I can, for all of my look-at-how-much-of-a-feminist-i-am….erm- let’s call it posturing, for want of a better word, even though it makes me sound far more insincere than i really am- have, quite frankly, the kind of mindset that, were any of the trail-blazing women of history to know of it, would probably make them throw down their weapons in disgust.
I never really considered it until today….and I don’t mean I found myself thinking “You know…I really HATE having the right to vote” or “God,don’t you love being objectified?”
It was completly random, just a memory of a particular seminar, when we were all picking texts for next term.
I didn’t scream for Brecht because I don’t scream for anything, ever (or hardly ever. Concerts and when people jump on me from behind are the exceptions).
But the boy beside me did scream for it (or….well, shouts a bit more masculine, isn’t it?) and thus secured it fairly as his own property.
And my reaction was fair enough: I think I said something like “……FML” or “Wow, I’m really bad at this”, conceding that I had lost.
BUT.
BUTBUTBUT I wasn’t really that dissapointed, despite losing out on the one text I really wanted to do.
Why? Because I didn’t believe that was the end of it.
Of course it wasn’t. He’d won, because he was a boy, and therefore better at securing things by shouting for them (or maybe because he was just more on the ball than I was at that moment, which is also fair enough).
But I was a girl.
I was the fairer, weaker sex, I was, to put it bluntly, the better gender, and after all, they do say ladies first, don’t they?
I honestly don’t know what I expected- not for the boy to be orderd by our tutor to give rights to the text up to me, exactly. I think I just assumed that my jokey reference to my own slowness, half aimed at the tutor himself, would be enough for either the boy to say”Oh, its okay, you can have it and I’ll take Nabakov instead”, or for the tutor to gently entreat the boy in the spirit of being a gentleman to offer me Brecht, and for the boy to graciously concede.
And I, of course, would graciously and greatfully accept.
But strangely….that ISN’T what happend.
Before I go on, I should point out that I’m not an utterly selfish bitch with an entitlement complex, too stupid to pay attention in seminars for more than half a second.
I don’t generally expect things, and, had it been that my rival was another girl and I had gotten there first, I would probably have offered it up to her (not out of gentlemanliness but out of the less nobel spirit of getting-people-to-like-you).
But anyway: nothing happend. The tutor and the boy smiled (as I had expected them to do) at my self-deprecation….they conceded it sucked that I had lost.
They did not, however, offer, or entertain the idea that I should be offered the text.
(Probably while the rest of the group wonderd why the hell it was taking so long to sort out the allocation of a single text)
Of course, I was dissapointed. I was even slightly piqued at their “ungentlmanliness” (although moreso because it meant i was stuck with Nabakov).
However, in hindsight, it occured that, in actuality, i was given, no more and no less, everything that the feminist movement has ever asked for: in short, the wholehearted acceptence of the fact that women are mens entire equals.
The boy and I are equals: we are about the same age, of the same level of intelligence (i base this on the fact that we both survived Warwicks intense interviewing process rather than on actual evidence gatherd in subsequent seminars, which would actually lead to the conclusion that he is rather more intelligent than me).
There is no reason why I couldnt have secured the text under my own efforts: it wasnt any inherent weakness or frailty in my gender that stopped my getting the text, it was my habit of starring intently out of windows that did it.
To offer me the text would be implying that we were not equals, that as a girl, i somehow needed extra help, either from the male tutor or the boy himself, because girls always need mens help to get anywhere, and so, by not offering me the text, they were really acknowleging the inherent equality between the two genders.
“We respect you” they were saying ” too much to patronize you”, and for that i am greatful.
(Or at least, i tell myself this now that i’m stuck doing Lolita…..)
Saturday, 14 January 2012
The price of the binge-drink culture (or what i did last night)
Pounding headache....
and two essays and a bibliography still to do.
Spent last night sitting in my friends bedroom with two of my flatmates, and one of my flatmates boyfriends, all of us dressed as pirates, eating dominoes, until 4am, to make sure she didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.
In a very surreal way it was almost abstract enough to be entertaining, as well as mindfuck level scary.
Last night was also the poster-child of the binge-drink culture.
The drunken, vomit-covered, clothes-falling-off, glazed-eyed, cant-hold-her-head-up-or-eyes-open mess itself.
If every child in Britain was made to stand by our sides last night, they’d think twice before getting in that state themselves.
They’d put down the shotglass and think about how terrifying it is when the paramedics leave and tell you to “call them if she stops breathing”, and you’re counting her breaths to gauge the measure because you’re afraid you’ll miss one, and you don’t know waht to do.
They’d think about the shame of it,the shame of falling, rolling, collapsing on the floor of the SU like a fish out of water, as your friends try to help you up.
They’d think about the awkwardness of where to look when people pass by: the sideways smirks and giggles that you hear so loud, and, even worse, the kindness of the random strangers- the girl who brought the water and had it spat onto her dress, the boy who helped heave her back onto her feet and wrestle her back into the chair when she floundered to the linoleum, the girl who gave us the number of security people who would help get her home, who argued with the bouncer when he said he wasn’t liable once we left the SU and who got snapped at for her trouble and yet who still carried on, even though she didn’t know me or you or her, even though she wasn’t from our building, even though she could’ve easily gone inside to the bar with her friends.
They’d think of the masked frustration hidden behind a mask of practised kindness in the eyes of the paramedics- people who have seen much worse than this self-inflicted stupor.
I wondered, as we inched our way back to Halls, keeping up a steady patter of the kind of baby talk you speak to a reluctant toddler, what they thought of us: students at one of the best universities in the country, the best and brightest minds, privileged and blessed with everything one could need, wasting their time by putting ourselves in humiliating states of stupor in the name of “having a good night out”.
There was the immodesty of it: parts of your body that we girls hide or flaunt as we wish in the name of being attractive, that were now brutally on show for everyone to laugh at. There is seduction in the deliberatly revealing clothing, mystery in shrouded flesh, but here there was no mystery, no seduction. The expanses of skin on show by clothing dragged down or up or off was barely even gendered, not even clinical. Just….there. Repulsivly, embarrassingly there/
But most of all, there was the waste- of our carefully chosen costumes, the potential of a night of music and fun and pounding bass and swirling lights gone entirely to dust, and in its place, a night of stress and strain and embarrasment, and ever-present worry that gnawed at us and kept us from our beds on the cold, hard bedroom floor all night as we counted your breaths and prayed you wouldn’t choke.
and two essays and a bibliography still to do.
Spent last night sitting in my friends bedroom with two of my flatmates, and one of my flatmates boyfriends, all of us dressed as pirates, eating dominoes, until 4am, to make sure she didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.
In a very surreal way it was almost abstract enough to be entertaining, as well as mindfuck level scary.
Last night was also the poster-child of the binge-drink culture.
The drunken, vomit-covered, clothes-falling-off, glazed-eyed, cant-hold-her-head-up-or-eyes-open mess itself.
If every child in Britain was made to stand by our sides last night, they’d think twice before getting in that state themselves.
They’d put down the shotglass and think about how terrifying it is when the paramedics leave and tell you to “call them if she stops breathing”, and you’re counting her breaths to gauge the measure because you’re afraid you’ll miss one, and you don’t know waht to do.
They’d think about the shame of it,the shame of falling, rolling, collapsing on the floor of the SU like a fish out of water, as your friends try to help you up.
They’d think about the awkwardness of where to look when people pass by: the sideways smirks and giggles that you hear so loud, and, even worse, the kindness of the random strangers- the girl who brought the water and had it spat onto her dress, the boy who helped heave her back onto her feet and wrestle her back into the chair when she floundered to the linoleum, the girl who gave us the number of security people who would help get her home, who argued with the bouncer when he said he wasn’t liable once we left the SU and who got snapped at for her trouble and yet who still carried on, even though she didn’t know me or you or her, even though she wasn’t from our building, even though she could’ve easily gone inside to the bar with her friends.
They’d think of the masked frustration hidden behind a mask of practised kindness in the eyes of the paramedics- people who have seen much worse than this self-inflicted stupor.
I wondered, as we inched our way back to Halls, keeping up a steady patter of the kind of baby talk you speak to a reluctant toddler, what they thought of us: students at one of the best universities in the country, the best and brightest minds, privileged and blessed with everything one could need, wasting their time by putting ourselves in humiliating states of stupor in the name of “having a good night out”.
There was the immodesty of it: parts of your body that we girls hide or flaunt as we wish in the name of being attractive, that were now brutally on show for everyone to laugh at. There is seduction in the deliberatly revealing clothing, mystery in shrouded flesh, but here there was no mystery, no seduction. The expanses of skin on show by clothing dragged down or up or off was barely even gendered, not even clinical. Just….there. Repulsivly, embarrassingly there/
But most of all, there was the waste- of our carefully chosen costumes, the potential of a night of music and fun and pounding bass and swirling lights gone entirely to dust, and in its place, a night of stress and strain and embarrasment, and ever-present worry that gnawed at us and kept us from our beds on the cold, hard bedroom floor all night as we counted your breaths and prayed you wouldn’t choke.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Troilus and Criseyde, Book 1: Facebook Version! (for bored/distracted english lit. undergrads!)
Menelaos is now married to Helen
Paris has changed his location to Menelaos’ house
Helen likes this
Paris likes this
Paris and Helen are now friends
Paris and Helen are now in a relationship
Menelaos *dislike
Helen has changed her location to Troy
Menelaos has become a fan of “Declaring war on wife-stealing bitches”
Ten greek friends like this
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have been tagged in the note “War on Troy”
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have added “War” to their activities
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have changed their location to “Outside Troy”
Paris: .......fuck
Criseyed has changed her relationship status to “married”
Criseyed is now single
Criseyed has joined the group “I
Calkas has added “forseeing the future” to hisactivities
Calkas has changed his location to The Greek Camp
Criseyed: *dislike
Criseyed has joined the group “Awkward moment when your father abandons you in a beseiged city”
Criseyed and Hector are now friends
Troilus and Pandarus are now friends
Troilus has added “Making fun of people in love” to his activities
God of love: *dislike
God of love has tagged Troilus in his note “Teaching arrogant douchebags to have proper respect”
God of love has added “Shooting people in the eye” to his activities
Troilus and Criseyed have changed their location to The Temple
Criseyed has joined the group “The awkward moment when random guys stare at you”
Troilus has added “Crying in rooms” to his activities
Troilus has tagged Criseyed in his note “Love at first sight”
Pandarus likes this
.
Paris has changed his location to Menelaos’ house
Helen likes this
Paris likes this
Paris and Helen are now friends
Paris and Helen are now in a relationship
Menelaos *dislike
Helen has changed her location to Troy
Menelaos has become a fan of “Declaring war on wife-stealing bitches”
Ten greek friends like this
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have been tagged in the note “War on Troy”
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have added “War” to their activities
Menelaos, Achilleus, Odysseus and fifty other greek friends have changed their location to “Outside Troy”
Paris: .......fuck
Criseyed has changed her relationship status to “married”
Criseyed is now single
Criseyed has joined the group “I
Calkas has added “forseeing the future” to hisactivities
Calkas has changed his location to The Greek Camp
Criseyed: *dislike
Criseyed has joined the group “Awkward moment when your father abandons you in a beseiged city”
Criseyed and Hector are now friends
Troilus and Pandarus are now friends
Troilus has added “Making fun of people in love” to his activities
God of love: *dislike
God of love has tagged Troilus in his note “Teaching arrogant douchebags to have proper respect”
God of love has added “Shooting people in the eye” to his activities
Troilus and Criseyed have changed their location to The Temple
Criseyed has joined the group “The awkward moment when random guys stare at you”
Troilus has added “Crying in rooms” to his activities
Troilus has tagged Criseyed in his note “Love at first sight”
Pandarus likes this
.
Thursday, 24 November 2011
So we have finally had The Talk.
And, no, not the "Where do babies come from?" Talk, or the "I'm pregnant/married/gay" Talk, or even the "Yes, I do like you as more than a friend, and yes, those annymous calls you've been getting every day ARE all from me" Talk.
No, it's WAY more important than that.
It is instead the "Who are you going to live with?" Talk; in other words, THE most important conversation any student will ever have in their....well, lives is a bit extreme, but seriously...it's big.
And it's decided: not all of our hall, but some of our hall, are going to stick together. There are 11 of us here, with one kitchen + one general living/dining area, plus a bedroom and bathroom each, and of that, six of us (five girls, one boy) are staying together, with potentially one other boy whom none of us know yet, joining us.
Apparently, he is an amazing and enthusiastic cook, and that is all I need to know about him for the present.
My friend did show...lets say surprise, when she found out I was in: she said she thought I'd be with some of my "englishy friends", and in a way, I agree with her because I HAD sort of assumed I would live with people on my course at one point.
But honestly? I'm not sure it would work. It SOUNDS good....but, as another friend shrewdly pointed out, we would be living together, working together, travelling, studying together...and do we really want that?
And I see her point because honestly? I get bored with most things, and people, after long enough.
I know my flatmates. I know I can live with them. They don't irritate me; we have stuff to talk about, and we've been out together a lot since coming here, so it's safe to say that we'd be able to make sharing a flat work.
Wheras my course friends? I know them....but I don't. Because you never really know someone until you live with them, and I'd hate to get a flat together...and then to realise that they are horribly messy. Or no fun to get ready for a night out with. Or....I don't know, just annoying. (I'm sure that isn't true of any of them. But let's not risk things.)
So....on to stage 2: the house hunting! Lets hope we find somewhere pretty =)
And, no, not the "Where do babies come from?" Talk, or the "I'm pregnant/married/gay" Talk, or even the "Yes, I do like you as more than a friend, and yes, those annymous calls you've been getting every day ARE all from me" Talk.
No, it's WAY more important than that.
It is instead the "Who are you going to live with?" Talk; in other words, THE most important conversation any student will ever have in their....well, lives is a bit extreme, but seriously...it's big.
And it's decided: not all of our hall, but some of our hall, are going to stick together. There are 11 of us here, with one kitchen + one general living/dining area, plus a bedroom and bathroom each, and of that, six of us (five girls, one boy) are staying together, with potentially one other boy whom none of us know yet, joining us.
Apparently, he is an amazing and enthusiastic cook, and that is all I need to know about him for the present.
My friend did show...lets say surprise, when she found out I was in: she said she thought I'd be with some of my "englishy friends", and in a way, I agree with her because I HAD sort of assumed I would live with people on my course at one point.
But honestly? I'm not sure it would work. It SOUNDS good....but, as another friend shrewdly pointed out, we would be living together, working together, travelling, studying together...and do we really want that?
And I see her point because honestly? I get bored with most things, and people, after long enough.
I know my flatmates. I know I can live with them. They don't irritate me; we have stuff to talk about, and we've been out together a lot since coming here, so it's safe to say that we'd be able to make sharing a flat work.
Wheras my course friends? I know them....but I don't. Because you never really know someone until you live with them, and I'd hate to get a flat together...and then to realise that they are horribly messy. Or no fun to get ready for a night out with. Or....I don't know, just annoying. (I'm sure that isn't true of any of them. But let's not risk things.)
So....on to stage 2: the house hunting! Lets hope we find somewhere pretty =)
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
In case you were wondering...
Yes.....the old blog that I kept up for all of about 3 posts, under the name of Lisa is still there because I have no idea how to delete it.
JumpIntoTheFog is the currant one =)
JumpIntoTheFog is the currant one =)
Musings...
I just realised something.
Those people who decided upon the makeup and clothing ect of the cat Harry Potter?
WHY did you decide to make Hermione all pretty?
I mean, at least she was ICONIC before. We could RELATE to her. She was the hope for all of us who don’t feel pretty enough, don’t feel popular enough, or even all that likeable- she made it possible for us to say:
“You know what? Maybe i’m not good enough for you, but FUCK YOU because one day, i’ll be a WITCH”
Now she’s just gone over the fence, into the land of pretty people, where she has been welcomed with open arms….
Yes...I know Emma Watson can't help it that she is incredibly beautiful. But it till feels somewhat like betrayal to me.
I miss being able to identify with Hermione.
Now, from being brave, and goodhearted, and an activist, and intelligent, and loyal, the character of Hermione will be remembered simply as A Pretty Girl.
I haven’t felt this dissillusioned since I found out that Imtiaz Dharker was straight, that Roald Dahl was dead, and that the tomatoe is really a fruit…
Those people who decided upon the makeup and clothing ect of the cat Harry Potter?
WHY did you decide to make Hermione all pretty?
I mean, at least she was ICONIC before. We could RELATE to her. She was the hope for all of us who don’t feel pretty enough, don’t feel popular enough, or even all that likeable- she made it possible for us to say:
“You know what? Maybe i’m not good enough for you, but FUCK YOU because one day, i’ll be a WITCH”
Now she’s just gone over the fence, into the land of pretty people, where she has been welcomed with open arms….
Yes...I know Emma Watson can't help it that she is incredibly beautiful. But it till feels somewhat like betrayal to me.
I miss being able to identify with Hermione.
Now, from being brave, and goodhearted, and an activist, and intelligent, and loyal, the character of Hermione will be remembered simply as A Pretty Girl.
I haven’t felt this dissillusioned since I found out that Imtiaz Dharker was straight, that Roald Dahl was dead, and that the tomatoe is really a fruit…
After a seminar.....
…. you begin to appreaciate things.
Writing an essay on A Room Of Ones Own makes me think about the things Woolf was writing about.
It makes you realise just how far we have come, it makes me realise how lucky I am- as lucky as Woolfs protagonist felt when she reflected on her newfound inheritance.
I am lucky to be here- and by here, I mean a heated, comfortable, spacious bedroom at a prestigous University. I am lucky that I am here, despite being a woman. Despite being a POOR woman.
I have the proverbial 'room on ones own' to study in, I have the books and materials and time and quiet and approval from society that Judith Shakespeare lacked.
I have the financial independence that Woolfs heroine dreamt of; I have societys blessing to “heave the coal” or “drive the engines”.
Aeroplanes and women are both commonplace now.
I am incredibly lucky to have nothing- physical or psychological around me that would so much as hint that women and men are not equal (this excludes the fundamentalist-blogs I pursue for my own amusement) (espeacially since I know that lots of other women in the UK do put up with sexism and inequality on a day to day basis).
I am lucky to be around people who, should a man voice the opinion that women are less than men, that we should 'know our place' or something like that, would immeadialty castiagate him for his opinion.
If Virginia Woolfe was still alive, I’d like to invite her here.
I'd like to bring her into my room, my room with my desk, my laptop, my bookshelves, and offer her a seat.
I'd like to let her look around, and I'd and say “Look. Look at us all. This is how far we have come”.
(Before anyone can comment, I'd like to say that I am fully aware how privileged I am. I know that sexim still exists in the UK. I'm not claiming the fight is over.)
Writing an essay on A Room Of Ones Own makes me think about the things Woolf was writing about.
It makes you realise just how far we have come, it makes me realise how lucky I am- as lucky as Woolfs protagonist felt when she reflected on her newfound inheritance.
I am lucky to be here- and by here, I mean a heated, comfortable, spacious bedroom at a prestigous University. I am lucky that I am here, despite being a woman. Despite being a POOR woman.
I have the proverbial 'room on ones own' to study in, I have the books and materials and time and quiet and approval from society that Judith Shakespeare lacked.
I have the financial independence that Woolfs heroine dreamt of; I have societys blessing to “heave the coal” or “drive the engines”.
Aeroplanes and women are both commonplace now.
I am incredibly lucky to have nothing- physical or psychological around me that would so much as hint that women and men are not equal (this excludes the fundamentalist-blogs I pursue for my own amusement) (espeacially since I know that lots of other women in the UK do put up with sexism and inequality on a day to day basis).
I am lucky to be around people who, should a man voice the opinion that women are less than men, that we should 'know our place' or something like that, would immeadialty castiagate him for his opinion.
If Virginia Woolfe was still alive, I’d like to invite her here.
I'd like to bring her into my room, my room with my desk, my laptop, my bookshelves, and offer her a seat.
I'd like to let her look around, and I'd and say “Look. Look at us all. This is how far we have come”.
(Before anyone can comment, I'd like to say that I am fully aware how privileged I am. I know that sexim still exists in the UK. I'm not claiming the fight is over.)
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