And I Guess That's Why They Call It The News

 If there's one thing that is guaranteed to whip up the general public into an emotional frenzy, it is a pointless celebrity story. This past couple of weeks has seen two such stories: the sacking of Jeremy Clarkeson and the exit of Zayn What's-his-face from boy band One Direction. Both stories have led to a storm of speculation and strong feeling from a baffled public who have seemingly nothing else to occupy their time. I'm not going to sit here and pretend that this is an amazing new phenomenon because I vaguely remember girls in my class being positively distraught when Take That announced their break up in 1996. Admittedly, I was relatively unmoved by the whole thing. Come to think of it, I don't think I have ever felt any sort of affiliation to any band or celebrity. Don't ask me how I occupy my time and thoughts because I don't really have an answer for you. All I can tell you is that celebrities and their goings on don't really intrigue me and never have. What does intrigue me is that fact that people, many of whom earn a mere pittance, can spare so much time and energy on people whose lives are so far removed from their own. Apparently the online petition to reinstate Jeremy Clarkeson got over 1000 000 signatures. To place things into perspective, over 1000 000 people decided that Jeremy Clarkeson's job was worth giving a toss about. This is probably greater than the number of people who would sign a petition to save the jobs of those working in the NHS, local government and police force (many of whom probably haven't assaulted colleagues but who, nonetheless, face redundancy through no fault of their own). Again, this should come as a surprise but doesn't.

Look, I don't want to get into a debate about what should happen to Clarkeson because it's been debated to death by others. Besides, that's not really the point of this post. My main concern here is why, in the name of Hades, we are so hung up on one guy and his job when hundreds, possibly thousands of people from all different walks of life are facing losing their jobs. My guess is that we are just not good at looking at bigger pictures. We can hear facts, figures and anecdotes all day but they don't actually mean anything to us unless we are personally affected. Only when we are waiting for hours in A&E does everything begin to feel real. Until this point, it is just an abstract story and something that is far too big and out of our control. It is as though larger, national issues are so large and unmanageable that even forming coherent opinions can be daunting and somewhat tiring. Sure, we may discuss the privatisation of the NHS with friends and colleagues, we may even sign a petition to save our local A&E department when it is threatened with closure. Yet, we somehow cannot summon a fraction of the vitriolic energy that seems to be so abundant when having a heated discussion about all that is wrong in the world. Why is this? It's not as though we don't care. It's not as though we don't understand what is going on around us. So why this apathy?

I don't know but my guess would be that we are surrounded by such misery that we feel impotent in the face of it all. In the end, we know that however much we may bitch on social media or sign petitions, nothing is going to change. We will still be ruled by the same social elite; we will still be stuck paying taxes to fund wars that we disagree with and powerful people will continue to use their wealth and influence to hurt and abuse others. Our collective outrage will do nothing to alleviate any of this and will only serve to further alienate us from those around us. Conversely, you can bitch and debate about celebrities until the cows come home because it is unlikely to be divisive. Even if your opinions differ from those around you, it is unlikely to cause any lasting ructions. Ergo, celebrities provide an outlet and a focus for all of that misplaced social frustration.

I recently met up with a friend who I have known since primary school.  As has become the custom at such meet-ups, we enjoyed a rather fun trip down memory lane.  I suspect that part of the reason why this occurrence is becoming more and more frequent is because we both turn 30 this year.  We have joked about this eventuality throughout our twenties by saying things like “do you realise that in six years’ time we will both be 30?  This is terrifying!”  I think the jokes came about because we genuinely used to think of 30 as being old, which also meant that we had a long list of things that we wanted to have accomplished by the time we reached that milestone.  Obviously, we both struggled to recall very many of the items on our lists.  My friend had always said that she expected to be married with two children by the age of 25 (on reflection we agree that 25 is a mere baby and 30 int exactly old either). 

Like any effective appraisal (for that is what our lunch had unintentionally turned into), we discussed what we had actually achieved; degrees, homes, friends and careers.  The big stuff.  Or some of the big stuff.  The rest would, we assured ourselves, just happen in much the same way as our other attainments have.  It’s not that we were being particularly philosophical; more that we have become tired by the whole “by the age of 30 you should be doing x, y and z.”  I mean, our generation have enjoyed greater freedoms and choices than many that have gone previously and rather than enjoy this simple fact, we are becoming a generating of compulsive whingers.  Rather than celebrate our choices and accomplishments many of us are regretting not having taken the alternative routes through our twenties.  Sure university was fun whilst we were there but wouldn't we have become much more enlightened if we had traveled the world instead?  Maybe starting a family would have been much more satisfying than the job I worked so hard to get.  Who needs a clean house and loads of antique furniture anyway?  Bah.  Contrary to this self-indulgent bellyaching, my friend and I spent a good half an hour slapping ourselves on the back and gobbing off about how much we are actually enjoying our lives.  We then descended into a discussion about our fifteen year old selves….

This particular friend probably wouldn't mind me stating that we were both oddballs (I have withdrawn her legal name just in case she would).  By this I mean that we were both rather young and naive compared to our peers.  I can’t actually remember what sort of stuff we actually used to talk about but I know that it wasn't ever the same sort of stuff that other girls of the same age used to talk about.  There were also the various fashion disasters that are endemic among she-geeks everywhere; white socks with sandals, bad haircuts, perms (I think that was just me) and wearing heals with tracksuits.  Often when I look back at myself as a teenager I cringe, even if reminiscing about these years of awkwardness make for some hilarious conversations. 

It’s really odd to think that at 15 I had literally no idea how things worked or how I myself actually cogitated.  I have often heard it said that you have no genuine concept of self until you leave your childhood and teenage years behind and I think that this certainly holds true for me.  I know that many people would disagree because they had grown and developed their characters when they were still quite young.  However, at 15 I was still a child.  I had not yet met most of the people who would become my closest friends and confidants.  I had not yet discovered my chief motivations, my absolute unremitting passions and my wildest aspirations.  Like many young people I wanted to work in show business.  Leaving aside the fact that I could neither sing nor act and that I had the face of a deformed bulldog, the chances of me ever attaining a career in show business were always going to be pretty slim.  Very few people succeed in this line of business and many of those who do probably wish they hadn't.  Still, at 15 I was convinced that I was destined to be a star and became unable to see any reason why this would not transpire.  Needless to say that this particular dream has not been realised, much to the relief of my 29 year old self!  I’m almost chortling at how much I wanted to be some glamorous actress, whilst conveniently forgetting that it this particular dream was like a soothing balm to an ego that had been repeatedly injured by bullying and social exclusion.  Dreams and delusions were probably the safest and cosiest place for the 15 year old me to exist.  At this present moment it is easy to forget the pain and isolation that I felt as a 15 year old.  It is also easy to idealise my younger days by overemphasising the carefree aspects of my youth.  My anxieties over turning 30 have often led me to wish for a return to my younger days, without paying much heed to the fact that my adolescent years were frightening, confusing and miserable.  I may lament that fact that I now have to worry about paying bills and running a home but I promise you that these things are a definite improvement over wondering whether you will get through an entire school day without having your lunch money nicked or getting spat at by the people in the year below you.  This realisation has been somewhat bizarrely uplifting for me.  I now realise that as a 29 year old I have much more influence over the direction of my life than I did at 15.  It’s not that old chestnut about years buying you wisdom (my wisdom points are probably in minus figures) but more about realising that I have choices.  The 15 year old me was tethered to the life and identity as a social outcast.  I had to share space with my tormentors because our parents were legally obliged to send us to school.  Very few if any of us actually wanted to be there, sharing that space with each other.  We had no say over what we did or where we went.  We were just sitting it out, waiting and hoping that when we finally made it out of there it would be to something better.  Finally, the something better is here and I feel that it should be marked in some way….

Bloody Women

Earlier this week we celebrated International Womens’ Day, which always presents the perfect opportunity to reflect on how far women have come and how far we have yet to go in the long march to equality.  Whilst it is true that we have much to celebrate; we now have the vote in many countries, we have prominent females in many sectors including politics, business and science and womens’ issues are now being pushed up the international agenda, there is still an awful long way to go before we can truly say that we enjoy equality with men.  Nowhere is the lack of equality between the genders more apparent than in society’s attitudes towards women and their bodies.  

 

Women are constantly being appraised, not for their abilities, but for their body shapes and their general appearance.  It is not considered enough for a woman to appear neat and tidy; she must also appear aethetically pleasing and match some impossible cultural ideal, which nobody has a cat in hell’s chance of ever attaining or maintaining.  Women and girls who openly refuse or rebel against this are jeered at and made to feel inferior.  

Girls are taught to feel ashamed of their bodies from a young age.  Menstruation is still never really discussed or represented beyond sex education class and even when it is, it is normally referred to either in jest or using half arsed euphomisms, such as “the curse.”  You certainly never see or hear of it being referred to in popular culture.  It is almost as though this very normal part of female biology just does not exist.  We are certainly discouraged from openly discussing anything concerning our menstrual cycle in public, lest we embarress anyone.  It often feels as though women’s bodies are strictly for the purposes of hetero-male titilation and that any discussion or representation of anything that would challenge this is actively discouraged. 

Since the age of sixteen, I have suffered from horrendous pain, fatigue and dizziness.  It afflicts me for at least one week out of every four and yet social etiquette dictates that I must not discuss this in public, even if somebody asks why I am keeled over and screaming in pain.  Thus, when somebody does ask why I am doubled over I must fabricate some vague lie so as not to embarress them or myself.  Not that I am embarressed.  Fourteen years of explaining these symptoms to various medical professionals is enough to make anyone forget their embarressment.  I am a woman and lots of women menstruate.  We should not have to feel or act ashamed of our bodies, simply because society says so.  Only when we can stand up and say, “this is me and this is part of my life and my biology” will we ever be truly liberated!