I am not a 'good girl'

Is there a particular phrase  drives you barmy with rage? I have one. I heard it just now. I was in the chemist and a gruff older dude stomped in in his work boots and asked for a script he'd dropped in earlier. The neat, pony-tailed assistant said "I'll just get it for you" and he responded "Good girl".

Good girl. 

Honestly, have you ever thought of saying this to a grown woman? Here's a tip. DON'T. I felt so mad for her. She politely continued on with her business and didn't seem to be mad, but then I usually react in a similar way because of MANNERS and POWER DYNAMICS relating to AGE. Because I don't hear it from anyone younger than me, or even those who are my contemporaries. Nope.

Being told "Good girl" is an unfortunate reality from time to time, and each and every time it's said to me it fills me with rage, and chips away at any respect I have for the person saying it. It's the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head, and every bit as patronising. It is said in a number of contexts, and as with the chemist today, I'm sorry to say that most of them are in the workplace, where you would hope that things like age and gender would just be left out of it. 

The first situation in which it's often said relates to me having just performed some entirely basic and ordinary task that would be seen as merely minimum functioning in any adult with a normal intellect. This might be remembering to bring a document to a meeting, or something equally innocuous. Telling me I'm a good girl in this kind of circumstance is so utterly demeaning, because it implies that something that really ought to be assumed in even a mediocre employee making a nod towards professionalism is being rewarded to me.  Would you say "good boy" to a grown man in the same situation? So for fuck's sake don't say it to me. (Seriously, if you answered 'yes' to this you need to go take a good hard look in the mirror). Just say thanks with all the decorum and brevity that the situation calls for, in a manner that acknowledges that I am in fact a professional and capable of really basic shit even though I am, like, female. Like the chick in the chemist today.

The second situation is where I've actually performed above and beyond in some way or another. "Oh good girl" I'll be told. No. Not fucking good girl. Guess what - the reason Ive performed so well and been able to impress you is probably because I'm a lot smarter than you. I'm sorry to come across as arrogant but seriously, my IQ is probably higher than yours despite me being younger, and being told "good girl" by you just makes me seethe. You know what else? I work hard. I've got many years of study under my belt, and even more of workforce experience. I'm an adult. I'm 30 goddam years old. So between my age, my intellect and my hard work, I would like to be treated as a professional in a professional environment. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?!

These are some of the things I will think if you call me a "good girl". Just so you know.

This includes you Tony *fuckface* Abbott.

RANT ENDED

NB If you are a complete moron, here is a basic test you can use to work out whether it's appropriate to say "good girl" to someone. 

Q Would you say "good boy" it to a man your own age in this situation?

A Then don't say "good girl" to me.

Worst. Holiday. Ever.

I have four days off this week. It's Time in Lieu resulting from the heinous overtime I worked during January, February and March this year. It took four months and some agitating to get these four days off. And I am spending all of them at my computer because I have a 4,000 word essay due for uni on Thursday. Balls.

I had a grand fantasy of getting everything done by Wednesday and taking a Real Day Off - maybe going to some galleries, sleeping in, seeing a movie, that kind of thing. However it is 6:25pm on Monday, I have been at my computer since 10am, and I am WELL BEHIND SCHEDULE. It is seeming highly unlikely that I will get said day off.

At this time it is important that I perform two great acts: one of remembering and one of forgetting.

• Act 1: I must remember that I chose to do some Uni subjects this year. Me. Lots of people said "Oh, on top of full time work - you'll be so tired". And I shrugged my workaholic shoulders and said "Whatever, I can do it, it'll all be over soon enough".

Note on Act 1: I am a massive eejit.

• Act 2: I must not directly relate this time to the time I spent working myself into a frenzy earlier this year. Because I will be filled with resentment and tears and they will almost certainly not be contained by my brain or my face and make will make everyone uncomfortable and me rather puffy. I must FORGET that this is Time in Lieu and technically intended to redress some of the kerazy I endured. It's four months too late and there's too much to do. So harden up, me!

Now, back to work...

The ginger fox

And just like that, we have a new female PM.

Wow.


I don't think anyone really knows what to expect from her. I don't. But I'm hoping big things, for Australians, and for women.

YAY.

The Bake Sale

Have you ever held a bake sale? I recommend it. Leanne and I had one last Saturday, and we had super huge amounts of fun. Sure, there was lots of standing, and some people (ie everyone) ate so much sugar we were bouncing off the walls, but what can you do?

How hot is Leanne when she punishes that biscuit dough? I know.

We were set up at Smiley McSlidey Rehearsal Studio, who were celebrating their opening with a large garage sale, gig and bbq.  Lez and I got together and had one of the most fun Friday night's ever. We drank wine, ordered pizza, watched Masterchef and WE BAKED LIKE MACHINES. Honestly, we were so on top of our game, we had whipped up three different kinds of goodies by 8pm, washing up as we went, exchanging extremely important gossip and only slightly burning one batch of biscuits due to wine/good times.

Then, having produced our delicious wares:

• Caramel slice
• Yoyos
• Peanut Butter and choc chip biscuits
• Choc-fudge cupcakes with raspberry icing

We set ourselves up with coffees and the paper, and sat around all day while our friends traipsed through, exchanging hugs and money for sweet treats. Then we spent all our profits on clothes at the sale. We probably could have made more profits, but we were weakened by the cuteness of the many kids there and sold a lot of stuff for cheap (like 20c cupcakes! Bargain!). Also Leanne busted a little girl shoplifting biscuits and made her go and get $1 from her parents. I was proud of Leanne's moral fortitude, and frankly thought the little girl showed little to no remorse. So after all it was an important day full of life lessons, even more than just don't sit the chocolate slice in the sun and if you bake it, they will come, and not just a frivolous excuse for two grown women to make a big mess and wear silly aprons.

Also, at this point I'd like to tell you about my yoyos. I don't want to brag... okay okay, I really want to brag, but my yoyos are just so good. All credit to my Mum, since it's her recipe (would you like it? Okay, here it is). And she came and bought one to test mine, and I think I passed.  I do want to say that I've made yoyos numerous times and these were probably the best batch I've produced so far.

They're all gone now, in case you were wondering. Because we sold out of everything by about 3pm. Uh huh. It was a really lovely day, which is likely to be repeated in a few months, and I'd urge you to get down there, have a snag, buy a skirt, hear some bands, and eat a yoyo (if there's any left). 

Tragedy in vinyl

If you were to ask me how life was panning out, having moved in with my handsome gentleman companion, I would wax lyrical about the many things that are just lovely. But right now, I'm going to tell you about just one of them.

Life with a record player.

I haven't lived in a house with a record player for years. My parents had a record player with accompanying magnificent old school fabric covered speakers on wooden and steel 70s stands. I used to adore playing my story book 45s, turning the page when the bell dinged. I also danced daily to Joseph and His Technicolour Dreamcoat at the age of 3. I remember falling asleep in our tiny Frances St house with the reassuring sounds of the music (usually an opera or else Gilbert and Sullivan) my parents were listening to filtering into the room. Later I found their old copies of Hair and the Beatles box set and danced away to them. When my parents seperated, the record player went with Dad. 

Later, my brother Tristan bought one, and as a student I lived in a house that had one. But they weren't my record players and I didn't buy records for them. 

And now I live with a man for whom music is fundamentally important, and has a considerable record collection, half of which I adore and half of which is just not my thing. But I have rediscovered the warmth of sound that vinyl gives you. It's not like other sounds. And I'm not sure how much of this I associate with my early childhood, but regardless, it's wonderful, and it's opened me up to new kinds of music, and new ways of listening to it.

Sunday mornings Leith has a habit of putting on Jazz - Coltrane or maybe something like the Swingle Singers (!) and I can't recommend this enough, accompanied with eggs and the newspaper.

I also tagged along a few weeks ago with Leith record shopping. And I got the bug. I got it bad. Because all of a sudden I realised: these records can become instrinsic to my home life. I enjoy playing Leith's music, some of it more than others, but in the record store were albums guaranteed to send shivers down my spine. Artists whose tracks had not been released on cd and nor were they likely to be in future. And artists who belonged to a vinyl era. I bought Aretha Franklin, Sarah Vaughan and Nancy Wilson. And oh my I love those records. And I fantasise about going back to buy more!

Another realisation I had was that the songs that most move me, that send me outwardly catatonic while inwardly I get all stirred up, are the most pathetic, tragic and anti-feminist love songs. They're the songs I go to when I know I'm tense and need to provoke a good cry. I don't know quite what this says about me. And I don't know whether I can untangle what I perceive as the tragedy of the love the women feel from the tragedy that the women should feel love for such objects in the first place. 

All I know is that these songs slay me. I'd like to leave you with a few, but trying to find them on youtube is like trying to find a diamond in a big pile of poo. I thought about providing the lyric, but the lyric without the music and the delivery are hollow at best and do nothing to convey the heartwrenching truth of these songs. The only one I can find is Aretha. For the others, the best I can do is provide a few links and urge you fervently to check them out, with a box of tissues handy, and preferable on vinyl.





Good for nothin' Joe - Lena Horne 

I don't want him - Nina Simone

Banning the burqa: Racism in feminist clothing

The 'debate' about potentially banning the burqa in Australia is very troubling to me. Many people have jumped on this bandwagon recently in the name of Freedom, Democracy, Feminism, Equality, Civic Responsibility and goodness knows what else.  And I haven't agreed with a single one of them on the issue.


I've agreed with a lot of the objections to the burqa. I find the implication that one's appearance can offend your peers or your God pretty offensive. But then, I'm an atheist. And I don't think society is objecting to religion. Just Islam. But an individual objection to something (hello Southern Cross tattoos) is different to banning it. Banning something takes individual values that are acknowledged as having place in society (religious, family, aesthetic) and making them universal. It is handpicking one set of difference and saying that we don't want that here.  The arguments being put forward for the burqa being an unacceptable difference are masquerading as libertarian and feminist and democratic.  And I posit that they are not, they are racist. So let's look at some that have been prominent lately, and I'll show you why.


One argument is that by covering the hair/face, women are concealing important aspects of their identity. They are not fully participating as citizens. Well tough shit I say. I can walk into a bank wearing sunglasses. Or a hood. When my hair was long I would wrap it up into a scarf to clean the house or simply on hot days. Eastern European and Mediterranean women will wear headscarves.  African women will wear headscarves. Indian and Asian and Anglo women will wear headscarves. So why just ban Islamic headscarves? Uh, that would be racism.


A further argument is that the burqa carries a symbolic element that is offensive to women, as exposing the head/hair is considered to offend god and man in Islam. Well I happen to agree that this is a daft notion. Did I mention I'm an athiest? But Jews do it with their skull caps, nuns do it with their habits. So do you want to rip the habit from a nun in the name of her freedom? I don't see anyone ranting about these other forms of religious coverings in the newspapers or suggesting for a moment we should make it illegal for these other groups. Only Muslims. That's racism.


There are people arguing against it on the grounds of feminism. That many women would prefer not to wear a burqa but are forced to by their family and community. In righteous feminist outrage, these advocates want to remove the shackles of this oppression by making it illegal. 

Well I put it to you that the people advocating on these grounds are not giving one toss about women in this situation. Because they will only be further oppressed and excluded by a ban on the burqa. They will not be able to leave the house, and their freedom will be further curtailed. Honestly this argument of 'freeing' women by banning the burqa is the most selfish and stupid of the lot. The only people it will make feel better is the rest of us. The white priveleged people who will no longer have to squirm and feel uncomfortable when a burqa clad lady gets on the tram. The ones who refuse to allow that some women are choosing to dress that way as an expression of their ideological conviction. Banning the burqa is not about feminism, and it's not about freedom. It's about one group of people deciding what makes them feel comfortable, and imposing it on another group of people. Again, racist much?


This doesn't mean that I don't think that we, as a society, should try to tackle religious and sexist values that result in women being forced to dress in a way they do not wish. We absolutely should do that. But banning the burqa doesn't do this at all. It doesn't involve any engagement with the people who would enforce it. It only punishes the women who are already oppressed through having to wear it, and punishes those who have freedom and use it to choose to wear it. Discuss the burqa. Discuss with the people who think it's important. There are knotty issues wrapped up in there. Confront them in dialogue. Don't ban it.

And if anyone wants to go down the road of 'how free is the choice of the women who are choosing it?', well good for you, it's a damned important question. But don't pretend for a second that any of us aren't making value-laden peer pressured choices all the time. Of course we are. We have freedoms, but they are not absolute, not for any of us. I've yet to see one commentator acknowledge this fact.

If I had my way, then I wouldn't wear clothes in Summer. At all. I would get my tattoo out at work and in front of my grandmother. How is this different from a young woman who covers her hair in front of her relatives? The outcomes for me might be less severe if I transgressed these norms, but I choose to follow them because it makes my life easier, it makes my grandmother happier. Is it a loaded choice? Of course. Do I wish the conservative people in society could cope with my having a tattoo? Absolutely. Do I wish that conservative Muslims could cope with the exposed heads and hair of their female relatives? Darned tootin. But for society to BAN it? To make it illegal? How is this anything other than a socially sanctioned punishment for a difference that we can't tolerate. How dare we call ourselves multicultural or diverse and entertain such a notion?

Do I have a problem with women being forced to wear a burqa? Yes.

Do I have a problem with a woman freely choosing to wear a burqa? No. 

Can I know how free the choice is of a woman I know nothing about, beyond what she's wearing? No.


So what are we left with? The burqa oppresses some women. Undoubtedly. And banning it? Oh wait, that is a problem and will oppress women. Yep. 

Let's recap. Burqa = oppressive.  Banning the burqa = oppressive. The difference between the two options? White people feel better about themselves.

So why would we ban it, when every objection to it has its counterpart in other religions and social norms? Um, because we're racist?... 

NB My friend Beck has pointed out (see comments) that the burqa is a full body covering, as distinct from a hijab which is a headscarf. Thanks for clarifying Becky.

Solidarity

I sat up tonight pottering around and playing on the internet. I was trying to show some solidarity to Leith, who is up working just like he has been every night this week. But in actual fact all I did was snicker audibly at people's twitter feeds, fart surreptitiously a few times, and go to bed. Despite making him a cup of tea, I am clearly lousy at solidarity.