Archive for May, 2013

The F-Word: Angelina Jolie, Sex Work and why judging other women will get us nowhere

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It doesn’t take a genius to see that women in 2013 are public property. We’re heckled on the street by men who feel entitled to our bodies; our decisions are continually up for debate and judgement; even choices about our own reproductive systems are not truly ours to make. The way we present ourselves is picked apart, chewed up and spat out at our feet, where we fall down again scrabbling around to put it all back together. The patriarchy feeds on this public ownership of women – the ability to judge us, to manipulate us and to undermine our choices. So when a man judges us by these standards, it can be rage-inducing and tiresome, but when another woman does so it’s truly upsetting. If we can’t help each other, then who will help us at all?

That women’s bodies belong to the masses is not news to anyone who has spent longer than ten seconds reading The Daily Mail or, in fact, almost any major publication. If we’re not ‘flaunting our pregnant bellies’, we’re ‘pouring our curves into a tight dress’ or ‘showing off our bikini bodies’. So far, so celebrity pullout. But this commodification of the female body took a sombre turn this week with actress Angelina Jolie’s announcement that she has undergone an invasive double mastectomy in order to beat her 87% chance of developing breast cancer. “I do not feel any less of a woman. I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity” she writes in her articulate New York Times op-ed which, she makes clear, she chose to publish in the hope of helping other women know their options, and confront any fears of them. For what it’s worth, I think she’s done an incredible thing; for a sex symbol to have both breasts chopped off, and then choose to write about it for no personal benefit but to help others, is heartening. She notes that she is undergoing reconstructive surgery, and that she’s managed to keep all her work engagements throughout the intensive surgery: none of us had to be any the wiser. Angelina Jolie made a brave and difficult decision before she even chose to write her article, and then she made another one.

But this isn’t about what I think. Rather, it’s about the wave of criticism that she was inevitably met with upon the publishing of her NY Times piece. Reactions broadly fell into two camps; the bare-faced sexism which saw infantile comments such as “Poor Brad” and “R.I.P. Boobs” marked up, and the reactionary feminism which accused Angelina of not checking her privilege and endorsing a screening test not accessible to many women because of costs and flaws in the US healthcare system.

The first of these reactions can quite simply be put down to classic sexism and male entitlement and, actually, I don’t think such comments deserve to be dignified with any further discussion. The points made by the second camp of critics, though, are valid; I’m all for checking my privilege, and I fully support a free, universal healthcare system. It’s just that I’m not sure it’s within Angelina’s power to solve all this. She does, in fact, acknowledge the expense of the mentioned screening test, calling it ‘an obstacle to many women’. What more can she do? She’s fairly busy raising a family, making a living and campaigning against sexual violence as a weapon of war, that selfish bimbo. The fear and pain that she must surely have felt throughout both decision and procedure is no less because of her bank balance. Angelina has, throughout her career, dedicated a huge amount of time to trying to help other women from all walks of life. Why is it that as soon as a woman achieves a modicum of success, we expect the world from her?

But I digress. The point in all of this is that it makes me incredibly uncomfortable when men and women alike feel entitled to whip out their soapboxes and publicise their feelings about what another woman has decided to do with her own flesh, blood and muscle. We don’t own Angelina Jolie; decisions she makes about her own body belong to her.

This rule holds true for all consenting adults – and that includes sex workers, whether you like it or not. Journalist Suzanne Moore doesn’t like it apparently; in fact, she writes in The Guardian that she’d rather just call them whores because, call her old-fashioned, but “some ‘sex work’ is a bit rubbish. Being locked in a room for 16 hours, gouged out on smack, feeling tired, lonely and ill, often without even being able to speak much English, is not so empowering after all. But it’s not the sex that’s the problem, apparently, its the working conditions (we must not stigmatise sex workers)”. Maybe some of those privilege-checking Angelina Jolie critics could come and help me out here because I genuinely don’t know where to start with ths elitist vitriol. The snarky inverted commas around ‘sex workers’? The complete silencing of sex workers’ voices that Moore is engaging in? The fictional account she’s used to justify her horribly offensive comments? Maybe the accompanying picture is as good a place as any, seeing as it ironically depicts a woman holding a placard with the slogan “My body to give. Not yours to take”. Well, quite. Bizarrely, this is actually an article about sex trafficking and child abuse, and so Moore manages to conflate these issues with sex work, single-handedly obscuring a dangerous and important problem, while actually putting sex workers in more danger than the hypothetical risk she imagines them to be facing in in the first place. Nice work.

The point is this: if you look at a sex worker and think that she is any less of a woman because of her working decisions, then I’m inclined to say that that is solely your own problem. It’s not for me to preach about why women go into sex work, but (and I’m happy to be corrected on any of this by someone with real experience) I would imagine it’s for a variety of reasons – some because they really need money, some because they can’t do anything else, some because they genuinely love the job. It sounds a bit like me really; I can’t say my formative years spent wiping children’s noses in an after-school club or refolding jeans in Topshop were so because there was nothing I wanted to do more with my life. The arbitrary line drawn by Moore is her own, and yes, it’s shared by a lot of people, so it’s often reflected in law – but to me it says more about them than it does about the women they are so quick to judge. At the end of the day, Moore’s comments smack of the type of feminism which, put shrewdly by writer Sarah Woolley recently, “will fight fervently for a woman’s right to choose until they no longer trust her with that right”.

The point in all of this is that holding women’s choices up for scrutiny reinforces all the stereotypes and binaries that the patriarchy already uses to police us. Continually we are our own worst critics. But everytime we tut about the make-up and outfits of this year’s female Apprentice candidates, or raise our eyebrows at Kim Kardashian’s pregancy wardrobe, we’re fracturing our own progress a little bit more. There will be those that say I’ve engaged in exactly what I’m criticising by picking out Angelina Jolie’s critics, or Suzanne Moore’s Guardian article, but that is to miss the point. Of course we should challenge and criticise and even judge each other, as long as it’s on terms that aren’t dictated by our gender. Men are criticised and judged all the time, but for the most part their personal decisions, choices and physical attributes aren’t up for public scrutiny. Perhaps our judgements really are just mirrors to our own prejudices and fears, but all is not lost – as American journalist Sidney J. Harris put beautifully, “the whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows”. I can’t help but think it’s high time we started doing just that.

 

Nanu Maps: Breakfast

Breakfast

Hi Nanu Friends. Sorry for the hiatus. We’ve been searching the city for the best breakfast joints around and there’s only so many fry ups one can eat all at once. But never fear, Ellie, Elyse and new Nanu Maps contributor, Morgan have found the best places to grab breakfast in Edinburgh when you don’t really fancy an Egg McMuffin.


View Nanu Maps: Breakfast in a larger map

Snax

118 Buccleuch Street /15 West Register Street
Mon-Fri 07:00-16:00, Sat 07:00-18:00, Sun 08:00-18:00

Just a stone’s throw away from George Square library, Snax is usually occupied by bleary eyed students soothing their hangovers. And with full breakfasts starting at a mere £2.50 it’s hard not to see the appeal. Snax is a classic greasy spoon with big portions, small prices and actually really good food. Tea comes in big mugs and staff are friendly and fast. Buccleuch Street is much more likely to find you a table, but there’s another small branch just behind Princes Street, perfect for a bacon roll between shopping. Snax is also open really, really early so you can grab some cheap and delicious fuel for the day first thing. The comfort food extends to lunchtime with burgers, chips, baked potatoes and chilli; also very, very cheap and delicious. Snax is probably the only place I can abide which uses a quirky letter ‘x’ in its name.

Toast

146 Marchmont Road
Mon-Sat 10:00-22:00, Sun 10:00-17:00

Ideal for a sophisticated Sunday brunch, Toast even makes its own baked beans. It’s a friendly wee café located in the heart of Marchmont, slightly more expensive than your average but it makes up for it in quality and originality. The traditional fry up is given a bit of TLC and its these little differences which make brunch a little bit special. There are good veggie options available, a whole alternative fry up is on offer which includes haggis! And if you don’t fancy the full fry up, there’s filled croissants, French toast and scrambled eggs. Weekend Brunch is also particularly popular as it has a few extras like Eggs Benedict and open sandwiches on offer. A great place to take your mum or meet your pals. If you’re going at the weekend, I’d arrive early or reserve a table. It’s a popular wee establishment and the best in the area.

The Abbey

65 South Clerk Street
Mon-Sat: 10am-1am; Sun 10.30am-1am

Nanu has previously recommended the Abbey as a top location for real beer in Edinburgh, but when you’ve had quite a few ales the night before, the Abbey also functions as one of the best places to go for a cheap and cheerful fry up the morning after. Open from 10am with a cosy atmosphere, welcoming smell and a few locals nursing an early Tenants over the Daily Sport, their prize deal is a cooked “Big Breakfast” with a pot of tea or coffee for just £3.99. Also on offer is a Scottish breakfast – effectively your classic full breakfast with added haggis and white pudding. For those who want a little less grease in the morning, there are also rolls, omelettes and waffles on offer, each with a selection of fillings and toppings. The perfect way to deal with a hangover.

The Haven

8/9 Anchorfield
Mon-Fri 8.00-17.00, Sat-Sun 9.00-17.00

At 8/9 Anchorfield, Edinburgh, you’ll find the Haven. With bright coloured walls and knick-knackery hanging above and sitting on shelves it sounds like somewhere your granny might go but the Haven is not over cluttered or blinding, it just welcomes you in and cheers you up. Offering a simple but substantial breakfast menu it has the regular fry ups and rolls but, importantly, an added delight to the classic breakfast is the colourful and mismatching pretty cups, saucers and plates of Victorian style. If the traditional breakfast isn’t what you’re looking for then the array of delicious cakes might take your fancy even in the morning. A little out the way from Leith Walk and unless you’re a huge walking enthusiast, a bus is definitely necessary from Edinburgh but well worth it – it really is quite the haven from buzz of the city where you can enjoy a long, peaceful breakfast.

Kilimanjaro

126 Nicolson Street
Mon-Fri 7.30-8.30, Sat-Sun 8.00-8.00

Kilimanjaro is situated in the centre of Newington in Edinburgh. At lunchtime Kilimanjaro is heaving with students making the morning a perhaps forgotten alternative when visiting the café. Yet it offers a range of breakfast delights including the fry up and eggs benedict which challenges the lunchtime favourite, the sweet chilli chicken Panini. Milkshakes and fruit juice are also on the menu at price which is keeping with the area. The large glass window brings natural light into the café even on the dreariest Edinburgh day but it also allows you to people watch and relax whilst eating. Open early Kilimanjaro is the perfect meeting place for having breakfast with friends but you would never feel out of place if choosing to visit alone. Kilimanjaro offers a casual atmosphere with friendly staff always on the go and after eating there once it is likely you become a regular.

Once Upon A Time in Cleveland, Ohio

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From Sleeping Beauty to Twilight, Rapunzel to Titanic, we, the gormless spoon-fed public, love a damsel in distress. We might be able to overlook Rose’s tragic fate, or supernatural tales of vampirism. The weird rapey undertones of Sleeping Beauty we can deal with, and we can get over the tricky physics of a ladder made of hair, just so long as the basic criteria is there – weak female victim(s), evil captor, unwitting hero ‘just doing what any man would do’. The media have cut no corners in constructing this week’s astounding events in Cleveland, Ohio, around the same criteria. It’s the story we all want to read; 3 pretty young women, an evil abductor with a cartoon-villian-esque moustache, a hilarious unwitting hero ready to recount his experience to anyone who’ll listen. It’s almost fairytale-like.

But scratch the surface and we begin to see that there’s more to this captivating tale than the media would have us know. In the days following the breaking of the story, questions began to be asked about why these women hadn’t been rescued sooner; why apparent warning signs had been ignored; why police hadn’t responded to previous alarm bells. The truth is an inconvient one to say the least, and it’s all there, nestled away in a sentence about Charles Ramsey’s McDonalds order, squashed into a garish blue text box at the side of a Mail Online article. The truth is that it’s all about us; that the existing fragments of information simply didn’t fit the criteria required to get society sitting up and listening. Since the beginning of the media’s coverage of this case, our fears and prejudices have been shown up for exactly what they are; from our feelings on domestic violence to our embarrassing anxiety to reinforce gender stereotypes at any cost, and everything in between.

Take our hero, McDonalds munching Charles Ramsey. Any good story needs a knight in shining armour; all the better if he’s a hilarious black man willing to take on the working-class hero role and engage in over-indulgent re-enactments of his version of events. Our desperation to put him at the centre of it all was palpable; we wanted someone we could collectively pat on the back from afar, and nod at encouragingly, and titter along with before turning the TV off and forgetting that he ever existed – The Guardian and Slate.com have both skilfully explored the issue of race in this instance, while writer Sarah Kendzior shrewdly tweeted, “I have a feeling half the ppl who say “Oooh I love watching him on the internet!” would turn away if they saw him on the street”. We needed a masculine hero at the centre of our fairytale story to make it a worthwhile one. It’s just killing two birds with one stone if he fits into other sterotypical boxes at the same time.

Receiving relatively little media attention in comparison to his act of heroism is the fact that Ramsey has been arrested 3 times in the previous 10 years for domestic battery, serving a total of 6 years in jail. I’m all for rehabilitation, and I find it warming that Ramsey claims his past has helped him become the man he is today, someone able to confront an apparent instance of domestic violence head-on and without fear. Make no mistakes, my criticism here is directed not at Ramsey himself but at society’s cringeworthy desperation to hold him up as a symbol of heroism at any cost, a desperation which stings of irony in a case that ultimately boils down to the issue of violence against women. But besides all this, Ramsey himself told CNN that he wasn’t a hero, that – the classic – he just did what any man would do. Except that in this case it seems that, while Ramsey’s actions should of course be applauded and can’t be overstated, they have overshadowed those of another hero – captive woman Amanda Berry who, worn down after 10 years confined to a basement, managed to kick the front door and scream enough to gather the attention of several neighbours, running straight out of the house and towards a phonebox where she called 911 and gave them all the important details in a display of awe-inspiring composure and common sense. But who wants a female hero? Not us, that’s for sure. Best put our minds to rest by rewatching the funny black man on YouTube.

Berry herself, along with Gina DeJesus and Michelle Knight, occupies her own unique role within this story. Here we find our damsels in distress, locked quite literally in a basement for a number of years, and reportedly subjected to beatings, rape and physical imprisonment using chains. That they escaped alive is incredible; that Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus have been described as ‘healthy and remarkably composed’ is even more astounding. But conspicuous by her absence from the majority of media accounts is third victim Michelle Knight. We had no pictures of her until some days after the news broke; we still have only two. We know very little about her family background, except that it appears to be troubled. Apparently she has visible facial injuries from being beaten. Apparently she is suffering with post-traumatic stress disorder, exacerbated by an existing mental health condition dating back to before she was captured. Herein lies the ugliest of society’s double-standards; in our voyeuristic fairytale, we care about the damsels in distress only insofar as they are rescued, coming out unscathed and beautiful on the other side, and with a perfect nuclear family whose arms they can run into.

And so to the final character in our so-called fairytale, evil captor Ariel Castro. Questions about why he wasn’t investigated sooner seem perfectly legitimate in the context of claims that police complaints were ignored, and his son’s stark telling of how the doors to the home’s basement were padlocked shut. Neighbours reported seeing naked women on dog leashes crawling around his back garden; it was common knowledge that his wife left him after years of physical and psychological abuse. But in fairytale land, ‘evil’ has to be clear-cut and visible; a severed hand here, a wicked spell there. In real, non-fiction land, domestic violence doesn’t occupy that territory. It’s messy. We ignore it. We tell ourselves that it’s the business of the family within which it is happening, that it’s nobody’s concern so long as it remains confined to the family home. And so, over here in real life, these clues were brushed aside, as they so often are, in the pursuit of a more comfortable fairytale story.

Across the whole of this case there is evidence of this kind of moulding and glossing over. Anything we find a bit sticky is brushed aside. Anything that doesn’t fit our fairytale template is neglected. We want a Disney story, complete with stock characters who don’t overplay their roles. We want our preconceptions about gender, race and class to be confirmed. We want our fears to be abated. We want Rapunzel in her tower, rescued by a knight in shining armour via her most valuable attributes; the physical ones that make her beautiful and desirable  But the coverage of the Cleveland kidnappings has shown that this so-called fairytale isn’t a fairytale at all, and it isn’t about Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, Michelle Knight, Charles Ramsey or Ariel Castro. This is a horror story, and it’s all about us.

The F-Word: Why I’d rather be a funge than a frapist

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I have a theory that you can measure how bizarre or morally dubious something is by trying to explain it to a small child, or a proper grown-up, and monitoring their reaction. Really, parliamentary debates and campaign videos in support of equal marriage should probably just be waived in favour of a close-up shot of a four-year-old, wide-eyed, eyebrows furled, wailing “but what do you MEAN people who love each other can’t get married?”. My theory was tested again the other day when I found myself trying to explain the term ‘frape’ to my dissertation supervisor, who incidentally hadn’t heard of UniLad either until she agreed to help me. Sorry supervisor.

For the uninitiated, ‘frape’ is the amalgamation of ‘facebook’ and ‘rape’ and refers to a situation in which someone accesses another person’s account and makes changes to their profile which are usually as uninspired as they are homophobic – “I love cock” remains a firm favourite amongst teen and twenty-something men. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for combining words. After all, where would we be without Brangelina or Kimye? Except for probably a lot further forward in our degrees and with a lot less library procrastination material, of course. Some portmanteaus – to use the official term – describe things better than the words they originally combine; take ‘smog’, for example. Some are just funny; I’m a big fan of combining ‘fun’ and ‘sponge’ to make ‘funge’, which is probably just as well, given that I am fully expecting to be labelled one in the comments section of this blog…

‘Frape’ has always bothered me, but until relatively recently I thought it fruitless to confront its useage, and knew that I was opening myself up to people calling me boring and telling me to focus on more important things – although doing an Anthropology degree has pretty much gotten me used to this. The thing is though, that all jokes aside, I don’t find many things more important than the fact that 1 in 5 women will be victims of sexual violence in their lifetime. I don’t find many things more important than the fact that we live in a culture where victims are led to suicide because of society’s instinct to defend rapists. And even though we don’t mean to, everytime we make light of rape by making a tasteless rape joke or using a word like ‘frape’, we’re contributing to that culture. We’re minimising the experiences of survivors by likening their traumatic experience to a minor inconvenience like your facebook friends thinking you love cock – and while we’re on it, who cares whether you do or not?

There is already a taboo surrounding the discussion of rape in a way that there isn’t about other violent crimes. Using words like ‘frape’ diverts attention from the seriousness of the crime, and actually contributes to this silence. Imagine a friend trying to confide in you about the awful thing that has happened to her, only to be reminded of all the times you likened a slightly embarrassing status update to her experience. Do we really value women – our friends – so little that one of the biggest problems facing them is just one big joke? Besides, there are definitely funnier jokes. The ‘nacho cheese’ one is a big favourite of mine.

There will of course be those who come back at this with the old arguments about censorship and the evolution of language. I’m not denying the importance of freedom of speech, but these complaints tend, on the whole, to come from a place of privilege; it’s easy for people who will never be triggered or offended by language to defend their right to use it. In this case, though, there’s quite a simple rebuttal in that there are other perfectly useable words which describe exactly the same thing. Hacking, for example. I’ve seen people use ‘franking’ and ‘facejacking’. Or, you know, “someone got on my profile and wrote some poorly spelt comments reminiscent of a 12-year-old in the playground”. I’m hard pressed to believe it could upset anyone not to be able to use the word ‘frape’ to the same extent that it can upset and trigger a rape survivor who routinely sees their friends make light of one of the worst experiences of their life.

On another online blog about this subject, a Very Clever commenter has written “but language evolves and is reappropriated. I would murder my cornflakes, is that trivialising murder?”. Ho, ho, ho. I can picture him now, giggling over his cornflakes and slapping his thigh at his own intelligence. It might seem that he makes a good point but you only have to scratch the surface to see that he doesn’t, really. We don’t live in a ‘murder culture’ where murder is perpetuated by our rush to defend the murderer. We don’t ask what murder victims were wearing, or how much they’d been drinking, or whether they’d made themselves available for murdering. It’s pretty widely accepted that murder is not okay, and not much is going to make us think otherwise, unless maybe Jennifer Lawrence takes on some kind of murder-ey ad campaign. But we do live in a culture that perpetuates rape, that trivialises it and that positions it as the butt of a joke – if it’s acceptable to approximate a status update to an aggressive violation against women, then it’s acceptable to not see rape as a big deal.

If you’re still reading this, rolling your eyes and thinking about how boring and politically correct I’m being, or coming up with criticisms akin to our Very Clever commenter’s cornflakes jape, then consider this: I mentioned earlier the statistic that 1 in 5 women will experience rape or sexual violence in their lifetime. The average facebook user in their twenties has 323 friends; a lot of my friends have more than that. Let’s say that roughly half of them are women – that’s 32 friends who likely have, or will, experience an act of violence nobody should ever have to. I personally would want my friends to know that I appreciate the gravity of their experience. That it’s a bit more important than people thinking that ‘i’m a lesbyean and i luv fanny’. That – and I hope you agree – we all owe our friends a little bit more than this.