Posts Tagged 'Beyonce'

Like a Girl

 

59th GRAMMY Awards -  Show

I was on New-Brighton Beach with my family last week, on May Bank Holiday Monday.

I heard a Father say to his son; “That’s not a proper jump, you little girl.”

As angry as I still am by what the Father said, I’m more angry with myself for doing nothing. I was so dumb-founded, all I could do was burn silently with internalised rage. I wish I’d been brave enough to stand up, and say to this Father; Have you ever seen a little girl jump, or run, or punch, or climb a tree? They’re like Olympian frogs. Also, don’t use “Girl” as an insult in front of your son, he’ll grow up to be a misogynist.

I’m still angry with myself, over a week later. Angry that I didn’t stand up to be counted. Angry that I wasn’t braver. In the Society we live in; a lot of women (including me) are afraid to stand up and be counted, for fear of looking stupid, which is unladylike, and unattractive. Men can say what they like; the stupider the better.

V

This is me around the age of seven.  My best friends were boys, and I spent all my time wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweatshirt; climbing trees, running, and riding my bike. My knees were always bloody, and my hands were always black.   I grew up with a Father who taught me how to fight, and only ever called me “Mate” until I was twenty-five, never anything else, and a Grandad who let me dress up as Ming the Merciless, and shoot plastic suckers at his head at point-blank range, when we were playing Defenders of the Earth.

Why has the term Girl been used as an insult for so long?  Why do men have this pre-conception that girls can’t jump? Even the very girly-girls in frilly dresses, playing with Barbies, are strong enough to out-arm-wrestle a boy any day of the week. Little girls are a force of nature; formidable, indefatigable, fearless. They are Amazonian warriors, and wolf-mothers to whatever doll, or teddy is their baby that week. They are fireworks, exploding all the time. They’re fighters.

Anyone who has ever watched a little girl for five minutes will know that there is nothing weak, or feeble about them, whatsoever, so where did this idea come from? I would imagine from the same place as; “The weaker sex”, “The little woman”, “Her indoors”, “The fairer sex”, and every other limitation placed on women since the dawn of time.   You can also bet it was a man who invented all those words like petite, and dainty, and made women want to be them.

Try telling Olympic Hurdler Denise Lewis that girls can’t jump! Try telling Serena Williams that she hits like a girl. They would knock your pretty little head off, son.

One of the biggest, and very first breakthroughs in the current feminist revolution was the Like a Girl campaign by Always. I remember vividly the first time I watched the video when it appeared online, at the very crest of the current movement, and I was bursting with so many emotions. The film starts with an interviewer asking a selection of men and boys of varying ages, and disappointingly some women, to demonstrate how a girl would run, jump, fight, throw, etc. They all give farcical performances of stereotypically flouncy, weak, ditsy girls, with pathetic, flailing arms, and no strength. Then they ask young girls the same thing. The girls are strong, fast, and brave. There is no flailing, and nothing pathetic about them. The first reaction of the young girls is to carry out the physical task to the maximum of their ability; to jump as high as they can, to run has fast as they are able to; to draw their fists back, and punch as hard as they can muster. They are fierce. They are impressive, and beautiful.

It is incredibly sad that the boys they interviewed, boys who spend every day of their lives surrounded by, and being cared for; fed, loved, and protected by mothers, grandmothers, sisters, cousins, classmates, teachers, dinner ladies, lollypop ladies, and so many other strong, formidable female figures, rather than allowing that strength, and protection to form their opinion of what a woman is, instead allow the prejudices, and small-minded assumptions of their fathers, grandfathers, and male classmates, to colour their image of womanhood. The heritage passes to each new generation, creating wave after wave of men who think women are weak, because that’s just how things are.

I would wager that most of the men who hold these beliefs, and keep alight this mythical image of flapping femininity, have never seen a woman give birth, received treatment from a female paramedic, or been raised solely by a single mother. It would be very hard to witness the unimaginable strength of women in tough situations, and still hold the boorish view that women are the “weaker sex.”

Have these men ever seen a woman building a flatpack wardrobe? Have they ever watched the female athletes in the Olympics, and Paralympics? Have they ever seen Serena Williams playing Tennis… or Serena Williams doing anything? Or seen all the women running in marathons?

Have they ever met a woman who has just suffered a miscarriage, or has a bald head and flat chest from Breast Cancer, but still gets tea on the table for her children; still runs in their Sports Day race, because that’s what they need today?

Have they ever felt what a woman feels when she’s in a meeting with men, being totally ignored, or patronised? Ever felt what a woman feels when she’s dressed smartly in her best professional suit, and nice shoes, but still gets called sweetheart, or is presumed to be somebody’s secretary, rather than the person doing the job?

I wish I could have said all of this to the Father on the Beach. Actually, I wish I could have said it to his son. I wish I could have said; Have you ever seen a single mother doing the weekly shop, keeping three children under control, while trying to stretch every penny, because she doesn’t get any help, choosing which essentials to sacrifice because there isn’t enough money for everything they need, whilst simultaneously settling six arguments, and keeping three children alive, safe, and within eyesight, making sure they don’t miss the bus, so they’re not late for karate/school/a party, while making sure three school uniforms/football kits/party dresses are washed, ironed, and ready. All this before she goes to work for nine hours? Have you ever seen a woman doing that? She won’t break a sweat. She won’t swear at her children. She won’t cry. And they will all have a meal on the table at the necessary time, because that’s just what needs to be done. Or, what about the married woman, who gets abuse shouted at her in the carpark for being a stupid ‘woman driver’, whilst keeping three children under control in the back of the car, and doing the weekly shop, and getting home to clean the house, and cook a meal for her husband, who will walk through the door and lie down on the sofa until it’s ready, and then she’ll wash his clothes, and iron them, and then deal with the children, and then go to work for nine hours, all while keeping her hair neat, and lipstick on.

So, if you want to tell your son that he’s jumping like a little girl, you’d better bloody realise everything that that means, because little girls grow up to be warriors, and they’ll wipe the floor with you, and your chauvinistic bullshit. Please, tell your son that.

The second cultural lightning bolt which had a big impact on me personally, and fundamentally changed the way I think about the world, was a video by Mayim Bialik called Girl” vs. Woman: Why Language Matters.” It’s really interesting that we call women ‘girl’ well into adulthood, probably until late 40s, or when they start going grey, and yet we generally stop calling boys “’boy” sometime during teens/secondary school. There are lots of transitional terms, and other words, such as ‘lad’, ‘bloke’, and ‘guy’ that enable us to define a male person between boyhood and manhood, but we only have ‘girl’ or ‘woman/lady’ to define a female person. I’m as guilty as anyone of using phrases like; “a girl at work”, “the girl in the shop”, “she’s a lovely girl” to describe women who have degrees, and PhDs, and important jobs; who wear suits to work, have mortgages, drive cars, and have husbands, and children. They are most definitely women, but we still call them ‘girl’ so widely. On the other hand, we would never refer to a man anywhere above twenty, who had a job, and wore a suit, and had a family, and a car, as a ‘boy’. Actually, we wouldn’t call a man who had none of those things a boy, either. It just feels wrong. Our mindset as a Society so naturally protects manhood, and masculinity, it goes against the grain.

The effect is to keep women small, in a state of childlike dependency; reliant on men for money, guidance, and protection. In reality, women don’t rely on men at all. Any woman who has raised a son, or any woman who has married a man who was too dependent on his mother, will know how heavily men rely on women for basic everyday care. I have always believed that instead of fathers walking their daughters down the aisle when they get married, mothers should give their sons away, because many men are just handed from mother to wife, and remain completely dependent on a woman, often any woman, for cooking, cleaning, buying underpants, and basic survival.

Language is a big defining factor in how we perceive each other, but it is not the words themselves that matter, but the intent behind them. If my Grandad calls me Sweetheart, because it’s clearly done with love, and affection, demonstrable in the intonation of his voice, and my prior assurance that my grandad respects me as a person, I don’t find anything negative, or offensive in the word whatsoever. It’s lovey, and a term of endearment. Whereas, if a Builder shouts Oi, Sweetheart from some scaffolding, I know that the intention is to deliberately and specifically make me feel small, and objectified, and therefore bad about myself, and so it’s offensive, because it works.

I was also really affected by a speech I saw recently made by Reese Witherspoon at the Woman of the Year Awards. She has started her own production company so that she can make films with strong, and varied female roles. She was tired that in so many films, where women are reduced to one-dimensional stock characters as the wife/girlfriend/assistant of the diverse and complex male character, there is so often a point in those films where the woman turns to the man, damsel in distress, and asks; “What are we going to do?”, and looks to the man for guidance, and protection, and a way out of the problem. Reese pointed out, quite correctly, that women in real life don’t go around asking for help from men, and not knowing what to do in situations. Women get shit done. She talked about how they teach children in schools that if they are ever lost, or in trouble, or in a disaster, or crisis, or dangerous situation, they should find a woman to ask for help. It’s the women who will look after them, and know what to do. Women in real life know what to do, so why don’t they in films?

The problem is not how women behave, it’s how the media portrays them, which constructs our pre-conceptions.

Take those stereotypical female secretaries in films from the 50s/60s/70s; the image of a perfectly turned out, airhead sex-kitten, who doesn’t know what day of the week it is, or where Japan is on a map, but has perfect nails. Women didn’t start acting like that, film producers invented that idea. Have you ever met a secretary in real life? They are terrifying. Granted, they will be well turned out, but they will know every person in the building, they will know their boss’s life better than his wife, and know what he needs before he does. They run his life, and the company, without being told what to do. If something needs to be done, they get it done. If something is impossible, they make it possible. Have you ever used their mug by mistake? Have you ever missed them off an email list? They will take you down. But somewhere along the line, Hollywood turned these intelligent, capable, ultra-efficient, hard-working titans, into plastic sex dolls without a thought in their head. They even made the word dirty.

At the time that Hollywood was creating these limiting stereotypes of single-faceted women, the real women in the outside world were dealing with World War II. They had no men, because they were all away fighting, and they had children to look after, and feed, but no food because everything was on ration. They kept their homes and families safe, they fed them inventively and healthily on very little food, they made their clothes themselves from patterns, and wore hand-me-down shoes. They built machines in the factories, so that we could carry on the war, they taught the children in schools, they looked after the injured soldiers in the hospitals, they cleaned up the Blitz, and kept an entire country running; women by themselves. They won the war just as much as the men fighting it. Without those capable women, what would the men have come home to? And yet, Hollywood reduced that generation of women, who had their sleeves rolled up, hair scraped back, covered in dirt and grease, carrying a child on each hip, boiling socks in a pan, to a generation of bimbos and airheads on film.

The wonderful thing that’s happening at the moment, thanks to #metoo #timesup #likeagirl, and all the women’s marches, and the fantastic feminist uprising over the last couple of years, spurred on by Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, et all, is that women are becoming less ashamed to be women. Women have lived in the dark for years; ordinary, working-class women, who carry too much shopping home on the bus, hiding a black eye with their fringe to protect their husband (because women are mothers, and mothers protect little boys), with no money in their purse, and holes in their tights, who curled up into themselves, trying to hide their womanhood from the world, because the world was men, and they were scared.

Slowly, timidly, those women are moving from a time, only a few decades ago, when my own grandmother wasn’t allowed to buy a washing machine on finance without her husband’s signature, which he wouldn’t give, into a time when Beyoncé posing as a majestic Madonna, in her heavily pregnant, heavenly photoshoot, is both completely normal/unremarkable, and also joyous, and momentous. When Beyoncé performed at The Grammy’s, the image of perfect, womanly motherhood, enormously pregnant with twins, but still working it, still owning the stage like the best performer the world has ever seen, being lowered electronically backwards on a specially made chair, just because it was daring, wearing massive heels, it was a big victory for all those women who had to spend their pregnancy in convalescence homes, being hidden away in asylums, or ‘laundries’, and all those women who were made to feel so ashamed of their womanhood, for all the women who had to hide away, under headscarves.

How can we be ashamed of something which is so inherently in ourselves, our very genetic and physical make-up, the body and bodily functions that we are born with, that we can’t choose, or control, but are forced to hide, and change, and fight against, and disguise, for the benefit of men? What’s more, why should we want to? Womanhood is the very thing that gives life. All those men who are so vehemently misogynistic, and fight fight fight against short skirts, and blood in Tampax adverts, and breastfeeding in Costa, who are incidentally the same men who enjoy Page 3 topless teenagers, and the extremely male fantasies portrayed by women in porn, and men’s magazines, wouldn’t have life itself without a mother; a woman who bled, and laboured, and birthed, and fed them at their breast, and nurtured them. That is, of-course, the eternal dichotomy. The little boxes that men have created, meaning that all women must be either wonton sex slaves, or perfect immaculate mothers; Mary Magdalene Whores, or Virgin Mary. Nothing in between.

In Beyoncé’s Grammy performance, she included words by poet Warsan Shire;

Baptize me … now that reconciliation is possible. If we’re gonna heal, let it be glorious. 1,000 girls raise their arms. Do you remember being born? Are you thankful for the hips that cracked? The deep velvet of your mother and her mother and her mother? There is a curse that will be broken.”

Men, if you let women be women; flawed, often late, or early; leaking, covered in hastily applied make-up, with laddered tights, and bleeding, you will be much happier. We’re awesome, and we get shit done.

 C963DF79-6057-4EDB-9CA8-01E6E637B185

Advertisements

Learn Your Parents’ Music

Image

I grew up with a Mum that taught me about David Bowie, and Marc Bolan, and a Dad that played The Smiths in the shower as loud as the stereo would go. I spent a large portion of my childhood being physically forced to transcribe James lyrics so he could learn them for the Karaoke. There was never any question in our house about what real music was. 

I did buy the Number 1 single every week, and knew the lyrics to Take That, and The Spice Girls, because I had to fit in at school, but I always knew, at the back of my mind, that that wasn’t the real music.  The real music was what my parents played at full volume when they were getting ready to go out.  The smell of hairspray, and perfume; the twist of lipstick, and the creak of leather jackets, will always be married to The Style Council, always The Style Council, and Rod Stewart.

My parents didn’t forbid me anything musically, but neither did they need to tell me that modern music was trash, because they demonstrated by example. For my sixteenth birthday, I was given a Motown compilation, not because I needed educating, but because I needed more.

 The same applied to comedy.  I was recently discussing comedy with some work colleagues between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, who sited ‘old comedy’ as The Fresh Prince of Bell Air.  When I mentioned Blackadder, Steptoe, Fools and Horses, The Young Ones, Pete and Dud, Rising Damp, I was met with a room full of blank faces.  Similarly, when I returned from Glastonbury in the Summer, full of excitement that I had just seen The Rolling Stones, I was greeted by a room that was silent for half a beat, and the dissection of Miley Cyrus and Rhianna singles then resumed.

These blank faces of the young people, particularly the teenagers, lead me to wonder what their parents are teaching them.  I wonder, when I see one of these “Directioners”, or “Beliebers”; a new generation of technologically fuelled obsessives, why their parents aren’t teaching them that there is more to life than One Direction.  Why is no-one in their life teaching them what real music is?  Because it sure as hell isn’t Justin Bieber.

Image

Mania has always existed, from The Beatles to The Rolling Stones, right through to Take That.  Teenage girls have always been frighteningly obsessed by popstars.  For my Mum, before she fell irrevocably in love with Marc Bolan, it was The Bay City Rollers.  She sewed tartan into her jeans, and slashed her lip with a razor so she’d have a scar like Les McKeown.  Unfortunately, because she made the cut in the mirror, it ended up on the wrong side of her face.  However, whereas Beatlemania was on a certain level; girls screaming at airports and concerts, and then going home for their tea, happy and safe, the recent documentary about Directioners proved that this new generation of fans have taken things to a whole new level.  Aided by the internet, teenage fanatics can now devote their whole day, every day, to their chosen subject, and the hours spent online are proving extremely unhealthy.  The level of obsessiveness has already reached life-threatening depths.

Taste is very personal, and the kind of music, books, and comedy a person likes is what defines them, and what kind of person they choose to be.  These things are part of our identity, and how we signify to the world that were are angry, happy, goth, metalhead, pill-popping clubber, classically refined, jiver, swinger, crier, harmer, mod, rocker, romantic, new-wave, dubstep, rapper.  What we listen to is who we are, and there are no two people the same.  However, nowadays, that idea is already almost extinct.  The idea that no two people are the same is being rapidly extinguished by a generation of people who wear the same, listen to the same, watch the same, say the same, think the same, do the same.  Everything they do is the same, and the pictures they post of it on Instagram are the same.  What makes it dangerous is that they have no comprehension that there is an alternative.  For these young people, there is nothing else.

Image

Whilst recently browsing Twitter, I saw the hashtag #10songsthatmakeyoucry.  Bored, I clicked on the hashtag, hopefully expecting perhaps REM, The Smiths, Radiohead, Elvis Costello, Johnny Cash, Jeff Buckley, Jonie Mitchell, maybe Adele.  After scrolling for a good ten minutes, I didn’t see a single song listed that wasn’t by One Direction, Rhiana, Beyonce, or Justin Bieber.  No exceptions.  That was it.  There were no other artists listed, just hundreds and hundreds of people listing the same handful of songs by those four artists, perhaps with a Lady Gaga thrown in.  Where is the autonomous thought?  Where is individuality? 

I’m from a generation which, like those before us, take immense pride in the individuality of our musical taste.  When I was eighteen, at sixth form college, when questioned on your taste in music, what you listened to absolutely had to be completely different from anybody else in the group.  If you mentioned an artist or song that was mentioned by somebody else, instead of solidarity, you’d be labelled generic, and mainstream.  Your musical taste had to be eclectic, individual, authentic.  You had to actually like music for specific reasons, not just because everybody else did.  What has happened to that world?  From what I’ve seen, it’s slipping away.

If I have children, I won’t forbid them any music, but I’ll make sure I educate them well enough that they can choose intelligently, and find music that brings them to life.  Music should make you feel  so many things, and I want my children to have the power to choose from anywhere in history, rather than the top 10.

I want to grab these teenagers by the shoulders, each and every one of them, and scream into their faces that Lady Gaga is not the most inspirational artist ever to have lived, and play them some David Bowie, or T-Rex.  I want them to lose their breath as Nina Simone ends Feeling Good.  I want their throat to catch, as Bowie’s does, I want them to feel their heart quicken as Marc Bolan takes a sharp intake of breath, and they hear his words; ‘Take me.’  I want them to know what’s out there.  There is so much out there.  I want them to hear Bowie cry ‘Oh no, Love, you’re not alone’ in Rock and Roll Suicide, and feel a far greater solidarity than the one they get from having the Twitter Username ‘1DirectionFan32545223’.

Please, know that there is so much out there.  Your life can be enriched.  You can be so moved by people who play instruments, write their heart and blood into the words, and sing their entire soul out into the microphone.  Listen to somebody singing their own words, and you won’t even call Justin Bieber music. 

Listen to Alex Turner, if you want to be modern.  Music sung and performed by the people that wrote and lived it is completely different to the plastic, mas-produced, computer-produced pulp and trash that floods the world as music nowadays.  Listen to Mick Jagger.  Listen to Bob Dylan.  For God’s sake, listen to David Bowie.

 Image


Goodreads – What I’m Reading

Follow me on TWITTER

Sylvia Plath said; "Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences". My aim in life is to find things and people to love, so that I can write about them. Putting words together is the only thing I can see myself doing. This blog is an outlet, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Please feel free to comment on posts, or contact me by the special e-mail I've set up (vikki.littlemore@live.co.uk) with your thoughts.


Follow me on Twitter

The New Remorse, Oscar Wilde.

The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.

But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

Recent Posts

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 596 other followers

Follow me on TWITTER

What I’m Saying on Twitter

Music I Love (In no particular order, except that The Smiths are first)

The Smiths,
The Libertines,
The Courteeners,
Nina Simone,
Oasis,
Pete Doherty,
Gossip,
The Kills,
Amy Winehouse,
Arctic Monkeys,
Rod Stewart,
The Doors,
The Rolling Stones,
Etta James,
Babyshambles,
T. Rex,
The Jam,
Morrissey,
Guillemots,
The Kinks,
Jack White,
The Deadweather,
David Bowie,
The Winchesters,
The Cure,
Kaiser Chiefs,
The Kooks,
The Twang,
Kings Of Leon,
Pulp,
Blur,
The Housemartins,
The Ramones,
James,
Robots in Disguise,
The Klaxons,
Kate Nash,
The Raconteurs,
Regina Spektor,
Aretha Franklin,
Stereophonics,
The Contours,
Dirty Pretty Things,
The White Stripes,
New York Dolls,
Yeah Yeah Yeahs,
The Clash,
Style Council,
Velvet Underground,
The Horrors,
The Cribs,
Reverend and The Makers,
The Subways,
The Wombats,
Foals,
Elle S'appelle,
The Troggs,
The Beatles,
Echo and the Bunnymen,
Florence and the Machine.

Olive Cotton, Tea Cup Ballet, 1935

Olive Cotton, Tea Cup Ballet, 1935

Click to follow this blog on Bloglovin

bloglovin

Will it ever be alright for Blighty to have a Queen Camilla?

One less tree from our window each day


Vikki's bookshelf: read

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
1984
Twilight
Of Mice and Men
Pride and Prejudice
The Hobbit
The Da Vinci Code
Lolita
Tipping the Velvet
Wuthering Heights
The Picture of Dorian Grey and Other Works by Oscar Wilde
Bridget Jones's Diary and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
Irish Peacock & Scarlet Marquess: The Real Trial of Oscar Wilde
The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman
Moab Is My Washpot
The Bell Jar
The Other Boleyn Girl
On the Road
Brideshead Revisited
Revolutionary Road



Vikki Littlemore's favorite books »

Share book reviews and ratings with Vikki, and even join a book club on Goodreads.

}

Advertisements

%d bloggers like this: