A few events in 1992 created a frustration that disappeared for a while but re-emerged around my 35th birthday. So I’ve decided to create something positive from it. I was an experimental post-graduate sociologist back then. A university tutor by day, a drummer in the weekends and a dancer every Thursday night but that was a bad combination. When my professional dance troupe got a nightclub gig (a harmless fashion show with a few of synchronised twists and twirls) I apparently ‘crossed the line’. My male students found it hard to concentrate and a significant number felt they no longer needed to show me respect. It wasn’t a tragedy. I just quit the dance troupe, died my naturally blonde hair red, and satisfied my urge to be attention's centre by performing as Roxie in the next door town’s production of Chicago. But this was my first experience of having to alter behaviour that felt authentic and harmless because professional success required me to. I understand. Men modify behaviour too. It doesn’t stop it feeling frustrating though.
The event that really sticks from that year, however, is when two post graduate students from the women studies department which shared our brown and dowdy sociology high-rise approached me after departmental drinks to ask if I wore deodorant. When I blushed and confirmed they looked at each other with disgust, flicked their henna-died Mohawks and said ‘we thought so’. It was better than being asked the question because I stank, I guess, but only marginally. This felt like women-on-women warfare. I was a traitor to the cause and nothing less than disregard for personal hygiene would be sufficient to show my loyalty to their superior league of Lesbos.
A few years later, one of their lecturers took her own life at that brown, dowdy, high-rise. I heard she jumped off the roof. Her tragic death bore no relation to anything I’ve said above but it became a symbol to me of the sad lessons I learnt in that place - that so often we women (probably all people, but I’m concerned here with women) focus more on our divisions than on our similarities, that we often confuse power with masculinity to the point where we don’t even know what it feels like to be powerful in a female way. Through our in-fighting, bra-burning and man-blaming, we have given feminism a shockingly bad name. On a bad day I’m ashamed of my gender. On a good day, especially after an evening out, with a group of compassionate, smiling ladies and too much champagne, I love us so much I feel an all-consuming excitement over what we women can contribute to this world, especially if we start drawing more effectively, unashamedly, without bitterness or hesitation on our unique feminine resources. I don’t believe in asking others to change – I’m definitely a ‘live and let live’ kind of a gal - but I figure I can lead by example, living every day in my own authentic way, drawing power from my female attributes wherever it feels right to do so and using my understanding of the media to highlight and celebrate other women who do the same – whether butch or girly, lesbian or straight, blackberry addicts or stay-at-home mums, quiet or as stroppy as hell. Let’s learn how to be powerful women our way (which will mean as many different ways as there are different women) but that diversity will just make this journey of discovery more exciting.
The event that really sticks from that year, however, is when two post graduate students from the women studies department which shared our brown and dowdy sociology high-rise approached me after departmental drinks to ask if I wore deodorant. When I blushed and confirmed they looked at each other with disgust, flicked their henna-died Mohawks and said ‘we thought so’. It was better than being asked the question because I stank, I guess, but only marginally. This felt like women-on-women warfare. I was a traitor to the cause and nothing less than disregard for personal hygiene would be sufficient to show my loyalty to their superior league of Lesbos.
A few years later, one of their lecturers took her own life at that brown, dowdy, high-rise. I heard she jumped off the roof. Her tragic death bore no relation to anything I’ve said above but it became a symbol to me of the sad lessons I learnt in that place - that so often we women (probably all people, but I’m concerned here with women) focus more on our divisions than on our similarities, that we often confuse power with masculinity to the point where we don’t even know what it feels like to be powerful in a female way. Through our in-fighting, bra-burning and man-blaming, we have given feminism a shockingly bad name. On a bad day I’m ashamed of my gender. On a good day, especially after an evening out, with a group of compassionate, smiling ladies and too much champagne, I love us so much I feel an all-consuming excitement over what we women can contribute to this world, especially if we start drawing more effectively, unashamedly, without bitterness or hesitation on our unique feminine resources. I don’t believe in asking others to change – I’m definitely a ‘live and let live’ kind of a gal - but I figure I can lead by example, living every day in my own authentic way, drawing power from my female attributes wherever it feels right to do so and using my understanding of the media to highlight and celebrate other women who do the same – whether butch or girly, lesbian or straight, blackberry addicts or stay-at-home mums, quiet or as stroppy as hell. Let’s learn how to be powerful women our way (which will mean as many different ways as there are different women) but that diversity will just make this journey of discovery more exciting.
This is a really compelling post. The point about how we often confuse power with masculinity has got my mind churning. I've never thought of it that way, but you're absolutely right. I'm looking forward to reading more of your posts!
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