Part 1 – women and sex
Part 2 – PMT and Periods
A while back one of my fellow humourless killjoy feminist friends came up with the idea of a list of “Things we wished people spoke more openly about”.
The conversation that ensued lead to several revelations amongst the group and numerous exclamations of “I am SO glad we’re talking about this” and “OMG I thought this was just me” and “why don’t we talk about this stuff? This is GREAT.”
So this is part three of my ongoing but irregular series – “Things we wish were talked about more openly.”
Just like last time, I am going to add a lengthy content warning, mainly for the benefit of my family who might not want to read about my intimate shizzle.
This blog, and indeed probably the whole series, will feature talk of things like sexual acts, body parts, bodily functions and fluids and other things that often make people (right across the gender spectrum) feel uncomfortable. It’s almost certainly going to make my family feel uncomfortable, so if you’re related to me, you might want to stop right here.
I am going to say, straight up, that a lot of the things that are likely to come up are things that I personally find really difficult to talk about. I spent a lot of time hating my body and not really wanting to look at it, feeling awkward and anxious about sexual acts, being ashamed and scared of things my body did and generally feeling unable to talk about it. So just as you might be leaving your comfort zone to read this, I am going out of my comfort zone to write it. So we’re on this journey together.
I wish we spoke more openly about…Sexual Health
Like many others in the last few weeks I have been unable to get the Brock Turner/Stanford rape case out of my mind.
There is so much to say about this case, and much of it has been said in the media and across the internet – which is notable in of itself. For a rape case to be discussed so widely in the media, with the widespread and dominant opinion being that the sentence was too short and that the attacker has got away too lightly, heralds a huge shift in public thinking about rape, sexual assault and victim blaming.
As “Tea Consent” goes viral again, with its clear message of “unconscious people cannot consent”, and as a former heavy drinker who started writing a blog specifically to deal with my attempt to give up drinking, and as someone who passed out drunk and woke up to discover someone performing a sexual act on me, I have a few things to say about this case myself.
I’ve already told you about the amazing tea bag people I met on my trip to South Africa. The other tale I have to tell is less uplifting. It’s the opposite of uplifting (maybe downpulling?) and doesn’t have a terribly happy ending.
In Britain, our wildlife is pretty dull. I mean. There are some small wild horses dotted here and there and the odd antelope; foxes are pretty photogenic, and of course there’s badgers, who could probably fuck you up if you get too close. Our only exposure to exciting animals is in Zoos, where the animals are relatively safe and easy to find. You follow the map to the Giraffe enclosure, and there they are. This process is probably more exciting and full of mystery and suspense if, like me, you have the sense of direction of a paper aeroplane, but only marginally so.
When the Rogue One trailer hit, my little geek community group was absolutely buzzing. We picked over the trailer looking for clues, obsessed over the odd word and phrase and shot – what does it MEAN? We generally flailed with excitement, trusting the franchise again for the first time since 1999 (and the least said about that the better.) We wondered who Jyn was, what she’d be. And everyone in my little geek bubble was thrilled about the whole thing. Then someone said “I wonder how long before the douchebros of the internet complain that evil feminazis are ruining Star Wars with their matriarchal agenda by making ANOTHER film about a WOMAN.”
As it turned out, about 5 minutes.
Since I got back from my holiday, I have been showing everyone my new bag and going “it’s made out of tea bags. TEA BAGS! My BAG is made out of tea BAGS! My bag is MADE out of TEA bags!” People have mainly been politely interested about this, and not too many have backed away slowly, which is nice of them. But my bag really is made out of tea bags, and you too could buy one; and if you do, you would be actually be contributing to a local economy that could really benefit from your support. AND you’d get an awesome TEA BAG BAG. Let me introduce you to one of the best experiences on my recent trip to South Africa to visit my mother…
Last March, shortly before 2015’s Sexual Violence Awareness month, I published “Consent: not actually that complicated” – now simply known as “Tea Consent” – on my blog. I had no idea, when I clicked the “publish” button, that I had just written something that would travel around the world, be animated, be read and watched tens of millions of times and become the basis for syllabi for consent and awareness courses in countries on every continent. It seems so unlikely that I am pretty sure it still hasn’t quite sunk in, even a year later.
One criticism often levelled at “Tea Consent” is its limitation to reach the people that really need to understand the message – ergo rapists. “What’s the point of this video? Rapists don’t care” goes the argument, and “no silly cartoon about tea is going to actually make an actual rapist actually not rape” or “anyone that understands this already knows rape is wrong”.
My intention with my blog today was to re-post my spoiler free review of the Red Dwarf screening I went to on Friday, written for Ganymede & Titan; because going to see Red Dwarf filmed live is something I have wanted to do since I was <ahem> years old in 1988 and first saw it and because you must never underestimate my laziness. Why write a thing on Sunday I’ve already written a thing on Saturday.
But then I went to have my last swim at the ladies pond in Hampstead for many months, as it closes today for renovations to be carried out to the changing room, decking and lifeguard room, and there were so many resultant FEELS that I had to get it out of my head. That’s why I write, usually. To get the feels and the nagging voices out of my head.
“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes” – from Preludes and Nocturnes, Neil Gaiman
Five years ago to the day tomorrow, 18th January, I lost my beautiful grandmother – Gangy – my Dad’s mother. We lost her suddenly, with an undiagnosed heart condition taking her away unexpectedly and cruelly for us, although without much pain and suffering for her. Just shy of 11 years beforehand I lost my Grannie, my Mum’s mother. She died of liver cancer, with which she had suffered for many months; becoming particularly unwell in her final months. As a sharp woman she was particularly distressed at the way the pain medication made her confused and helpless. In her lucid moments she knew how dependant on her carers and her family she was, and it upset her greatly. Her months of suffering gave her family a chance to prepare for her passing, so that when it came it wasn’t a shock, although still terribly sad; but they were at times such terrible months for her.
CW: sexual harassment/assault
A few weeks ago, just before Christmas, I was in a queue waiting to pay for some food I’d just ordered to eat on the train home after my evening class. I was listening to music playing as I often do. I have BIG OBVIOUS headphones, in part to discourage people making conversation with me. A man’s face appeared right next to my face, too sudden, too close. It made me jump a little. I leaned back, pushing one earphone back as I realised he was talking to me. “Sorry darling can I just push in? My train is in five minutes”. “So’s mine…” I started to say. The rest of the sentence would have been “…and I have already ordered, so you’d need to check with the person behind me” but went unsaid. As I started to speak, this man, this stranger who had already inserted himself into my personal space and called me “darling”, placed his hand on my hip. It was the hand I couldn’t see, placed around the other side of my body, effectively holding me in a light embrace, trapping me between his arm and the counter. It was a gentle touch, not particularly forceful, and it seemed entirely thoughtless, careless, casual; I was a woman, he was patting me on the hip. Just so.
Hi there Katie, how you doing? Finding ways to spin another story into fiction? I wouldn’t be surprised given your recent article.
According to you, there is ‘another side that is not being told,’ to the stories about the Muslim family denied entry to USA that have been floating about recently. Well, you’re right. It’s called “the truth”. I write this as a person who has known the family in question for almost 8 years.