So, it's been a while since I've blogged. What have I been doing?
Well, to be honest, I've been having an awful lot of fun. I feel almost guilty saying that without context, but considering one part of that fun was drunken ramblings about veganism, Palestine, capitalism, viral marketing, government surveillance and the idiocy of the British political system on the 341 last night, it is all fun with a conscience. A lot of things that fall into my bracket of fun usually involve a healthy dose of benefit shows and a strong DIY ethic for some epically great causes. And possibly attempting to climb out of windows. Which is less of a conscientious thing and more of a making mischief thing, but I digress.
Apart from having fun I've been dabbling in actions again, reading more, trying to absorb information about everything. After a year of feeling pressurised to suppress all my views in fear of offending those who had provided a roof over my head, it is, in a sense, like being a child again.
So really recently there's been a lot of things that I really needed to blog about on an outlet where I don't seem to make talking absolute shite some form of life skill. (Well, you could argue this blog is shite but at least it's vaguely well-constructed.)
Basically, a lot of things lately have been making me exceedingly impassioned and, indeed, very very angry. I have found myself constantly emerging from a self normally positive to expressing a passionate indignation towards the absolute blind idiocy that still pervades throughout the world.
Some things, let's be honest, utterly baffle me. They really really do. Of all of these things, there is one thing that not only baffles me, it ENRAGES me. It makes me wonder how on earth humans have the audacity to claim en masse intelligent thought. What is this thing?
Homophobia. (And biphobia; but we'll come to that in a bit.)
It is only recently that I've been able to be fully open about my sexuality. I am, to put it bluntly, a bit gay. I'm not technically gay, I'm of that group of people labelled with the horrendous term "bisexual" which I despise with a passion. Even today we were talking at work about the strangeness of the manner in which the film Slumdog Millionaire was marketed. Now, I'm going to talk about that later but for now, I'll just skip to the part where I said to a colleague "you know what's sad? I have a crush on both of them." 'Them' being of course Dev Patel and Freida Pinto.
This would have been fine (and I wasn't joking) had a customer next to me not pulled a face of disgust and anger that I might possibly be attracted to 2 people of 2 different genders. What made me angry is that I could guess that she was probably going to bring up the two young kids with her with the idea that homosexuality- in whatever sense- is wrong.
So my hatred towards homophobia is quite personal. It affects me. It affects some wonderful people I know. When the words dyke, gay and homo are still used as insults, there is a lot of work to be done in terms of reaching a level of equality and acceptance for those in the LGBT community. (And indeed stop it feeling like they have to be banded in a community in order to get any support or understanding.)
Especially when one of the most liberal states in America have voted in one of the most disgusting, vile, backwards propositions ever. I am ashamed and disgusted that somewhere like California can vote in Prop 8.
For those of you blissfully unaware of this evidence of steep devolution of the human species, Prop 8 basically bans same-sex marriages. After all the hard work, everything that was fought for has effectively been lost. Those already married can remain so. But for those whose relationships were simply timed badly, only regression.
I'm not even that much of a fan of marriage personally. I never want to get married. I never want my love for someone to be measured by a certificate, or a ring, or anything else that involves marking me as property or a potential demographic. But this is not about what I want personally or what does or doesn't define love. This is about rights. I do not have the right, for example, to claim that my idea of expression of love is the right one. And crucially, I do not have the right to deny anyone their right to show commitment in the traditional way, gay, straight or otherwise.
Yet that is what some homophobic zealots seem to think they can do. That they can tell people who they can and cannot love.
What just really angers me is the assumption from these people that love is ever a moral decision. I do not know a single person who has ever loved according to a fucking checklist of moral ideals and preferences. Of course there is some rationale to fancying someone, however tiny. But I know gender isn't something people think about when they're attracted to somebody. And sexuality is not something you decide. It's something that you are, something that you realise. I know I was born like this. To make it a moral issue is a fallacy. It is ridiculous. No-one ever questions the morality of heterosexuality, but they feel that they can, for whatever reason, make utterly bizarre and indeed irrational judgements on those who were not born with that preference (as if even heterosexuality is simple. Sexuality is never simple.) I do not understand heterosexuality. I am not heterosexual. Do you get me picketing heterosexual marriages with a "HATE THE STRAIGHTS" sign? No. (Although that would be hilarious in every way.)
Marriage should be about your right to express love in a way cherished by people for centuries. It should be about having that choice. And yet homophobia, misunderstanding and let's not talk around this, fundamental religious propaganda have fuelled a nonsensical, uneducated hatred. Homosexual love is no less valid, no less real. Trust me, hand on my heart, when I fall for a woman, it is not her gender- although I obviously find the female form physically attractive- it is who she is. In my experience of sexuality, I am blind to gender. Maybe I say this because I am inexperienced in that respect and that’s fine, but my point is that enabling such prejudice to permeate social norms, for prejudice and misunderstanding to be so normalised? That needs, drastically, to be challenged.
This ties in to the next subject I wanted to talk about. This one is a bit of a strange one, and involves me using the word feminist. Right, let’s throw it out there using capitals. I AM A FEMINIST. I find it increasingly weird that so many women don’t want to use that word to describe themselves, lest they be labelled with a term that infuriates me- feminazi. I have no idea how that word even came about, but it exists, and is out there, used as a weapon against women who, rightfully, voice their right to equal treatment. I know far too many women who will say things like “I believe in equal rights, but I’m not a feminist.” Even though that is, essentially, the definition of feminism. It’s almost as though society has conditioned women into seeing strength as a weakness. It’s a bizarre state of affairs.
I’m not going to go into feminist theory in terms of debated definitions; that would be a waste of time and energy because it’s not the point I’m trying to make (and if you‘re reading this, you probably know me to some degree and are probably sick of me talking about it.). What I wanted to discuss- and by discuss, I mean talk at the internet about- is behaviour when it comes to sexuality in terms of gender normalisation. For example, when you are attracted to someone and on a subconscious level, you change your behaviour in order to make yourself more appealing to that person. Which is part of the giddy parcel that fancying someone is, that completely ridiculous time.
I am what people may call a hardline feminist. I have had many arguments with people about what women are and are not capable of. However, to me, I am just rational. Women and men are equal. Different, I can’t deny that, but equal. There is no reason why I should earn less than a man for doing the same job, no reason for me to be seen as automatically weaker when I’m actually ferociously strong (physically and mentally, contrary to popular belief). Equally, there is no reason to assume that men are immediately less emotional, or have any less right to be emotional, but it has been made part of our social understanding through perpetuated sexism that these ideals and assumptions exist. I do not understand why there are accepted rules for how women and men should dress to ascertain their femininity or masculinity, as if semiotics like that are really worthy of signifying anything of worth in that respect.
So why on earth would a rational feminist like myself alter her behaviour to fit those outdated and ridiculous ideals, to use a highly offensive word? I am not against wearing dresses, by the way. I am not against anything like that. What I don’t like, and highly disagree with, is the idea that you have to wear certain clothes to qualify as a person of a particular gender. I rarely wear dresses or skirts. Sometimes I do, just because I feel like a change. But mostly I feel comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt, looking decidedly tomboyish, as the typical word for apparently women who dress comfortably would describe me as. Even the word tomboy makes me uncomfortable, because it suggests that I aspire to being male, that I am expressing to wish to become something else. Au contraire, internet, being a woman isn’t something I want to change or alter; I am mostly comfortable in my body, save for the body hang-ups that, yes, even feminists have, and that beautiful monthly time when every woman will have shrieked “WHY WAS I NOT BORN A MAN?”
So why, why on earth would I alter my state of comfort to meet those stereotypes of associated gender? Why would I feel the need to betray my own identity by feeling as though I have to make the “effort” to become what I am not? This only happened once, but the fact that even body-image pressure got to me just goes to show how deep this perpetuated sexism runs; it is even part of our cultural heritage, albeit a part we need to detach, but preserve to perhaps remind ourselves of mistakes past. I know this sounds like a rather bizarre point, as everyone behaves oddly around people they are attracted to (whether or not you want to!) but I find it an ultimately disturbing point that it is still more often than not the women who are made to think that they have to constantly eradicate any signs, in their case, of non-femininity. It is when women feel as though they have to pluck and shave and put their faces on to become an antiquated, unequal and unfair representation, even a parody of the idea of being a woman. To reduce themselves to fit what men are assumed to want of women, which is not only insulting to women, but also insulting to men. To assume that half the planet are attracted to a particular set of prescribed attributes is very, very dangerous and unhealthy for progression of the idea of equality between the genders.
My point is, the danger is when you feel like you have to wear make-up, put on a dress, shave your legs and armpits and anywhere else you may sprout forth growth, rather than wanting to. Wearing a dress and being a feminist don’t have to be mutually exclusive, just as wearing make up and being a woman do not have to be equally inclusive. Make your own informed decisions.
I really want to go off on one about equal rights, which I shouldn’t. Well, I should, but perhaps another day. I was going to continue, but it would then be virtually unreadable, and it’s best to break things up a bit. I haven’t even discussed what I originally intended, because of that stupid bit of biphobia I experienced earlier, which reminded me of Prop 8, and made my blood boil. Perfect fuel for a blogged rant, as always. Next time on Planet Confessions: getting myself in potential trouble (and this time, not through cider), the rich heritage of DIY culture and my escapades back in my old homestead, and Why I Shouldn’t Like Slumdog Millionaire. Admittedly, I do love it, even though the very process of its creation, marketing and treatment of its child stars has questionable colonial aspects and issues, and perhaps racism. But next time, kids, next time.
Later!
LPK
p.s. You will have to forgive the rambling at the end of this post, my last few days have been mental and my brain is not yet up to full working order.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Actually Active
I think I can officially say that today was like my own political renaissance; actively doing something instead of just talking about how fucked up something is.
Yesterday I was having an epic discussion with my housemates about my absence from politics and how it was frustrating; and because I work on Saturdays, I often miss out on big action, like the G20 march yesterday, which sounded like the usual fun. I was crushed to be missing out on it, and I did feel a great deal like I was somehow betraying myself and selling out my ideals to work. I know work is a reality, but at least for most people, they have a weekend to claim as their own. Currently, I am happy that I at least have a job of some description, working with great people...but I digress.
"If you're really looking to be involved soon," spake my housemate at the conclusion of this discussion, "then we're doing some action tomorrow."
They then explained to me what we were planning on doing, and how I could be involved.
Firstly, I must state that this was to do with the Israeli/Palestinian situation, and also that ever since I've been aware of the issues, I have always been against the control, repression and violent action that the Israeli military have forced upon the Palestinian people (note "people" and not "Hamas"). This is mostly to do with my utter contempt for colonialisation of any kind, especially when land and resources are violently appropriated by the more physically and militaristically able; but also because after reading into arguments from both sides, there is little to convince me of Israel's position. I have had a lot of issues with this viewpoint because people think I am anti-Jewish, which is not only highly incorrect but also entirely baffling as I have an enormous respect for Jewish culture (ask any of my close friends, seriously) but at the end of the day, this is not to do with my feelings towards religions, but a great deal to do with humanitarianism; my passion for it and Israel's disregard of it.
Israel has profited a great deal from exporting goods cultivated on illegally appropriated settlements on Palestinian land, mostly fresh produce such as avocados, tomatoes and citrus fruits; a boycott of all these products has been called by those whose land has been effectively stolen in the occupied territories. This is something a lot of people I know support, and thus try and avoid food which has been grown on these settlements. The issue with this is that a lot of people outside of these groups don't know about what is happening, and the only way to increase the impact of a boycott and make it more effective is to spread the message and thus increase the impact of the boycott.
Our way of spreading the message was simple; go to supermarkets, locate these goods, put them into baskets or trolleys, and lock them together with another basket/trolley, with some flyers and leaflets, and then to take photos to document our actions. To imprison the food was a symbolic (and peaceful) gesture, labelling them essentially as stolen goods, or the result of a crime, which is effectively what they are.
The first place we went to was small, and a member of staff in there became overly aggressive quite quickly, slowing our escape after successfully securing the baskets. We regrouped and decided to go to a larger supermarket slightly further away than another we had planned to target, using trolleys instead. Another member of our group and I decided to keep an eye on the others so we could hold open any doors if they tried to shut the exit, and this time it was relatively quick and easy from what I saw of it.
After we emerged and had walked down the road, a stationary police vehicle on the other side pulled out and started to follow us; when we were walking down the road they got out...and some of them were an FIT team, complete with photographer! Joyous. One of us suggested we do not answer any questions and to keep on walking, which we did. The FIT photographer circled us, taking a lot of photographs, and calling one of our contingent by name; he did the same back. Another of us flipped the coin and took loads of photos of the police who were following us (soon to be on FITWatch, apparently). We said nothing to the police, and after a while they dropped behind, so we carried on walking.
After a while we agreed the game for the day was up, so called two of our group who had headed somewhere else. We informed them of the situation, trying to arrange somewhere else to meet. While we were waiting for their arrival I thought it would be best to ask about stop and search policies and what to say and how to act during them. In my many years of activism, all I knew about the police in these situations was being around them is a bad idea, and if I was involved in something, to get the fuck away from them as quickly as possible. I've held that view since I was 12, so felt it needed updating, as just running away isn't an option so valid anymore, as a 23 year old adult!
I have decided to not feel worried about asking questions, so I asked quite a lot and felt that I understood far greater how the police work. One thing I do understand is it is highly bloody hilarious that the FIT team were patrolling around and walked straight past us while they were quite obviously trying to locate us...and they didn't even see us. One of the funniest moments ever, seriously.
After a quick discussion, we decided to split up and head to wherever we all needed to go. I needed to go home anyway, and here I am, typing this out.
So today has been an interesting experience. Not that this is the first time I've done this; in my time I've done a lot of stuff in regards to sabotaging sweatshop-sourced produce. Well, not the produce itself (apart from one glorious fake-blood throwing occasion) but sneakily appropriating designs and instead making them have anti-sweatshop messages, putting them amongst the shop's stock. The fantastic thing about that method is how annoying it is for the shop to find all the self-made shirts. So many stories.
But for now, today was a welcome return to actually being active and getting out there and doing something. If it means the police are now going to hunt me down and start taking note of everything I do, then so be it. Because this is a world that is mine, on streets that I live on; and if I can make a message call out into streets I call my own and people hear it...well, that's something, isn't it? Better than sitting back and hoping someone makes a change for me.
I'm out.
Til next time,
LPK
FitWatch
Palestine Solidarity Campaign
Boycott Israeli Goods Campaign
Jews4BIG@googlemail.com
Yesterday I was having an epic discussion with my housemates about my absence from politics and how it was frustrating; and because I work on Saturdays, I often miss out on big action, like the G20 march yesterday, which sounded like the usual fun. I was crushed to be missing out on it, and I did feel a great deal like I was somehow betraying myself and selling out my ideals to work. I know work is a reality, but at least for most people, they have a weekend to claim as their own. Currently, I am happy that I at least have a job of some description, working with great people...but I digress.
"If you're really looking to be involved soon," spake my housemate at the conclusion of this discussion, "then we're doing some action tomorrow."
They then explained to me what we were planning on doing, and how I could be involved.
Firstly, I must state that this was to do with the Israeli/Palestinian situation, and also that ever since I've been aware of the issues, I have always been against the control, repression and violent action that the Israeli military have forced upon the Palestinian people (note "people" and not "Hamas"). This is mostly to do with my utter contempt for colonialisation of any kind, especially when land and resources are violently appropriated by the more physically and militaristically able; but also because after reading into arguments from both sides, there is little to convince me of Israel's position. I have had a lot of issues with this viewpoint because people think I am anti-Jewish, which is not only highly incorrect but also entirely baffling as I have an enormous respect for Jewish culture (ask any of my close friends, seriously) but at the end of the day, this is not to do with my feelings towards religions, but a great deal to do with humanitarianism; my passion for it and Israel's disregard of it.
Israel has profited a great deal from exporting goods cultivated on illegally appropriated settlements on Palestinian land, mostly fresh produce such as avocados, tomatoes and citrus fruits; a boycott of all these products has been called by those whose land has been effectively stolen in the occupied territories. This is something a lot of people I know support, and thus try and avoid food which has been grown on these settlements. The issue with this is that a lot of people outside of these groups don't know about what is happening, and the only way to increase the impact of a boycott and make it more effective is to spread the message and thus increase the impact of the boycott.
Our way of spreading the message was simple; go to supermarkets, locate these goods, put them into baskets or trolleys, and lock them together with another basket/trolley, with some flyers and leaflets, and then to take photos to document our actions. To imprison the food was a symbolic (and peaceful) gesture, labelling them essentially as stolen goods, or the result of a crime, which is effectively what they are.
The first place we went to was small, and a member of staff in there became overly aggressive quite quickly, slowing our escape after successfully securing the baskets. We regrouped and decided to go to a larger supermarket slightly further away than another we had planned to target, using trolleys instead. Another member of our group and I decided to keep an eye on the others so we could hold open any doors if they tried to shut the exit, and this time it was relatively quick and easy from what I saw of it.
After we emerged and had walked down the road, a stationary police vehicle on the other side pulled out and started to follow us; when we were walking down the road they got out...and some of them were an FIT team, complete with photographer! Joyous. One of us suggested we do not answer any questions and to keep on walking, which we did. The FIT photographer circled us, taking a lot of photographs, and calling one of our contingent by name; he did the same back. Another of us flipped the coin and took loads of photos of the police who were following us (soon to be on FITWatch, apparently). We said nothing to the police, and after a while they dropped behind, so we carried on walking.
After a while we agreed the game for the day was up, so called two of our group who had headed somewhere else. We informed them of the situation, trying to arrange somewhere else to meet. While we were waiting for their arrival I thought it would be best to ask about stop and search policies and what to say and how to act during them. In my many years of activism, all I knew about the police in these situations was being around them is a bad idea, and if I was involved in something, to get the fuck away from them as quickly as possible. I've held that view since I was 12, so felt it needed updating, as just running away isn't an option so valid anymore, as a 23 year old adult!
I have decided to not feel worried about asking questions, so I asked quite a lot and felt that I understood far greater how the police work. One thing I do understand is it is highly bloody hilarious that the FIT team were patrolling around and walked straight past us while they were quite obviously trying to locate us...and they didn't even see us. One of the funniest moments ever, seriously.
After a quick discussion, we decided to split up and head to wherever we all needed to go. I needed to go home anyway, and here I am, typing this out.
So today has been an interesting experience. Not that this is the first time I've done this; in my time I've done a lot of stuff in regards to sabotaging sweatshop-sourced produce. Well, not the produce itself (apart from one glorious fake-blood throwing occasion) but sneakily appropriating designs and instead making them have anti-sweatshop messages, putting them amongst the shop's stock. The fantastic thing about that method is how annoying it is for the shop to find all the self-made shirts. So many stories.
But for now, today was a welcome return to actually being active and getting out there and doing something. If it means the police are now going to hunt me down and start taking note of everything I do, then so be it. Because this is a world that is mine, on streets that I live on; and if I can make a message call out into streets I call my own and people hear it...well, that's something, isn't it? Better than sitting back and hoping someone makes a change for me.
I'm out.
Til next time,
LPK
FitWatch
Palestine Solidarity Campaign
Boycott Israeli Goods Campaign
Jews4BIG@googlemail.com
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Confessions of...Ignorance...?
I just read some of my blog posts back and they did provoke a cringing of sorts, ranging from the mild (ouch, that's terribly written) to the severe (I sound like I've written that while high and was babbling shite.)
Writing a blog is quite a strange experience; half journalism, half personal ranting, it sits in a peculiar place for me. Considering I have barely written in the last year, journalistic or otherwise, it often feels as though I have been in a coma of sorts and am currently relearning how to use my body. But instead of trying to reinvigorate my limbs, I am trying to record my mind from being lost at sea.
Part of that is my politically conscious mind, as I find myself making many gaffes and becoming more than slightly baffled at some discussions that happen in my own home.
The idea of ignorance has been on my mind a lot this week; I posted recently on a personal online journal (yes, my life is lived through pixels) about my feelings re: being attacked by people for being loud and fearless about my political views. It was all misconstrued as an attempt my myself to encroach people with my view, which is not what I was saying at all (perhaps an example of the dire quality of my writing at the moment, but bare with me) but was merely trying to highlight the point that the average person, apathetic and often without knowledge of the issues we talk about quite vigorously often take our political enthusiasm to be somewhat an attack on the way they live their lives, and thus attack us for holding these views.
Quite why I should be made to feel guilty about someone else's ignorance is not something I feel I have found the answer to yet; this is something which usually inspires angry responses, as I have found a lot recently and that, dear reader, is why I was so perplexed.
Then again, finding myself to be terribly ignorant about a lot of subjects makes me hugely embarrassed.
Take last night; Tuesday night I had been by myself, awaiting our landlady to come round, and Wednesday night could not have been any more different. I was greeted with the presence of another political type, who was having a discussion with one of my housemates. Another person arrived, and several JDs later, I had still only carved a vague shape out of the information material, and my sculpture of understanding was looking rather limp and sorry for itself. (That's not to do with the drink, bying the by.)
I am becoming embarrassingly aware of my political knowledge and the gaps within, and with a lot of the lingo swinging around the room last night, I was baffled by a great deal of it. I enjoyed the discussions and went (translate: stumbled) back into my room feeling like I had learnt a great deal, and I had; but still I felt rather lost and unable to properly join in in an active capacity. I could engage with a great deal of what they were saying, but the finer points often felt like an exclusive club I was yet to join.
I think perhaps that is one of the issues of living in a political bubble like this; you can forget that, to those on the outside, it can seem entirely baffling and a huge battle to feel included. It is a complicated world, and trust me, there are things I have barely even glanced at, let alone scratched the surface of. Because of this, it will be a long battle.
Despite this, I'm learning. Usually I would hate to admit the fact that I am not a bonafide, 100% well-read person involved in active politics, but it's true, there we go...I admitted it. I don't know as much as I should. I have dipped my toes when I should be plunging in from the top diving board with a flair and a bounce, and numerous other hideously cliched metaphors (a hundred, a thousand apologies for that) but I am trying to make amends for that.
A month or so ago, I made a comment in passing that I cannot be overly political 100% of the time; and for that, I would like to make amends and say that I was very, very wrong. I am no longer in a situation where I must repress my political opinion to keep everyone happy, and now I'm free to be as vocal as I like in my house, where I luckily live with two happily actively political people who are helping me to recover my passion for research, discussion and demonstration. The cure for ignorance is knowledge, and I am taking it in in small doses.
Still...aiming towards a greater knowledge and involvement and inspiring towards more can only be a good thing, and thus this shock of my own ignorance, previously denied, can be a great opportunity for development. Now I sound like I am a capitalist, using phrases like that.
I suppose that all this have inspired me to figure out how to use all this awareness in my own life, and I have now figured out that I want to lecture at university on diasporic literature; a lot is to be said about this subject and it will definitely be a lifetime's work. But education is one of the biggest forms of activism, subtle or otherwise. And at least as a professor that floats between literature and anthropology, people will expect me to be politically active.
But that's all for another post.
Once again, thanks for reading.
Writing a blog is quite a strange experience; half journalism, half personal ranting, it sits in a peculiar place for me. Considering I have barely written in the last year, journalistic or otherwise, it often feels as though I have been in a coma of sorts and am currently relearning how to use my body. But instead of trying to reinvigorate my limbs, I am trying to record my mind from being lost at sea.
Part of that is my politically conscious mind, as I find myself making many gaffes and becoming more than slightly baffled at some discussions that happen in my own home.
The idea of ignorance has been on my mind a lot this week; I posted recently on a personal online journal (yes, my life is lived through pixels) about my feelings re: being attacked by people for being loud and fearless about my political views. It was all misconstrued as an attempt my myself to encroach people with my view, which is not what I was saying at all (perhaps an example of the dire quality of my writing at the moment, but bare with me) but was merely trying to highlight the point that the average person, apathetic and often without knowledge of the issues we talk about quite vigorously often take our political enthusiasm to be somewhat an attack on the way they live their lives, and thus attack us for holding these views.
Quite why I should be made to feel guilty about someone else's ignorance is not something I feel I have found the answer to yet; this is something which usually inspires angry responses, as I have found a lot recently and that, dear reader, is why I was so perplexed.
Then again, finding myself to be terribly ignorant about a lot of subjects makes me hugely embarrassed.
Take last night; Tuesday night I had been by myself, awaiting our landlady to come round, and Wednesday night could not have been any more different. I was greeted with the presence of another political type, who was having a discussion with one of my housemates. Another person arrived, and several JDs later, I had still only carved a vague shape out of the information material, and my sculpture of understanding was looking rather limp and sorry for itself. (That's not to do with the drink, bying the by.)
I am becoming embarrassingly aware of my political knowledge and the gaps within, and with a lot of the lingo swinging around the room last night, I was baffled by a great deal of it. I enjoyed the discussions and went (translate: stumbled) back into my room feeling like I had learnt a great deal, and I had; but still I felt rather lost and unable to properly join in in an active capacity. I could engage with a great deal of what they were saying, but the finer points often felt like an exclusive club I was yet to join.
I think perhaps that is one of the issues of living in a political bubble like this; you can forget that, to those on the outside, it can seem entirely baffling and a huge battle to feel included. It is a complicated world, and trust me, there are things I have barely even glanced at, let alone scratched the surface of. Because of this, it will be a long battle.
Despite this, I'm learning. Usually I would hate to admit the fact that I am not a bonafide, 100% well-read person involved in active politics, but it's true, there we go...I admitted it. I don't know as much as I should. I have dipped my toes when I should be plunging in from the top diving board with a flair and a bounce, and numerous other hideously cliched metaphors (a hundred, a thousand apologies for that) but I am trying to make amends for that.
A month or so ago, I made a comment in passing that I cannot be overly political 100% of the time; and for that, I would like to make amends and say that I was very, very wrong. I am no longer in a situation where I must repress my political opinion to keep everyone happy, and now I'm free to be as vocal as I like in my house, where I luckily live with two happily actively political people who are helping me to recover my passion for research, discussion and demonstration. The cure for ignorance is knowledge, and I am taking it in in small doses.
Still...aiming towards a greater knowledge and involvement and inspiring towards more can only be a good thing, and thus this shock of my own ignorance, previously denied, can be a great opportunity for development. Now I sound like I am a capitalist, using phrases like that.
I suppose that all this have inspired me to figure out how to use all this awareness in my own life, and I have now figured out that I want to lecture at university on diasporic literature; a lot is to be said about this subject and it will definitely be a lifetime's work. But education is one of the biggest forms of activism, subtle or otherwise. And at least as a professor that floats between literature and anthropology, people will expect me to be politically active.
But that's all for another post.
Once again, thanks for reading.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
a intro of sorts...
When I started this blog, I did not do it with the intention of being seen or viewed as a victim, or as someone to feel sorry for; when I posted that blog yesterday, it was simply with the intention of turning a statistic into a human being. I am the 1 in 10 people who have a mental illness.
Recently there has been a campaign running to make the General Public (whoever this abstract group is supposed to be) more aware of mental health issues. However, having a mental health problem is, I have discovered, quite like being in the closet. You have a feeling that if you tell people, they will treat you differently. How, you're unsure, but you know it's true.
I have had first hand experience of this; how ignorance can change peoples' view of you. Someone at work now treats me as I'm going to snap and kill everyone at any given moment, simply because I am wired to be more anxious than others. (And trust me, I have no desire to go on a killing spree.)
You are also not sure whether people will accept you or shun you because of something you cannot help. As someone who identifies herself as bisexual (although I personally despise the phrase) I can see the parallels.
So there we go. No-one needs to tip-toe around me, or treat me as though I might shatter. I won't, trust me. I'm a strong person. I just happen to have a few wrongly wired bits in my bonce.
It did occur to me with the little reactions I have had to the blog that I have not duly explained in any way any kind of background that may give this blog a context.
So here we go, a short (for me) introduction.
Sup. I was born in 1986 into a military family. That makes me 23, those of you who are bad at maths (or just lazy.). I grew up between England and Germany, with the one stint in Scotland. In my short life I have met literally thousands of people, most of whom I wouldn't recognise if they passed me in the street.
At a very young age it became extremely apparent I had absolutely no respect for any idea of social hierarchy. Even at kindergarten I refused to stay in the class I was told. I had no interest in learning what people told me I should know, so I'd walk out and go to another.
I remember once I was playing in a playpark in the Officer's Quarters when my dad was a sergeant; her father demanded I leave because he outranked mine. My response was "no, you should leave. You're too old to be here. This is a playpark, for kids. And besides, my dad says officers are wankers."
I announced my vegetarianism at the table at Christmas dinner at the age of 7. I distributed anti-McDonalds (because of deforestation, desecration of native resources, undermining local communities and rendering large areas of previous rainforest land barren) and anti-vivisection leaflets. I once refused to enter my school building for over a week because they didn't have vegetarian meals. I was vocal about global warming and other environmental causes, and kept in constant contact with groups of similar stances. I became a member of Greenpeace at the tender age of 9, and an active member at that. I was a member of many other groups as well.
I was mostly about the environment and animal rights for most of my childhood; it was only when I was about 10 and in my dad's hangar, where he was fixing fighter aircraft and I nearly sat on a warhead when I realised. These things...they kill people. I don't believe my dad is a bad person, I love my father. I loved and respected the people around me, but I struggled with the idea that they were somehow contributing to peoples' deaths. As I was growing up, bases I lived near were continually attacked by the IRA. People died out on missions. People came back were different, marked, damaged.
I saw wars destroying families. I saw people driven mad by actions forced upon them by a government of people whose names I had not heard of. People I did not know sat somewhere comfortably and made choices that caused rifts and problems.
So basically, I hated wars. I hated deaths caused by stupid, stupid "reasons". As I grew more aware and matured, this anger and rage stayed with me. Whether it's Iraq or Gaza or Sudan or Zimbabwe or any other conflicted place on the planet, I stand by the voiceless because we had no voice and no choice. I stand up for those who are silenced because when I was young I was treated with utter contempt for asking why. To question, back then, was seen as to betray; now I know that to question is the right thing to do.
So, I question everything. What I eat, what I wear, who makes what I wear, why I wear what I wear, what newspapers say, why they say it, what they are trying to achieve, digging into issues and trying to find out the reasons and what I can do. This is why I believe what I believe and I continue to strive for change; because I owe it to those who were affected and those who continue to be affected by things that you can help change if you only open your mouth and start to give a shit.
And that, my friends, is why I am a political being.
I know this blog has thus far often read as though I'm naïve, but trust me, when you grow up in the world I did, you are anything but naïve. I haven't been writing much for the last year; you would never believe that Confessions... used to exist somewhere else, would you?
Anyway, I think that's pretty good introduction. Questions? Refutes? Rebuttals? I'm open to hearing it all.
E x
Recently there has been a campaign running to make the General Public (whoever this abstract group is supposed to be) more aware of mental health issues. However, having a mental health problem is, I have discovered, quite like being in the closet. You have a feeling that if you tell people, they will treat you differently. How, you're unsure, but you know it's true.
I have had first hand experience of this; how ignorance can change peoples' view of you. Someone at work now treats me as I'm going to snap and kill everyone at any given moment, simply because I am wired to be more anxious than others. (And trust me, I have no desire to go on a killing spree.)
You are also not sure whether people will accept you or shun you because of something you cannot help. As someone who identifies herself as bisexual (although I personally despise the phrase) I can see the parallels.
So there we go. No-one needs to tip-toe around me, or treat me as though I might shatter. I won't, trust me. I'm a strong person. I just happen to have a few wrongly wired bits in my bonce.
It did occur to me with the little reactions I have had to the blog that I have not duly explained in any way any kind of background that may give this blog a context.
So here we go, a short (for me) introduction.
Sup. I was born in 1986 into a military family. That makes me 23, those of you who are bad at maths (or just lazy.). I grew up between England and Germany, with the one stint in Scotland. In my short life I have met literally thousands of people, most of whom I wouldn't recognise if they passed me in the street.
At a very young age it became extremely apparent I had absolutely no respect for any idea of social hierarchy. Even at kindergarten I refused to stay in the class I was told. I had no interest in learning what people told me I should know, so I'd walk out and go to another.
I remember once I was playing in a playpark in the Officer's Quarters when my dad was a sergeant; her father demanded I leave because he outranked mine. My response was "no, you should leave. You're too old to be here. This is a playpark, for kids. And besides, my dad says officers are wankers."
I announced my vegetarianism at the table at Christmas dinner at the age of 7. I distributed anti-McDonalds (because of deforestation, desecration of native resources, undermining local communities and rendering large areas of previous rainforest land barren) and anti-vivisection leaflets. I once refused to enter my school building for over a week because they didn't have vegetarian meals. I was vocal about global warming and other environmental causes, and kept in constant contact with groups of similar stances. I became a member of Greenpeace at the tender age of 9, and an active member at that. I was a member of many other groups as well.
I was mostly about the environment and animal rights for most of my childhood; it was only when I was about 10 and in my dad's hangar, where he was fixing fighter aircraft and I nearly sat on a warhead when I realised. These things...they kill people. I don't believe my dad is a bad person, I love my father. I loved and respected the people around me, but I struggled with the idea that they were somehow contributing to peoples' deaths. As I was growing up, bases I lived near were continually attacked by the IRA. People died out on missions. People came back were different, marked, damaged.
I saw wars destroying families. I saw people driven mad by actions forced upon them by a government of people whose names I had not heard of. People I did not know sat somewhere comfortably and made choices that caused rifts and problems.
So basically, I hated wars. I hated deaths caused by stupid, stupid "reasons". As I grew more aware and matured, this anger and rage stayed with me. Whether it's Iraq or Gaza or Sudan or Zimbabwe or any other conflicted place on the planet, I stand by the voiceless because we had no voice and no choice. I stand up for those who are silenced because when I was young I was treated with utter contempt for asking why. To question, back then, was seen as to betray; now I know that to question is the right thing to do.
So, I question everything. What I eat, what I wear, who makes what I wear, why I wear what I wear, what newspapers say, why they say it, what they are trying to achieve, digging into issues and trying to find out the reasons and what I can do. This is why I believe what I believe and I continue to strive for change; because I owe it to those who were affected and those who continue to be affected by things that you can help change if you only open your mouth and start to give a shit.
And that, my friends, is why I am a political being.
I know this blog has thus far often read as though I'm naïve, but trust me, when you grow up in the world I did, you are anything but naïve. I haven't been writing much for the last year; you would never believe that Confessions... used to exist somewhere else, would you?
Anyway, I think that's pretty good introduction. Questions? Refutes? Rebuttals? I'm open to hearing it all.
E x
Friday, February 27, 2009
are they really FIT to take your money?
In the last two weeks, I have been thrust back into politics with the effect of being sat in a catapult and being flung, landing steadily amongst a fluster of blogs, interviews, zines and freesheets. It's like 2004 all over again, and I am all the better for it.
One thing about learning about, or to put it better, delving into politics on a deeper level, is that it is often extremely difficult to admit ignorance. I usually personally find ignorance merely irritating- it's apathy that really pisses me off- but I've found myself being more forgiving in light of my learning curve. Several times in the past week I've bitten my tongue, and when it comes to asking questions I've been reluctant and a touch tentative. But the only way around ignorance is [to pester] with questions after all, so my housemate has had an influx of questions from me about various things, including court cases he's involved with re: FIT. I've been reading fitwatch.blogspot.com of late. Don't get me wrong, I knew this stuff was happening, but not to what extent... it's been an interesting week.
Learning that a FIT photographer can earn upwards of £28,000 a year (and considerably upwards; some earn nearer £40,000) for effectively pursuing an action that assumes criminality of people partaking in their human right to protest issues and question the world around them (to put it hideously basically) made me utterly furious. The fact that I got into a discussion about this branch of the police- an organisation who insist CONSTANTLY they are there to protect communities and their rights, only to consistently divide and attempt to intimidate- after looking at Redwatch says it all, really; and begs the question, who exactly is worse? Both groups are seeming to work along the same lines of fascism and segregation, and assumption of ignorant moral superiority. Like I always say, it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic.
It disturbs me for many reasons; many of these reasons could well be predicted and I'm sure I will discuss them in greater detail at some point.
However, that was not the intended point of this post, but merely an introduction.
When I moved back to London I did so knowing some things would have to be different that when I previously lived in London. These things are nothing to do with the city itself but more to do with my health, specifically mental health.
Whoa nelly, what now?
Yes, from FIT to mental health? This is about money, basically; where it goes and why it goes there. I beg forgiveness in advance for the fact this will be a rant and not filled with much in the way of balanced rationale, because, well, now I'm pretty mad.
Let's start this with honesty. Normally I would be hesitant to be honest about these matters because of how the world begs to make them taboo. But if I'm going to discuss this, honesty must be an absolute priority.
I am mentally ill.
There, I said it. Wow. It's out there. Wee, I feel a bit better about that...anyway, on with the post/show.
When I was living at my grandparents, issues that have dogged me my entire life started to get a hold of me. Not just a hold, but a chokehold. I became chronically depressed, withdrawn, irritable and paranoid, amongst other things (and would explain my odd behaviour in the last year). I am NOT blaming this on my grandparents. Yes, it is exceptionally difficult to live with people nearly half a century older than you with beliefs that came from the same era- homophobia, racism, hating all immigration (even though my granddad's grandfather was an Irish immigrant- but that's a story for another post)- but it is not their fault (and they are merely a product of their time.) Neither is it mine.
My entire life I have had problems like this. I have done many things I regret because of it all. (However, regret is redundant when you are in a position of no control.) I have done extremely dangerous things because I felt the consequences were not applicable to me at the time. It's hard to describe without going into everything; as much as I want to be honest some of that stuff is too personal, irregardless of taboo.
After I nearly took something dangerous far too far, and I broke down at work, I realised that I had to do something about it. So I went to my GP, citing my problems and the urgency needed to deal with it. She said she would forward her notes to a mental health unit who would assess me from there. She said this would happen within two weeks.
Two MONTHS later (and that is a long time considering what was happening to me) I received a letter summoning me to a mental health hearing. A lot had happened in those two months, namely getting the keys to my new house and knowing I was going to move back into London, so previous symptoms had either gone into hiding entirely, or had been reduced considerably.
So I went to the appointment and got my diagnosis. Extreme Anxiety Disorder, and potentially Borderline Personality Disorder, which sits at the same dinner table as Bipolar. I was prescribed with an anti-depressant, to which I was prescribed a dose that isn't even manufactured that small, which resulted in me having to trudge back in the snow to the mental health unit to get my prescription, having to wait to pick it up the next day, only to discover it wasn't vegetarian, let alone vegan. I took it for 4 days or so- emptying the capsule onto my tongue to avoid gelatine- then stopped, because the things that normally moved me ceased to do so (music, poetry, literature, film), and I felt horrible on them. Although the medication wasn't something I wish to pursue, counselling is, so I was given an appointment for the 5th March.
The thing is, that was in Kent. I am now in London. I can't use a mental health unit that is based in another borough, let alone an entire county. So today I went to find a nearby GPs. None seemed to be open on an early Friday afternoon. This is my only weekday off. I wanted to do it today to ensue my treatment continues as soon as possible.
I might be feeling a lot better, but despite my current happiness I obviously have issues that need addressing. I obviously need constant treatment and monitoring to make sure I am staying in control of my illnesses and not vice versa. A lot of people live like this day to day; as bad as my problems are, on the mental health scale, they are pretty far down it.
Back to FIT. Think about it; if each FIT photographer (let's not think about the police per se at the moment, but simply FIT in terms of cost) earns between £28K and £40K per annum, that's a median of £34K. Now how many are there at protests? After being informed by said housemate as to more recent numbers, and using things I have learned re: protests and political events I have attended, I'd say you could get up to, say, 15 of these people, perhaps more (if you have other figures, I would love to hear them; I've been out of the protest loop for a while) so before tax that's a whopping £510,000. PER YEAR. And that's just at a single protest. On people trying to intimidate and harrass those choosing to abhore apathy and have a conscience.
Think how much you could do with that money. £510,000. Let's put that into words. Five hundred and ten thousand pounds. Mill over that for a bit.
We live in a country where any issue occuring is blamed on one of the following-
-immigrants
-young people
-protestors
-asylum seekers
-terrorists
...and instead of looking at solutions and preventions, people are pointing fingers and accusing and all the fucking stupid shit you see in Parliament and on Prime Minister's Questions, bitching and scoring points, but not actually achieving anything. Trust me, I've lived in plenty of run-down, shitty areas where there is nothing to do for people intermittent between childhood and adulthood. As Rancid once said, "where do you go now when you're only 15?" Where is the investment in those areas? Are we paying for FIT photographers instead of youth clubs and organisations, and other ways of making young people in this country feel empowered and supported?
So much money in this country is wasted on absolute bollocks which does nothing to help us but instead is used to divide. Back to mental health. If that money spent on useless photographers was instead spent on, say, campaigning more to prevent people like me being seen as dangerous and individuals to avoid, not only would my life become considerably easier, but so would so many others. You know what? I forgot to mention that on my list. How many times have you read the mainstream media and heard about a mental health patient committing some crime?
Often newspapers miss out the vital facts about mental health care in this country. There is not enough money around to care for people. There is not enough money pumped into places to make sure patients are safe. If there was more money and investment and development of mental health facilities and campaigns to stop the assumptions so employment is easier, treatment is easier, lives are easier, carers have a better time, then communities could be strengthened.
And this is just one example of epic wastes of money (that comes out of YOUR taxes, don't forget that), often thrown at institutions that merely repress and antagonise. If our society is so broken, why punish those who care enough to take to the streets to speak their cause? Aren't we supposed to be a democratic country, where no voice is quashed? Of course they say this, but if people actually looked at the things that really break apart communities...I think they'd question their assumed loyalties.
It's difficult, because as a mental health patient who has struggled for years to have her conditions taken seriously, I have at least opened a door to treatment. Perhaps I am biased in wishing this country to have better services, because trust me, it is no walk in the park having these problems. To put it simply, it sucks. But my point is, waste sucks more. Assuming criminality is not only dangerous, it is divisive and backwards and begs people to stay apathetic.
Don't feel like you have to be timid. Don't feel intimidated. Do not stop being active and taking to the streets and taking control back from those who wish you drifted in a bubble of apathy. Push, challenge and change. Specifically the challenge part. Someone takes a photo of you? Take a photo of them. Do what they do to you. Do not let them win. Ever.
I said this wouldn't read with great rationality, but I hope you can find some in my words.
Thanks again for reading!
Peace x
One thing about learning about, or to put it better, delving into politics on a deeper level, is that it is often extremely difficult to admit ignorance. I usually personally find ignorance merely irritating- it's apathy that really pisses me off- but I've found myself being more forgiving in light of my learning curve. Several times in the past week I've bitten my tongue, and when it comes to asking questions I've been reluctant and a touch tentative. But the only way around ignorance is [to pester] with questions after all, so my housemate has had an influx of questions from me about various things, including court cases he's involved with re: FIT. I've been reading fitwatch.blogspot.com of late. Don't get me wrong, I knew this stuff was happening, but not to what extent... it's been an interesting week.
Learning that a FIT photographer can earn upwards of £28,000 a year (and considerably upwards; some earn nearer £40,000) for effectively pursuing an action that assumes criminality of people partaking in their human right to protest issues and question the world around them (to put it hideously basically) made me utterly furious. The fact that I got into a discussion about this branch of the police- an organisation who insist CONSTANTLY they are there to protect communities and their rights, only to consistently divide and attempt to intimidate- after looking at Redwatch says it all, really; and begs the question, who exactly is worse? Both groups are seeming to work along the same lines of fascism and segregation, and assumption of ignorant moral superiority. Like I always say, it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic.
It disturbs me for many reasons; many of these reasons could well be predicted and I'm sure I will discuss them in greater detail at some point.
However, that was not the intended point of this post, but merely an introduction.
When I moved back to London I did so knowing some things would have to be different that when I previously lived in London. These things are nothing to do with the city itself but more to do with my health, specifically mental health.
Whoa nelly, what now?
Yes, from FIT to mental health? This is about money, basically; where it goes and why it goes there. I beg forgiveness in advance for the fact this will be a rant and not filled with much in the way of balanced rationale, because, well, now I'm pretty mad.
Let's start this with honesty. Normally I would be hesitant to be honest about these matters because of how the world begs to make them taboo. But if I'm going to discuss this, honesty must be an absolute priority.
I am mentally ill.
There, I said it. Wow. It's out there. Wee, I feel a bit better about that...anyway, on with the post/show.
When I was living at my grandparents, issues that have dogged me my entire life started to get a hold of me. Not just a hold, but a chokehold. I became chronically depressed, withdrawn, irritable and paranoid, amongst other things (and would explain my odd behaviour in the last year). I am NOT blaming this on my grandparents. Yes, it is exceptionally difficult to live with people nearly half a century older than you with beliefs that came from the same era- homophobia, racism, hating all immigration (even though my granddad's grandfather was an Irish immigrant- but that's a story for another post)- but it is not their fault (and they are merely a product of their time.) Neither is it mine.
My entire life I have had problems like this. I have done many things I regret because of it all. (However, regret is redundant when you are in a position of no control.) I have done extremely dangerous things because I felt the consequences were not applicable to me at the time. It's hard to describe without going into everything; as much as I want to be honest some of that stuff is too personal, irregardless of taboo.
After I nearly took something dangerous far too far, and I broke down at work, I realised that I had to do something about it. So I went to my GP, citing my problems and the urgency needed to deal with it. She said she would forward her notes to a mental health unit who would assess me from there. She said this would happen within two weeks.
Two MONTHS later (and that is a long time considering what was happening to me) I received a letter summoning me to a mental health hearing. A lot had happened in those two months, namely getting the keys to my new house and knowing I was going to move back into London, so previous symptoms had either gone into hiding entirely, or had been reduced considerably.
So I went to the appointment and got my diagnosis. Extreme Anxiety Disorder, and potentially Borderline Personality Disorder, which sits at the same dinner table as Bipolar. I was prescribed with an anti-depressant, to which I was prescribed a dose that isn't even manufactured that small, which resulted in me having to trudge back in the snow to the mental health unit to get my prescription, having to wait to pick it up the next day, only to discover it wasn't vegetarian, let alone vegan. I took it for 4 days or so- emptying the capsule onto my tongue to avoid gelatine- then stopped, because the things that normally moved me ceased to do so (music, poetry, literature, film), and I felt horrible on them. Although the medication wasn't something I wish to pursue, counselling is, so I was given an appointment for the 5th March.
The thing is, that was in Kent. I am now in London. I can't use a mental health unit that is based in another borough, let alone an entire county. So today I went to find a nearby GPs. None seemed to be open on an early Friday afternoon. This is my only weekday off. I wanted to do it today to ensue my treatment continues as soon as possible.
I might be feeling a lot better, but despite my current happiness I obviously have issues that need addressing. I obviously need constant treatment and monitoring to make sure I am staying in control of my illnesses and not vice versa. A lot of people live like this day to day; as bad as my problems are, on the mental health scale, they are pretty far down it.
Back to FIT. Think about it; if each FIT photographer (let's not think about the police per se at the moment, but simply FIT in terms of cost) earns between £28K and £40K per annum, that's a median of £34K. Now how many are there at protests? After being informed by said housemate as to more recent numbers, and using things I have learned re: protests and political events I have attended, I'd say you could get up to, say, 15 of these people, perhaps more (if you have other figures, I would love to hear them; I've been out of the protest loop for a while) so before tax that's a whopping £510,000. PER YEAR. And that's just at a single protest. On people trying to intimidate and harrass those choosing to abhore apathy and have a conscience.
Think how much you could do with that money. £510,000. Let's put that into words. Five hundred and ten thousand pounds. Mill over that for a bit.
We live in a country where any issue occuring is blamed on one of the following-
-immigrants
-young people
-protestors
-asylum seekers
-terrorists
...and instead of looking at solutions and preventions, people are pointing fingers and accusing and all the fucking stupid shit you see in Parliament and on Prime Minister's Questions, bitching and scoring points, but not actually achieving anything. Trust me, I've lived in plenty of run-down, shitty areas where there is nothing to do for people intermittent between childhood and adulthood. As Rancid once said, "where do you go now when you're only 15?" Where is the investment in those areas? Are we paying for FIT photographers instead of youth clubs and organisations, and other ways of making young people in this country feel empowered and supported?
So much money in this country is wasted on absolute bollocks which does nothing to help us but instead is used to divide. Back to mental health. If that money spent on useless photographers was instead spent on, say, campaigning more to prevent people like me being seen as dangerous and individuals to avoid, not only would my life become considerably easier, but so would so many others. You know what? I forgot to mention that on my list. How many times have you read the mainstream media and heard about a mental health patient committing some crime?
Often newspapers miss out the vital facts about mental health care in this country. There is not enough money around to care for people. There is not enough money pumped into places to make sure patients are safe. If there was more money and investment and development of mental health facilities and campaigns to stop the assumptions so employment is easier, treatment is easier, lives are easier, carers have a better time, then communities could be strengthened.
And this is just one example of epic wastes of money (that comes out of YOUR taxes, don't forget that), often thrown at institutions that merely repress and antagonise. If our society is so broken, why punish those who care enough to take to the streets to speak their cause? Aren't we supposed to be a democratic country, where no voice is quashed? Of course they say this, but if people actually looked at the things that really break apart communities...I think they'd question their assumed loyalties.
It's difficult, because as a mental health patient who has struggled for years to have her conditions taken seriously, I have at least opened a door to treatment. Perhaps I am biased in wishing this country to have better services, because trust me, it is no walk in the park having these problems. To put it simply, it sucks. But my point is, waste sucks more. Assuming criminality is not only dangerous, it is divisive and backwards and begs people to stay apathetic.
Don't feel like you have to be timid. Don't feel intimidated. Do not stop being active and taking to the streets and taking control back from those who wish you drifted in a bubble of apathy. Push, challenge and change. Specifically the challenge part. Someone takes a photo of you? Take a photo of them. Do what they do to you. Do not let them win. Ever.
I said this wouldn't read with great rationality, but I hope you can find some in my words.
Thanks again for reading!
Peace x
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I'm back in London.
I've been in London for all of a week. Manor House, further north than I'm used to, but back where the action is. I'm back gigging at places where it was previously impossible- trying to hock it back to Kent after the hour of 11pm is only a course of action advised to the very brave, willing for risk a night in the cold if your train leaves only slightly late.
The interesting thing about my moving back to London is the house I'm living in; it's a slightly ramshackle affair, but full of...vegan activists (with the exception of one person who isn't vegan, but who is equally interesting to debate with.) It's also terrifyingly cheap, £240 a month. I was looking at the entirely cumbersome figure of £400, so this was a pleasant surprise.
So nowadays I'm feeling distinctly less like a fraud, especially in light of the fact that I turned vegan yesterday, on what for everyone else was a day of either gloomily contemplating singledom, or unabashedly being disgustingly romantic. Suffice to say I wanted to avoid the former and am distinctly cynical of the latter, so being all for reclaiming space, my 14th February became; Vegan Day!
It started very well; vegan porridge with unrefined sugar (maybe it's a rumour I have since taken to heart, but I'm sure I heard somewhere that sugar is often refined with animal bone for extra whiteness.), a cup of fruit tea and soy yoghurt for breakfast; all manners of falafel and hummous capery with fruit and stuff for lunch, followed by a dinner my lovely housemate had cooked. And vegan banana cake.
This was followed by an excursion to an extremely local benefit. Now I'm all for benefit shows, as long as it's benefiting something I am 100% behind, no doubts or moral conflictions. Perhaps in this case I am entirely ignorant past experience in my younger years.
The benefit was for the A.L.F. For those of you not seasoned in the way of animal rights, this stands for Animal Liberation Front. I am not quite sure what it all means now, but I know when I was last on the cusp of involvement I was about 12, and sneakily involved in the hunt saboteur movement in Norfolk. We were a wiley bunch of mostly kids and older teenagers, galavanting after hunts and bothering posh folk with very simple methods, often consisting of lemon juice and various other amusingly cheap and easy ways. It's amazing how the juice of a small citrus fruit can really confuse an animal trained exclusively to pick up on another animal's scent, but it can.
Anyway to cut a long story short (and I for one am full of long stories) we were approached by people under the guise of the A.L.F about something or other, with the end result effectively being assault. Now, I've had my fair share of fights, and a fair share of the world's population have had unfortunate meetings with my fists. Violence was a part of my life, sadly; I used it to defend myself from vicious and malicious bullying, and from the results of my own Very Large Mouth. But I actually hate it. I really, really do. "Aggressive" action is one thing (aka throwing fake blood or paint on people wearing fur, or on clothes in a GAP store in protest at their use of sweatshops) because although it may inconvenience, piss off, humilate and cause damage, no-one is actually being physically hurt. And you can imagine what was going through my head when I was 12. We said no. Well, we did; another member of our tiny clique agreed. I have no idea what happened to him because we fell out over it, but there we go.
For years I have only heard negative things. Either violence against people who partake in animal cruelty (an irony so acute it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic) or just stupid, stupid things like releasing a fuckload of mink from a fur farm into the British countryside, fucking up the very carefully balanced ecology of the area, causing enormous food-chain problems. (If you're going to release mink, at least do it somewhere where they have similar cousins, perhaps in the Scottish Highlands which does not involve trying to smuggle a North-European animal back to its native country.)
So I was apprehensive, quite uncomfortable and to be honest, the first band was utter, utter wank. There, I said it, I sound like a tosser but they were fucking terrible. The second band was alright but by that point it was about half midnight and I'd been up for hours (the glory of the very un-punk Day Job) so I made my excuses and left.
I confessed to my housemate, who had also disappeared off shortly after our arrival, about my discomfort. He told me that the ALF were (perhaps now) more of a collective of ideals and people than an actual militant group. He said officially that they do not believe in physically hurting any sentient beings. I would dearly love to believe him but I have my doubts.
Needless to say with my mind I began to wonder if I was not some kind of sell-out. Perhaps sell-out is a little strong, maybe the entirely wrong word altogether. Fraudulent, perhaps. I know in the last year my political awareness has waned, which for someone like me is very troublesome. I find myself ignorant on subjects I should know about thoroughly, finding that I know little if anything. Many things I still know about vehemently, inside out and upside down and back to front and every which way, which sounds more like the Kama Sutra than anything strictly political.
I am beginning to realise that this move back and my arrival headfirst into the world of veganism is only the first of many steps I am going to have to take to reclaim myself completely.
That is basically the premise behind this journal- to depict my voyage back into the heartland of everything I truly care about.
I ramble. I warn you.
This will, I forewarn you, contain a lot of passion, anger, confusion, rebuttal, rethinking, confirming, questioning, self-reflection, outer reflection, recipes, occasionally photos and a whole buttload of epiphanies.
I want debate on this. If you feel I am wrong or ignorant, please educate me. I may, perhaps, bake you cookies as thanks. Without people, I am shouting into a void. I would like my echo to be replied to please. :)
The interesting thing about my moving back to London is the house I'm living in; it's a slightly ramshackle affair, but full of...vegan activists (with the exception of one person who isn't vegan, but who is equally interesting to debate with.) It's also terrifyingly cheap, £240 a month. I was looking at the entirely cumbersome figure of £400, so this was a pleasant surprise.
So nowadays I'm feeling distinctly less like a fraud, especially in light of the fact that I turned vegan yesterday, on what for everyone else was a day of either gloomily contemplating singledom, or unabashedly being disgustingly romantic. Suffice to say I wanted to avoid the former and am distinctly cynical of the latter, so being all for reclaiming space, my 14th February became; Vegan Day!
It started very well; vegan porridge with unrefined sugar (maybe it's a rumour I have since taken to heart, but I'm sure I heard somewhere that sugar is often refined with animal bone for extra whiteness.), a cup of fruit tea and soy yoghurt for breakfast; all manners of falafel and hummous capery with fruit and stuff for lunch, followed by a dinner my lovely housemate had cooked. And vegan banana cake.
This was followed by an excursion to an extremely local benefit. Now I'm all for benefit shows, as long as it's benefiting something I am 100% behind, no doubts or moral conflictions. Perhaps in this case I am entirely ignorant past experience in my younger years.
The benefit was for the A.L.F. For those of you not seasoned in the way of animal rights, this stands for Animal Liberation Front. I am not quite sure what it all means now, but I know when I was last on the cusp of involvement I was about 12, and sneakily involved in the hunt saboteur movement in Norfolk. We were a wiley bunch of mostly kids and older teenagers, galavanting after hunts and bothering posh folk with very simple methods, often consisting of lemon juice and various other amusingly cheap and easy ways. It's amazing how the juice of a small citrus fruit can really confuse an animal trained exclusively to pick up on another animal's scent, but it can.
Anyway to cut a long story short (and I for one am full of long stories) we were approached by people under the guise of the A.L.F about something or other, with the end result effectively being assault. Now, I've had my fair share of fights, and a fair share of the world's population have had unfortunate meetings with my fists. Violence was a part of my life, sadly; I used it to defend myself from vicious and malicious bullying, and from the results of my own Very Large Mouth. But I actually hate it. I really, really do. "Aggressive" action is one thing (aka throwing fake blood or paint on people wearing fur, or on clothes in a GAP store in protest at their use of sweatshops) because although it may inconvenience, piss off, humilate and cause damage, no-one is actually being physically hurt. And you can imagine what was going through my head when I was 12. We said no. Well, we did; another member of our tiny clique agreed. I have no idea what happened to him because we fell out over it, but there we go.
For years I have only heard negative things. Either violence against people who partake in animal cruelty (an irony so acute it would be funny if it wasn't so tragic) or just stupid, stupid things like releasing a fuckload of mink from a fur farm into the British countryside, fucking up the very carefully balanced ecology of the area, causing enormous food-chain problems. (If you're going to release mink, at least do it somewhere where they have similar cousins, perhaps in the Scottish Highlands which does not involve trying to smuggle a North-European animal back to its native country.)
So I was apprehensive, quite uncomfortable and to be honest, the first band was utter, utter wank. There, I said it, I sound like a tosser but they were fucking terrible. The second band was alright but by that point it was about half midnight and I'd been up for hours (the glory of the very un-punk Day Job) so I made my excuses and left.
I confessed to my housemate, who had also disappeared off shortly after our arrival, about my discomfort. He told me that the ALF were (perhaps now) more of a collective of ideals and people than an actual militant group. He said officially that they do not believe in physically hurting any sentient beings. I would dearly love to believe him but I have my doubts.
Needless to say with my mind I began to wonder if I was not some kind of sell-out. Perhaps sell-out is a little strong, maybe the entirely wrong word altogether. Fraudulent, perhaps. I know in the last year my political awareness has waned, which for someone like me is very troublesome. I find myself ignorant on subjects I should know about thoroughly, finding that I know little if anything. Many things I still know about vehemently, inside out and upside down and back to front and every which way, which sounds more like the Kama Sutra than anything strictly political.
I am beginning to realise that this move back and my arrival headfirst into the world of veganism is only the first of many steps I am going to have to take to reclaim myself completely.
That is basically the premise behind this journal- to depict my voyage back into the heartland of everything I truly care about.
I ramble. I warn you.
This will, I forewarn you, contain a lot of passion, anger, confusion, rebuttal, rethinking, confirming, questioning, self-reflection, outer reflection, recipes, occasionally photos and a whole buttload of epiphanies.
I want debate on this. If you feel I am wrong or ignorant, please educate me. I may, perhaps, bake you cookies as thanks. Without people, I am shouting into a void. I would like my echo to be replied to please. :)
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