Back on the blog after an intense summer of dissertating and teaching - pleasure-writing has been far from my inclinations for a while, but it's about discipline as well as desire, and September's back-to-school vibe seems a good point to pick up again. The work-weariness has also rendered my rants progressively less coherent, to the point where I can only shake an impotent fist at the offender, guiltily acknowledging thoughts of making cathartic use of it and then consigning all blog-thoughts to the receding to-do list. And in honesty I've not much new to contribute apart from the early autumn melancholy - always more palatable with chilly morning sun-shards and moist earth-smells, but we shall have to content ourselves with mere words for now...
Feeling a little glum after a brief (and temporally dislocated) glimpse of morning slagheap The Wright Stuff this evening. Discussion topic: Why Are Women Less Funny Than Men? I don't know what they were actually saying - the snatch of slackly moidering Catherine Tate was enough for Coc to channel-hop on - but it would have depressed me. I know it would. But it set me to thinking about the impact of the questions we ask, and how they inevitably set the parameters of discussion to an extent that we don't, I think, often consider. (For 'we' read 'I', there - pronominal inclusivity won out over self-reflexivity...) I suppose this must sound like a truism, and the assumption in this particular question doesn't require razor critical insight - but I do think that for gender especially, compared to other issues of identity, there is a much more widespread acceptance of fundamental difference beyond biology. Even my own students, modern, middle-class urban Masters types, came out today with the argument that 'women are emotional, so men are more reliable in a crisis', and 'women are weaker and so get more tired than men when they have to work long hours'. Most (non-academic) engagement with gender issues starts with an assumption of fundamental, immutable difference - 'women are this, men are that'. And while I can free myself from believing in my own feminine immutability, I can't free myself from these prevalent attitudes - and I don't like it. The other day I went to pick up my student card, and on saying I'd like to keep the original photo because I liked it, I was subjected to a friendly diatribe about 'ladies' (enough in itself to piss me right off) obsession with their looks. Liking my photo didn't just apply to me individually - this was female behaviour. But who doesn't like a good picture of themselves?
There's a lot of rage here and nowhere really to channel it. I've always tried to avoid tackling anything related to gender in my classes, because I don't really know how to address it in a way that avoids descent into deeply tedious men vs. women 'debates'. I think this probably has to change - I don't know how, but need to give it some thought. I need to find the ovaries to ACT on this anger somehow. Hm. Yeah. Will get back to you on that one.
Coc just asked me if I was challenging the Wright assumption by writing a scathing piece full of witty zingers, which I would have done if a) it didn't simply indulge the debate, and b) I could.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Vagi-na-na-nana-na...
...say I, in reponse to the US TV network misogynists who refused to show Kotex's tampon ad for naming That Which Apparently Must Not Be Named. In a society already blinded by the, er, bleedin' obvious - peanuts 'May Contain Nuts', you know - will it take some poor soul to disastrously mistake a tampon for a Mini-Milk before we can talk about WHERE THEY ACTUALLY GO? Kotex's modified ad (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRf35wCmzWw&feature=related) has purged the offending genital, while cocking a cheekily amusing snook at sanitary-product advertising conventions, but it's still caving in to the media portrayal of women's (and, increasingly, men's) need for 'protection' against the evil machinations of our own bodies. Thou shalt not sweat nor shine, and nor shalt thou smell. And verily shalt thou not admit that thou bleeds't monthly, for t'would be to state that thou art a creature foul and unsanitary. But to suggest that we need sheltering from even the naming of our bodies is something altogether more unsavoury, for of course naming is power, and if we start to say vagina, we may ultimately come to - !! - love our vaginas. Women naming and controlling their own sexuality? A fearful thing indeed... Sisters, best continue to dance in white spandex and wring out your blue-soaked sanitary towels every month...
And besides, tampons are unhealthy for both the body and the environment. I'm a Mooncup convert (http://www.mooncup.co.uk/), and recommend it not only for its safety and eco-soundness, but also for the way it visibly collects rather than discreetly absorbs. I'd been having periods for nearly twenty years before I realised that menstrual blood isn't really like blood at all, but more of a treacly, weighty mucus. Use the Mooncup, and/or tell your friends about it if you don't menstruate, and get to know what's really going into and coming out of your body. It's very cool.
And besides, tampons are unhealthy for both the body and the environment. I'm a Mooncup convert (http://www.mooncup.co.uk/), and recommend it not only for its safety and eco-soundness, but also for the way it visibly collects rather than discreetly absorbs. I'd been having periods for nearly twenty years before I realised that menstrual blood isn't really like blood at all, but more of a treacly, weighty mucus. Use the Mooncup, and/or tell your friends about it if you don't menstruate, and get to know what's really going into and coming out of your body. It's very cool.
Monday, 5 April 2010
My 'Feminist', And Why She Scowls
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/mar/04/return-full-makeup
And so to the Scowling Feminist, and her origin. I should state that I'm uncomfortable with the term 'feminism', in much the same way as I'm uncomfortable with any '-ism', for being a systemised outlook on the world whereby everything is assigned value relative to a central concept. Feminism, as Coc and I are discussing as I write, sets out to unravel the concept of femininity but is based upon the very concept it wishes to unravel. And if it is not unravelling the concept, it must (as I see it) be privileging it. Both these potential understandings are antagonistic to my aim of an equality based on an acknowledgement of personhood and agency. To clarify my terms: by 'personhood' I mean the recognition of the humanity we share rather than the variety within it which becomes a focus of difference; and I understand 'agency' to be the recognition of an individual's ability to accept, reject and negotiate the definitions which the power structures within which we operate seek to impose upon us, and to self-define and self-realise even within these structures.
So, I'm not sure about 'feminism'. However, neither I nor (to my knowledge) anyone else has been able to come up with a more suitable term, so it will have to do. Thus I scowl at it. And my scowls were given name from this article about makeup by Hilary Mantel, a writer I hitherto admired. Now, as anyone who has the fortune to know me knows, I love makeup. I love big colours. I love big chunky spider-lashes. I love the way eyeshadow plays and blends and clashes with all the colours upon and within me. It's ace. I don't wear lipstick because it's uncomfortable and cumbersome, and I don't wear foundation because its function is the antithesis of why I wear makeup - it conceals rather than highlights. There's no showing-off in foundation. Not for me the 'natural' look - I'm all about the brash display. And I have bad skin days like anyone else - sometimes I look great, sometimes tiredness, hormones and lack of sunlight get the better of my youthful elasticity. And sometimes I can't be arsed to wear makeup. Sometimes there's no time, sometimes I'd rather just have a more leisurely breakfast. Whatever. I'm perfectly happy to present myself to the world without it... My mother never wears any, my grandmothers never did, and nor do most of the women in my extended family. But this seems too much for Mantel to believe, swoopingly patronising in her bland assumptions that few women honestly wear no makeup and few men have ever seen these bold creatures. 'Moons on sticks', she calls those of us with the temerity to present unpainted faces to the world. Yer hear that, Mam? That's you, that is... She cites a Grazia survey conducted, encouragingly, among 100 'people' - 'presumably women, but maybe not'. I struggle to understand this aside - are women not people too? I for one am surprised that only 61% of these people claim they'd face the world au naturel for nothing. Not demanding payment for stepping out of doors makeup-free? Duh! Surely this is A Good Thing, Ms Mantel?
Perhaps others read her tone as tongue-in-cheek, and think I'm flailing over nothing. Maybe makeup isn't even an important issue, not worth all this angry verbiage. I don't know - doubtless there are strong counter-arguments. But the reason I take this seriously, over and above any possible flippancy of tone, is the emphasis on construction and contrivance: 'you paint the face of the woman you would like to be, then you stare at it in the mirror, then you go out and imitate her until the job's done.' This not-so-subtle suggestion that makeup-wearers essentially refute or negate their identity somehow perpetuates a damaging conviction that they/we are not beautiful/young/confident/adequate enough to present ourselves to the world as we might want to. People who present the 'natural look' are 'smug'. Well, quite. Who do they think they are? It seems to me that Mantel, however joshingly, is taking shots at people - sorry, women - who behave outside the rules of the gender game. And that's a shame. Makeup is as lively a subject to write on as anything else - it's an art, an aesthetic. It's something people do, not something they are. Let us do (or not do) as we will.
Still, she gave me the idea for my blog name. For that, I thank her.
And so to the Scowling Feminist, and her origin. I should state that I'm uncomfortable with the term 'feminism', in much the same way as I'm uncomfortable with any '-ism', for being a systemised outlook on the world whereby everything is assigned value relative to a central concept. Feminism, as Coc and I are discussing as I write, sets out to unravel the concept of femininity but is based upon the very concept it wishes to unravel. And if it is not unravelling the concept, it must (as I see it) be privileging it. Both these potential understandings are antagonistic to my aim of an equality based on an acknowledgement of personhood and agency. To clarify my terms: by 'personhood' I mean the recognition of the humanity we share rather than the variety within it which becomes a focus of difference; and I understand 'agency' to be the recognition of an individual's ability to accept, reject and negotiate the definitions which the power structures within which we operate seek to impose upon us, and to self-define and self-realise even within these structures.
So, I'm not sure about 'feminism'. However, neither I nor (to my knowledge) anyone else has been able to come up with a more suitable term, so it will have to do. Thus I scowl at it. And my scowls were given name from this article about makeup by Hilary Mantel, a writer I hitherto admired. Now, as anyone who has the fortune to know me knows, I love makeup. I love big colours. I love big chunky spider-lashes. I love the way eyeshadow plays and blends and clashes with all the colours upon and within me. It's ace. I don't wear lipstick because it's uncomfortable and cumbersome, and I don't wear foundation because its function is the antithesis of why I wear makeup - it conceals rather than highlights. There's no showing-off in foundation. Not for me the 'natural' look - I'm all about the brash display. And I have bad skin days like anyone else - sometimes I look great, sometimes tiredness, hormones and lack of sunlight get the better of my youthful elasticity. And sometimes I can't be arsed to wear makeup. Sometimes there's no time, sometimes I'd rather just have a more leisurely breakfast. Whatever. I'm perfectly happy to present myself to the world without it... My mother never wears any, my grandmothers never did, and nor do most of the women in my extended family. But this seems too much for Mantel to believe, swoopingly patronising in her bland assumptions that few women honestly wear no makeup and few men have ever seen these bold creatures. 'Moons on sticks', she calls those of us with the temerity to present unpainted faces to the world. Yer hear that, Mam? That's you, that is... She cites a Grazia survey conducted, encouragingly, among 100 'people' - 'presumably women, but maybe not'. I struggle to understand this aside - are women not people too? I for one am surprised that only 61% of these people claim they'd face the world au naturel for nothing. Not demanding payment for stepping out of doors makeup-free? Duh! Surely this is A Good Thing, Ms Mantel?
Perhaps others read her tone as tongue-in-cheek, and think I'm flailing over nothing. Maybe makeup isn't even an important issue, not worth all this angry verbiage. I don't know - doubtless there are strong counter-arguments. But the reason I take this seriously, over and above any possible flippancy of tone, is the emphasis on construction and contrivance: 'you paint the face of the woman you would like to be, then you stare at it in the mirror, then you go out and imitate her until the job's done.' This not-so-subtle suggestion that makeup-wearers essentially refute or negate their identity somehow perpetuates a damaging conviction that they/we are not beautiful/young/confident/adequate enough to present ourselves to the world as we might want to. People who present the 'natural look' are 'smug'. Well, quite. Who do they think they are? It seems to me that Mantel, however joshingly, is taking shots at people - sorry, women - who behave outside the rules of the gender game. And that's a shame. Makeup is as lively a subject to write on as anything else - it's an art, an aesthetic. It's something people do, not something they are. Let us do (or not do) as we will.
Still, she gave me the idea for my blog name. For that, I thank her.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Everything Is Connected...
My first ever blog post. Welcome, none and all!
Mixed feelings herald my entry to the blogosphere. Regret for not having made said entry sooner, as Coc has been suggesting for months whenever I make a rant (often prompted by the 'Women' page of The Guardian G2 or some similarly depressing exponent of the state of gender identity/relations); excitement at having another procrastination toy - oops, I mean 'communication outlet' - and at knowing there will be no end of subject matter upon which to rant to the wider world; something like sadness in this knowledge, because it reinforces how far we need to go to make the world better for everyone in it; and a kind of gritted determination to make betterness happen. And as the world is shaped by what we do and say and think, this blog is something of a contribution. Very slight, very partial, very biased, but very Me - which is, after all, all I have.
I'm also at a point in my life where threads are starting to weave together into a possible future visible beyond the next year or so. I turn 30 in April, have a permanent home for the first time since before I was 8, am about to start a PhD, and am in a nourishing, generative, accepting, endlessly loving and exciting relationship, after a youth of online dating misadventures and affairettes with Russian church singers. I've finally stopped calling myself 'culturally Catholic', despite having been atheist since I left school, because I've realised that it's okay to discard the aspects of my identity I find burdensome and that 'being' or 'not being' is something I have the power to shape for myself every time I open my mouth. So I'm coming to terms with things I didn't even know were there to come to terms with, and love being so aware of the constant changing and growing. Actively learning to accept and enjoy myself and the world - that's where I'm at. And It Is Good.
So the blog, I think, is a way to negotiate acceptance of myself in the world. Turning it outwards, and relating that to the innards, constantly and iteratively. Well... We'll see where this all goes. I find the myriad ways in which we are all connected simultaneously mundane and miraculous - it seems such an obvious truth to me (indeed the only 'truth' I'd willingly adhere to) but one which can never be taken for granted, for to do so may be to lose sight of the urgency with which we need to change the world. Which we can do, friends. Oh yes.
Jeez, this blogging is exhausing. I realise I've explained nothing of the Scowling Feminist and her origin, but I'll save that for next time. For now, I'm to a beer and the rest of my Easter chocolate.
Jolly Bank Holiday!
Mixed feelings herald my entry to the blogosphere. Regret for not having made said entry sooner, as Coc has been suggesting for months whenever I make a rant (often prompted by the 'Women' page of The Guardian G2 or some similarly depressing exponent of the state of gender identity/relations); excitement at having another procrastination toy - oops, I mean 'communication outlet' - and at knowing there will be no end of subject matter upon which to rant to the wider world; something like sadness in this knowledge, because it reinforces how far we need to go to make the world better for everyone in it; and a kind of gritted determination to make betterness happen. And as the world is shaped by what we do and say and think, this blog is something of a contribution. Very slight, very partial, very biased, but very Me - which is, after all, all I have.
I'm also at a point in my life where threads are starting to weave together into a possible future visible beyond the next year or so. I turn 30 in April, have a permanent home for the first time since before I was 8, am about to start a PhD, and am in a nourishing, generative, accepting, endlessly loving and exciting relationship, after a youth of online dating misadventures and affairettes with Russian church singers. I've finally stopped calling myself 'culturally Catholic', despite having been atheist since I left school, because I've realised that it's okay to discard the aspects of my identity I find burdensome and that 'being' or 'not being' is something I have the power to shape for myself every time I open my mouth. So I'm coming to terms with things I didn't even know were there to come to terms with, and love being so aware of the constant changing and growing. Actively learning to accept and enjoy myself and the world - that's where I'm at. And It Is Good.
So the blog, I think, is a way to negotiate acceptance of myself in the world. Turning it outwards, and relating that to the innards, constantly and iteratively. Well... We'll see where this all goes. I find the myriad ways in which we are all connected simultaneously mundane and miraculous - it seems such an obvious truth to me (indeed the only 'truth' I'd willingly adhere to) but one which can never be taken for granted, for to do so may be to lose sight of the urgency with which we need to change the world. Which we can do, friends. Oh yes.
Jeez, this blogging is exhausing. I realise I've explained nothing of the Scowling Feminist and her origin, but I'll save that for next time. For now, I'm to a beer and the rest of my Easter chocolate.
Jolly Bank Holiday!
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