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misswsposts · 8 years

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You are always more important...

You Are Always More Important

“What concept, what belief, what rule can make people see what they don’t want to see? As long as other people’s pain is less important than your own issues.” - Meltem Arikan, Enough is Enough.

I am a performer currently working on a theatre production, a piece of “artivism” called Enough Is Enough. It is a feminist piece shouting out about patriarchy and violence against women and children. It’s a powerful, thought-provoking piece with important points and a strong statement and it’s a remarkably rewarding experience to be a part of it.

I am also an ethical vegan and can’t help but notice parallels between the abuse of women and children with animal abuse. I don’t need to tell you about how the meat and dairy industries breed animals solely for our consumption, genetically modify them to have unnatural, painful defects which make them tastier and commercially viable, enslave them in pens, cages and sheds, violate their sexual organs on “rape racks” (it’s an industry term), steal their babies, murder them, chop them up, rip feathers from their living bodies, peel off their skin while they’re conscious. I don’t need to go into details because WE ALL KNOW what goes on. Everybody who eats a kebab or drinks a glass of milk knows how it got from the animal to their stomach. Why then, when we are all aware of it, do we continue to allow it? Because you are always more important, that’s why. Society has brainwashed the vast majority into believing its acceptable behaviour. People truly believe that because they enjoy the taste of bacon or cheese, it is worth sacrificing the comfort and entire life of another being. It’s worth someone losing his or her ENTIRE life, the only thing they possess, for a brief minute on your lips and a few hours of tummy fulfilment. We turn a blind eye to the abuse because it’s so inherent and normalised in our society. Smiling cartoon chickens and cows laugh at us from TV screens and billboards. “EAT ME” they dare us. But we all know, it’s not the animals themselves challenging us to savour their flesh, it’s their masters, humans. There’s another parallel here. When we see a woman in her underwear advertising a product on television or on a billboard, she has been placed there by a man, daring the audience to consume her with their eyes. Feminists call them up on the exploitation, the male gaze is criticised, all the while, the hypocrites are tucking into sushi made from a fish who has been traumatised, murdered and stolen from its environment through no fault of its own.

But why is it OK to treat animals as subservient creatures we can dominate? Surely women can identify with them? The feeling of helplessness, being controlled, having no voice in a world created for them by others who are not like them. We justify it by saying animals are less intelligent than us, they lack reasoning and understanding. But how much intellect does one need to feel pain? It’s a basic feeling shared by all animals and some plants. Anybody who’s stepped on a dog’s foot will be familiar with the bloodcurdling yelp that follows. We’ve all seen a cat head for the warmest, most comfortable area of the living room. But cats and dogs have a special kind of relationship with humans. They are members of our family. We curse those who mistreat pets, yet all the while, we are shovelling a once living, breathing pig between our teeth. If we are using intelligence as a gauge, it’s misguided. Pigs have been proved to be more intelligent than dogs, and as intelligent as a three-year old human. The argument for intelligence doesn’t stand up, otherwise we’d be enjoying roast toddler of a Sunday.

The real reason is speciesism. Another “ism” alongside racism, sexism, ageism, and all the other words which describe discrimination. It’s the last taboo but is just as relevant. Numbers-wise it effects more beings in our shared world than any of the other “isms”. In the early days of feminism and the civil rights movement, people mocked activists fighting for change. People were blinded by the system and comfortable with how things were. They couldn’t see the point of fighting for change, at least those people who weren’t suffering couldn’t. But the difference is that the victims had voices and the ability to fight against their oppressors. Their movements gathered momentum from those who were once complacent and they continue fighting to this day. But animals don’t have voices, or at least not ones able to communicate with humans. Their screams, yelps and cries are never in adverts. They are silenced, yet they exist. Animals are unable to unite and stand together, form unions, create Facebook groups. They’re the most vulnerable inhabitants on our planet. It’s for this reason I and others are speaking out for them, and yes, our cause is gathering momentum.

Animals breathe, feel pain, seek warmth, shit, have sex, shiver, feel fear, run away from or fight threatening behaviour, sigh, yawn, eat, drink and fuck, just as we do. How are they really different from us on a basic level? Why do we not give them the same respect we give other humans? Because they look, and think differently? Women look and feel differently to men, children look and think differently to adults. We wouldn’t tolerate that as a reason to abuse women and children so why do we tolerate it for animals? I can’t see the logic behind the justification of animal abuse.

I’m surrounded by animal exploitation and have realised that like the women featured in the play, I too am part of the system. I hear jokes about meat and veganism, and rather than shout out about it, for the most part I stay silent. Compliant. Because I don't want to appear difficult or have my outgoing, fun reputation tarnished. I am more important. I now see I’m no better than the mothers who let their husbands abuse their children for an easy life. I’m no better than women who brush off the banter which oppresses them. Why? Because veganism is still a taboo. If a bandmate had brought back a 12 year old girl to our digs to sleep with, the rest of us would speak out, yet I watch people drink the juice from a raped female cow who has had her most precious child stolen from her and I stay silent. Dairy cows are voiceless females and I am a feminist who is not standing up for them. I am not taking part in the abuse personally but I am doing little to stop it. I remember the works of Edmund Burke, ”The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." I am angry with myself, but feel helpless at the same time.

Animal rights activists are painted as weirdos or extremists. But what is extreme about eating a plant-based diet and feeling compassion for and empathy with the oppressed? How is it more extreme to choose to eat an avocado for breakfast than somebody’s legs? I’m not even getting started on the environmental impact of meat and dairy. I choose a cruelty-free diet because the choice is there. Even in the smallest towns and villages I’ve found plant-based foods. I have the privilege of choice, unlike animals. They don’t choose to be born into an unjust society. When people “choose” to eat meat, they do not like to think their choices have a victim behind them, but they do. Choices should not have victims.

Peers often pity me for not eating the tasty cake or rack of ribs they are enjoying, but believe me, I do not feel hard done by. I only have to think of the poor creatures who’ve suffered to end up in your hands and any feelings for myself go out the window. How can I feel bad about missing out on tasting chicken soup when those chickens missed out on happiness, comfort and life itself?

Discrimination of all forms should be fought and challenged, whether it's the rights of women, children, religious groups or animals. The first step is getting people to see their actions are harming others and have an effect. People need to open their eyes to new ideas, be open to criticism and more flexible in their way of thinking, but it's difficult when society has been hard-wired to be a certain way and when those in power don't share the same ideals. I truly believe there will be a point in the future when people will look back on our society's treatment of animals and view us the way as we view slave drivers during the years of the Transatlantic Slave Trade or the Nazis during the Holocaust, but in the meantime and to reach that stage, we must be non-compliant, continue to shout out and share the real life stories of all victims to incite positive change from the bottom up.

#veganism #animal rights

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misswsposts · 8 years

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I’m a woman and a musician

It was the mid-late 90s. I must have been about 13 when I read an article in one of those magazines - Kerrang! Smash Hits, NME, or whatever I was reading at the time (As a music obsessive I subscribed to them all) which has haunted me ever since. It was written by a female music journalist protesting that her views on music were never taken seriously by her male friends and co-workers. She wrote that her music tastes and recommendations were more often than not belittled and brushed aside by men, that her friends assumed her CD collection belonged to her boyfriend, that people inferred she only attended gigs because her boyfriend took her etc etc. I was shocked. I remember reading it about four times and thinking “This is nonsense. I’m a girl, I know more about music than most of the boys in my class, I buy more CDs than them, sneak out to more gigs than them, I play guitar with beefy distortion, my brother isn’t interested in music, I am. I know all the latest releases and I’m a girl. She’s talking rubbish!” I wanted her to be wrong. In fact I was certain she was wrong. The wiser, 32 year old me, however, looks back on that starry-eyed teenager, pats her on the head and says “You’ll see.”

But perhaps my realisation that men and women are treated differently in the world of music came a few years before that. I was about 11 or 12 and formed a band with my brother and sister on my parents landing. I remember my first guitar. My dad drove me to a wonky terraced house in the valleys - Tonypandy or Tonyrefail or somewhere like that - and we bought a black electric guitar and amp from a teenage boy that we’d spotted in the Free-Ads. I loved that six stringed beast and would practice for hours every single day playing Nirvana, Radiohead, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Green Day, Stereophonics and Manic Street Preachers songs. I was fuelled by testosterone-led Britpop, grunge and indie. I was also secretly saving every penny of my pocket money in a red plastic treasure chest for a Gibson SG Deluxe in Sunburst (which I never managed to buy). I was having guitar lessons in school and there were three of us in the class. Two boys and me, but we were equally as good as each other and treated the same by our teacher. We’d jam together outside school on weekends. We were equals and it never occurred to any of us that we weren’t. In our family band I turned up the distortion and shredded on my guitar, my brother bashed at his guitar and my sister knocked the shit out of the Lego bucket. We were a rock band! We all took off our tops, fastened ties around our heads and rocked out like Mick Jagger at the top of our stairs. I used the landing railings as jail bars and instantly became Freddie Mercury in the I Want To Break Free video. “When I grow up, this is what I’m going to do on stage in stadiums!” I screamed! My brother piped up. “No, you’ll have boobies then, so you can’t take your top off on stage, and anyway, girls can’t be rock stars, you’ll have to be a pop star.” His words felt like a whip cracking me. I burst into tears as I realised he was right. Grown-up rock stars aren’t women. None of my favourite bands had women in them. Female musicians are pop stars like Kylie Minogue, Madonna, Yazz, Eternal and the ABBA ladies. They don’t thump guitars over their crotches whilst waving their hair around in abandon. They sing. They dance around in their underwear and look sexy. I also noticed that they must be really good singers to be successful. Damon Albarn and Liam Gallagher couldn’t really sing as such, but it didn’t matter. Women have to sing in tune, and have a pretty voice. I didn’t want that. I wanted to scream. At the time I didn’t know about Joan Jett, Janis Joplin, Stevie Nicks, Patti Smith and the like, they weren’t in my magazines. They weren’t on MTV2.

Then from nowhere, Skunk Anansie burst into my life and blew me away. Skin could sing alright, but she screamed too. Then came Cerys Matthews and Gwen Stefani, Bjork and Courtney Love, and some of them actually played instruments as well as sing. My faith was restored - in part. I was now into heavier music like Faith No More, Deftones and Tool. These female rock stars still weren’t heavy enough for my liking, but it was a start. Thanks ladies.

I was an “alternative” type of teenager. We called ourselves Moshers. We’d go to ska-punk and rock gigs, drink 20-20 and White Lightning in the grounds of Cardiff Castle and up in the valleys. We had a great mixed group of friends, boys and girls, posh kids and not. We were united by the heavy music we listened to, and the fact we were misunderstood by grown-ups. We were progressive. My friends, male and female, respected me as a music fan. We made mix-tapes for each other. We jammed together. We were equals. That journalist was wrong. When I was around 15 I remember my father dropping me off at a house party and saying, “Why do you have so many friends that are boys? I don’t get it. They’re all after something, you know? I know the male mentality. In my day you weren’t friends with girls. You were either fucking them or they were your sister.” That conversation had a profound effect on me. Another grown-up was telling me how it was. That boys and girls are different. From that day on I felt a change. I was more wary of men, of my friends. After all, my dad was always right. I still think of that now when I befriend men, although I don’t think he was correct. It’s always there in the back of my mind.

My first real negative experience with a man was at a gig. I remember going to see a ska-punk in Clwb Ifor Bach when I was around 16. My sister was also a fan of theirs, but as an 11 year old she’d have never been able to sneak in and pass for 18 like I had done. I promised her I’d get their autographs. After the gig I talked my way into the green room by telling the owner about my sister’s request. I met the band. They were one of my favourite bands at the time and heroes of mine and I was alone with them. I felt special and amazing. They offered me beer. I talked to them as a fellow musician, asking for tips on how to get onto the gig scene. They offered me more beer. Then one of the band asked if I’d go back to their hotel with them. I knew about groupies and had read articles about how bands invite girls back to their hotel rooms on tour for “romps” (as they were always described). I wasn’t interested in that. I was interested in their musicianship and that alone. I changed the subject back to music. More beer. They asked again. I suddenly didn’t feel safe and left the room and re-joined my friends downstairs giggling and telling them about what had happened. We thought it was funny, but I was acutely aware of the sinister situation I had just avoided. I was also hurt that they weren’t interested in me because of my fascination of music, but rather because I was a young pretty girl and they were men, in their 30s I will add. Maybe my dad was right, I was naive and should be more wary and less trusting of men. They were all after one thing right?

Then after a misunderstanding in the third week of Sixth Form, I left and went to college to study A-Levels. I had freedom from uniform and strict lesson regimes. Among my subjects I chose to study Music Technology. It took me almost a full term to realise that I was the only female in the class. I honestly didn’t notice until one day during a lecture I looked around me and realised that the others were all men. Boys and men. There was around nine of us in the class. My first reaction was that it was cool to be the only girl, then I began to wonder why there weren’t any others. This was 2000-2001. I don’t believe I was ever at a disadvantage for being a girl. I wasn’t discriminated against and I wasn’t overly-encouraged over the boys either. I was treated as a student equal to all those in the class. I was a good student. I recently read an article written by a fellow Welsh musician, Angharad Van Rijswijk in which she talks about the discrimination women face in the world of music technology education. She studied a few years after me and had a very different experience. It has made me wonder whether I was lucky to be in college at the time I was, or whether I was just lucky to be surrounded by encouraging tutors. Perhaps women got too complacent in later years and society regressed? I don’t know.

My university didn’t have a music, art or drama department, and as a result, there weren’t a lot of the traditional “creatives” floating around our campus. There were however, a handful of students who were music fanatics, and I managed to find and befriend them. I was heavily involved with the Students’ Union, organising open mics, bands and regularly DJing. I also formed and joined multiple bands while I was there with the few others who were musically orientated. This perhaps was the first time I really took note of the lack of women interested in playing music. My bandmates were always men. The other DJs were more often than not men. I wondered why, but I also enjoyed the position I was in, being a woman surrounded by men. They respected me for what I was doing and I felt special.

I wanted to work in television, or in the movies so I was reading Media Studies and Welsh. One of my courses was led by a female lecturer who had worked in the television industry for many years before retiring and becoming a lecturer. She would give me a lot of encouragement and guidance, yet warning me often that as a woman in the media industry I would face a number of challenges that men wouldn’t. I scoffed at her. A grown up is telling me yet again that I am not going to be treated equally to men. I was good at my subject and would get a first for every essay I wrote, every film I made and every television programme I worked on. It was easy. The men on my course respected me and I don’t believe I was made to feel inferior by any of them, but there was always a niggling underlying knowledge that in the real world, I would be seen as inferior. That’s what grown-ups have always tried to tell me.

In my final year I ran in the elections for the sabbatical role of Entertainments Officer. I was the only woman standing. I was often told that I was the underdog, but I fully believed I had a good chance of winning. The other candidates were male and interested in music, but it was me who had been seen putting in the leg-work over the past four years and bringing music to campus. I DJ’d every week and was voted the most popular DJ by the students. I organised and hosted great open-mic nights and parties. It took me aback when I was called the underdog. Why would they say that? It didn’t feel that way to me. The only reason I could think of was that I was female. I was angry but not discouraged. When the results were in, I had won the election and had more votes than all the other candidates collectively. It was a landslide. Fuck misogyny. I had proved that it didn’t matter that I was a woman and felt I’d proved that people voted based on my experience and skills over my sex.

After I had completed formal education, I concluded from my experiences that men and women were equal. I had been told all the way through by adults that we weren’t, but my own personal experiences and generation proved the contrary. I was ready to face the “real world” as a powerful, equal woman. That’s when I realised the adults were right.

I began work as a subtitler. My office was a mix of men and women. The women in one room and the men in the other. Serious. We used to joke that our room was better because we chatted, gossiped and had fun, while the other room were serious. This was right. That did happen, but it was also because our line-manager was in the other office. There were a few incidents that happened when we women felt discriminated against. Firstly, the company manager would always make little comments about “the silly girls” which kept us in our place. After I’d been there around three years a man began to work with us. I had studied subtitling at university and already had skills and qualifications, yet I know that his starting wage was higher than mine. Despite having no experience. But he was a man and older, so that was to be accepted. We grumbled about it but accepted that there was nothing we could do about the situation. Then he was slowly given more and more responsibility. Our line-manager knew this man was less capable than us women, but the general manager would ignore this and when our line-manager was away on holiday or paternity leave, he would place this man in charge. We were outraged, his work was inferior to ours, riddled with mistakes which we’d have to mop up and correct and he took a lot longer to complete each project. We would whinge and moan about this but accepted there was nothing we could do. I asked for a meeting with the finance manager about it. He assured me that this man was not earning more than us and hadn’t secretly been promoted to assistant line-manager, but I didn’t believe him. Even if it wasn’t true, we were still treated as inferior. Another stand-out time was when I was assigned a programme which was a little risqué. I was subtitling an erotic scene (remember this is S4C though, so still not very erotic!) where a man and a woman were getting a little jiggy. There was a little bit of nudity, but nothing shocking. The General Manager entered the office and saw my screen. He immediately bellowed “WHY ARE YOU WORKING ON THIS!? ONE OF THE MEN SHOULD BE DOING IT NOT YOU!” I was shocked and answered, “Why? I’m over 18, I’ve done all the things in this programme myself!” He didn’t answer and walked out in a huff. I was shaking with rage at his attitude. I’m a small, innocent woman and so should be protected from sexuality? What bollocks! I was seeing more and more that the grown-ups who’d advised my younger me were right.

Outside of work I was an active gigging musician, and I still am now. Most of the bands I’ve played in, and have played with have been percentage-wise more male than female, but having said that, I do work with a lot of female musicians and we often discuss our experiences in a world where we are always told that we aren’t equal. I don’t know how many times I’ve turned up to a sound check to be asked “Are you the singer?” or “Is your boyfriend in the band?” These questions come from both men and women. My stock answer is to point at my tits and ask “Are you asking me that because I’ve got these badboys?” They are often shocked to learn that I am a trumpet player. “Wow, a female trumpet player!” I’ve heard that statement more times than I can remember. Why is it so shocking that a woman would play a brass instrument? One man in Spain once said to me “So you play trumpet and do Tae Kwon Do? Do you do anything feminine other than have periods?” Why must every activity be seen as feminine or masculine? I play in a brass band which is about 50/50 male and female split and this is often commented on when we perform. “Wow, so many girls on sax!” Again, these comments come from both men and women.

Once we had a group outing to London to watch a riot-jazz band from New Orleans. The all-male band were on stage grinding about topless blasting their brass. There was a point in the show where they were pulling up pretty girls from the audience to dance on stage among them. I was chosen. I have seen bands do this so many times and I hate it. I had a plan. I climbed up onto the stage. The song they were playing was actually one that we cover in my band. I picked up one of the trumpets from its stand, approached the mic and blew. The band were shocked! One of the pretty dancing girls actually has talent! The whole arena cheered as I played a solo. I jumped off stage and one of my bandmates took my place, grabbing a baritone sax and doing the same. We felt powerful. It was a statement. Women aren’t just there to ogle. We can play too.

Another time we had a band outing to watch a similar band, again from New Orleans in Liverpool. At the end of the show they were giving away free signed posters at the merch stand. I told my friends I would catch up with them and legged it over to the table where the band were sitting and requested a poster. The sousaphone player, a huge man, was the person I spoke to. Instead of answering my question I was met with “Dang girl! What you doing tonight? Come back and party with us at our hotel room.” I politely declined and said I just wanted a poster. “C’mon baby, you’re teasing me now...” He continued. This went on for another few minutes and I was beginning to get angry. At this point, he put his hand under the table, up my skirt and groped me. He put his hand over my arse with his thumb cupping my vagina. I was shocked, jumped back and shouted “What the fuck are you doing!?” A local Liverpudlian man behind me saw the whole thing and told him off before checking I was OK. I was extremely upset and re-joined my friends. I told them what had happened, but they found it funny and told me to not be so sensitive. Instead of supporting me, they told me to just chill out about it. That night, I needed time alone and disappeared on my own to another pub in the dark streets of Liverpool to gather my thoughts. I was seething with anger about the assault I had just experienced and lack of empathy from my friends and bandmates. This band have played in Cardiff on a number of occasions and my band have been given the support slot. Each time this happens they accept “the honour” and I am once again crushed by the lack of support. I have spoken out to them on many occasions about my feelings on the matter, but they are brushed aside. There is a line in the play I’m currently touring, “You are always more important” and I feel that sums up how I feel about the others taking this gig. Their own issues and personal fulfilment are more important than my feelings. Our band leader once circulated an email to justify their decision on taking the gig, saying that a band with such a female presence as ours performing in a male orientated genre is sending out a strong statement to these men. I can see what point he is making, but I very much doubt the band in question are going to have their views on women challenged by us playing their inherently inferior support slot.

I am now dabbling with creating electronic music. I have always been interested in creating dance music since my music tech course in college, but now with the new age of apps and technology, and perhaps the fact I’m getting a little bored of the genres I’ve been playing for years and years, I’m moving in a new direction. I’ve started to make drum n bass and techno using my iPad and have performed at a few parties. I do get the impression though that I am being “humoured” by being given a few slots alongside the other proper men DJs. That could be paranoia, but I don’t think it is.

There are countless other anecdotes I could tell about my experiences as a woman, but I want to end here and reflect. I now see that the article I read as a child does have weight to it. That we aren’t seen as equal. But when does it start and who is perpetuating it? As a child and teenager I was on an equal playing field with men. It was only when my sex organs were fully developed and I was out in the real-world that I began to experience the affects of patriarchy. The adults around me, male and female, are part of the system, brushing off casual sexual assaults, being shocked at seeing a female blow a horn. Did we have a brief period of almost equality in the early 2000s under the regime of political correctness which has been subsequently crushed? I don’t know the answers. I do know that I am not discouraged and will continue to create and perform music for as long as the passion holds me, alongside men and women.

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misswsposts · 8 years

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Stefano* The Olive Seller

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the fellow involved.

One of my favourite party anecdotes is the story of “Stefano* The Olive Seller”. I met him in 2007 at my local market when I was a happy-go-lucky 23 year old.

I frequent this market every Sunday and back in those days, there was an impressive Arabic foods stall, puveying Turkish delight, baklava and the the best olives in the city. I hail from a Mediterranean family so was drawn to said olives like cat’s hair to a cardigan. Over a few months, I struck up a flirty friendship with the young, handsome “Persian” lad manning the stall, who incidentally had the most European hairstyle I’d ever seen. He wouldn’t have looked out of place throwing shapes in a boy-band on the Eurovision stage. I am always fascinated by other languages and cultures so found myself as drawn to him as I was to his wares. One brave day, a friend convinced me to give him my phone number. I’m not prone to do this so I was sweating and shaking and an absolute mess as I pressed my phone number scrawled on the bac of a screwed up receipt into his palm. I ran away giggling like a teenager and spent the next three days mortified with myself.

The internal shakes were over when my phone bleeped and a text in broken English appeared. As well as an invitation to join him for a drink, it mentioned that he couldn’t write in Western script and had to wait until a friend was available to type the message for him. This surprised me, I’d never corresponded with anybody who couldn’t read the Latin alphabet before. It also added to his exoticness. I agreed to meet a few days later.

His chosen location was a busy bar during my lunch hour. He brought me an enormous bag of olives. I remember his Brute aftershave filling up the room as we chatted and giggled shyly. We got on fantastically. I told him I knew that “Persian” was Iranian in disguise and he was amazed by my knowledge of international affairs. Apparently most women don’t question his Persian persona. We spoke about my recent break up. I had been in a relationship with a Pakistani guy (I definitely need to blog about that encounter later on) who was Muslim. Our parting was a sad one and out of our hands as his family had arranged a marriage on his behalf. Stefano’s eyes were alight with rage on hearing about this. He waxed lyrical about how much he hated Islam and its customs. He revealed that he was an anti-islamic terrorist (I’m slightly aware that there are a number of key words in this blog now that may cause it to be read by the government, go ahead!) and subscribed to Zoroastrianism - now a minority religion in Iran due to it being driven out by Islam. He told me about the fired up marches and protests he regularly attended and and revealed he was driven out of Iran because of his actions. Most people would have run a mile at his declarations, but I was transfixed, especially when he whipped out his terrorist group’s membership card (I didn’t know they had membership cards!!) I do not hold the same views at all. I believe in love and respect for all people regardless of religion, but I was interested in finding out his story and agreed to meet him for dinner to get to know him better.

A week later, we met for dinner in a cocktail bar. Again, his aftershave was more than overpowering, but there was something quite comforting about it. Years later I realised that it was the same aftershave my grandfather used to wear, so perhaps that’s way. (OK Mr Freud, I know what you’re thinking.) We had pleasant conversations about this and that, and he produced from his bag an even bigger bag of olives, this time with pickled garlic cloves and capers to complete the scene. It was a Saturday night and the eve of Mother’s Day, so our talk soon got around to that. I told him my plans for the following day, to take my mother for afternoon tea, and saw his expression change. He started by frowning, which I didn’t take a lot of notice of, but before long, he started to weep. Quietly at first and then full blown wails - and I mean serious wails. This European boyband terrorist was screaming dramtically in the middle of a quaint little bar, everybody was staring and I did not know what to do.

I tried to console him and after he settled he began to tell me the story of his mother. I wish I could convey his accent here, because that, dear reader, is what gets my anecdote its best reaction, but please imagine this monologue as told by a weepy, dramatic Arabic man in his late 20s.

“My mother…she is…..she is…..my mother is DEAD!” he exclaimed with all the passion of Tony Mortimer at Christmas.

“Gosh”, I replied, “I’m sorry to talk about my mother then. You must be hurting a lot”.

In these circumstances I never know the best course of action. Who does? But I fancy myself rather astute at reading whether somebody wants to talk about something or not, and so I decided the best way to proceed was to ask him more. “What happened?”

“I was in Persia [he still refused to call it Iran]….and we we cross busy road. All of sudden, car, he came, he crash into my mother and I run to save her, but was no good, she die…..she die…..IN MY ARMS!” At this point, the wailing increased as he mimed cradling his dying mothers head in his arms.

I was speechless. It sounded horriffic and I felt terrible for him, as anybody would. I mumbled expressions such as, “How old were you? I’m so sorry..”

“I was just a boy, maybe 10 years”

I asked him about his father. “My father! Oh, my father!” he cried and wailed again. I felt like I shouldn’t pursue it but I was curious again…

“My father, he have heart attack. Big heart attack. His heart, he EXPLODE! Out of his chest, and he die….he die…in my arms.” He slapped his palm to his forehead in woe.

I felt we should change the subject and asked him how he found himself to be in South Wales.

“I was chased out of Persia by the regime!” He said “I had no choice!”.

He then went on to tell me that he had escaped as a teenager chased by “bad men”. “I ran! I ran and ran and ran until I stop, and when I stop, I was in Switzerland.” I pictured Forrest Gump broken-heartedly running across the US and was highly skeptical of his story. This was many years before the refugee crisis or the Arab Spring, but I was acutely aware that one cannot simply run, in one go, in a puff of aftershave from Iran to Scandinavia, but I was curious of where this was going. “What happened next?” I asked, transfixed. “I was taken in by family. They adopt me and I live with them happy for many years, until one day, the mother…. [I wish to draw your attention here to the fact that he rolled his “r’s” in a way that made the word “mother” seem a lot more dramatic than it deserves to be] ..the mother, she come to my room and she say, “I never have sex with black boy before” so what I was to do? I fucked her.”

Again I was shocked. This man had sex with his foster mother as a teenager.

He went on, “Then the daughter, one night she come to my room and say “I never have sex with black boy before” so what I was to do? I fucked her.”

The story was getting weirder and weirder.

“Then one night, the father, he come to my room…”

“NO!” I cried, “The father as well!?” The tale got taller. “No”, he said sternly, finger erect, “He say, “You fuck my wife, you fuck my daughter, now you leave my house or I fuck you!!!” So I ran and I ran and I ran, all the way until I stop, and soon I am in Italy. When I was in Italy, I change my name, and that is why I am now called Stefano* I pretend to be Italian man and meet a girlfriend. We split up so I come to Wales where my relative runs an olive stand here in your city”

This man really was an interesting chap. I am an empathetic person and felt really sorry for him. Although the story seemed quite incredible, something in me (my vagina?) gave him the benefit of the doubt and I comforted him. I agreed to meet again, this time at my place, and to cook him dinner.

A few days later, I had had time to mull over his stories and the more I thought about it, the less I believed them. I didn’t want to cancel his invite, but instead I asked my housemates if they wouldn’t mind chaperoning us at dinner.

He arrived with an even BIGGER bag of olives and immediately filled ever corner of my home with his aroma. Over dinner, he dominated the discussion by telling us about his hate Islam. We weren’t sold, but chose to not talk too much on a subject we knew little about. He was also pretty intimidating with his rhetoric. At one point he was actually in hysterics about how ridiculous he believed Islam to be. We were amazed at how passionately he discussed Iranian politics. It was the time of George W Bush. Stefano told us he loved Bush and hated Iran because of the “bad politics”. He said terrorists killed his father. I thought of our dinner last week. Didn’t he tell me his father had a heart attack…and died in his arms?”

After dinner we went to the living room. My friends went their own ways. He tried to kiss me, but given that I was now highly suspicious of and intimidated by this strange man, I pulled away. I had been invited to the pub that night by some friends, and thought maybe the best thing to do would be to meet them, at least only to get this guy out of my home. And so we left for the pub. Over the course of the evening, he got drunker and drunker and as he did, his manner grew funnier and funnier (or crazier and crazier). By now, I was convinced that his entire story had been constructed for sympathy. He spoke with passion, and it was obvious he’d picked up a fee tips in Italy about large hand gestures. I mentioned in passing that earlier on in the day my office chair had broken. I didn’t actually get to finish the point I was making because he interrupted and decided to act out the scene. “You are in work! And so fat [I take offence to that, I’m a size 12/14, but anyway…] your chair, she break, and you falling, falling, falling!” His hand was in the air gesturing to God and he slid off his chair in slow motion. Suffice to say, my friends and I were almost in tears. Next he began to rant about how EVERYBODY, regardless of sex, should shave their armpits and pubic hair clean off. He exclaimed he would not allow somebody into his house unless they were totally clean shaven - including his brother and his father (who we all thought was dead) and his best friends. He looked so shocked/disappointed when I said most Western women don’t shave everything and we had a huge debate about it. I don’t shave my underarms and rarely shave my leg and told him I wouldn’t shave for somebody else no matter who they were. I was so radical. He was disgusted by me and told me so in no uncertain terms. This didn’t stop him from leaning in for a kiss ten minutes later. As his face got closer to mine, I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do than laugh aloud awkwardly and turn my face away. My friend was in hysterics and has said repeatedly since that it was one of the funniest burns he’d ever seen. I’m aware that I appear quite nasty writing this, but I assure you I was very polite to him at the time, even after all the fibs and racial hatred.

At the end of the evening, the four of us left the bar together. The others walked quicker than us and were soon a fair distance ahead. I asked Stefano how he was getting home. He looked shocked. “But I’m staying in your house with you”. I replied, “Erm, no you’re not sunshine, you’re going home!”. He thought I was joking and didn’t believe me. This descended into an argument:

“No man, you aren’t staying over mine, OK?” “Why not? you ask me for to come with you for drinks and so i stay with you, yes?” “No, that’s not automatically implied. You go back to yours. There are lots of taxis passing us” “No, I will stay with you, it’s fine, we will not make the sex, we will just sleep there together” [Haven’t we all heard that one before?] “No, I have work at 8am. You’re going home” [Nowadays I would not even make an excuse, no means no. You don’t need a reason.] “Why!? We will not make the sex, we will just sleep, its fine! what’s wrong with you? You is just like the Muslim womans!“ “What!? Because I won’t have sex with you, I’m like a Muslim?! Maybe Muslim women don’t sleep with you because they don’t like you. It’s nothing to do with religion, it’s personal choice!” “Yes, you are trying to keep something from me, like muslim Womans! It’s wrong! You not going to make the sex for rest of life or what!? You scared or something!? I’m so good at it, you don’t know what you’re missing man!”

I’m not sure whether this approach normally worked for him, but it was certainly not turning me on! I was a bit scared of what he would do next and so ran down the street towards my friends as he continued to bellow. Then I stopped and shouted back at him one of my favourite things I’ve ever said.

“Look, put it this way, I could go home and have sex with myself and it would be fantastic, or take you home and it’ll be hit or miss, you know, I just can’t be arsed to take that risk” [With hindsight, I wish I had said a little more about how it was my right to say no and put him in his place, but I was 23 and not so clued up on the world of arsehole men as I am now.]

He laughed and said I was silly, that he was amazing in bed and that I should just give him a chance. I told him I didn’t want him to come to my house! Eventually he agreed to go and jumped into the back of a taxi muttering that it hurt his heart that I wouldn’t have sex with him. No regard for my heart.

I heard from him once more after this night. He left a five minute long message on my answerphone apogising to me, saying that he was bad, I was nice and “WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME”?” I never replied and never saw him again. I still think of him everytime I smell Brute.

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misswsposts · 8 years

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Braless day 7

Nothing exciting to report today. I went Christmas shopping and ended up spending over 3 hours traipsing around unsuccessfully. I did try on some clothes in M&S though. It was strange taking off my top in the changing room to expose my bare chest, and the clothes I tried on weren’t suited to me - but then I don’t think that was my boobs’ fault. It occurred to me when looking in the mirror that although they are lower down now, they actually still look pretty pert for a 32yr old E cup. I was quite happy with that. I visited my nana in the evening and to my shock she didn’t once comment about my freeflying boobs. You know what nans are like, she usually has something to say about the size of my arse or stomach but she didn’t comment at all. Great work! This new way of life must suit me. I also got around to the last of my laundry this morning and I was putting away my bras I said to myself “It will probably be a good while until I grace any of you guys with my presence again.” After 7 days of not wearing a bra, I am sold. Hang free ladies!

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misswsposts · 8 years

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Going bra-less day 5 and 6

Yesterday was fairly uneventful, in that I woke up late, (midday - I’m allowed, I’m an actor now) got my haircut, eyebrows waxed and then visited a dear friend who is ill in hospital. I told him and his parents about my experiment and they made jokes about me being a feminist now and burning my bra, but they weren’t shocked by the revelation. Why should they? It felt comfortable walking about bra-less, but I did get a strange stare from an elderly lady in a lift - but maybe she just had one of those faces.

Today I had to cheat and wear a bra. It was the photoshoot for the play I’m in and the director specifically requested we wear bras. When I put it on this morning, It felt so uncomfortable. This struck me as odd because I’ve been wearing bras for 3/4 of my life before and never really noticed how restricted I was. I just took it as read that you have to wear one and got used to it. Well today, it really did feel horrible. I couldn’t wait to take it off after the shoot was done. It’s interesting really, that we were requested to wear bras. (It wasn’t a strange request, I guess, because they knew I was probably going to turn up sans strappage as I’d told them about my task) but slightly at odds with the ethos of the play; that we are strong minded independent women, comfortable with our sexuality, powerful and escaping the constraints of patriarchy - and there I was, doing exactly the opposite, wearing a bra despite its lack of comfort. I’ll go an extra day - or week maybe - or perhaps forever - after the experiment to compensate for my cheat day. The photos did look good though so...

Here is an example of what we wore.

The first picture shows me wearing a T-shirt scrawled with words which are typically used to describe women. During the photoshoot we were tearing our tops, or the words on our tops in disgust to show that we’ve conquered these negative stereotypes.

If you’re interested in finding out more about the play, we will have a website up and running soon, but there is a sneak peak here on the production company’s site. We shall be touring Wales in the new year.

http://www.beawareproductions.com/portfolio/enough-is-enough/

#feminism #braless #bra #patriarchy #wales

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misswsposts · 8 years

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Going bra-less days 3 and 4

It is now Tuesday morning, and actually day 5 of the experiment of going bra-less for a week. In my last blog, Saturday afternoon, I mentioned I was going to a party. I ended up going to three parties (It is Christmas!) The first was with my work colleagues for our work’s do. I arrived at the pub early and I must admit I did feel pretty self-conscious around all the old men in there. I noticed some looking, but again, that may have been my over-sensitivity given that I was aware of not wearing a bra. In any case, I didn’t give two shits about their stares. I did notice that my breasts felt heavy though, and not as comfortable as on the first day. When they arrived, I mentioned my experiment to a female colleague and she said that having had two children, she wouldn’t ever dare do the same. She said after having children you need even more support, the same sentiment was echoed later on at party #2 with my friends. (It became a bit of a joke there, “Trust you to do that!” - in the friendly way old friends can take the mick, which I love.) This got me thinking, bras have only been around the last 80 years or so, we as a society are now totally brainwashed into believing that we have to wear them. I found it interesting that the mothers I knew all had the same opinion, that your boobs get ruined and lose all their elasticity after giving birth so you need something artificial to support them. How true is this really? Have they been taught this or is it what they’ve experienced personally? How did mothers of yesteryear cope?

The third party (beginning at midnight in another part of the city) was for a male friends’ birthday. I knew a fair few people there, but not everybody . I decided to mention it. Everybody was pretty drunk at this point in the night / morning, but lots of men were really interested (I think?) in the experiment, asking questions and discussing the pros and cons with me. Maybe the alcohol helped, but in the past few days I found that my male friends generally felt uncomfortable when I mentioned it so this was an interesting and heartening change. There was a large-breasted woman at the party (aged 26) who was FASCINATED by the whole thing. I had only met her that night, but she kept telling me how cool it was that I was bra-less, as though I was a daredevil. She kept coming over to me and picking them up and letting them flop. It didn’t feel like it was being done with affection at all and I wasn’t entirely sure of her motives, but given as though we were few women amongst many men, I figured it was her trying to assert some power over me in order to get their attention. (Why do women do this?? I’ve noticed it a lot in these situations) I’m a bit old for games like that though, and just pointed out in a friendly manner that it’s not a big deal (and tried to persuade her to de-bra herself if it was so cool - she didn’t) On Sunday I had a gig at a wedding. I was jumping about a lot on stage, but my boobs didn’t move. The dress I was wearing was fitted and had a pinched in waist. It meant it was supporting my breasts itself. I usually feel a bit uncomfortable and strapped in when I wear that dress with a bra, so it was a great welcomed change. I will wear it more often now that I know the secret of its comfort. NO BRA! RESULT! I wonder how many other garments I own would have the same affect?

Yesterday was a sad day. My friend passed away a fortnight ago and it was his funeral. I did actually wonder whether it was respectful to show up to a funeral with swinging boobs, but then I thought of him, and how he was such a progressive and free-thinking being and figured it would be fine. It was COLD at the chapel, and I did feel a teeny bit self-conscious as my nipples were clearly visible, but given the circumstances, it wasn’t really on my mind, or anybody else’s for that matter. My band played at the wake, and as our usual leader was away, I did a bit of conducting. Now THIS WAS HARD without a bra. Vigorously waving my arms around and jumping about in front of all those people. They must have noticed, it felt at times that my boobs were on a two second delay, swinging to the right when my body had long already gone left. I felt like a Newton’s Cradle. It didn’t hurt, but wasn’t too comfortable - but then neither is wearing a bra. Perhaps comfort throughout the day is worth the momentary uncomfortableness during the (rare) moments I’m being energetic.

So far, on the whole, I’ve enjoyed not wearing a bra, there are cons, as mentioned above when I’m overly energetic. One of the most noticeable cons comes as a result of women’s clothing’s lack of pockets. I am noticing how reliant I am on my bra as a means of storage. I have been casually stuffing various objects (vape, money, purse - never my phone - breast cancer fear*) into my bra for years without a second thought. I do this even in company, it’s second nature to me. I think everybody must do this as nobody ever bats an eyelid. I once smuggled a quarter bottle of brandy into a gig in my bra. Now however, I keep forgetting I’m not wearing one and go to stuff something down there before remembering. It’s a little annoying to be honest. Note to self...buy more clothes with pockets.

*my auntie works at the hospital making plates and replacement bones for people who’ve had them removed for various reasons. She has been doing this for a few decades. In the past ten years, she’s noticed a huge, substantial increase in the amount of women having plates made for their heads near their ears, where they would hold a mobile phone. Although unconfirmed scientifically (I think), her and her colleagues firmly believe that mobile phones are to blame. It’s thought that women talk on phones more than men, and that’s why it’s mostly women, or perhaps it’s to do with a thinner/weaker bone structure. Either way, It scared me into not putting my phone in my bra next to my delicate breast tissue, and I try to use my headphones whenever possible to have conversations.)

#braless #wales #patriarchy #feminism

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