Thinking Out Loud

I was watching the newest episode of Black-ish, a sitcom about a black, American, upper-middle class family with four children and their trials and tribulations. In this episode, the wife discovers Facebook and sets up a dinner at her home with her old college friends, whom she intends to impress at this very dinner with how great her life is. Some of her husband's work friends are also in attendance, and as they linger around in the kitchen drinking Scotch or Whiskey or something the first couple arrives. What follows are two minutes of manly appreciation for the wife having lost a lot of weight (going from "fat" to "phat"), but now looking really good. A bit later in the episode, one of the colleagues comments that the women he sleeps with have all been recently dumped: he waits for the ones with the smeared mascara next to a food truck in front of clubs, so that when they drunkenly and sadly stumble towards a burrito he is there to catch them, so to speak, and tell them that they deserve better, just "not tonight" as he adds.

This may seem just like ordinary sitcom scripting. Haha, the joke is on the drunken, dumped girls. Or the fatties who are now phat. But for all this show could be, this episode just made me angry.
Ask yourself:

• Why is it ok to spend 2 minutes of a 25-minute sitcom on the male description of a female body? 
• Why is the conversation by the colleague not seen as extremely creepy? Irrespective of how drunk a girl or how much she is crying or what she looks like, it should not be ok to imply that any girl is "easy" and does not deserve to be treated respectfully. 

Here, I am not being oversensitive. I am asking you : what is popular culture teaching the next generation of of young people about how to interact with other humans? 

Consider this scenario: a young woman sends the guy she has been dating a text, saying "It has been nice knowing you", and next thing you know he is standing in her bedroom, surprising her, and they have sex. How did he get into her house? How does she not call the police and say a stalker is in her there and instead reacts overjoyed by dropping her panties?

Well, this is a scene from the box office hit 50 Shades of Gray. I realise this is a fictional story. But considering the audience of millions that the books and film(s) have, I cannot help but wonder why women have to regress into these subservient, superficial roles and why society (through portrayals of women in the media) seems to encourage this? 

Dove has been campaigning for years to 'real' women to accept themselves as beautiful. Always tried empowering young girls through its #LikeAGirl campaign, where doing things "like a girl" equals doing it well as opposed to weakly. Beyoncé sings about women being 'flawless' ("I woke up like this"). There are so many women fighting for gender equality, and yet as soon as the word 'feminist' is mentioned people seem to lose their minds. Feminism does not mean that one gender is better than another, feminism wishes to promote the quality of the genders (if that was not clear). I certainly have to read up more specifically into the history and objectives of the various waves of feminism, but that is the central argument: we are all equal. 

Why then, in 2015, is it still a contested idea? Understandably, there are numerous cultures across the world with a strong history of patriarchy that is hard to erase. But I think that that is exactly the problem: what is the point in women fighting for equality when men do not do the same? 

I dislike being seen as a strong woman. The reason I believe I can cope with anything, the reason I chose to think that I can do anything, is because there was no one else. There was no man to save me, so the only option was to do it myself. Women are not stronger for having had to fight, for having had to do everything on their own. Women are not intimidating for having opinions, for standing their man (so to speak), for living proudly. Instead of falling into a trap of binary oppositions of gender and strengths/weaknesses, I think one person's belief in him/herself should be encouraging to others to do the same. 

Recently, a friend posted Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TEDTalk We should all be feminists, where she recounts how a friend asked whether she was not afraid that men would find her intimidating. She replied that she had never thought about it, because she had no interest in men that would see her that way. 

I would dare to take it a step further even: rejecting gender stereotypes, we should (idealistically) not be afraid that anyone might find us intimidating, and instead see it as the opportunity to learn from someone who has more knowledge in a particular field than oneself does. 

Trusty and True

When the tears come I reach out to my mother.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.

Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.

My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.

When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.

My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).

Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.

In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.

Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Young Blood

Via postsecret

Today I am crossing the boundaries of decency a bit by over-sharing what goes on in my vagina (and that of basically every woman aged 13-60 (rough guess there)). Once a month women bleed. And although this has been a monthly experience for nearly 10 years, I feel like the girl in the Postsecret image : despite being 24 years old, it is still a surprise every time my blood seeps out of me. Maybe it is because I know it is coming but cannot pinpoint exactly when. It is always (haha, always. get it. like the pads.) as though my body is telling me that in reality, we are not one connected mind/body, but rather that it will do as it pleases and I have no real control over it.

I associate blood with being hurt, with the possibility of death, and with that disturbing tinny smell. In Germany they sell a blood sausage (Blutwurst) and it is disgusting. Blood is life, blood makes everything work and function and spreading thickly it on a slice of brown bread is not really appealing to me.

I wonder if there is any woman who likes having her period. Well, perhaps those that thought they were pregnant and did not want to be. I hate having my period. I hate seeing my own blood. But it is a natural process and I can understand the biological spiel involved. Hell, Grade 12 biology taught us everything in deeeeeeetail.

Look, I don't see the period as some week of suffering where the lady lies in bed and contemplates her fate. Sure, some women suffer more than others and get cramps and whatever, but it is not an illness. In No strings attached, Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher have a friends-with-benefits situation going, and naturally they fall in love and bla bla bla. The point is that her character, A DOCTOR, at some point gets her period. The horror. So she spends her day curled up in bed, with her little flatmates prancing around her as though she has caught the bubonic plague. And then Ashton pitches with a period-mix, as in a CD with bloody songs on it. Because that is what happens, realistically. All bleeding women go into a state of distress and need a knight in shining armour to show up with some rocking playlist to make them forget about the suffffffering happening in their vaginas.

For shame, I say. Both to Natalie Portman acting in such a stupid movie and in their depiction of the period. And because I really wanted to say 'for shame' at some point.

Please stop.

On Wednesday the #rapevideo went viral in South Africa. Why? A 17-year old girl ( it has not been confirmed if she is mentally ill or not) was raped in a field by seven men aged between 14 and 20. The girl had been missing since the 21 of March.

Several aspects here are disturbing and all the news reports don'r provide the same information:

 -  why did the mother not report her daughter missing?
       - the CNN report states that she did, but that the police did not open up a missing person's report. Why??

 - what does it matter if she is mentally ill or not? Does it make her more of a victim? Or less?


The girl was found only after students at school showed each other the video on their cellphones and a mother discovered her daughter watching it. Instead of going to the police, the mother took the story to the Daily Mail, a tabloid with the highest amount of readers, who then alerted the police. Why would she not go to the police herself?

This whole story is horrible and highlights not only a corrupt system, but a break with morality in society. Where are the father's of these boys? Have they not taught their children to have any respect for women? And the children at school watching the girl being raped, or the requests on Twitter for the link to the video? How come no one spoke up? What does it say about us as people when we can watch a girl getting raped for 10 minutes, when we can hear her pleading for them to stop? How could the young men even think of such a thing? And laugh at her, egging each other on, ignoring how they are hurting her?

I just do not understand it. People are weak and have lost all sense of what is right and wrong. Many South Africans pride themselves on their Christianity, but to me, a non-believer, it seems that they see it as going to church on a Sunday to socialise and not actually to stick to the 10 commandments.

This rape just shows that there is a blackness at the centre of our country that is sucking the youth in and they are not being taught by their parents, their families, their friends, or anyone in their lives, what is good, what is pure and true.

Look, I sound like some moralising bitch sitting on a high horse because I am "safe" behind my white skin and my black gates and walls and alarm systems. But the fact is, a woman gets raped every 26 seconds in South Africa, and only about 10% gets reported because the women feel ashamed of something they had no control over. And it's not even just women. Men get raped, too, but the shame is even bigger, even more engrossing, because "a man cannot be harmed".

What bullshit. When they broke in, they told me they would not rape me. At that moment, I thought "Duh. I am certain you won't. No one would. One does not harm others".

But now, after this report of 14-year-olds involved ( yes yes, peer pressure and all that, but you make your own choices), I don't know. As I said, there is a black hole of immorality that keeps expanding exponentially and I think that as a society, one must make a conscious choice to somehow teach what is good again.

There are basic things one accepts, a basic code to live by, but somehow, here, the respect for individual life has been lost, and if that is gone, what remains?


Read this M&G editorial.
  

The death of the gentleman and other notions

I can paint my own walls, check my own car's tire pressure and oil, hang up my own paintings, drill my own holes... Basically, I think I can do everything a man can do (except pee while standing. And even that can be arranged, somehow). If I do not know how, I will ask. I do not want to be some damsel in distress, afraid of chipping a nail. I want to be able to build a fire ( hah! That one can be checked off the list), fix the car, make a bookshelf and rewire a lighting fixture. I want to know these traditionally male things, because until now, I have done it on my own. I have learnt to fix what is broken by myself. Why would I want to learn these things? Because when you are a woman, car sales men tell you where you can put your lipstick and not about the fuel consumption, the engine strength, etc. When you are in Builder's Warehouse, the employees assume you are there waiting for your husband/boyfriend/father and do not help you. When you want to fill up your tank, you are expected to stay seated and not check everything yourself. Tss. I know these are generalisations, but one must admit that quite often, there are subtle discriminations in the everyday.

However, there does come a point where I think the loss of traditional gender roles is lamentable, and that is the way of being treated like a lady. No one opens doors any more. No one goes for a traditional date of dinner and a movie and is satisfied with a kiss at the doorstep. No one sends flowers. I think the art of being a gentleman has been eradicated by the insistence on instant sexual gratification of my generation.

It can be argued that this is perhaps our own fault: female emancipation and the notion of gender equality has relegated men as quite useless. With enough sperm, we could eradicate men completely. Perhaps women are "doing it for themselves" too much and men feel threatened by this intrusion into "their" world. I don't really know what it is. But I think most women still want to fulfil the role of mother and wife ( or partner or whatever you want to call the person you are committed to). Most women still want to make the salad and rice for the Sunday braai. Most women still want to stay at home and pack lunch boxes.  But I think many women also want to feel a sense of personal achievement : no one applauds the wife for an excellent dinner party, children see only their father as "working" and one gets kitchen utensils for one's birthday. When one has a job that is not housewife, there is competition, reward and aspiration. Is there also a sense of pride in one's work that one does not feel when one is "only" at home? I know raising children and keeping up with the household is a full-time job, but sometimes one needs to be able to talk about more than one's husband and children.

I believe our society has been conditioned too much by materialism: all that matters is what car one drives and where one buys the groceries.  Even days of appreciation like mother's day, father's day and Valentine's day are a consumerist festival.

I say forget all those "tokens". Opening the doors, randomly bringing flowers or just cooking dinner once will already make a girl feel like a lady, like she is worth the effort. Maybe that is the crux of it: one wants to feel like the other does value one's existence, that one is important somehow, that one is more than a pair of breasts.

Nowadays one can organize a quick hook-up over sms or BBM, one can go home with a random person and do the walk of shame the next morning. I say if that is what you want at that point in time, do it. But the next morning, the next week, the next year, one will probably think: "Hmm, maybe that was not the wisest decision." It cheapens one's own self-worth, it makes one feel like all that is desirable about oneself is the body and not the brains.

Maybe this way of thinking is outdated in a high-speed world. Maybe internet dating and apps designed for booty calls are the future. But somehow, I am still a lady. I might not always talk like one or look like one, but in essence, I am still a woman (maybe not yet?!) of worth and need to be treated accordingly.




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Changes

At the gym they changed the changing rooms. The women are in the men's quarters and the men get to enjoy separate showers for a day. I don't know why they do this, but it happens about twice a year. Perhaps it is to shake things up a little. Too see how many people will walk into the wrong change-room out of habit.

So after pretending to work out and sculpt my muscles, I head back to the changing rooms. In the ladies' one, the main room is separated into segments by placing the lockers in an E shape. So if you want to, no one can see you go from sweaty to sexy. Also, there are individual showers with swing doors, so even there you are only visible as a shadow through the opaque plastic-glass. 

The men's changing rooms are vastly different : the man room is the same size as the women's room, but the lockers are all pressed to the walls, and the benches are in the middle of the room, so there is nowhere to hide. Further, the showers are basically one room with ten shower heads. It is like prison. Or my idea of showers in prison. 

So sneaked in and saw a handful of elderly ladies lounging around on the benches, showing off sagging flesh and humanity at its barest. Because I was clothes and wore a bra, I felt very superior. I discarded my clothes quietly in the farthest corner whilst draping my enormous towel around me and managed to constantly hide the middle square of my body from their view. I did this to not make them jealous, you know, I did not want them to feel bad for not looking as smoking hot as me. No, in truth, I just don't like being naked. Especially not in front of people. 

The African ladies seem to have no problem with this: they will parade around their shape, spending ages lathering on different creams and wrapping their bodies in cellophane. Then they will again spend hours sweating naked in the sauna or the steam room, sitting on the tiniest towels. 

I admire this pride : to be comfortable in one's body, to be able to walk around in the nude, unaffraid of judgement. Maybe that is the irony: in youth skin and flesh is still usually firm, but one is unsure of its attraction and thus tries to hide it. In old age one has lived enough not to care about the bodies changes, even when everything droops and gravity is proven true. 

So there I am, cloaked like Gandalf in my grey towel, shuffling stealthily to the showers, where to my surpise I only see the one room. Thank the higher powers I was the only one there, so I quickly got clean and enrobed myself in the towel again. 

When I returned to the main room, I witnessed a most positive moment : 

an older white lady, presumably in her seventies, hunched over, with short dark grey hair and a face like a boxer approached a couple of black ladies, getting dressed to go back to work. She was walking towards them in her humongous white bloomers, with sagging flesh oozing out of them . 

She then asked one of the two ladies to put cream on her back. A simple thing. The lady obliged kindly and smeared the cream all over, even massaging it in. I, with my judgement, would have been disgusted by this task, this idea of rubbing old skin and muscles to weak to hold the old lady up straight. I would have done it out of courtesy, but would have resented her for asking me to do such a task. And I would have slapped the stuff on in seconds, trying to minimise the amount of contact my hands would have with her back.    

Then I realized my arrogance and admired both women greatly : the one for embracing her body and the other for not caring what that body looked like, for being willing to perform a small task in order to provide some happiness to a stranger. They both taught me that humanity has different forms and that a mindset corrupted by Cosmopolitan and Sports Illustrated ideals of what one should look like needs to change quickly. 

So I dropped my towel.  



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