I was 11 years old when the soundtrack from the 2000 film Charlie’s Angels was released. Independent Women by Destiny’s Child was arguably the film’s only saving grace, pleasing critics and audiences where Charlie’s Angels could not; it paid tribute to women making it on their own and called for their independence from men, portraying the female gender as strong, determined and just as capable of making it in a man’s world as Man himself. For an 11-year-old girl, this was a wonderful message. For a girl not even halfway through her education, with aspirations of someday being a famous author, and discouraged from the institution of marriage by the poisonous relationships between men and women that existed around her, this song was inspiring, uplifting... and really quite catchy.
As a 24-year-old woman, I am no longer all that inspired by the song’s message. My formal education is complete, I am not yet a famous author and I could happily live with or without marriage. The line “All the honeys who makin’ money throw your hands up at me” doesn’t fill me with quite the same sense of empowerment that it used to. I don’t make a lot of money (a lot of the time I don’t make any money), and while I may not be dependent on any man to provide for me, I can hardly claim that “The house I live in (I bought it), the car I’m driving (I bought it)”, because I am simply not in the financial position to buy a house or a car, and I am certainly not in the position to say “The rocks I’m rockin’ (I bought it)”. Kudos to those women who are able to say such things, and I do not doubt their fantastic work ethic and refusal to give up or give in, but I still consider them to be part of a lucky minority, and suggesting that a woman is empowered only if she is financially stable on her own is isolating and damaging to women not privileged or fortunate enough to be able to say the same of themselves.
This culture of associating female empowerment with financial or material worth has only accelerated over the last 13 years, and is reflected heavily in the music industry today. Nicki Minaj, whose fanbase consists largely of teenage girls and young women, infuriatingly assigns her own worth to the money lining her pocket. On Check It Out, her collaboration with will.i.am, she boasts, “Mad cause I’m getting money in abundance, man I can’t even count all of these hundreds. Duffle bag every time I go to SunTrust, I leave the rest just to collect interest”, while on Muny (Material Girls), a kind of tribute to Madonna’s 1984 hit Material Girl, she says, “Top five tax bracket in the population, hatin’ and I know they got a reason why, I ain’t got to wonder if I want to lease or buy.”
Of course, a love of money and materialism in the music industry is not reserved exclusively for women, and this is something that plagues male artists’ music as well, consequently influencing the young listeners who buy and download their records. Often these male artists (though I’m sure sometimes with the best of intentions) reinforce these attitudes, commending the “independent women” whose independence is quantified by the money she earns: women who are presented as sexy, beautiful and desirable only if they “bought it”. Perhaps this interest in money comes from the relative poverty these musicians came from, and bragging about climbing out of the depths of deprivation inspires those still living in the midst of it to work harder and try harder, as the capitalist ethos would urge you to do. However, it is simply impossible for every person in the world to achieve the same levels of success as the members of Destiny’s Child, Nicki Minaj and Madonna, as well as anyone else who brags along to a nice little tune about how big their swimming pool is.
I find it sad that we have been taught that validation comes from earning a six-figure salary, and it is detrimental to the aims of an all-inclusive feminism to preach to young women – especially in a society already heavily saturated with a kind of submissive sexuality that caters to patriarchal fantasies – that the only way to be truly successful or happy or have any worth as a woman is to have money. Yes, with money comes power, and as long as that money rests in the bank accounts of mostly white men from privileged backgrounds, women and other oppressed groups should certainly be pressing for and celebrating an equal spread of the world’s economic wealth. However, to suggest that this is the only way to be a strong and empowered woman is a damaging argument to make to those who will probably never be “independent” by these standards.
Can we please have less focus on the money, and less judgement passed upon the majority who don’t drive a Benz or have every finger wrapped in diamonds. Can we please instead have more focus on a strong and united sisterhood.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Friday, 5 April 2013
My Beef With Jeremy Kyle
Watching The Jeremy Kyle Show makes me feel ill.
There's probably some completely unoriginal joke about the show's guests' teeth to be found in that statement somewhere, but I'm afraid I have a far more socially damning point to make than the possible ramifications a person's economical state has on their dental hygiene. No, the show makes me feel ill because whenever I catch a glimpse of it, I feel as though I'm watching a freak show. I feel as though I have been carted back to some primitive state in Victorian England, where vulnerable people, different people, were exploited for somebody else's financial gain, and an audience raised on ignorance and insecurity decides to alternate trips to the theatre with these public humiliations.
Most of the guests on The Jeremy Kyle Show, let's face it, are pretty vulnerable. I can't speak for them, but I would imagine that some of the motivations for wanting to appear in that ITV weekday morning slot might include:
Chances are, you don't know anyone who's been on The Jeremy Kyle Show, or know anyone who knows anyone who's been on The Jeremy Kyle Show. This is because most of us don't put ourselves on par with these "freaks" or "chavs". They are not like us, we think, and this makes us feel better about ourselves and the positions we hold in society, because at least we are not like them. "We don't have unprotected sex with seven different men in one month and question which one might be the father to our baby; we don't bicker about text messages found on our sister's boyfriend's phone which allude to said boyfriend's best mate's sister's vagina. We cannot imagine ourselves choosing to go on television in an Adidas tracksuit. These are entirely base, uncivilised individuals who should not be considered our equals. Let's laugh at them, the disgusting toothless sods."
But wait. These guests are people. They were born naked and crying, just like us. The only difference is, to be fair, a massive one: they weren't handed the same opportunities we were given, they're probably not as educated or as ambitious and consequently their lives have fewer avenues open to exploration. Thus, their income is low, their self-esteem is shot, and having a well-respected man like Jeremy Kyle and an audience of seemingly "sorted" individuals validate their life decisions and line their pockets with some money seems like a wise choice. But what I think few of these guests realise (at least until they get on the stage) is the humiliation cast upon them by "regular" folk like us who consider ourselves above and beyond such petty problems. "Poke them with a stick, Jeremy," we urge. "If only that man would go mad and hit someone. That would be even funnier." But the sickening reality is that we are watching a well-off, powerful man (who's probably cocked up along the way in his own life, as we all have) yell at groups of people unequipped to defend themselves, either due to lack of eloquence or, by the very nature of them wearing a fake gold chain, not capable of having anything they say be taken seriously.
I am sure that ITV and Jeremy Kyle would fiercely defend the show by saying that they are giving a group of people a platform to be seen and heard, offering their guests post-show support and access to counselling services and such - but the sad reality is that "helping some people" is neither the broadcaster's nor the show's motivation; rather, "making money" is the motivation, and if this feeds into a political agenda of painting the working classes as feckless, stupid and irresponsible, then all the better.
The Jeremy Kyle Show needs to start representing all groups of people, or else stop attempting to represent anyone at all.
There's probably some completely unoriginal joke about the show's guests' teeth to be found in that statement somewhere, but I'm afraid I have a far more socially damning point to make than the possible ramifications a person's economical state has on their dental hygiene. No, the show makes me feel ill because whenever I catch a glimpse of it, I feel as though I'm watching a freak show. I feel as though I have been carted back to some primitive state in Victorian England, where vulnerable people, different people, were exploited for somebody else's financial gain, and an audience raised on ignorance and insecurity decides to alternate trips to the theatre with these public humiliations.
Most of the guests on The Jeremy Kyle Show, let's face it, are pretty vulnerable. I can't speak for them, but I would imagine that some of the motivations for wanting to appear in that ITV weekday morning slot might include:
- money;
- access to free DNA testing;
- wanting to prove that they're right, and someone else is wrong;
- a little bit of fame or prestige.
Chances are, you don't know anyone who's been on The Jeremy Kyle Show, or know anyone who knows anyone who's been on The Jeremy Kyle Show. This is because most of us don't put ourselves on par with these "freaks" or "chavs". They are not like us, we think, and this makes us feel better about ourselves and the positions we hold in society, because at least we are not like them. "We don't have unprotected sex with seven different men in one month and question which one might be the father to our baby; we don't bicker about text messages found on our sister's boyfriend's phone which allude to said boyfriend's best mate's sister's vagina. We cannot imagine ourselves choosing to go on television in an Adidas tracksuit. These are entirely base, uncivilised individuals who should not be considered our equals. Let's laugh at them, the disgusting toothless sods."
But wait. These guests are people. They were born naked and crying, just like us. The only difference is, to be fair, a massive one: they weren't handed the same opportunities we were given, they're probably not as educated or as ambitious and consequently their lives have fewer avenues open to exploration. Thus, their income is low, their self-esteem is shot, and having a well-respected man like Jeremy Kyle and an audience of seemingly "sorted" individuals validate their life decisions and line their pockets with some money seems like a wise choice. But what I think few of these guests realise (at least until they get on the stage) is the humiliation cast upon them by "regular" folk like us who consider ourselves above and beyond such petty problems. "Poke them with a stick, Jeremy," we urge. "If only that man would go mad and hit someone. That would be even funnier." But the sickening reality is that we are watching a well-off, powerful man (who's probably cocked up along the way in his own life, as we all have) yell at groups of people unequipped to defend themselves, either due to lack of eloquence or, by the very nature of them wearing a fake gold chain, not capable of having anything they say be taken seriously.
I am sure that ITV and Jeremy Kyle would fiercely defend the show by saying that they are giving a group of people a platform to be seen and heard, offering their guests post-show support and access to counselling services and such - but the sad reality is that "helping some people" is neither the broadcaster's nor the show's motivation; rather, "making money" is the motivation, and if this feeds into a political agenda of painting the working classes as feckless, stupid and irresponsible, then all the better.
The Jeremy Kyle Show needs to start representing all groups of people, or else stop attempting to represent anyone at all.
Tuesday, 26 March 2013
Who Pays For The Deficit?
It's really quite simple.
The UK has a lot of debt, yes? We know this. We know the banks made a massive cock-up and lost loads of our (our) money, and we know that they've all been talking about how we should rectify this, how we need to stop borrowing, start saving, cut the deficit. Let's be a prosperous nation once again.
David Cameron and George Osborne had a little light-bulb moment some years ago and came up with this idea about how we might achieve this. David said, "Hey George, let's keep all the money for ourselves", and George said, "What a jolly good idea, David." And so that is what they did.
They took money out of services. Apparently, we shouldn't be spending money on services - pssh, what a waste, people don't need to be looked after! Lewisham Hospital is one thoroughly-documented example for us living in South London, but there are many other examples throughout the UK, too. Services for sick people, old people, young people, people with children, disabled people... Everyone knows someone who's been affected, unless the only people you know opt to always go private because, as they well know, "The NHS is shit!" Maybe it's shit because there's not enough money put into it, or because the money's being put into the wrong places. You can usually find the money in the blazer pocket of the dude wearing a suit. Just a guess.
When you cut money from services, people lose their jobs. Cutting back on stationery supplies isn't really going to save you money like cutting the job of someone on £25k a year, is it? That person who's just lost their job doesn't then evaporate along with their tax contribution; they still exist, they still have to feed and clothe themself (and maybe their family, too) and heat their home. And so, they go on "jobseeker's allowance", aptly titled as such because yes, they want a job. Being on jobseeker's allowance isn't fun. You have to work your way through two sets of security guards to get into the building to sign on (hey! I think I just invented a new video game!), and it's not lottery figures you're getting paid every week. It's a pittance, and you're made to feel by all the rest of the society that you are a worthless, lazy bum. Which simply is not true.
If you're on jobseeker's allowance, you might be entitled to other benefits, too: housing benefit, for one. Only, because Margaret Thatcher decided to sell off shit-loads of council property back in '80s and not build any new ones, most people live in privately rented accomodation these days, which as we all know is pretty damn expensive. Landlords can charge whatever they like, and if you're on benefits, guess who pays for that rent! Yep: the state does. The taxpayer. You, most likely.
So currently we have:
There's the impact cutting these services has on the people of the UK. There's the old person who sits in their own excrement for hours because no one's being paid to come and clean them. There's the graduate who sits, at the age of 21, with thousands of pounds worth of debt and no hope of a job, only of "work experience", if they're lucky. There's the parent of that student, who grew up in the '80s and has been there, done that and now has to support their adult child to get by. There's the parent who can't afford childcare and so only works part-time, or not at all. There's the child who grows up in poverty, being made to feel as though this is somehow the fault of their people; don't bother with an education, it doesn't get you anywhere.
And then there's David Cameron and George Osborne, and a few of the other lucky elite. Tax breaks for millionaires, and rich politicians charging the cost of their family holiday to France to their expenses, sending their children off to Eton and then Cambridge, hiring a personal carer for their parent when they become too old to take themself off to the toilet alone, telling us, "We're all in this together." And then they turn around and point the finger at you. Or maybe not at you, but at your immigrant neighbour who bought a new lawnmower last week (holy shit! Not a new lawnmower!), or the single mother down the road who just got pregnant again (because vaginas seem to make a habit of causing massive economic crises). Maybe it's their fault, maybe you should blame them. Blame anyone, but do not blame the twats who got us into the mess in the first place.
That's the last thing they would want you to do.
The UK has a lot of debt, yes? We know this. We know the banks made a massive cock-up and lost loads of our (our) money, and we know that they've all been talking about how we should rectify this, how we need to stop borrowing, start saving, cut the deficit. Let's be a prosperous nation once again.
David Cameron and George Osborne had a little light-bulb moment some years ago and came up with this idea about how we might achieve this. David said, "Hey George, let's keep all the money for ourselves", and George said, "What a jolly good idea, David." And so that is what they did.
They took money out of services. Apparently, we shouldn't be spending money on services - pssh, what a waste, people don't need to be looked after! Lewisham Hospital is one thoroughly-documented example for us living in South London, but there are many other examples throughout the UK, too. Services for sick people, old people, young people, people with children, disabled people... Everyone knows someone who's been affected, unless the only people you know opt to always go private because, as they well know, "The NHS is shit!" Maybe it's shit because there's not enough money put into it, or because the money's being put into the wrong places. You can usually find the money in the blazer pocket of the dude wearing a suit. Just a guess.
When you cut money from services, people lose their jobs. Cutting back on stationery supplies isn't really going to save you money like cutting the job of someone on £25k a year, is it? That person who's just lost their job doesn't then evaporate along with their tax contribution; they still exist, they still have to feed and clothe themself (and maybe their family, too) and heat their home. And so, they go on "jobseeker's allowance", aptly titled as such because yes, they want a job. Being on jobseeker's allowance isn't fun. You have to work your way through two sets of security guards to get into the building to sign on (hey! I think I just invented a new video game!), and it's not lottery figures you're getting paid every week. It's a pittance, and you're made to feel by all the rest of the society that you are a worthless, lazy bum. Which simply is not true.
If you're on jobseeker's allowance, you might be entitled to other benefits, too: housing benefit, for one. Only, because Margaret Thatcher decided to sell off shit-loads of council property back in '80s and not build any new ones, most people live in privately rented accomodation these days, which as we all know is pretty damn expensive. Landlords can charge whatever they like, and if you're on benefits, guess who pays for that rent! Yep: the state does. The taxpayer. You, most likely.
So currently we have:
- a decline in services and quality of services,
- someone who was once paying tax now no longer paying tax,
- yet another person on benefits, and
- a chunk of those benefits going into the pocket of someone who already makes a decent sum.
There's the impact cutting these services has on the people of the UK. There's the old person who sits in their own excrement for hours because no one's being paid to come and clean them. There's the graduate who sits, at the age of 21, with thousands of pounds worth of debt and no hope of a job, only of "work experience", if they're lucky. There's the parent of that student, who grew up in the '80s and has been there, done that and now has to support their adult child to get by. There's the parent who can't afford childcare and so only works part-time, or not at all. There's the child who grows up in poverty, being made to feel as though this is somehow the fault of their people; don't bother with an education, it doesn't get you anywhere.
And then there's David Cameron and George Osborne, and a few of the other lucky elite. Tax breaks for millionaires, and rich politicians charging the cost of their family holiday to France to their expenses, sending their children off to Eton and then Cambridge, hiring a personal carer for their parent when they become too old to take themself off to the toilet alone, telling us, "We're all in this together." And then they turn around and point the finger at you. Or maybe not at you, but at your immigrant neighbour who bought a new lawnmower last week (holy shit! Not a new lawnmower!), or the single mother down the road who just got pregnant again (because vaginas seem to make a habit of causing massive economic crises). Maybe it's their fault, maybe you should blame them. Blame anyone, but do not blame the twats who got us into the mess in the first place.
That's the last thing they would want you to do.
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Capitalism & Insecurity
Sometimes I think about insecurity. I think about it because of my own, about the things that I don’t like about myself, physically, mentally and emotionally. I think about how I allow it to hold me back, about all the instances where I have been offered an opportunity that I have turned down because I didn’t think I was ready, or that I could do it, or that I could do it as well as someone else could do it and the people I might let down if I did it wrong. And then, just for the briefest moment (because the briefest moment is all it takes), I stop looking inward and I see the same misery, disappointment and insecurity painted all over somebody else’s face, and very often that person is someone I consider intelligent, likeable, attractive, worthy. And I ask them, “What do you have to be insecure about?”
And that is the real question, isn’t it? What do we really have to be insecure about? None of us are perfect, we tell our friends this every single day, and yet we still expect perfection from ourselves, without really knowing what perfection is. Who decides what perfection is? I can’t keep up with whether size zero or curves are in at any given time, and I used to think that if you wore a suit to work then you meant business, but now bankers are wankers. Whatever we do, we’re not doing the right thing, and if by some miracle we are doing the right thing, we’re not doing it in the right way. Do it faster. Do it more cheaply. Do it while looking fabulous. Do it while doing 101 other fast, cheap, fabulous things.
Here’s another question for you, an equally important one: Where the hell does all this insecurity come from?
I have a theory.
In this theory, there are men; very, very rich men. Men with white skin, a receding hairline and a belly hanging just slightly over the waistline of their tailored trousers, because they can afford to eat well. I think about their wives, these faceless Stepford women who at some point in their lives made a choice to live one of comfort and safe, secure predictability rather than any real fulfilment. I think about their children, privately educated and spoonfed the complete works of Shakespeare, but never taught any real skills to use in the real world, because with a father like these men, who needs to live in the real world?
And then I think about ordinary men and women and boys and girls who do live in the real world, and who do need real skills in order to get by in this real, difficult, emotionally and physically draining, real-world. I think about them slaving over textbooks at school, being fed knowledge they will never use and so soon forget, while their parents slave away in an office full of cogs being turned relentlessly, their raw hands gripping at the levers as the sweat pours down their faces. And they keep turning these cogs, these cogs which form part of a much bigger, fiercer machine – and no one is exactly sure what this machine does – because every turn will put a pound in their pocket, a pound in the state’s pocket, and a million pounds in the pocket of one of these men: these very, very rich men.
And these very, very rich men are happy, or at least they think they are happy, because their stomachs are well fed, their wives have no faces and their children have never been taught the skills or the desire to answer back. And so they keep going: they want more of this brand of happiness, and we, the civilians in this War on the Human Race they have invested in, must pay for it. They tell us how we should pay for it. One very, very rich man decides what we should wear, while another hand-selects what music we should listen to. Down the corridor in another room, another very, very rich man decides what our hair should look like this season, as another strengthens ties with (or around the neck of) one very desperate, poverty-stricken sweatshop that we will never get to see because their label will be torn out of our consciousness and replaced with your favourite high street’s “affordable” brand.
These very, very rich men’s very, very rich friends choose which phones we should be communicating on, how we should be communicating and what we should be communicating about, and how they might sell us other useless shit we do not need on these “social net-worth-ing” platforms, and bank on the fact that we will become so immersed in the apps, the games, the reflections of ourselves that they have painted for us that we will stop seeing who we really are, or how our neighbours too hate their lives without any real explanation as to why. And these very, very rich men choose our cars, dictate our misogynistic and unlikely pornography, turning women into plastic our daughters will someday soon aspire to set into the mould of, and infiltrate our media, our right to a “free press”, and all the while we grab hold of the levers for dear life and keep turning these cogs in motion, the sweat dripping from our starved dehydrated skin, because this is the only way to exist in this world they have created for us. And they package these commodities in colours we have been raised to think reflect us, and it’s all very shiny and new and exciting, and everyone else has one and they look so happy wearing bland smiles pulled up at the corners by invisible strings, mere puppets in this game of Monopoly, where the Ordinary People keep rolling 1s and the very, very rich men have infinite get-out-of-jail-free cards, and if only I could have what they have, live the life they lead – maybe, just maybe, I might be happy...
Because this world has become so ingrained in us that if we are not properly a part of it, if we do not blend in against the wallpaper they have chosen for us then we have not “made it”; we are not successful, we are not attractive, we are not happy and we are not worthy because we do not have what they have, or what they have told us we must have. And this is somehow our faults, because obviously we are not doing it right. We are not working hard enough, or we are simply not good enough. There must be something wrong with us.
But I have a theory.
In this theory, there is nothing wrong with us at all.
And that is the real question, isn’t it? What do we really have to be insecure about? None of us are perfect, we tell our friends this every single day, and yet we still expect perfection from ourselves, without really knowing what perfection is. Who decides what perfection is? I can’t keep up with whether size zero or curves are in at any given time, and I used to think that if you wore a suit to work then you meant business, but now bankers are wankers. Whatever we do, we’re not doing the right thing, and if by some miracle we are doing the right thing, we’re not doing it in the right way. Do it faster. Do it more cheaply. Do it while looking fabulous. Do it while doing 101 other fast, cheap, fabulous things.
Here’s another question for you, an equally important one: Where the hell does all this insecurity come from?
I have a theory.
In this theory, there are men; very, very rich men. Men with white skin, a receding hairline and a belly hanging just slightly over the waistline of their tailored trousers, because they can afford to eat well. I think about their wives, these faceless Stepford women who at some point in their lives made a choice to live one of comfort and safe, secure predictability rather than any real fulfilment. I think about their children, privately educated and spoonfed the complete works of Shakespeare, but never taught any real skills to use in the real world, because with a father like these men, who needs to live in the real world?
And then I think about ordinary men and women and boys and girls who do live in the real world, and who do need real skills in order to get by in this real, difficult, emotionally and physically draining, real-world. I think about them slaving over textbooks at school, being fed knowledge they will never use and so soon forget, while their parents slave away in an office full of cogs being turned relentlessly, their raw hands gripping at the levers as the sweat pours down their faces. And they keep turning these cogs, these cogs which form part of a much bigger, fiercer machine – and no one is exactly sure what this machine does – because every turn will put a pound in their pocket, a pound in the state’s pocket, and a million pounds in the pocket of one of these men: these very, very rich men.
And these very, very rich men are happy, or at least they think they are happy, because their stomachs are well fed, their wives have no faces and their children have never been taught the skills or the desire to answer back. And so they keep going: they want more of this brand of happiness, and we, the civilians in this War on the Human Race they have invested in, must pay for it. They tell us how we should pay for it. One very, very rich man decides what we should wear, while another hand-selects what music we should listen to. Down the corridor in another room, another very, very rich man decides what our hair should look like this season, as another strengthens ties with (or around the neck of) one very desperate, poverty-stricken sweatshop that we will never get to see because their label will be torn out of our consciousness and replaced with your favourite high street’s “affordable” brand.
These very, very rich men’s very, very rich friends choose which phones we should be communicating on, how we should be communicating and what we should be communicating about, and how they might sell us other useless shit we do not need on these “social net-worth-ing” platforms, and bank on the fact that we will become so immersed in the apps, the games, the reflections of ourselves that they have painted for us that we will stop seeing who we really are, or how our neighbours too hate their lives without any real explanation as to why. And these very, very rich men choose our cars, dictate our misogynistic and unlikely pornography, turning women into plastic our daughters will someday soon aspire to set into the mould of, and infiltrate our media, our right to a “free press”, and all the while we grab hold of the levers for dear life and keep turning these cogs in motion, the sweat dripping from our starved dehydrated skin, because this is the only way to exist in this world they have created for us. And they package these commodities in colours we have been raised to think reflect us, and it’s all very shiny and new and exciting, and everyone else has one and they look so happy wearing bland smiles pulled up at the corners by invisible strings, mere puppets in this game of Monopoly, where the Ordinary People keep rolling 1s and the very, very rich men have infinite get-out-of-jail-free cards, and if only I could have what they have, live the life they lead – maybe, just maybe, I might be happy...
Because this world has become so ingrained in us that if we are not properly a part of it, if we do not blend in against the wallpaper they have chosen for us then we have not “made it”; we are not successful, we are not attractive, we are not happy and we are not worthy because we do not have what they have, or what they have told us we must have. And this is somehow our faults, because obviously we are not doing it right. We are not working hard enough, or we are simply not good enough. There must be something wrong with us.
But I have a theory.
In this theory, there is nothing wrong with us at all.
Monday, 11 February 2013
Dear Nadine Dorries
Dear Nadine Dorries,
I don't make a habit of listening to you usually (because you associate yourself with the Conservative Party, which in turn associates itself with arseholeness - and arseholeness generally angers me, and anger sorta interferes with the whole incense-stick-burning/ peaceful meditation thing I have going on at the moment), but just lately some of your comments and opinions about other women's uteri have been trickling through onto my Twitter feed. I can't help but feel that you are alluding to my uterus, Nadine, what with me having one and everything. And so I thought to myself: Hey! Maybe Nadine would care for a formal introduction!
This is my uterus:
Cute, isn't it?
When my gynaecologist told me that I have "a heart-shaped uterus", my initial reaction was, "Aww, that's sweet." But apparently, having a "heart-shaped" (or "bicornuate") uterus isn't all that sweet, as Mr Gynaecologist eventually explained to me, after I spent a solid two minutes sitting on (well, squatting over) the hospital toilet emptying my raging bladder. "No, no," he said to me. "You iz fucked." Well, those weren't his exact words, but his expression was pretty grave as he told me that my chances of carrying any future bambinos to full-term were very slim and likely to be littered with complications, and my risk of miscarriage significantly higher than most women's.
I wasn't too fussed at the time. Y'see Nadine, I was 15, my biggest worry was if I would survive my GCSEs and whether my new set of hair straighteners were any good, and the only reason I was there having my uterus scanned in the first place was to ascertain why it always hurt so sodding much, and why it insisted on bleeding profusely for four months straight without any kind of interval, eventually resulting in a kitchen floor covered in blood, me almost passing out from the pain and my mama having to call for an ambulance. My uterus hasn't given me an easy time of it over the years, and I don't expect it to let up any time soon! As I near the grand old age of 24, with my uterus persisting in being a pain in the arse (sometimes literally - do you ever get period cramps in your backside, Nadine? Hurts like a bitch!), and with kindly doctors urging me to consider "starting a family" earlier than I may have otherwise planned (y'know, in case the first few handfuls of pregnancies don't work out so well), the reality of my possible predicament becomes ever-increasingly frightening. I don't know if I want children, truth be told. Yes, I want them, but I don't know if I want to endure a whole bunch of miscarriages in the later stages of pregnancy before I might, just might, finally get one. I've never coped so well with disappointment. I mean yeah, sure I'll think about it and see if I can get my vagina on any decent sperm before I make my decision, but at this moment in time, I'm pretty protective of what goes in my uterus. It's bad enough not having any say in the presence of big juicy clots.
And so, Nadine, I ask you kindly to please reconsider your views on my uterus. Y'know the uterus you just met, like two minutes ago, and will probably forget all about in about half as much time? My uterus and I would be very grateful.
Laterz!
Martha
I don't make a habit of listening to you usually (because you associate yourself with the Conservative Party, which in turn associates itself with arseholeness - and arseholeness generally angers me, and anger sorta interferes with the whole incense-stick-burning/ peaceful meditation thing I have going on at the moment), but just lately some of your comments and opinions about other women's uteri have been trickling through onto my Twitter feed. I can't help but feel that you are alluding to my uterus, Nadine, what with me having one and everything. And so I thought to myself: Hey! Maybe Nadine would care for a formal introduction!
This is my uterus:
Cute, isn't it?
When my gynaecologist told me that I have "a heart-shaped uterus", my initial reaction was, "Aww, that's sweet." But apparently, having a "heart-shaped" (or "bicornuate") uterus isn't all that sweet, as Mr Gynaecologist eventually explained to me, after I spent a solid two minutes sitting on (well, squatting over) the hospital toilet emptying my raging bladder. "No, no," he said to me. "You iz fucked." Well, those weren't his exact words, but his expression was pretty grave as he told me that my chances of carrying any future bambinos to full-term were very slim and likely to be littered with complications, and my risk of miscarriage significantly higher than most women's.
I wasn't too fussed at the time. Y'see Nadine, I was 15, my biggest worry was if I would survive my GCSEs and whether my new set of hair straighteners were any good, and the only reason I was there having my uterus scanned in the first place was to ascertain why it always hurt so sodding much, and why it insisted on bleeding profusely for four months straight without any kind of interval, eventually resulting in a kitchen floor covered in blood, me almost passing out from the pain and my mama having to call for an ambulance. My uterus hasn't given me an easy time of it over the years, and I don't expect it to let up any time soon! As I near the grand old age of 24, with my uterus persisting in being a pain in the arse (sometimes literally - do you ever get period cramps in your backside, Nadine? Hurts like a bitch!), and with kindly doctors urging me to consider "starting a family" earlier than I may have otherwise planned (y'know, in case the first few handfuls of pregnancies don't work out so well), the reality of my possible predicament becomes ever-increasingly frightening. I don't know if I want children, truth be told. Yes, I want them, but I don't know if I want to endure a whole bunch of miscarriages in the later stages of pregnancy before I might, just might, finally get one. I've never coped so well with disappointment. I mean yeah, sure I'll think about it and see if I can get my vagina on any decent sperm before I make my decision, but at this moment in time, I'm pretty protective of what goes in my uterus. It's bad enough not having any say in the presence of big juicy clots.
And so, Nadine, I ask you kindly to please reconsider your views on my uterus. Y'know the uterus you just met, like two minutes ago, and will probably forget all about in about half as much time? My uterus and I would be very grateful.
Laterz!
Martha
Saturday, 9 February 2013
The Role of Men in Feminism
I have a hard time finding a man happy to identify himself as "feminist" or "pro-feminist", or even a man happy to admit that he sympathises with the feminist plight. When the floor opens up to feminist discussion and I raise my hand and proudly declare, "Yo, feminist right here", here's what I usually get: I get eyes rolling; I get genuine surprise that I, a woman though I am, identify as feminist, followed by eventual "Oh, that's cool... I guess"; I get banterous "But everyone knows men are better than women" or "Oh, so you hate men", and sometimes I get legitimate disgust. So when it's this much of a struggle to get men aboard the whole idea of feminism, why should we, as women, subjugate, isolate or reject the voices of those men who do actually sympathise with us? Well, I'll tell you why:
I want men to be interested in feminism. I don't really care about semantics, and whether a man chooses to identify as "feminist" or "pro-feminist" is really beside the point, so long as he is supporting the cause - but most importantly, supporting the cause in a practical way. The whole point of feminism is to fight against the fact that the gender "female" is viewed and very often treated as inferior to the gender "male", and acknowledging that this, frustratingly, manifests itself in various ways. It manifests itself economically: women overall still earn less than men. It manifests itself in crime: women are still overwhelmingly victims of street harassment, sexual assault and domestic abuse. It manifests itself in the media: the sexualisation of girls who have barely hit puberty, and the objectification of women who are only viewed as "tits" and "arse", and not as "human being"... But you've heard this all before, guys, I know you have. So how about this:
It manifests itself in language: the worst thing you call a person, a "cunt", is just another word for the female genitalia, after all. It manifests itself in the assumption that men should be the breadwinner and women should look after the children, and it manifests itself in the judgement that is passed of a man when he answers the question "What do you do for a living?" with "I'm a dad". It manifests itself in the pressure a man feels to be "macho" or strong. It manifests itself in the very idea that to be female, to have female traits, to be in any way associated with anything female, unless you're either a) protecting her, or b) shagging her, is a negative thing.
It is not a negative thing to be female.
Nor is it a negative thing to be male. But the sad thing is that we as a society have come to associate supposedly "female" traits with weakness. "Stop being such a girl" as opposed to "Man up"; "You throw like a girl" as opposed to "Grow some balls". We live in a world where women and men are disempowered by the disempowerment of women. If we want equality - yes, equality; I'm not talking about a world governed by misandry - we need to start promoting the female gender as the amazing, strong and beautiful entity that it is. This doesn't mean that we need to slam and shame all men at every given opportunity, but it does mean that we need to be honest about our experiences without worrying about offending or upsetting those men who have never hit or sexually assaulted a woman, or shouted "SLAG!" after the woman who refused to give him her phone number. Men, we are aware that you are not all rapists, that you don't all wolf-whistle or cat-call, or truly believe that a woman's place is in the kitchen making you a sandwich. Men, we like some of you. A lot. Maybe we even love some of you. But please, we need to love ourselves, as well.
I want men to be interested in feminism. I don't really care about semantics, and whether a man chooses to identify as "feminist" or "pro-feminist" is really beside the point, so long as he is supporting the cause - but most importantly, supporting the cause in a practical way. The whole point of feminism is to fight against the fact that the gender "female" is viewed and very often treated as inferior to the gender "male", and acknowledging that this, frustratingly, manifests itself in various ways. It manifests itself economically: women overall still earn less than men. It manifests itself in crime: women are still overwhelmingly victims of street harassment, sexual assault and domestic abuse. It manifests itself in the media: the sexualisation of girls who have barely hit puberty, and the objectification of women who are only viewed as "tits" and "arse", and not as "human being"... But you've heard this all before, guys, I know you have. So how about this:
It manifests itself in language: the worst thing you call a person, a "cunt", is just another word for the female genitalia, after all. It manifests itself in the assumption that men should be the breadwinner and women should look after the children, and it manifests itself in the judgement that is passed of a man when he answers the question "What do you do for a living?" with "I'm a dad". It manifests itself in the pressure a man feels to be "macho" or strong. It manifests itself in the very idea that to be female, to have female traits, to be in any way associated with anything female, unless you're either a) protecting her, or b) shagging her, is a negative thing.
It is not a negative thing to be female.
Nor is it a negative thing to be male. But the sad thing is that we as a society have come to associate supposedly "female" traits with weakness. "Stop being such a girl" as opposed to "Man up"; "You throw like a girl" as opposed to "Grow some balls". We live in a world where women and men are disempowered by the disempowerment of women. If we want equality - yes, equality; I'm not talking about a world governed by misandry - we need to start promoting the female gender as the amazing, strong and beautiful entity that it is. This doesn't mean that we need to slam and shame all men at every given opportunity, but it does mean that we need to be honest about our experiences without worrying about offending or upsetting those men who have never hit or sexually assaulted a woman, or shouted "SLAG!" after the woman who refused to give him her phone number. Men, we are aware that you are not all rapists, that you don't all wolf-whistle or cat-call, or truly believe that a woman's place is in the kitchen making you a sandwich. Men, we like some of you. A lot. Maybe we even love some of you. But please, we need to love ourselves, as well.
We have to free half of the human race, the women, so that they can help to free the other half.- Emmeline Pankhurst
We cannot empower humanity without empowering the female gender. We cannot let people, all people, be who they truly are - complicated, dynamic, strong and emotional, aggressive and sensitive - without saying to the world, "It is OK to be a woman." And men, you have to let us say it.
We are afraid of walking home late at night on our own; when it comes to Reclaim The Night marches, let us reclaim the night. Your voices are overwhelmingly dominant over ours in the media; let us speak about issues which affect us. A couple of years ago, when I was commissioned to write a piece about sexism in football for a feminist website, my piece was dropped because it was felt that a male author's take on the issue was, apparently, "more relevant". This is not to say that I believe a man should be silenced or discouraged from engaging in the feminist movement, but rather that he needs to know when, where and how. Do not tell us that we are wrong, because until you have lived in our shoes and had the experiences that we have had, how could you possibly know?
Men, if you are truly supportive of the feminist cause, you have to support it by giving the oppressed voice room to speak.
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Loneliness Is...
You can live with loneliness, if you live for long enough. But first you have to break through that spell where loneliness is the pair of tights you ladder first thing in the morning when you’re still half-asleep, the coat you shrug on before you step out into the world’s familiar chill, or the blanket you pull tight around you when it’s been two hours and you’re still not asleep. Because that is not loneliness: that is fear of loneliness.
Loneliness becomes you. You wear it like skin, so accustomed to it that when you look in the mirror each day, you are not surprised to see it. You know it, every square inch of it: its temperature, the way it stretches across your bones as you reach out an arm, or folds in on itself as you pull an arm away. You protect it, and panic at the sight of blood, that some alien vessel has dared to infiltrate you. True loneliness is easily accepted, as I had accepted mine.
Loneliness becomes you. You wear it like skin, so accustomed to it that when you look in the mirror each day, you are not surprised to see it. You know it, every square inch of it: its temperature, the way it stretches across your bones as you reach out an arm, or folds in on itself as you pull an arm away. You protect it, and panic at the sight of blood, that some alien vessel has dared to infiltrate you. True loneliness is easily accepted, as I had accepted mine.
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