Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Feminism


Feminism?

Feminism.

A word I wouldn't have used to describe myself until a matter of months ago.

As Miss Caitlin Moran once said:

"Put your hand in your pants.

a) Do you have a vagina? and
b) Do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist."

And yet it's still a term women use with apprehension. A phrase with an air of taboo. Why is that? Are we embarrassed by the Pankhurst sisters? Ashamed by Nightingale? Humiliated by Bodichon? No. No. And no! And if you say yes: FUCK YOU! These women built a society against all adversity. Moulded it from a heap of immorality and inequality into the society they wanted, they needed.

Womankind has come a long way from throwing themselves under horses or tying themselves to fences, but despite the legalisation of the vote and other such pleasantries the simple fact is sexism hasn't gone. It hasn't disappeared. It's adapted. Just like our technology and eating habits. Sexism has evolved with the times. Are the accomplishments of all our predecessors, really worth so little?

Ask yourselves this:

Is it wrong for a woman to not have children?

If a woman has children is it wrong for her to let someone else raise them while she works?

If a woman is raped is it because of the way she dresses?

Is it acceptable for a woman to abuse her partner?

Do all successful attractive women sleep their way to the top?

Should men be the bread earner in the relationship?

Is it wrong for a woman to be interested in football?

Answer 'no' then thank fucking god. Answer yes, then question yourself: why?
Is it her place?
Her job?
Her reason to be on this earth?
It's in her DNA?
Because she's a woman?
You, my friend, need to take a good, hard look at yourself in the mirror.

Sexism is subtle. It is insinuated, handed from hand to grubby hand down a dark urban alley. A serpent, slithering through the grasses of our society, poisoning all it comes across and worrying those it does not.

Sexism is alive and well in the 21st Century. But why is it seen as not as serious as racism?

Why has it got to the extent where individuals dismiss sexism as 'humour':

"Sexism wouldn't exist if women were as intelligent as men"

So that's ok? That's acceptable? That's funny? But what if three words are altered? Three small, insignificant words in an unoffencive humours sentence...?

"Racism wouldn't exist if blacks were as intelligent as whites"

NO NO NO!! That's racist!! You can't say that!!

What's the difference? Where's the line?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying racism is ok, that it doesn't exist, that it isn't a problem. It's not, it does and it is. But why is it that when it's an issue of skin colour there's a problem, but when it comes to whats down your pants everything ok. It's all just a joke.

"I'm sorry, I mean't it in a 'funny' way."

God help black women.

And yet it seems the problem, with both racism and sexism, is the minority.

25% of the world's population is Caucasian, I'm not stating that all Caucasians are racist or that all racists are Caucasian. But coming from the United Kingdom, a predominately Caucasian society, the hate crimes against other denominations is disgusting. And it is the Caucasians that are the ignorant ones. You don't see the Asians attacking the Polish. Or vice versa. During the 2011 London riots there were minority on minority attacks, majority on minority attacks but no minority on majority attacks…

This is mirrored in the world of sex. In a society where women outnumber men at 52% why is we who should cook the meals? Clean the house? Raise the Children.

Well fuck that. And fuck you.


Monday, 31 December 2012

Distance


My partner and I have now been apart for 3 weeks. Despite us not considering it a 'serious' relationship: it is in fact a serious relationship.

M and I have been together a little over 3 months. And have been living together for a little longer than that. It's an interesting set up. And an interesting beginning to a relationship.
We we're aquaintances. Knew of each other. Worked in adjacent rooms. But weren't friends. He moves into the house, which we share with C and S, we hang out, we get to know each other and we flirt. Outrageously.

Friends comment on the chemistry. We deny deny deny. And yet a matter of days after moving in I find him in my bed.

And since then I haven't been able to kick the bastard out.

I love him dearly, despite it being such a short time. But sometimes I just need space. My GOD I need space!

There are times I want nothing more than to spend the day wrapped in his arms, ignoring the world around us and praying for no distractions. And then there are those other days. Those other days when I could quite happily push him from a bridge. Not for anything his does mind. Although I'm not saying he's perfect. Just my sheer disgusting stubbornness to be a loner.

And yet, despite these homicidal urges, I miss him. I'd give my soul to have him here.

But despite all of this I don't think I love him. Not really. Not truly. I became infatuated with him after the difficult break up from my previous boyfriend. In fact, that was the same day M moved in. I'm certainly not calling him a rebound. But a relationship of convenience? Sure, why not. Aren't all relationships an unspoken contract of convenience? Security, money, support, a warm bed to go home to, sex. Love. What is love but a distraction from the necessities?

By god I'm in a pessimistic mood.

Wine? Wine.

Lovely.

The Festive Season


Bah, Humbug!!

I am a Scrooge, and I admit it.

I'm sitting in an overly stuffy pub, during an overly warm winter, surrounded by family i'm supposed to love unconditionally. But don't. As I'm sure is the case with all families, I find family events something to approach with apprehension. To cope I turn to the one ally who has stood by me for the last 20 odd years: alcohol. In my hand is the largest glass of wine I could possibly purchase without buying a bottle. And yet, it's not enough.

In the background a hospital drama is paying on a large screen tv. A dull, monotonous soap that is unfathomably able to hold the gaze of everyone in the room. Out of the corner of my eye a woman's life is oozing from the stab wounds littering her body. I can sympathise. I can slowly feel my sanity seeping from my ears.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I've nothing against Christmas per say. As a Theist I'm all for the celebration of a proposed Deity. But as the eldest of a family of five these past few weeks have only proceeded to illustrate further the extent of which the younger generations view the festive period as nothing more than a time of presents, food and tv.

When asked

"What do you think of when I say Christmas?"

My seven year old brother responds straight away with

"Presents!"

A short while later I hear from behind the sofa

"Um actually mistletoe, holly and Christ."

Well at least we got there in the end.

Welcome to 2012.