International Day of the Girl: #FreedomForGirls

(To get the full cheesy effect of this post, please open this YouTube link in another tab)

 So I've been away for a bit, mental health playing up, other crap, blah blah and so on. Life gets in the way of my ramblings, sad as it is. But today is a happy day, a brilliant day in fact. It's a day to celebrate the young women of the future and making a better world for them. Now I know it's a little past midnight (sue me, I never claimed to be punctual) but the message is still the same: the reason I do the shit I do is for the future of today's girls.

 This is kind of a full-circle story. When I was little I was a rather socially awkward child. Big surprise, neurotic blogger who is open about mental health issues and crappy things from childhood - what a surprise! But sit down and shut up. I met Devon when I was in nursery school, so somewhere between being two and three. We didn't exactly hit it off, we each knew who the other was but I was more into playing pretend by myself. It wasn't until we got to primary school that we started playing together, more because the teachers were so fed up with us tormenting each other - stealing pencils, throwing rubbers at each other - that they forced us to play together. Twenty one years later and it's far from a being 'forced together' relationship but more of a 'I don't know what I'd do without you' one. Though I'd still happily play worm rescue with her. We grew up together sharing some of our best memories and our most traumatic ones, examaple being I remember her Mam taking us to the circus and on the way back seeing a car on fire, crashed into a fence and thinking 'shit...I don't know how I'd cope with this if I wasn't with her'. 

 New Years Eve 2002, it's hilarious to look back on now. My family were round at her's, I got my first taste of alcohol (fizzy peach Archers, I can't remember the exact name of the drink but it was very much diluted with lemonade), and a fun countdown to the new year, surrounded by friends and family. Then as soon as it hit midnight we let of party poppers, went outside to light fireworks, came back inside to watch the rest of the festivities on the telly... and soon as Basil Brush said 'boom boom!' the power goes out. The adults try to be rational while ridiculously drunk, we panic like all kids would because it's dark and scary. Adults think 'it's fine, we'll light some candles and they'll just think it's part of the new years fun'. As the clumsy-as-ever lass that I am, I knock one of the candles over and almost set fire to her Mam's settee. My brother gets scared and throws up all over the glitter from the party poppers (as pretty as you can imagine). Mothers go into Super Mam mode and sort us all out, get us to bed and calm us down, clean up and get settled. The next morning me and Devon are watching reruns of friends in her bed (she had a bunkbed, it was so cool!) and we hear shouting from downstairs. We go down to investigate and it turns out that, even though the power had went out, the telly switched on as soon as it came back - so my parents were woken up by another appearance from Basil Brush. It's one of my most enduring New Years memories and it makes me laugh just thinking about it.

 Being a chubby queer goth as a teenager, it wasn't exactly fun doing things like... going outside, talking to people, laughing at things. But this lady was my rock, to this day she still is. We both grew up with brothers so it was nice having somebody who was just like a sister but without all of the clothes stealing, hair pulling and fighting over who's turn it was to pick the TV channel. I still miss her mother every day, when I heard the news it hit me as hard as if it had been one of my own parents. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went on to get a top -level linguistics degree, while also raising her first daughter. This lady is a fucking Viking. She has supported me through breakups, my parents arguing, all sorts of family and relationship troubles and I wouldn't swap her for love nor money. Hell, if we were a person they would be old enough to drink in the US.

 In the past few years the feminist movement has made amazing progress. Yes, we're far from total equality, far from it. But for now I'm hopeful. We saw the SlutWalk movement beginning in 2011, the resurgence of student feminist groups, Nasty Women* in 2016 and now! The reason I'm so passionate about the feminist movement today isn't for the changes it can make for me. The way I see it, I'm happy to carry on fighting, shouting, marching, and screaming is to make sure that my nieces don't have to. Seeing them grow into a society where they don't have to worry about being told they're not pretty enough, they're pretty so they can't be clever, policing of their style of dress and relationships; I've been there and am still going through it, I just pray to Sylvia Pankhurst (or the atheist alternative of praying) every day that I'll make enough change in my lifetime so that they won't have to experience that shittiness. 

 Devon has two wonderful,, wonderful daughters and my brother and sister-out-law have one too. These three little girls are why I do what I do, so much because of what their mothers have done for me. So this is a slightly belated #WonderfulWomenWednesday and celebration of #InternationalDayOfTheGirl. This lady is one of the most amazing ones I know and has given birth to two more of them - how lucky am I!?

 *For those of you who have liking for Nasty Women, did you know that Newcastle will be playing host to the first ever international Nasty Women conference!! If you would like to attend and/or take part then please purchase tickets here, or for other questions please email us at northeastnastywomen@gmail.com. <3

We Need to Talk About... How we talk about Feminism

 I'm normally reluctant to say it but I'm quite intelligent, more than I give myself credit for. I've been to university, I can discuss political and gender theory in-depth, and I could very probably argue my way out of a locked room. Or into one, depending who I'm arguing with. But I'm not always perceived that way. Something to do with the bright hair, tattoos and face full of piercings I think, but more likely to do with the way I talk. As a teenager I had a bad stutter and it still likes to make itself known now and then, so I had to adapt the way I speak in order to actually communicate - often in short, precise sentences. And you know what? I don't regret the way I speak, it's efficient, it gets the point across, and I feel it makes me more approachable. At the same time though I do get nervous when it comes to longer words and more complex sentences, because it's so hard to stop stuttering once you've been tripped up by something you're unfamiliar with.

When I first talk to somebody new about feminism I both love it and hate it. I love it because, well, why wouldn't I? I've just met an awesome new person. But at the same time I dread how they'll talk about it sometimes; they'll begin talking and I won't know if we're talking about the latest legislation affecting women's rights or the menu of a funky new fusion restaurant they've been to. Luckily this isn't always the case and I've met some utterly amazing feminist folks who are comfortable enough with their own views that they don't feel the need to describe something in ten ‘academic' terms when they can use six regular ones to make the same point. I was talking about it with a lovely feminist friend of this type a few weeks ago. Her first language isn't English and we recalled how we'd both be sat there in meetings and be thinking “...what?”. Yes, most of the time we'd understand the point that was made, but when it came to replying there were some times I was being looked at as though I'd just opened my mouth and dribbled down my shirt. I'd hear whispers and giggles, on one occasion having my point repeated back to the rest of the group using academic language, as if making my interpretation sound better and more understandable to them. It was embarrassing as hell and I don't think I went to another meeting for a long time after that. I felt shown up in a space that I had thought was meant to be safe and accepting.

And what infuriates me the most is when I see articles or hear talks about Intersectional Feminism using such jumped-up, alienating terms. This is by no means me having a go at academics and people who use this type of language, but I've got a lot of pent up frustration here. I believe that it has its uses and its place, but that place - for me - shouldn't be in a group that is meant to be accessible to everyone. Newly elected Labour MP Laura Pidcock made this point very well in her Maiden speech in parliament, somebody had to say it and I'm glad she was the one who did, she's bloody brilliant. By alienating people through use of language, we basically say to those who can't ‘keep up’ that their views don't matter, that they don't have a place in these discussions - when often they're the ones with the most to say and the most need to be heard. We shouldn't be laughed at or berated for not sounding ‘clever enough’. During my time at uni I had the ironic joy of being told that my draft of an essay on class, language, and access to education didn't sound academic enough. I was struggling to meet the word count because while I'd made my points precisely and clearly, they didn't sound ‘right' in an academic piece. I'm sorry, but bollocks to that.

Feminism has existed long before the term ever did. Every time women working in factories fought for equal pay, women in communities fought for their safety and bodily autonomy, and for our access to education. In deeds rather than words. Don't patronise us, just be considerate, and don't bloody giggle at us! That's just rude.

Street Harassment: A Short But Sweet Insight

So in the past twelve days I have been catcalled or otherwise harassed on the street I live on. Given that it's the main street of Heaton, you can account for more footfall, more people passing through etc, therefore more wankers passing through but in less than a fortnight I'm starting to feel less safe in my own community. I have called Heaton my home for almost five years now and I'm not going to let dickheads make me feel unsafe on my own streets.

The first, believe it or not, was a bloke pushing a pram telling me to get my tits out. Given that his kid was of toddling and talking age I can just imagine their child going back to nursery next week, the staff asking if he enjoyed the holidays and him going "yes...get your tits out!". Some top-notch parenting there.

 The second was last Friday, the day after I'd truly earned my Darwin Award by stabbing myself in the leg while loading the dishwasher. So limping, full of stitches and painkillers, and generally feeling sorry for myself, I had a wander up to Boots for some more dressings and ibuprofen. I stopped in at a few charity shops on the way - notably the Newcastle Dog and Cat Shelter shop on Chillingham Road, awesome prices, nice stuff and they do wonderful work - and I found some lovely bits and pieces, three dresses and a top for a tenner! So feeling nice and perky, I was walking home and I'm stopped by three knobheads in a shitty corsa. The guy in the passenger seat goes with the ever original "oi oi sexy!", and when I tell him to go fuck himself him and his mates thought they'd be big and clever and go "oooOOOoooOohh!" in that patronising way, you know the one I mean. And because these geniuses are stuck at the traffic lights, what's a girl to do? So I went and kicked the bastards car. It was just sat there being all shiny and provocative with three idiots inside! Who could resist!?

 Today was a double-whammy. I was walking home from the shop and some prick thinks he's big and clever and makes kissy noises at me; and when I turn to do a double take he grabs his crotch. Mate, given that your hands looked smaller than Trump's, I wouldn't go comparing them to your dick as a scale, they'll just make you think it's big.

 Then tonight I was out doing some Pokémon hunting, there was a Bayleef at the corner shop! And some bloke going into the chippy asks me "how much?" with one of those sickening eyebrow-wriggles and a smirk you just want to remove from his face with sandpaper.  I was wearing my pimp coat (big, fluffy leopard print one that I love), polka-dot playsuit, over-the-knee-socks, and Docs. But why should it matter what I was wearing? So, unable to think of a witty comeback on the spot and having finished my cigarette, I throw the end at him. Consider it up-cycling - of him, not the tab end. He went from being human garbage to an ash tray with a pulse.

 It might seem like an overreaction but... I don't give a shit. I'm sick of the men who think this behavior is okay. When I told Paul when I got home he said "if I ever thought speaking to lasses like that was okay then my Mam would knock my block off." And so she should! In fact I would love to see a reality TV programme where men have to read out the shitty things they say to women they don't know to their mothers. Then the mothers are given a score out of ten for how well they kick the shit out of their sons. Hey, it's more educational than Keeping up with the Kardashians.

 And for any whiny "ugh, stop complaining and get a life" folk out there, this is my life. And the lived experience of almost every other woman I've ever met ever. And they need to learn to not be shitty.

 So when I was discussing this with my lovely friend Becky at the weekend we came up with a brilliant idea: stickers. Industrial strength stickers. To put on the vehicles or general person of men who think it's big and clever to catcall. Stickers so sticky that they'll have to pay for it to be removed professionally or wreck whatever it was stuck to by peeling it off. It can be their penance and punishment for being so shitty to women. Big, fuck-off sticky stickers that say "I'm a misogynist, do not approach!". Yeah...

So yes, this ended up a little longer than intended but I can't think of another title. And I'm sick of shitty men.

TL,DR: men, stop being shitty.

Not a Bitch to be messed with 😘