Have been asleep most of the day as I have finally succumbed to the inevitable consequence of standing on a picket line in the pouring rain for four hours on monday.
Managed to have a conversation on Facebook about rape in between sleeps though.
I saw this quote "Rape is about violence, not sex. If someone hit you with a spade you wouldn't call it gardening".
I don't know who originally said it, I would attribute it if I did, but after all the Judy Finnegan crap spouting this week about how Ched Evans should be allowed to play football because his rape wasn't violent it struck a chord with me.
Now, what I wasn't prepared for was the reaction it would get from someone I knew to be a survivor. My Bio Mum.
She was responding to this from a very good and very intelligent male friend of mine.
" I remember a conversation many years ago with a criminologist. Her view was that less than 10% of rapes were sexually motivated - the real motivation is power, it is all about subjugating the woman; the sexual act is the weapon, not the end."
Her reply stunned me.
" Her views are probably from a text book. Most men, fortunately have a built in mechanism that stops them from crossing the line, however sex is the motivator to rape and is coupled with a desire to use dominant force to get it over physically weaker women, in most cases. That is my opinion about the issue of rape."
From a survivor, this struck me as horrific. From a survivor that I learned to think from it struck me as really sad.
So, this post is for my Bio Mum and all the other women of a certain age who were brought up to think that sex is a thing that a man does to a woman rather than a loving (or sometimes not, sometimes just for the fun of it) thing that happens between adults of consenting age who are enthusiastically consenting.
Her views would have been from controlled research. I'll be blunt. If rape was about sex it would actually make things easier for me as a feminist and a survivor. I really don't want to go into your personal stuff mum, I know you are a survivor too but your story isn't mine to tell.
I will say though that domestic rape, which is the most prevalent type, not stranger rape, though only an idiot would suggest that it doesn't happen, is rarely about the sex. It happens when a person (am being very careful not to gender here) wants sex, yes, but look at the background. If the other partner hasn't wanted sex for a while then there is likely to be a reason for that.
Rape in a domestic situation is not a thing that happens in isolation. There is typically a background of abuse and control. When the abusive partner sees control waning, then rape is an easy way to get that back.
But what about the prerequisite horn needed? Well, that will be borne of a desire to see the other partner subjugated and controlled. Plus, when we think about what causes a hardon in men, that can happen from being warm on a bus.
From my personal perspective the sex wasn't even all that great for them. One of them could only finally cum if he hit me in the face at the same time. And he was always angry afterwards that it wasn't very good. His penis was at best only ever at half mast. He wasn't horny, he was angry at me for being me and this was his way of punishing me for getting out of his control, however momentarily.
So, it doesn't require the abusive partner to be horny, and I will be frank, if anyone is that horny they can go and have a wank. Consent is a cultural construct rather than an inbuilt mechanism that is somehow missing or broken in a rapist.
To think that somehow we are all saved from being constantly raped because of something inbuilt abrogates responsibility from the rapist and puts it firmly on the shoulders of the raped. Short skirt, drunk, leading him on, being outside, looking so damn sexy all the time... You have all heard the victim blaming shit I am talking about and this adds to it.
Which is disgusting.
The point I was originally making is that all rape is violence. There is no hierarchy of good/bad violent/not violent as every single time it takes a part if you and kills it dead.
You never get back that part that thinks that it wouldn't happen. It is a constant possibility with EVERY person you meet and that makes the violence never go away...
Besides the fact that women are not actually weaker (patriarchy tells us we are and we act accordingly) talking about the why of rape takes away from the fact that rape is in and of itself a violent act.
In all rape, even in those very rare occasions where it is about sex, there is the weight of entitlement that tells rapists that they have the right to take what they want, regardless of consent because they are entitled to it. And that, my friends, is violence in itself. When we derail the conversation to talk about the why, we leave the victims behind and make it about the rapist. And you know what? Society already leaves the victim behind. And that in itself is also violent.
Then another one of my friends piped up. I love this friend dearly. She is one of my favourite people in the world and also a survivor.
"But surely, we need to look at the 'why' so we can try and find a way to prevent it happening? I agree totally that rape is about power and violence but understanding why that violence occurs surely means we, as a society not as individuals, can work to prevent it? Or have I missed the point?"
To which I reply with the following.
Kinda.... but not entirely. We know the why. Entitlement, patriarchy, rape culture etc. We need to be focussing, I think, on busting the myths and teaching informed consent. We need to be teaching our women that the only person responsible for their rapes is the rapist and we need to be teaching our men that not only does no mean no, but that only an enthusiastic yes means yes.
We need to teach women that being catcalled in the street is not a compliment. We need to teach men not to treat women as objects.
We need to teach women and men about coercion, control and abuse and how to tackle it. we need to recognise that whereas it is Not All Men who rape, it is Yes All Women who are in danger of it.
We need to tell men that they are not entitled to women. That the Friendzone should not be a thing they retreat to and get narky about because they didn't get their dick wet.
Another quote comes to mind and I will end with it.
"Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them."
Margaret Attwood.
Thursday, 16 October 2014
Sunday, 5 October 2014
On Self Loathing Dressed Up As Empowerment
So This fucking monstrosity happened.
A woman who runs a dating website for Cougars to meet Cubs has come up with a potion to improve your old, rotten, loose and wrinkly vagina.
Apparently she now has the vagina of a 25 year old!
This is a good thing because younger men like things nice and tight and wrinkle free and young looking and, you know, TIDY down there. It makes things all better for them.
Get the fuck out of my face.
For a start, genitals are not supposed to be fucking tidy. They are just there, doing their thing, being genitals. And honestly, any one thinking that a vagina is untidy who is in possession of a penis needs to fuck all the way off. They are not the tidiest of things either are they. That is because they are not supposed to be. And yet patriarchal standards of beauty has women spending millions every year on plucking and waking and shaving their vaginas in an orgy of self loathing dressed up as empowerment.
Wrinkle free? Do fuck off. What is this obsession with smooth vaginas? Really, if you want your partner's vagina to look like it belongs on a 12 year old then you have some long hard questions to ask yourself. Really.
Tight. Where to start? Interestingly enough the article suggests that doing pelvic floor exercises at the same time as using this self loathing gunk. Maybe, MAYBE it is the exercises that would increase tightness and not the muck you are shoving up your vagina, which, by the way, shouldn't have stuff put up it. The vagina is a wonderful thing that takes care of its own moisture and if hormones mean it is drying out a bit then visit a doctor. Don't be shoving bloody egg whites and honey up there.
It's shit. I might make money out of telling women that wearing a hat while doing pelvic floor exercises makes their vaginas tighter. (Hint. It wouldn't be because of the bloody hat.)
But this isn't even what saddens me the most. I am saddened by the fact that women in their 40's think that they have nothing to offer a younger man apart from a nice vagina. Not their experience, not their life view, not their humour, maturity, knowledge. None of that. Just a vagina. That I have sisters that think that a vagina is the only reason someone would want them saddens me beyond belief.
That this bloody woman and her vagina snake oil is selling self loathing as empowerment makes me angry.
Your vagina is not all you have to offer. And regardless of your age or how many children you have had, your vagina is just fine. In fact it wonderful and gorgeous and perfect just the way it is.
Take your egg whites and make a meringue. Poor some honey on it and enjoy. Your vagina will thank you.
A woman who runs a dating website for Cougars to meet Cubs has come up with a potion to improve your old, rotten, loose and wrinkly vagina.
Apparently she now has the vagina of a 25 year old!
This is a good thing because younger men like things nice and tight and wrinkle free and young looking and, you know, TIDY down there. It makes things all better for them.
Get the fuck out of my face.
For a start, genitals are not supposed to be fucking tidy. They are just there, doing their thing, being genitals. And honestly, any one thinking that a vagina is untidy who is in possession of a penis needs to fuck all the way off. They are not the tidiest of things either are they. That is because they are not supposed to be. And yet patriarchal standards of beauty has women spending millions every year on plucking and waking and shaving their vaginas in an orgy of self loathing dressed up as empowerment.
Wrinkle free? Do fuck off. What is this obsession with smooth vaginas? Really, if you want your partner's vagina to look like it belongs on a 12 year old then you have some long hard questions to ask yourself. Really.
Tight. Where to start? Interestingly enough the article suggests that doing pelvic floor exercises at the same time as using this self loathing gunk. Maybe, MAYBE it is the exercises that would increase tightness and not the muck you are shoving up your vagina, which, by the way, shouldn't have stuff put up it. The vagina is a wonderful thing that takes care of its own moisture and if hormones mean it is drying out a bit then visit a doctor. Don't be shoving bloody egg whites and honey up there.
It's shit. I might make money out of telling women that wearing a hat while doing pelvic floor exercises makes their vaginas tighter. (Hint. It wouldn't be because of the bloody hat.)
But this isn't even what saddens me the most. I am saddened by the fact that women in their 40's think that they have nothing to offer a younger man apart from a nice vagina. Not their experience, not their life view, not their humour, maturity, knowledge. None of that. Just a vagina. That I have sisters that think that a vagina is the only reason someone would want them saddens me beyond belief.
That this bloody woman and her vagina snake oil is selling self loathing as empowerment makes me angry.
Your vagina is not all you have to offer. And regardless of your age or how many children you have had, your vagina is just fine. In fact it wonderful and gorgeous and perfect just the way it is.
Take your egg whites and make a meringue. Poor some honey on it and enjoy. Your vagina will thank you.
Thursday, 2 October 2014
On The Paedophile Hunter
Been poorly most of the week which is a bit shit if I'm honest. Nearly went into work today, managed to get dressed before I started throwing up, so I am back in bed and musing on a programme I saw On Channel 4 last night.
The Paedophile Hunter.
Basically, Stinson Hunter (cool bloody name btw, was destined to either be a crime fighter or a rapper with a name like that) sets up fake profiles of young girls on the internet and waits for men to try to groom them. He then, after many (disgusting) conversations, arranges to meet the men. When they turn up they are greeted by Stinson and his crew and filmed. All evidence is passed to the police.
Then they put the film, info and links to the conversations on the internet.
So far, so good. So I thought. Then I gave it a bit more thought.
For background:
Any readers of this blog know that I am a survivor of many types of abuse. Physical, emotional and sexual. Regular readers know about who abused me, and how I have handled it over the years. But they don't know about the time it was the police.
I was 14 and walking home in the rain. A car pulled up and a man told me to get in and he would give me a lift home. I said no and kept walking. All those Stranger Danger talks at school had obviously sunk in. He kept following me up the road at a walking pace telling me to get in. I'd get wet, he said. He wouldn't hurt me, he said. My mum would want to make sure I was home safe, he said.
This carried on for the whole mile I walked home. I hid in someone's garden at some point. He waited and continued to follow me when I emerged. Don't be silly, he said. He got out and took my arm and tried to pull me into the car. At that point I screamed and ran. He still followed me till he saw me go through my own front door.
When I got in I told my mum what had happened and we rang the police. I gave them a complete description of the car, the man, the incident and the number plate.
They didn't even come round. They rang back and told me that they had been to his house and asked him and he said he had been at home all day. And they believed him. BECAUSE HE WAS A MAGISTRATE.
Would I have wanted Stinson and his team to take him out? You bet your ass I would. Do I still, 30 years later wonder if he ever managed to get a girl in his car? Yep. Still happens now and then.
So do I have a problem with Stinson Hunter getting these disgusting creatures exposed and off the street? No. I do not.
Do I wish it were the police instead? You betcha. I have a problem with vigilantes you see. I have a problem with mob mentality and the kind of sensationalism that leads to paediatricians being driven out of their homes. I have a problem with Stinson linking to the chats that he had with these men. I have a problem because even though there were no real girls involved, and I understand that sensationalising it has the desired crowd funding effect, there is something that feels sordid about being able to read what this scum wrote to what they believed to be girls as young as 11.
Do I have any sympathy with the idea that exposing these men might drive them to suicide? No. That may be a failing in me but I cannot muster up any sympathy for a dead Paedophile. Not any. I can muster up plenty for their victims. You know, those girls and boys who end up self harming, broken and suicidal themselves, but not an ounce for the perpetrators. I'm sure there is some human tragedy in their stories somewhere but I can't find it in myself to give a shit.
Do I think they should be killed? No. I am against the death penalty for many reasons. The main one being that I truly believe that when we condone state sanctioned murder we lose our own humanity, but I also think that you believe in human rights or you don't. If you take them away from one sub set of people, how long is it before they come after yours? You don't have to like it, but I do have to abide by my principles.
So there you have it. Well done Channel 4 for a thought provoking documentary and thank you Stinson for getting some of this scum off the streets.
But please stop linking to the actual chats. It isn't necessary and it feels, well, kinda paedy.
The Paedophile Hunter.
Basically, Stinson Hunter (cool bloody name btw, was destined to either be a crime fighter or a rapper with a name like that) sets up fake profiles of young girls on the internet and waits for men to try to groom them. He then, after many (disgusting) conversations, arranges to meet the men. When they turn up they are greeted by Stinson and his crew and filmed. All evidence is passed to the police.
Then they put the film, info and links to the conversations on the internet.
So far, so good. So I thought. Then I gave it a bit more thought.
For background:
Any readers of this blog know that I am a survivor of many types of abuse. Physical, emotional and sexual. Regular readers know about who abused me, and how I have handled it over the years. But they don't know about the time it was the police.
I was 14 and walking home in the rain. A car pulled up and a man told me to get in and he would give me a lift home. I said no and kept walking. All those Stranger Danger talks at school had obviously sunk in. He kept following me up the road at a walking pace telling me to get in. I'd get wet, he said. He wouldn't hurt me, he said. My mum would want to make sure I was home safe, he said.
This carried on for the whole mile I walked home. I hid in someone's garden at some point. He waited and continued to follow me when I emerged. Don't be silly, he said. He got out and took my arm and tried to pull me into the car. At that point I screamed and ran. He still followed me till he saw me go through my own front door.
When I got in I told my mum what had happened and we rang the police. I gave them a complete description of the car, the man, the incident and the number plate.
They didn't even come round. They rang back and told me that they had been to his house and asked him and he said he had been at home all day. And they believed him. BECAUSE HE WAS A MAGISTRATE.
Would I have wanted Stinson and his team to take him out? You bet your ass I would. Do I still, 30 years later wonder if he ever managed to get a girl in his car? Yep. Still happens now and then.
So do I have a problem with Stinson Hunter getting these disgusting creatures exposed and off the street? No. I do not.
Do I wish it were the police instead? You betcha. I have a problem with vigilantes you see. I have a problem with mob mentality and the kind of sensationalism that leads to paediatricians being driven out of their homes. I have a problem with Stinson linking to the chats that he had with these men. I have a problem because even though there were no real girls involved, and I understand that sensationalising it has the desired crowd funding effect, there is something that feels sordid about being able to read what this scum wrote to what they believed to be girls as young as 11.
Do I have any sympathy with the idea that exposing these men might drive them to suicide? No. That may be a failing in me but I cannot muster up any sympathy for a dead Paedophile. Not any. I can muster up plenty for their victims. You know, those girls and boys who end up self harming, broken and suicidal themselves, but not an ounce for the perpetrators. I'm sure there is some human tragedy in their stories somewhere but I can't find it in myself to give a shit.
Do I think they should be killed? No. I am against the death penalty for many reasons. The main one being that I truly believe that when we condone state sanctioned murder we lose our own humanity, but I also think that you believe in human rights or you don't. If you take them away from one sub set of people, how long is it before they come after yours? You don't have to like it, but I do have to abide by my principles.
So there you have it. Well done Channel 4 for a thought provoking documentary and thank you Stinson for getting some of this scum off the streets.
But please stop linking to the actual chats. It isn't necessary and it feels, well, kinda paedy.
Sunday, 28 September 2014
On Catching My Breath
Well. What a summer that was! So much stuff to tell you. Good, bad, indifferent. Been a while since I blogged so gonna treat this like a bit of a catch up. Which to be honest it is for me too. Sometimes I need to catch my breath and reflect or I become overwhelmed with it all. This is me just trying to be whelmed.
So, where to start?
I got a new job. My dream job and I love it. I love not being micro managed. I love not having to split my time between Union Organising and a day job. Organising is my day job and I am being treated like a grown up by my colleagues and my manager. Things at home are even better as I am fulfilled at work and feel like I actually have something to say in the evenings rather than "well, I managed to put some washing on."
Been a bit of a trip getting here to be honest. After a job where the bullying was so rife that one of the managers is under investigation for falsifying documents about me in an attempt to strip me of my redundancy payment by sacking me, this feels good. Bit of a culture shock that I will have to get used to , but good.
Was weird when I left the old job. I was so mentally poorly and I had built up my LAST DAY as a thing that would fix all ills. I thought that once I was free that it would all be magically better. It still
took a good couple of months of wobbles and a couple of times not being able to physically move before I started to get back to me. One of those wobbles was at Glastonbury and I missed seeing Metallica because of it. Fuck you brain. That was mean.
Things have got better though. Just took time. I got a couple of tattoos and met The lovely's parents. I took my bestie away to York for the night and went on a ghost walk where I played the part of a menacingly shimmying nun. Was supposed to be shimmering, but the shimmying got more laughs. I do a great shimmy.
Not so great stuff was Reeva's killer being found not guilty of murder. Yes, I know all about the law and stuff but it just doesn't feel like justice you know?
Being at a point where I am not out at work again. I really hadn't realised how important this was to me till I changed jobs. So, new colleagues reading this, I am bisexual. If you want to know more then find my post on Three Little Words.
Other not so great stuff was my stupid brain trying to sabotage me now that I am really really happy. Had a dream that I had dreamed the past three years of my life and was still with the abusive ex. Even having a poo didn't help. My brain was like 'of course you would dream you poo. How else would we convince you it was real.'. Well fuck you brain, my life is real, it is wonderful and I do deserve it.
Other good stuff, learning to crochet. It is messy and difficult and the cushion cover I am currently working on is going to look JUST AWFUL but it is mine. And I am sure I will get better with practice.
Other good stuff. Learning to be more honest with my friends. Actually going out and doing stuff. Laughing. Crying. Cuddling. Turkish and Bricktop.
I'm still the angry feminist you all know, I even have "this is what a feminist looks like" tattooed on my foot (so it is the last thing misogynists see before I kick them in the face) and I am going to be ranting angry on here much more I expect, but you know what? I am more at peace with myself than I have been for a while.
If this doesn't scare you, you haven't been paying attention.
So, where to start?
I got a new job. My dream job and I love it. I love not being micro managed. I love not having to split my time between Union Organising and a day job. Organising is my day job and I am being treated like a grown up by my colleagues and my manager. Things at home are even better as I am fulfilled at work and feel like I actually have something to say in the evenings rather than "well, I managed to put some washing on."
Been a bit of a trip getting here to be honest. After a job where the bullying was so rife that one of the managers is under investigation for falsifying documents about me in an attempt to strip me of my redundancy payment by sacking me, this feels good. Bit of a culture shock that I will have to get used to , but good.
Was weird when I left the old job. I was so mentally poorly and I had built up my LAST DAY as a thing that would fix all ills. I thought that once I was free that it would all be magically better. It still
took a good couple of months of wobbles and a couple of times not being able to physically move before I started to get back to me. One of those wobbles was at Glastonbury and I missed seeing Metallica because of it. Fuck you brain. That was mean.
Things have got better though. Just took time. I got a couple of tattoos and met The lovely's parents. I took my bestie away to York for the night and went on a ghost walk where I played the part of a menacingly shimmying nun. Was supposed to be shimmering, but the shimmying got more laughs. I do a great shimmy.
Not so great stuff was Reeva's killer being found not guilty of murder. Yes, I know all about the law and stuff but it just doesn't feel like justice you know?
Being at a point where I am not out at work again. I really hadn't realised how important this was to me till I changed jobs. So, new colleagues reading this, I am bisexual. If you want to know more then find my post on Three Little Words.
Other not so great stuff was my stupid brain trying to sabotage me now that I am really really happy. Had a dream that I had dreamed the past three years of my life and was still with the abusive ex. Even having a poo didn't help. My brain was like 'of course you would dream you poo. How else would we convince you it was real.'. Well fuck you brain, my life is real, it is wonderful and I do deserve it.
Other good stuff, learning to crochet. It is messy and difficult and the cushion cover I am currently working on is going to look JUST AWFUL but it is mine. And I am sure I will get better with practice.
Other good stuff. Learning to be more honest with my friends. Actually going out and doing stuff. Laughing. Crying. Cuddling. Turkish and Bricktop.
I'm still the angry feminist you all know, I even have "this is what a feminist looks like" tattooed on my foot (so it is the last thing misogynists see before I kick them in the face) and I am going to be ranting angry on here much more I expect, but you know what? I am more at peace with myself than I have been for a while.
If this doesn't scare you, you haven't been paying attention.
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
'Real' Women Quite Like Quiche
Just got back from Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival.
I am broken, recharged and excited about the future of trade unionism all in one go.
If you haven't been, you really should. I had a great time. I saw bands I had never heard of, went to a great presentation on social media at the O Zone and survived The Great Thunderstorms. I met up with comrades I hadn't seen for a year, met new ones that I had only ever talked to on Twitter and got the coaches loaded and unloaded smoothly and with dancing and singing with the marchers.
And the Young Feminist session entered it's second year. So proud of the women who are working hard to bring the concept to the heart of Trade Unionism. SO PROUD.
But this is only peripherally a post on Tolpuddle. What I really wanted to talk about was the concept of 'Real Women' and who perpetuates the myth that they actually exist.
Real Women have thigh gaps is the latest thing I have heard. I have also read that Real Women have curves. Oh, Real Women are skinny too. Real Women don't diet and Real Women look after their men. Shit, Real Women do/don't do ironing. Real Women do/don't act like one of the boys. Real Women have it all! Real Women don't sleep around. Real Women have active sex lives. Real Women cook. Real Women....
FOR FUCK'S SAKE CAN WE JUST STOP WITH THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW!
There is no such thing as a Real Woman. There are just women. We are wonderful and flawed and come in all shapes and sizes. We have different views and different dreams.
And saying 'Real Women do X Y and Z' while holding that up as an example of solidarity is not only misleading, but sisters, it plays right into the hands of the patriarchal system of our oppression that LIKES to see us divided and playing women off against each other.
While we are fighting amongst ourselves we are not fighting oppression. We are calling each other sluts and judging each other on our choices, our body shapes and our clothing. We are buying into the idea that if we didn't wear heels/short skirts/get drunk/go out of the house/be so sexy all the damn time that we wouldn't get raped. We are using language that vilifies our sisters while patriarchy laughs at us and carries on as normal.
We do ourselves harm when we talk about Real Women.
So how about we change the conversation. How about this as a starting point.
Women are individual autonomous beings with their own hopes and dreams.
There. That wasn't so difficult was it?
Let's expand on this. Women are individual autonomous beings with their own hopes and dreams. We come in all shapes and sizes. Some of us were assigned the wrong gender at birth. Some of us have active sex lives. Some of us aren't bothered. Some of us go to work. Some of us don't. Some of us have children. Some of us don't want them. Some of us wear make up, some of us don't. Some of us are happy or sad, gay or straight or bi, fat, skinny, smooth, hairy, shallow, deep, kind, mean, money driven, poor.
There are no Real Women, just Women.
So when I am told I am ugly inside and out with a stupid hair cut because I expressed an opinion that Israel should stop killing children it doesn't bother me because a) I really don't give a fuck what you think of me as I do my hair for me, not you and b) bless you for thinking that that will stop me expressing my opinion.
And when a certain photograph of me with a bear goes viral and someone remarks sarcastically that I am a looker then fuck you too. I am not bothered.
You see I am a woman who denies the concept of Real Women and I don't need you to validate me thank you very much.
I am a woman. All of us who identify as women are women. And we don't need to be Real. We just need to stand together and be us.
Solidarity sisters!
Deeva xxx
I am broken, recharged and excited about the future of trade unionism all in one go.
If you haven't been, you really should. I had a great time. I saw bands I had never heard of, went to a great presentation on social media at the O Zone and survived The Great Thunderstorms. I met up with comrades I hadn't seen for a year, met new ones that I had only ever talked to on Twitter and got the coaches loaded and unloaded smoothly and with dancing and singing with the marchers.
And the Young Feminist session entered it's second year. So proud of the women who are working hard to bring the concept to the heart of Trade Unionism. SO PROUD.
But this is only peripherally a post on Tolpuddle. What I really wanted to talk about was the concept of 'Real Women' and who perpetuates the myth that they actually exist.
Real Women have thigh gaps is the latest thing I have heard. I have also read that Real Women have curves. Oh, Real Women are skinny too. Real Women don't diet and Real Women look after their men. Shit, Real Women do/don't do ironing. Real Women do/don't act like one of the boys. Real Women have it all! Real Women don't sleep around. Real Women have active sex lives. Real Women cook. Real Women....
FOR FUCK'S SAKE CAN WE JUST STOP WITH THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW!
There is no such thing as a Real Woman. There are just women. We are wonderful and flawed and come in all shapes and sizes. We have different views and different dreams.
And saying 'Real Women do X Y and Z' while holding that up as an example of solidarity is not only misleading, but sisters, it plays right into the hands of the patriarchal system of our oppression that LIKES to see us divided and playing women off against each other.
While we are fighting amongst ourselves we are not fighting oppression. We are calling each other sluts and judging each other on our choices, our body shapes and our clothing. We are buying into the idea that if we didn't wear heels/short skirts/get drunk/go out of the house/be so sexy all the damn time that we wouldn't get raped. We are using language that vilifies our sisters while patriarchy laughs at us and carries on as normal.
We do ourselves harm when we talk about Real Women.
So how about we change the conversation. How about this as a starting point.
Women are individual autonomous beings with their own hopes and dreams.
There. That wasn't so difficult was it?
Let's expand on this. Women are individual autonomous beings with their own hopes and dreams. We come in all shapes and sizes. Some of us were assigned the wrong gender at birth. Some of us have active sex lives. Some of us aren't bothered. Some of us go to work. Some of us don't. Some of us have children. Some of us don't want them. Some of us wear make up, some of us don't. Some of us are happy or sad, gay or straight or bi, fat, skinny, smooth, hairy, shallow, deep, kind, mean, money driven, poor.
There are no Real Women, just Women.
So when I am told I am ugly inside and out with a stupid hair cut because I expressed an opinion that Israel should stop killing children it doesn't bother me because a) I really don't give a fuck what you think of me as I do my hair for me, not you and b) bless you for thinking that that will stop me expressing my opinion.
And when a certain photograph of me with a bear goes viral and someone remarks sarcastically that I am a looker then fuck you too. I am not bothered.
You see I am a woman who denies the concept of Real Women and I don't need you to validate me thank you very much.
I am a woman. All of us who identify as women are women. And we don't need to be Real. We just need to stand together and be us.
Solidarity sisters!
Deeva xxx
Monday, 16 June 2014
On Choosing Trans* Inclusivity
Been thinking a lot about Trans* issues today.
First there was my post earlier on Leaving The House.
Then I read a blog which equated trans* women to middle class white boys with long hair.
Then I came across the #howtospotaCISperson hashtag.
I went through this thought process.
First there was my post earlier on Leaving The House.
Then I read a blog which equated trans* women to middle class white boys with long hair.
Then I came across the #howtospotaCISperson hashtag.
I went through this thought process.
- But I don't do that!
- I'm a CIS person and would never dream of doing that.
- NOT ALL CIS PEOPLE!!!
Then I thought about it some more. I got over myself. And I thought that not all cis people sounded an AWFUL lot like Not All Men. And about how my stock answers to that are as follows.
- If you are too busy being defensive rather than looking at what the problems are, you are probably part of the problem.
- If you don't recognise yourself in what we are saying then we are not talking about you specifically.
- Yes, I know not all men. But literally yes all women.
So this got me thinking that a reply to Not All Cis People should be literally all trans* people.
I like to think I am a good trans* ally and that I try and educate those who want to have a proper debate about what it means to be trans*.
I chose the side of trans* inclusivity long ago. I have never been shy of saying all women, regardless of gender assignment at birth are my sisters.
But I have decided that in every family there are members you just cannot talk to, just cannot educate and just cannot change.
So please do me a favour, if you are Trans* Exclusionary then please block me on Twitter, defreind me on Facebook and don't bother commenting on this post.
You hurt me when you treat trans women as chicks with dicks and I can no longer put up with it. I owe myself, my conscience and my trans* brothers and sisters (and daughter person) more than that.
And if you find yourself unable to assess someone's gender when you are out on the street and it confuses you then follow these three easy steps.
- Get over yourself.
- Don't worry about it.
- Go about your day.
On What Happens When You Leave The House
Was scrolling through my facebook the other day and came across this from the awesome @BethanyBlack and it got me thinking.
"I write crappy joke, some arse hole goes "Oh no she/he didn't!" I explain why that's really not appropriate, he goes "I thought you could take a joke!" I explain that's not a joke, just bigoted abuse. He apologises, but adds a caveat blaming me for talking about the abuse I receive for being trans in my stand-up. I explain I'm highlighting the abuse I get and that doesn't give him the right to abuse me. He goes "Jeez, Touchy subject!"
I block him. I tell the rest of twitter about this. They react like this must be the only time I get stuff like this happening. I realise I've dealt with it every day for the last 14 years.
Sometimes it's such a daily part of your life you let the small stuff go and it's only when the big stuff happens, the violence, the assault both physical and sexual, the times when there's groups of people shouting stuff. You become so inured to it that it's "just part of what happens when you leave the house."
It made me sad, but like I say, it got me thinking. I have a very close family member who comes under the trans* umbrella but they don't get any grief for it in public as no one who doesn't know them doesn't know they identify as non binary.
But this is not a post about 'passing' or not (makes me feel sick even to type that if I'm honest) it is a post about what happens when you leave the house.
I have been suffering lately, not so much with feminist burnout, but with feminist overwhelming. There is so much to do, and it seems that every time we are finally getting somewhere that another atrocity happens. Two girls in India get raped and hung. A so called 'nice guy' shoots up some people because he didn't get his dick wet. Rape as a war crime is presented as not paying attention to the important stuff.
Worldwide my sisters are being assaulted, raped, murdered just for being who they are. I will continue to fight to make things better for them, but one thing we shouldn't forget is that it isn't just the incidents that make the news we need to care about, it is what happens to every woman, every time she leaves the house.
She get harassed in the street.
This weekend it was by a god botherer who got a look at my pentagram tattoo and decided I was worth extra allelujah points or something. I was wearing headphones and carrying shopping in both hands and STILL this wasn't a fuck off enough vibe for him. I tried to be polite and just say no thank you but the shit followed me down the road shouting about how he had to save me for Jesus. He even tried to 'lay hands' on me and had I not done a full on Matrix style swerve he would have touched me without my consent and would have been meeting Jesus a lot earlier than he planned.
But the bit that really got me is that this incident was at a busy shopping centre on a saturday afternoon and people just laughed and walked past me though I was obviously upset enough to use a gendered insult. It was just expected that this street harassment (loosely disguised as religion) is what we should expect when a woman leaves the house.
(as an aside, how fucked up is it that I feel bad because when he said 'Jesus loves you!' I replied with 'yeah but he thinks you're a cunt'. Seriously. I feel bad for using a gendered insult whereas I would bet my last pound that he gives not a flying fuck about harassing me.)
And now.
The World Cup is on and there are England flags EVERYWHERE. It's pissing me off to be honest as I no longer know which pubs are safe for me to go in as a Woman of Colour (WoC).
Usually flags flying out of pub windows is a way for me to know which pubs might just be EDL friendly and I can avoid them. Yes, every time I leave the house I risk assess which pubs might be safe by using flags. And I shouldn't have to do that. So, watching the match in the pub becomes impossible to me as I can never truly be comfortable.
I'll be glad when the whole thing is over.
Other things that happen when I leave the house:
I get men shouting 'BIG TITS' as if I have neither mirrors nor self awareness.
I go into hyper vigilant mode and cannot relax just walking down the street.
I end up calling someone out for being sexist/homophobic/racist/transphobic.
I wonder if this is the day I won't make it home coz some asshole who is made of entitlement thinks that today will be a good day to kill some bitches coz he didn't get laid. Or if I will be beaten because I am a WoC. Or if someone I call out will slap me down for being an uppity woman. Or if I will be raped and hung, because it is coming. In a country where we have laws against forced marriage and 'honour' killings but no one seems to be prosecuted, it is coming.
I am exhausted by it. It wears you down, but you can't let it win. I will continue to fight for myself and my sisters, and for the avoidance of doubt I mean EVERY woman, regardless of gender assignment at birth. I can't not fight because then I become scared.
Become beaten.
Become afraid to leave the house.
"I write crappy joke, some arse hole goes "Oh no she/he didn't!" I explain why that's really not appropriate, he goes "I thought you could take a joke!" I explain that's not a joke, just bigoted abuse. He apologises, but adds a caveat blaming me for talking about the abuse I receive for being trans in my stand-up. I explain I'm highlighting the abuse I get and that doesn't give him the right to abuse me. He goes "Jeez, Touchy subject!"
I block him. I tell the rest of twitter about this. They react like this must be the only time I get stuff like this happening. I realise I've dealt with it every day for the last 14 years.
Sometimes it's such a daily part of your life you let the small stuff go and it's only when the big stuff happens, the violence, the assault both physical and sexual, the times when there's groups of people shouting stuff. You become so inured to it that it's "just part of what happens when you leave the house."
It made me sad, but like I say, it got me thinking. I have a very close family member who comes under the trans* umbrella but they don't get any grief for it in public as no one who doesn't know them doesn't know they identify as non binary.
But this is not a post about 'passing' or not (makes me feel sick even to type that if I'm honest) it is a post about what happens when you leave the house.
I have been suffering lately, not so much with feminist burnout, but with feminist overwhelming. There is so much to do, and it seems that every time we are finally getting somewhere that another atrocity happens. Two girls in India get raped and hung. A so called 'nice guy' shoots up some people because he didn't get his dick wet. Rape as a war crime is presented as not paying attention to the important stuff.
Worldwide my sisters are being assaulted, raped, murdered just for being who they are. I will continue to fight to make things better for them, but one thing we shouldn't forget is that it isn't just the incidents that make the news we need to care about, it is what happens to every woman, every time she leaves the house.
She get harassed in the street.
This weekend it was by a god botherer who got a look at my pentagram tattoo and decided I was worth extra allelujah points or something. I was wearing headphones and carrying shopping in both hands and STILL this wasn't a fuck off enough vibe for him. I tried to be polite and just say no thank you but the shit followed me down the road shouting about how he had to save me for Jesus. He even tried to 'lay hands' on me and had I not done a full on Matrix style swerve he would have touched me without my consent and would have been meeting Jesus a lot earlier than he planned.
But the bit that really got me is that this incident was at a busy shopping centre on a saturday afternoon and people just laughed and walked past me though I was obviously upset enough to use a gendered insult. It was just expected that this street harassment (loosely disguised as religion) is what we should expect when a woman leaves the house.
(as an aside, how fucked up is it that I feel bad because when he said 'Jesus loves you!' I replied with 'yeah but he thinks you're a cunt'. Seriously. I feel bad for using a gendered insult whereas I would bet my last pound that he gives not a flying fuck about harassing me.)
And now.
The World Cup is on and there are England flags EVERYWHERE. It's pissing me off to be honest as I no longer know which pubs are safe for me to go in as a Woman of Colour (WoC).
Usually flags flying out of pub windows is a way for me to know which pubs might just be EDL friendly and I can avoid them. Yes, every time I leave the house I risk assess which pubs might be safe by using flags. And I shouldn't have to do that. So, watching the match in the pub becomes impossible to me as I can never truly be comfortable.
I'll be glad when the whole thing is over.
Other things that happen when I leave the house:
I get men shouting 'BIG TITS' as if I have neither mirrors nor self awareness.
I go into hyper vigilant mode and cannot relax just walking down the street.
I end up calling someone out for being sexist/homophobic/racist/transphobic.
I wonder if this is the day I won't make it home coz some asshole who is made of entitlement thinks that today will be a good day to kill some bitches coz he didn't get laid. Or if I will be beaten because I am a WoC. Or if someone I call out will slap me down for being an uppity woman. Or if I will be raped and hung, because it is coming. In a country where we have laws against forced marriage and 'honour' killings but no one seems to be prosecuted, it is coming.
I am exhausted by it. It wears you down, but you can't let it win. I will continue to fight for myself and my sisters, and for the avoidance of doubt I mean EVERY woman, regardless of gender assignment at birth. I can't not fight because then I become scared.
Become beaten.
Become afraid to leave the house.
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