then it crept in, slowly, with small gestures at first, but from men I saw every day: innuendo they didn't think I got, or hands accidentally slipping... And then I got a stalker, someone who would not leave me the fuck alone, and who seemed to thrive on the fact that I saw him every day and yet felt too afraid to tell him to leave me the hell alone or, more suitably, punch him in his fucking face. Men who claimed to love me saw me as putty in their hands: soft, fleshy putty. And gradually, over time, you begin to realise that the exploitation of a woman's sexuality is not just carried out in the media on young, thin celebrities; it's not just carried out in the street, and it doesn't matter if you're wearing a PVC playsuit or the attire of an Eskimo. As far as the world is concerned, by the very nature of being a woman, I am a sexual object.
And you can do a number of things with that piece of information:
1. You can ignore it, as I was before. But ignoring it won't make it go away.
2. You can fight it, and kick the shit out of anyone who crosses the line between acceptable and being an arsehole. But eventually you might get arrested, or they might fight back, and in a world populated by an estimated 3 million men, assuming that at least 10% of those men are arseholes (and that's being generous to blokes, as my experience dictates), you can only really conceivably kick about 100 out of a possible 300,000 dickfaces. That's a poor ratio.
3. You can take advantage of it.
I argue all the time that feminism is about gender equality, not about promoting female as superior to male. I argue that feminism benefits men, and that there are men in my life whom I love. I stand by these arguments, but one thing I cannot stand by anymore is being idle and passive in my own sexuality. I cannot stand by and allow my own body to be used against me, to be made to look in the mirror and hate or blame myself for the violation I have endured. I know what my boundaries are and I respect the boundaries of other women who either wholeheartedly agree or relentlessly disagree with me. I refuse to be intimidated, mocked or exploited. My sexuality is on my terms, and if Man wants a sexual creature, he can have one - but he sure as hell won't be the one to benefit from it.
Wednesday 30 January 2013
Poetry: Self-Portrait
Self-Portrait
I was sketched lightly in an instant,
rough charcoal fingertips deciding where to put my eyes,
the optimism of a smile
and skin white, without impression or fade.
I lay in the wake of life and let the elements wash over me
like watercolour, gentle at first,
but soon sodden in frustration,
a gaping hole torn through my centre.
But I keep going, mount my portrait on black card,
and the hole in my centre is now gapingly obvious.
I let the page absorb the cloudy water,
harden,
and paint the blurred face in thick oil, building layers upon my skin –
Steady, vibrant lines that climb out of the page.
I shade, staining my hands, wiping my brow,
a smear of dirt on my face the same as on hers.
Charcoal drops fingerprints on my art, and I
mutate –
fuller,
louder,
more me than ever before.
I bend over the easel, and keep drawing.
By Martha Everitt
January 2013
I was sketched lightly in an instant,
rough charcoal fingertips deciding where to put my eyes,
the optimism of a smile
and skin white, without impression or fade.
I lay in the wake of life and let the elements wash over me
like watercolour, gentle at first,
but soon sodden in frustration,
a gaping hole torn through my centre.
But I keep going, mount my portrait on black card,
and the hole in my centre is now gapingly obvious.
I let the page absorb the cloudy water,
harden,
and paint the blurred face in thick oil, building layers upon my skin –
Steady, vibrant lines that climb out of the page.
I shade, staining my hands, wiping my brow,
a smear of dirt on my face the same as on hers.
Charcoal drops fingerprints on my art, and I
mutate –
fuller,
louder,
more me than ever before.
I bend over the easel, and keep drawing.
By Martha Everitt
January 2013
Saturday 26 January 2013
We're all a little bit slutty
A woman walks into a bar (this is not a bad joke, I promise) wearing a short skirt, fishnet tights, a low-cut top and stilettos. She is coated in fake tan, has spent the last two hours doing her makeup, and it looks likely that she has had a boob job. She flirts casually. Her friends might tell you that she has had more than a few sexual partners in her time, and she appears loud, gregarious and looking for attention.
She is no more a slut, a bimbo, a slag, a tart or a whore than you and I.
She is a product of our world, of images like these, and "news" articles like these. She has seen Katie Price being lauded as a "businesswoman", has established the link between glamour and success, and perceived "unattractiveness" and mockery and shame. Men find tits and arse sexy, and this appreciation feels like validation. She likes sex (God gave women the clitoris for a reason, no?), and when the whole world is talking about it, showing it and selling all conceivable consumerable goods with it, why are we surprised that she does?
Why do we affix derogatory and degrading labels to women who satisfy the culture we have created? Why do we worship women like Madonna and Rihanna on the one hand, hold them up as icons for women all over the world, and then pass off the women who attempt to emulate them as "sluts", "bimbos", "slags", "tarts" and "whores"? The woman in our bar is not surrounded by an army of security who will rugby-tackle the man who gropes her without invitation, and the chances are she can't afford weekly salon trips for professional spray-tanning, or an on-call makeup artist with 20 years' experience. Maybe she hasn't had more than a few sexual partners; maybe that's just what she lets people assume. But then again, maybe she has, and if she has, why are the men who regard her as something dirty and classless also the very men who don't mind dipping themselves into more than their fair share of honey jars?
We have been raised in a world where sex is always on the menu, where women are not regarded for their intelligence, wit or talent unless you might want to f**k her too. We buy into this culture, and then we criticise those who fall victim to it.
If she is a slut, we must be too.
She is no more a slut, a bimbo, a slag, a tart or a whore than you and I.
She is a product of our world, of images like these, and "news" articles like these. She has seen Katie Price being lauded as a "businesswoman", has established the link between glamour and success, and perceived "unattractiveness" and mockery and shame. Men find tits and arse sexy, and this appreciation feels like validation. She likes sex (God gave women the clitoris for a reason, no?), and when the whole world is talking about it, showing it and selling all conceivable consumerable goods with it, why are we surprised that she does?
Why do we affix derogatory and degrading labels to women who satisfy the culture we have created? Why do we worship women like Madonna and Rihanna on the one hand, hold them up as icons for women all over the world, and then pass off the women who attempt to emulate them as "sluts", "bimbos", "slags", "tarts" and "whores"? The woman in our bar is not surrounded by an army of security who will rugby-tackle the man who gropes her without invitation, and the chances are she can't afford weekly salon trips for professional spray-tanning, or an on-call makeup artist with 20 years' experience. Maybe she hasn't had more than a few sexual partners; maybe that's just what she lets people assume. But then again, maybe she has, and if she has, why are the men who regard her as something dirty and classless also the very men who don't mind dipping themselves into more than their fair share of honey jars?
We have been raised in a world where sex is always on the menu, where women are not regarded for their intelligence, wit or talent unless you might want to f**k her too. We buy into this culture, and then we criticise those who fall victim to it.
If she is a slut, we must be too.
Thursday 24 January 2013
Pink!
I probably seem like a massive cliché: angry man-hating* woman who listens excessively to angry man-hating music. I don't mind people thinking that's what I am. If that's all they're prepared to see, then they can think what they like, and if that's all you're prepared to see, you can skip this post.
Though most of the music in my iTunes falls under the genre of R&B (a great deal of this being from the 90s), my most consistently listened-to artist is P!nk. Most people roll their eyes at me when I hark on about her, but I like to believe that this is because they've only heard the radio-friendly breakup anthems. In the same way that so many people roll their eyes at hip-hop lovers because they think all rap music is full of swearing, the promotion of gang culture and objectification of women (and a lot of it is; a lot of the mainstream stuff, anyway), sometimes you have to look beyond what you hear on the radio to find something worth listening to. And so, I present to you below some of my favourite P!nk lyrics. (I was going to diarrhoea them all over my Twitter feed, but didn't think that my followers would appreciate it.)
Warning: Some lyrics may be triggering.
Don't assume coz I'm a woman that I'll fall in love, don't expect I'm young and need to be took care of. - Stop Falling
Hey hey man, what's your problem? I see you're tryna hurt me bad, don't know what you're up against... Coz you know I'm not that kind of girl that'll lay there and let you cum first... Don't let him pull you by the skirt. - 18 Wheeler
I'm an opportunity, and I knock so softly...So many players, you'd think I was a board game... I drank your poison coz you told me it's wine. Shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice... So what good am I to you if I can't be broken? - Eventually
And oh I've been down this road before, where the passion, it turns into pain. And each time I saw love walk out the door, I swore I'd never get caught up again. - Misery
Lying awake, watching the sunlight, how the birds will sing as I count the rings around my eyes. - Lonely Girl
But what's the point of this armour if it keeps the love away too? I'd rather bleed with cuts of love than live without any scars. - Love Song
Why can't I just love myself enough? Instead of looking outside for what I should have inside. I wanna live in a world with no mirrors, no sizes, no consequence and no prizes. No past, no future, no ages, no losers, no hate, no desire, no fate... I wish I didn't depend on your love, I wish I loved myself enough. - Free
What happened to the dream of the girl President? She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent... Disasters all around, the world in despair. Your only concern? Will it fuck up my hair? - Stupid Girls
It's gonna take a long time to love, it's gonna take a lot to hold on, it's gonna be a long way to happy... Tryna cover up the damage and pad out all the bruises, too young to know I had it so it didn't hurt to lose it... Now I'm numb as hell and I can't feel a thing, but don't worry 'bout regret or guilt coz I never knew your name. - Long Way To Happy
How can you say no child is left behind? We're not dumb and we're not blind, they're all sitting in your cells while you pave the road to hell. What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away? And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay? - Dear Mr President
There's always cracks, a crack of sunlight, a crack on the mirror, on your lips... We only spun a web to catch ourselves so we weren't left for dead. And I was never looking for approval from anyone but you... Right behind the cigarette and the devilish smile, you're my crack of sunlight... I'm a winter flower underground, always thirsty for summer rain. And just like the changing seasons, I know you'll be back again. - I'm Not Dead
I don't believe Adam and Eve spent every goddamn day together... I don't wanna wake up with another, but I don't wanna always wake up with you either. No you can't hop into my shower, all I ask for is one f**king hour. - Leave Me Alone (I'm Lonely)
It's just you and your hand tonight. - U + Ur Hand
I'm too young to be taken seriously, but I'm too old to believe all this hypocrisy. And I wonder how long it'll take them to see my bed is made, and I wonder if I was a mistake... Chase the rainbows in my mind and I will try to stay alive. - Runaway
I don't believe in soulmates, happy endings or "the one". Oh and I met you and all that changed, I had a taste and you're still sitting on the tip of my tongue. - The One That Got Away
Just one foot wrong, you'll have to love me when I'm gone. - One Foot Wrong
You used to hold the door for me, now you can't wait to leave. You used to send me flowers if you f**ked up in my dreams... Always sentimental when I think of how it was, when love was sweet and new and we just couldn't get enough. The shower it reminds me you'd undress me with your eyes, and now you never touch me and you tell me that you're tired. You know it gets so sad when it all goes bad, and all you think about is all the fun you've had... We opened up the wine and we just let it breathe, but we should've drank it down while it was still sweet. It all goes bad eventually. - Mean
I conjure up the thought of being gone, but I'd probably even do that wrong. - It's All Your Fault
Where does everybody go when they go? They go so fast I don't think they know. We hate so fast and we love too slow... Broken hearts all around the spot, I can't help thinking that we lost the plot, suicide bomber and a student shot... But for that they've got a pill, if that don't kill you then the side-effects will, if we don't kill each other then the side-effects will. - Ave Mary A
Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone... Have you ever wished for an endless night? Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight? - Glitter In The Air
Life is just a little part of what this world will do, to get its point across it beats you till you're black and blue... And all my friends have asked the question "Baby, will you be OK?" I wanna tell them yes coz I know that's what I should say. But I've got no crystal ball and I can't bring myself to lie and why should I?... Life is just a little part of what this world will do, it brings you to the brink, it beats the shit right out of you. - When You're Through You're Through
You're so mean when you talk about yourself, you are wrong. Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead. - F**kin' Perfect
Four: that's how many years it took me to get through the lesson that I had to do it all on my own. Three: that's how many Hail Marys they would pray for me, thinking I was gonna end up all alone. Two for second chances that you've given me, can it be lucky me... One: is what we are. - Are We All We Are?
At the same time I wanna hug you, I wanna wrap my hands around your neck. - True Love
And they think we fall in love, but that's not it. Just wanna get some... You don't win a prize with your googly eyes, I'm not a crackerjack, you can't go inside, unless I let you jack- haha Sam, oh f**k what's your name again? - Slut Like You
The truth about love comes at 3a.m., you wake up f**ked up and you grab a pen... The truth about love is it comes and it goes, a strange fascination, it is lips on toes. Morning breath, bedroom eyes on a smiling face, sheet marks, rug burn and a sugar glaze. A shock and the awe that can eat you raw. Is this the truth about love?... The truth about love is it's nasty and salty, it's the regret in the morning, it's the smelling of armpits. It's wings and songs, and trees and birds, it's all the poetry that you ever heard. Terror coup d'etat lifeline forget-me-nots, it's the hunt and the kill, the schemes and the plots. The truth about love is it's blood and it's guts, pure breds and mutts, sandwiches without the crust. It takes your breath and it leaves a scar, but those untouched never got... very far. It's rage and it's hate, and a sick twist of fate... Oh and you can lose your breath and oh you can shoot a gun, convinced you're the only one who's ever felt this way before. It hurts inside the hurt within and it folds together packet thin and it's whispered by the angels' lips and it can turn you into a son of a bitch. - The Truth About Love
The passion and the pain is gonna keep you alive someday. - The Great Escape
How do I keep you into me... without faking it too? - Is This Thing On?
Your anger's like a razorblade, it's just too bloody real... I don't feel like calming down, no I don't. I don't feel like hiding out, so I won't. I can't turn the volume down, so I sit here in this chaos and piss, watching the storm passing... I'm a willow tree and you can't blow me over, and my roots go deep in anger and I wanna feel the wind as it whips me like a prisoner. - Chaos & Piss
It's only love, give it away. You'll probably get it back again... Oh fuck it, have everything. - Timebomb
Unlike your anatomy, I'm glad I had it in me. - The King Is Dead But The Queen Is Alive
* I'm not always angry, and I don't hate men. Not all of them, anyway.
Though most of the music in my iTunes falls under the genre of R&B (a great deal of this being from the 90s), my most consistently listened-to artist is P!nk. Most people roll their eyes at me when I hark on about her, but I like to believe that this is because they've only heard the radio-friendly breakup anthems. In the same way that so many people roll their eyes at hip-hop lovers because they think all rap music is full of swearing, the promotion of gang culture and objectification of women (and a lot of it is; a lot of the mainstream stuff, anyway), sometimes you have to look beyond what you hear on the radio to find something worth listening to. And so, I present to you below some of my favourite P!nk lyrics. (I was going to diarrhoea them all over my Twitter feed, but didn't think that my followers would appreciate it.)
Warning: Some lyrics may be triggering.
Don't assume coz I'm a woman that I'll fall in love, don't expect I'm young and need to be took care of. - Stop Falling
Hey hey man, what's your problem? I see you're tryna hurt me bad, don't know what you're up against... Coz you know I'm not that kind of girl that'll lay there and let you cum first... Don't let him pull you by the skirt. - 18 Wheeler
I'm an opportunity, and I knock so softly...So many players, you'd think I was a board game... I drank your poison coz you told me it's wine. Shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice... So what good am I to you if I can't be broken? - Eventually
And oh I've been down this road before, where the passion, it turns into pain. And each time I saw love walk out the door, I swore I'd never get caught up again. - Misery
Lying awake, watching the sunlight, how the birds will sing as I count the rings around my eyes. - Lonely Girl
But what's the point of this armour if it keeps the love away too? I'd rather bleed with cuts of love than live without any scars. - Love Song
Why can't I just love myself enough? Instead of looking outside for what I should have inside. I wanna live in a world with no mirrors, no sizes, no consequence and no prizes. No past, no future, no ages, no losers, no hate, no desire, no fate... I wish I didn't depend on your love, I wish I loved myself enough. - Free
What happened to the dream of the girl President? She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent... Disasters all around, the world in despair. Your only concern? Will it fuck up my hair? - Stupid Girls
It's gonna take a long time to love, it's gonna take a lot to hold on, it's gonna be a long way to happy... Tryna cover up the damage and pad out all the bruises, too young to know I had it so it didn't hurt to lose it... Now I'm numb as hell and I can't feel a thing, but don't worry 'bout regret or guilt coz I never knew your name. - Long Way To Happy
How can you say no child is left behind? We're not dumb and we're not blind, they're all sitting in your cells while you pave the road to hell. What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away? And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay? - Dear Mr President
There's always cracks, a crack of sunlight, a crack on the mirror, on your lips... We only spun a web to catch ourselves so we weren't left for dead. And I was never looking for approval from anyone but you... Right behind the cigarette and the devilish smile, you're my crack of sunlight... I'm a winter flower underground, always thirsty for summer rain. And just like the changing seasons, I know you'll be back again. - I'm Not Dead
I don't believe Adam and Eve spent every goddamn day together... I don't wanna wake up with another, but I don't wanna always wake up with you either. No you can't hop into my shower, all I ask for is one f**king hour. - Leave Me Alone (I'm Lonely)
It's just you and your hand tonight. - U + Ur Hand
I'm too young to be taken seriously, but I'm too old to believe all this hypocrisy. And I wonder how long it'll take them to see my bed is made, and I wonder if I was a mistake... Chase the rainbows in my mind and I will try to stay alive. - Runaway
I don't believe in soulmates, happy endings or "the one". Oh and I met you and all that changed, I had a taste and you're still sitting on the tip of my tongue. - The One That Got Away
Just one foot wrong, you'll have to love me when I'm gone. - One Foot Wrong
You used to hold the door for me, now you can't wait to leave. You used to send me flowers if you f**ked up in my dreams... Always sentimental when I think of how it was, when love was sweet and new and we just couldn't get enough. The shower it reminds me you'd undress me with your eyes, and now you never touch me and you tell me that you're tired. You know it gets so sad when it all goes bad, and all you think about is all the fun you've had... We opened up the wine and we just let it breathe, but we should've drank it down while it was still sweet. It all goes bad eventually. - Mean
I conjure up the thought of being gone, but I'd probably even do that wrong. - It's All Your Fault
Where does everybody go when they go? They go so fast I don't think they know. We hate so fast and we love too slow... Broken hearts all around the spot, I can't help thinking that we lost the plot, suicide bomber and a student shot... But for that they've got a pill, if that don't kill you then the side-effects will, if we don't kill each other then the side-effects will. - Ave Mary A
Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone... Have you ever wished for an endless night? Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight? - Glitter In The Air
Life is just a little part of what this world will do, to get its point across it beats you till you're black and blue... And all my friends have asked the question "Baby, will you be OK?" I wanna tell them yes coz I know that's what I should say. But I've got no crystal ball and I can't bring myself to lie and why should I?... Life is just a little part of what this world will do, it brings you to the brink, it beats the shit right out of you. - When You're Through You're Through
You're so mean when you talk about yourself, you are wrong. Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead. - F**kin' Perfect
Four: that's how many years it took me to get through the lesson that I had to do it all on my own. Three: that's how many Hail Marys they would pray for me, thinking I was gonna end up all alone. Two for second chances that you've given me, can it be lucky me... One: is what we are. - Are We All We Are?
At the same time I wanna hug you, I wanna wrap my hands around your neck. - True Love
And they think we fall in love, but that's not it. Just wanna get some... You don't win a prize with your googly eyes, I'm not a crackerjack, you can't go inside, unless I let you jack- haha Sam, oh f**k what's your name again? - Slut Like You
The truth about love comes at 3a.m., you wake up f**ked up and you grab a pen... The truth about love is it comes and it goes, a strange fascination, it is lips on toes. Morning breath, bedroom eyes on a smiling face, sheet marks, rug burn and a sugar glaze. A shock and the awe that can eat you raw. Is this the truth about love?... The truth about love is it's nasty and salty, it's the regret in the morning, it's the smelling of armpits. It's wings and songs, and trees and birds, it's all the poetry that you ever heard. Terror coup d'etat lifeline forget-me-nots, it's the hunt and the kill, the schemes and the plots. The truth about love is it's blood and it's guts, pure breds and mutts, sandwiches without the crust. It takes your breath and it leaves a scar, but those untouched never got... very far. It's rage and it's hate, and a sick twist of fate... Oh and you can lose your breath and oh you can shoot a gun, convinced you're the only one who's ever felt this way before. It hurts inside the hurt within and it folds together packet thin and it's whispered by the angels' lips and it can turn you into a son of a bitch. - The Truth About Love
The passion and the pain is gonna keep you alive someday. - The Great Escape
How do I keep you into me... without faking it too? - Is This Thing On?
Your anger's like a razorblade, it's just too bloody real... I don't feel like calming down, no I don't. I don't feel like hiding out, so I won't. I can't turn the volume down, so I sit here in this chaos and piss, watching the storm passing... I'm a willow tree and you can't blow me over, and my roots go deep in anger and I wanna feel the wind as it whips me like a prisoner. - Chaos & Piss
It's only love, give it away. You'll probably get it back again... Oh fuck it, have everything. - Timebomb
Unlike your anatomy, I'm glad I had it in me. - The King Is Dead But The Queen Is Alive
* I'm not always angry, and I don't hate men. Not all of them, anyway.
Thursday 17 January 2013
Poetry: Standing Domino
Standing Domino
We are a mass of perceived worthlessness, of inadequacy and fear.
We hurt one another daily with our own hurt,
two bruises merging together to form one swollen heart.
We knock on like dominoes;
all it takes is a look,
a snort,
a flick of the hair or sometimes even
an absence.
Silence bruises more than words can say.
My sharpest weapon was made 12 years ago,
when my heart shattered under the weight of another’s pain.
I was a girl being squashed into a dark corner,
weeping and afraid,
eyes open so wide that I saw it all, and remember it all.
I was like the homeless soul in the coldest winter, catching every infection thrown at me.
I took rest and waited to recover,
but we never do.
Every scar we bear serves to remind us that we once bled,
that some alien object tore us open and poured out a part of our softness.
We become oxidised, dirtied by the elements, and seal ourselves shut,
feeling the faded lines only at night under the covers,
when we finally allow our breath to touch the space around us.
We pray that someday the light will fall upon our scars,
and we will trust ourselves enough to let alien eyes strip us human.
Three years ago, I drew a blade out from under my ribs and tore a hole in another’s eyes.
I blew on his tears until they turned to ice, and
smiled down the dark tunnel where I later exiled myself.
I found blind courage, my fingers gripping at the walls –
rough and open at first, but soon slipping out of the cracks –
losing my footing,
stumbling through the darkness towards an end which had no new beginning.
We never know where we’re going until we get there.
We collide like bumper cars –
deliberate and teasing, testing for a response,
expectant of the jolt but not of the weak limbs as we clamber from our rides and
silently dissipate to opposite ends of the world.
We laugh loudly, paint on smiles
and force ourselves to feel for strangers what we only wish we could feel for ourselves.
Our biggest crime is not the mask we wear, but the tongue we lash from it
and the perilous eyes which stare out, seeing but unseen –
the face which haunts the dreams of every child.
We have grown into adults who long to be children:
hopeful, unafraid,
with the faith that magic presents itself when we believe it should.
We want the world to tuck us in at night, tell us stories of happy ever afters
and love us because we have done no wrong...
But we have lived through lonely nights,
felt our breath cling to the closed-in walls around us and torn
the final page from the book before we’ve reached the end.
We have hurt, spread our poison like plague and turned
our burdened backs on who we swore we would become.
I am a woman who knows she cannot be a child,
and that hope may fade and fear may haunt, but that faith is of my own devising.
I devise a game of dominoes where one falls and the rest stay standing,
where pain is not contagious
and where we might someday tear our terrifying masks from our faces and smile
with a warmth we forgot we ever had.
We are a mass of perceived worthlessness, of inadequacy and fear.
I devise a world where we are not.
By Martha Everitt
August 2012
We are a mass of perceived worthlessness, of inadequacy and fear.
We hurt one another daily with our own hurt,
two bruises merging together to form one swollen heart.
We knock on like dominoes;
all it takes is a look,
a snort,
a flick of the hair or sometimes even
an absence.
Silence bruises more than words can say.
My sharpest weapon was made 12 years ago,
when my heart shattered under the weight of another’s pain.
I was a girl being squashed into a dark corner,
weeping and afraid,
eyes open so wide that I saw it all, and remember it all.
I was like the homeless soul in the coldest winter, catching every infection thrown at me.
I took rest and waited to recover,
but we never do.
Every scar we bear serves to remind us that we once bled,
that some alien object tore us open and poured out a part of our softness.
We become oxidised, dirtied by the elements, and seal ourselves shut,
feeling the faded lines only at night under the covers,
when we finally allow our breath to touch the space around us.
We pray that someday the light will fall upon our scars,
and we will trust ourselves enough to let alien eyes strip us human.
Three years ago, I drew a blade out from under my ribs and tore a hole in another’s eyes.
I blew on his tears until they turned to ice, and
smiled down the dark tunnel where I later exiled myself.
I found blind courage, my fingers gripping at the walls –
rough and open at first, but soon slipping out of the cracks –
losing my footing,
stumbling through the darkness towards an end which had no new beginning.
We never know where we’re going until we get there.
We collide like bumper cars –
deliberate and teasing, testing for a response,
expectant of the jolt but not of the weak limbs as we clamber from our rides and
silently dissipate to opposite ends of the world.
We laugh loudly, paint on smiles
and force ourselves to feel for strangers what we only wish we could feel for ourselves.
Our biggest crime is not the mask we wear, but the tongue we lash from it
and the perilous eyes which stare out, seeing but unseen –
the face which haunts the dreams of every child.
We have grown into adults who long to be children:
hopeful, unafraid,
with the faith that magic presents itself when we believe it should.
We want the world to tuck us in at night, tell us stories of happy ever afters
and love us because we have done no wrong...
But we have lived through lonely nights,
felt our breath cling to the closed-in walls around us and torn
the final page from the book before we’ve reached the end.
We have hurt, spread our poison like plague and turned
our burdened backs on who we swore we would become.
I am a woman who knows she cannot be a child,
and that hope may fade and fear may haunt, but that faith is of my own devising.
I devise a game of dominoes where one falls and the rest stay standing,
where pain is not contagious
and where we might someday tear our terrifying masks from our faces and smile
with a warmth we forgot we ever had.
We are a mass of perceived worthlessness, of inadequacy and fear.
I devise a world where we are not.
By Martha Everitt
August 2012
Tuesday 8 January 2013
Reevaluating my views: Feminism
Looking back over old blog posts, one thing I've realised is that my views on feminism have changed somewhat in the last year. While I feel that the "glass ceiling" debate is no less important than it once was, and that women should certainly be able and encouraged to achieve the same high-ranking professions as men, it is far from being at the crux of my passion for feminism. Perhaps this is because the world in which I now exist is different from the world I existed in a year ago: I can scarcely call myself a "recent graduate", and when you consider that most "recent graduates" in these desolate times find themselves exploiting their newly-acquired wealth of knowledge behind the counter of their local McDonald's, a career in the boardroom is hardly on the cards for me. Male or female (but still largely male), a career in the boardroom now tends to be reserved solely for former private school students and Oxbridge graduates... But that's a different argument entirely.
I recall, seven-and-a-half years ago, uttering that sentence opening that now causes me to (metaphorically) bang my head against the wall in frustration: "I'm not a feminist, but..."
I grew up on the Spice Girls, with a mother who had a kind of montage of feminist postcards framed and pinned up in the hallway, and who left her diary (pictured above) lying around the flat for impressionable girls' eyes to fall upon. I threw out peace signs like it was Christmas and challenged the boys in the school playground to races (I was a freakishly fast runner... y'know, for a girl). I pulled people up on their casually sexist remarks from the age of seven, and I knew that I was just as smart and just as capable as any boy. And yet, feminism was a bad word. To be a feminist was to be angry, hairy and wear dungarees.
It took going out into the world and seeing the injustices women face (and that I would now invariably face) with my own eyes to change my mind. It took being pushed and shoved on buses and tubes because I am smaller than 50% of the population and therefore less likely to start a fight; it took, not just being sexually harassed more times than I can count, but becoming so accustomed to sexual harassment that I began to expect it, and then barely think twice about it when it happened again; it took being criticised for taking an interest in football instead of fashion; it took finding myself growing up awkward and imperfect whilst being held up against impossibly perfect images of women and being told that I am not good enough if I am not like them; it took being 15-years-old, haemorrhaging my way through the worst period I have ever known, and being told by a (male) doctor that I must be having a miscarriage, there was no other explanation for it, in spite of the fact that I had told him repeatedly that I was a virgin; it took being used and exploited by men, or being treated as something fragile instead of something strong. It took expanding my mind and allowing myself to be unafraid of stigma to accept that, yes, my thoughts and my views and my attitudes make me a feminist, whether I choose to shave my legs or not. I am happy now to admit that I was wrong, just as I am happy now to admit that I was misguided a year ago. Feminism is much bigger than I thought it was.
Every woman (and man) will have their own individual relationship with feminism, whether they recognise it or not, but we have to see past our own relationships if we are going to get anywhere. For some, for the more privileged, that relationship will be "Can I make it to the top?" Will society ever stop assuming that "doctor" is male unless "female doctor" is specified, or that "nurse" is female unless "male nurse... I wonder if he's gay??" is specified. I might be one of the more privileged, because for me, I often find myself wondering if I will be one of the illustrious 17% of playwrights who happen to be female this year, and I get arsey when people address me by the title "Miss" instead of "Ms". Lucky me to have such a concern, I guess.
For others, the corcerns will be "How can I afford to have a child when I can barely afford to live myself?" and "I am being assaulted every day in my own home." For the majority of us, rape is something we fear when we are walking home late at night on our own, and the messed-up world in which we live tries to tell us that we are somehow more vulnerable, or somehow more at fault, if we are dressed in a certain way, and that perhaps if we hadn't gone down that alleyway, we might have been able to prevent it. For others, rape is something to be feared when we wake up in the morning or go home in the evening. It is not just a fear; it is a guarantee, and an unbreakable cycle. Conviction rates are still pathetically low.
Feminism for some is the right we in Western society have come to accept as our most basic: the right to healthcare, the right to our own bodies. If we want an abortion and if the pregnancy is early enough, we can have one; we have access to contraception, and whether practice is the same as principle, we can refuse sex if we do not want it; we do not lose "value" at the loss of our virginity and we are not told to marry against our own will. This is a reality for some that we are guilty of turning a blind eye to in favour of the "glass ceiling", and just as the more privileged feminists try to convince men that feminism benefits them too, we must also remind ourselves that feminism is working to free more than just the white, more than just the middle and upper classes, more than just your mother or your daughter or sister or niece.
Feminists, if we want to free ourselves, we must also free our sisters.
I recall, seven-and-a-half years ago, uttering that sentence opening that now causes me to (metaphorically) bang my head against the wall in frustration: "I'm not a feminist, but..."
I grew up on the Spice Girls, with a mother who had a kind of montage of feminist postcards framed and pinned up in the hallway, and who left her diary (pictured above) lying around the flat for impressionable girls' eyes to fall upon. I threw out peace signs like it was Christmas and challenged the boys in the school playground to races (I was a freakishly fast runner... y'know, for a girl). I pulled people up on their casually sexist remarks from the age of seven, and I knew that I was just as smart and just as capable as any boy. And yet, feminism was a bad word. To be a feminist was to be angry, hairy and wear dungarees.
It took going out into the world and seeing the injustices women face (and that I would now invariably face) with my own eyes to change my mind. It took being pushed and shoved on buses and tubes because I am smaller than 50% of the population and therefore less likely to start a fight; it took, not just being sexually harassed more times than I can count, but becoming so accustomed to sexual harassment that I began to expect it, and then barely think twice about it when it happened again; it took being criticised for taking an interest in football instead of fashion; it took finding myself growing up awkward and imperfect whilst being held up against impossibly perfect images of women and being told that I am not good enough if I am not like them; it took being 15-years-old, haemorrhaging my way through the worst period I have ever known, and being told by a (male) doctor that I must be having a miscarriage, there was no other explanation for it, in spite of the fact that I had told him repeatedly that I was a virgin; it took being used and exploited by men, or being treated as something fragile instead of something strong. It took expanding my mind and allowing myself to be unafraid of stigma to accept that, yes, my thoughts and my views and my attitudes make me a feminist, whether I choose to shave my legs or not. I am happy now to admit that I was wrong, just as I am happy now to admit that I was misguided a year ago. Feminism is much bigger than I thought it was.
Every woman (and man) will have their own individual relationship with feminism, whether they recognise it or not, but we have to see past our own relationships if we are going to get anywhere. For some, for the more privileged, that relationship will be "Can I make it to the top?" Will society ever stop assuming that "doctor" is male unless "female doctor" is specified, or that "nurse" is female unless "male nurse... I wonder if he's gay??" is specified. I might be one of the more privileged, because for me, I often find myself wondering if I will be one of the illustrious 17% of playwrights who happen to be female this year, and I get arsey when people address me by the title "Miss" instead of "Ms". Lucky me to have such a concern, I guess.
For others, the corcerns will be "How can I afford to have a child when I can barely afford to live myself?" and "I am being assaulted every day in my own home." For the majority of us, rape is something we fear when we are walking home late at night on our own, and the messed-up world in which we live tries to tell us that we are somehow more vulnerable, or somehow more at fault, if we are dressed in a certain way, and that perhaps if we hadn't gone down that alleyway, we might have been able to prevent it. For others, rape is something to be feared when we wake up in the morning or go home in the evening. It is not just a fear; it is a guarantee, and an unbreakable cycle. Conviction rates are still pathetically low.
Feminism for some is the right we in Western society have come to accept as our most basic: the right to healthcare, the right to our own bodies. If we want an abortion and if the pregnancy is early enough, we can have one; we have access to contraception, and whether practice is the same as principle, we can refuse sex if we do not want it; we do not lose "value" at the loss of our virginity and we are not told to marry against our own will. This is a reality for some that we are guilty of turning a blind eye to in favour of the "glass ceiling", and just as the more privileged feminists try to convince men that feminism benefits them too, we must also remind ourselves that feminism is working to free more than just the white, more than just the middle and upper classes, more than just your mother or your daughter or sister or niece.
Feminists, if we want to free ourselves, we must also free our sisters.
Saturday 5 January 2013
Poetry: Man
Man
Man, you do not make me.
You may spread your seed like a dandelion weed,
but you do not hold me, grip me by my roots and
pine for me to grow.
I am the wild flower in your eye,
the white lily crushed between my thighs,
and I wonder if I would have been so frail for you
had he not failed for me.
Man, you do not fool me.
I do not buy the fresh succulent pink of timid flesh,
nor will I be the lonely princess in your tower,
waiting to be saved.
I have outgrown the sinister tales
devised by cowardly males
who want us to regress from meek girls
to tragically weak women.
Man, you do not own me.
My body cannot be made a commodity,
a blank canvas upon which you can stain yourself
a man’s mannequin.
My breasts cannot be made tits;
my arse, like yours, farts and shits.
I will not be weighed in gold as you wish,
nor will growing old diminish me.
Man, you do not know me.
I am not the pleasant smile to your beguile,
and being fucked around does not make me crazy –
it makes me mad.
I am not the column in your magazine
which believes that you, man, could be the man of my dreams.
I will not believe your desperate plea which does not see that
man, you cannot stop me loving me.
By Martha Everitt
December 2012
Man, you do not make me.
You may spread your seed like a dandelion weed,
but you do not hold me, grip me by my roots and
pine for me to grow.
I am the wild flower in your eye,
the white lily crushed between my thighs,
and I wonder if I would have been so frail for you
had he not failed for me.
Man, you do not fool me.
I do not buy the fresh succulent pink of timid flesh,
nor will I be the lonely princess in your tower,
waiting to be saved.
I have outgrown the sinister tales
devised by cowardly males
who want us to regress from meek girls
to tragically weak women.
Man, you do not own me.
My body cannot be made a commodity,
a blank canvas upon which you can stain yourself
a man’s mannequin.
My breasts cannot be made tits;
my arse, like yours, farts and shits.
I will not be weighed in gold as you wish,
nor will growing old diminish me.
Man, you do not know me.
I am not the pleasant smile to your beguile,
and being fucked around does not make me crazy –
it makes me mad.
I am not the column in your magazine
which believes that you, man, could be the man of my dreams.
I will not believe your desperate plea which does not see that
man, you cannot stop me loving me.
By Martha Everitt
December 2012
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