My personal trainer, the ever-smiling Bear, that brave man who has transformed me into a slightly wobblier less pornographic version of Ronda Rousey, (my latest girlcrush and I want to be her), has one very annoying habit; he is a bit of a sexist. He is kind, he is wholly supportive of my efforts, he is very careful when we fight because he knows I’m easily frightened (a hangover from a lively childhood spent dodging fists and flying objects) but from time to time he’ll tell me I can’t be trusted because I’m female, and females lie.^
We’ve talked about it, I know why he thinks this (he too has a less than Hallmark personal history), he knows I disagree, and if I’m wearing my gloves, I’ll happily jab-cross him in the belly to make my point. #idontliebutiwillhit Women don’t, as a habit, want to lie; but we are usually required to hide how we really feel, to pretend, to make-believe and to act. We do this not from a place of malicious anti-bloke deception, we do this because we fucking well have to.
Surviving in a world owned by, legislated by, ruled by and swarming with men is really fucking hard. Despite the moderate advances of women’s rights, a shitload of shit still has not changed. #thatwassurprisinglysweary
Have you heard of Jennifer Lawrence? If you haven’t, you’ve spent ten years residing under a vacuum-sealed rock. You may know her as Katniss Everdeen, the hero of one of the most commercially successful film franchises since Star Wars. You might also know her as Mystique, the slinky blue nemesis of the X-Men films; those nice little earners that made 20th Century Fox (and the arsehole who owns it) Four Hundred Million Dollars. Perhaps you heard of her because of all those sparkly golden statues she keeps getting nominated for, and winning. Or maybe, because she’s just a girl, you heard of her because she was dating Chris Martin, or because she has a modelling contract with Dior, or because she tripped in her heels, or because her naked selfies were stolen from her personal telephone and shared all over the cum-splashed pervy corners of the internet?
Well now you can know about her because she wrote this*. Not only is she among the best actresses of her generation. Not only is she the embodiment of the BFF I want to have. Not only is she brutally honest, funny and clever. She can also write like I wish I could… and get a point across… and maybe just start a fucking revolution. #theswearingiscomingfromsomewhereverydark
JLaw makes a point that has kept me awake since I read it, “all I hear and see all day are men speaking their opinions, and I give mine in the same exact manner, and you would have thought I had said something offensive.” Why are we so worried about being precious, or prim, or narky, or bitchy, or sassy, or anything at-fucking-all, when the dudes are quite happy to go first class postal without any concern for the consequences.
I’ve come to the conclusion that whether we lie, whether we tell the truth, whether we’re dressed in heels, boots or sneakers, ultimately it is the vagination of anything I might say that offends. Most men are pretty fabulous, most men are kind and open and generous and loving and fair most of the time. But on the day when decisions are made, on the day when resources are rationed, on the day when arguments are fought and lost; the men are thinking only about winning their fight, they are not thinking about whether their lipstick is smudged, or whether they come over catty, or whether they will still be respected if they disagree with the rest of the room.
Which is why Suffragette made me so sad.
Go and see this movie. Make everyone you know go and see this movie. Once you’ve all seen it, sit together, have a drink and talk about what it all means.
Almost a hundred years ago, women took to terrorism to get the attention of the men who wouldn’t let them vote. They became rebels, they blew shit up, they screamed and shouted, they made a whole lot of noise and even sacrificed their own lives to force those in power to amend their patriarchal rule.
I’ve voted as long as I’ve been legally able to. I’ve had my own bank account. I’ve walked alone. I’ve signed my own contracts. I’ve purchased (and drunk) my own litre of vodka. I’ve bought all the shit I’ve wanted to buy, by myself. But I worry every single day about whether I’m being harpish, bitchy, negative or emotional. I worry about crying in public, I worry what the people around me think of me, I worry if Bear thinks I’m lying. Every time I ask someone I work with to do something, I worry about being perceived as a moaning preachy cow. But the boys don’t. #andtheygettopeestandingup
Did you know that ‘bullish’ is a positive word? Did you know that being bullish is actually a good thing? Did you know that being called a cow (the girl version of a bull) is more insulting than being called a cunt? Did you know that a cunt is a vagina and one man calling another man cunt is more insulting than cock? Did you know that hysteria (being nuts, crazy, unreliable, etc) comes from the Greek word for uterus? Did you know that the language we have to describe what is happening, how we feel and what we want to do was written by and designed for a whole bunch of people with penises and I wish I had a word for how that makes me angry that in no way had it’s etymological roots in my womanliness?
Well now you do.
^We’ve had a separate conversation about why I should be called a woman rather than a female; one is scientific and one is complimentary
*I subscribe to LENNY so I can read the full version. You should too.
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