Thoughts after all accepted forms of my ID was stolen:

My name is Meg, and my wallet was stolen last Saturday night.

I know, I was tempted to change the lyrics to a Katy Perry song as well, and chastise my undiagnosed alcoholism, but all I can say for myself is that it FREAKING sucked. My wallet had both passports, my Greencard, my driver's license, bank cards for three separate countries, my cigar cutter, and the only photo I had of my father. It also had 40 Euro cash. However, when I compare that to the other items in my wallet, my only suggestion is that they use those two 20 Euro notes for loo roll. 

Part of me wanted to congratulate the prick who stole my wallet. They must have been a pro. Drunk Meg is a possessive creature, and does not hand over items quickly... This may be why I often wake up with stolen pint glasses in my kitchen after I make the executive decision to drink my dinner. That being said, the professional quality of this theft was of no use to me when I was trying to convince the nice Immigration Officer of my identity, and that I really should be here.

It's been a rough week and a half.

All of the whinging aside, I became aware of how dependent we are on documents, and how much trouble we can be in once they're taken:

To begin, replacement passports can take nearly 4 weeks to process, and depending on the country, cost over 200 Euro (I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU, CANADA!).

The current statistic says that 11 women a day travel from Ireland to the UK to access abortion services. Being passport-less, I did some research. You now need to have a valid passport (even as an EU citizen) to purchase a plane ticket, and they check passports before you get on the ferry. Thus, if you were sans passport, your life might get tricky. As it stands now, the population of Ireland and Northern Ireland stands at nearly 7 million. Using my excellent math skills (okay, they aren't skills, more like common sense) that leaves us with around 3.5 million women...

There is only one clinic in the entire island of Ireland that provides abortion services. This service is limited - they're only open two days a week, and if you're more than nine weeks along, they cannot help you. To put it gently, a single office that has a two day work week is supposed to serve 3.5 million women.
 . 
What happens if someone was in my situation - where their documents were missing or non existent, needed an abortion? Their options would be limited; nearly prohibitive if we also consider that the procedure costs 400 Euro, and requires commuting from the Republic to the North.

Also, you would have to show up to the clinic alone - their policy stipulates that you must be unaccompanied.

 So, tell me - what constitutes an undue burden for women?

As far as the pro-choice, pro-life debate is concerned, I tend to think that the labels do more harm than good. To have reservations about abortion on demand does not mean that you are against people making their own decisions. Similarly, seeking an abortion does not mean that you endorse the murder of innocents - it's much more complicated than those labels would imply. But regardless of where we fall on this spectrum, telling women with an unplanned pregnancy that their only recourse is to travel or live with it isn't good enough. Terminating pregnancies will never be without its controversies, and rightly so. It touches on so many parts of our morality, and senses of justice. But we deserve more than one clinic, and we deserve more than nine weeks to make the decision.

A Small Victory...

Allow me to set the scene:
I am cooking dinner for my boyfriend and myself. Considering that I am a broke student, this is the easiest way to demonstrate my affection for him (aside from assurances that I shaved my legs sometime in the last fortnight).

Enter stage right:
The housemate. The completely idiotic housemate who still insists that I am from 'Canadia,' often forgets his own address, and is certain that Eamon deValera was assassinated, and not Collins. I'm just going to let that sink in for a second.

"What're you making?"
"Stroganoff, would you like some?"
"Sure."

At this stage, I am convinced that we may be able to go through a mealtime without incident. He was far from lively, or even friendly - but I can take indifference over the idiocy. He even managed to grunt a sound that was reminiscent of thanks.

I stand.
"Woman - " He hands me his plate. I take it. It's what Jesus would do.
My boyfriend clears the rest of the table and sits back down when I start making the tea.

"It's nice to see a woman who understands that it's good for her to be in the kitchen."
I blink. "Pardon?"
"I mean, it's just good that you understand that it isn't his job to cook or do the washing up..." I can see my boyfriend looking shocked, and trying not to do anything that will anger me, or the other guy.

"Well, my boyfriend's job is to take out the trash... I see no problem grouping you in with it." I smile. He takes a second to realise what I've said.
"You heard the woman!" My boyfriend announced. He starts for a black bin bag. The housemate is stunned.
"Also, you can thank her for dinner, and wash your own damn plate. Quit being so useless."

The housemate leaves. In my head, there is a slow clap and a grandiose swell of music while I watch my boyfriend do the dishes. I can feel myself love him more than I had at the start of the meal.

Downside: There's no place to put, 'I've the perfect response if someone tells me I belong in the kitchen..." on a CV. If only I could make the snark and sarcasm profitable...

 I am one of those cynics who will always swear by Murphy's Law: If it can go wrong, it will go wrong. An additional corollary to this law includes: friends come and go, but enemies accumulate. However, my personal favourite has to be the following: If you try to please everyone, no one is going to like it. When considering the final element of Murphy's Code, it tends to speak to the overachievers, those with a martyrdom complex, and to the sarcastic jerks who spend their days hopelessly trying to edit their internal monologues... Okay, maybe the final bit is just me.

In my experience, my attempts to please everyone have ended in abject failure. They also ended with the nasty realisation that I have silenced my opinions for the sake of social propriety. My mother would tell me that the silencing of my inner vitriol proves that I am, in fact, civilised. She would also take it as a sign that she has raised a fully functioning female who won't be at the wrong end of a lynch mob. However, the older I get, it becomes easier to identify those who are being silenced for similar reasons - and it makes me uneasy. In this case, it wouldn't be ladylike for me (and for the other ladies who are constantly editing their internal monologues) to satirise politics, social convention, or imbalances of power. I can sense her apprehension when I answer her polite questions honestly. Though my reflexive sarcasm harms no one, and actively avoids raining on parades, she views it as deviant. As opposed to being an asset, or marketable skill (think Jon Stewart and the gents who did Blackadder), my ability to banter is a liability. I initially responded to the subtle attempts to curtail my opinions by sorting my social life into separate spheres: I would say as little as possible around my mum and sister, and let a few select friends hear my more honest thoughts - often with mixed reviews. However, since I viewed myself as a deficient and malfunctioning social entity, most of my opinions stayed under wraps. When the previous leader of the IMF was caught sexually assaulting hotel maids, my quip about the invisible hand of the market getting a bit touchy-feely was heard by no one. This wasn't because of some lack of wit or fears of revealing how nerdy I am, it was because I forced myself to not have an opinion in order to maintain the status quo of those around me.

Though this coping mechanism worked while I was a teenager, it is becoming more strenuous to maintain as an adult. On my most recent trip home, my mother was present for one of my phone conversations with my boyfriend - the one person who hears my thoughts in their unedited form. In my peripheral vision, I saw her eyes get wider and her mouth drop as I described the driver in front of me (never underestimate the idiocy of those on the motorway). The look of disbelief soon turned into a high pitched parental reprimand concerning my tone, language, and the simple fact that this is something that Jesus would never do (when I noted that Jesus didn't have access to a Honda Civic, I earned a boxed ear). After I got off the phone I faced her - when she met my gaze it felt like she didn't recognise me.
"You used to be so quiet, it's like I don't know you anymore."
 When she said that, I realised that my attempts to please everyone by self-policing and compartmentalising my social life had only managed to create multiple versions of myself - versions that no one was particularly pleased with. No amount of sarcasm can make light of your own shattered image, or your mother's complete displeasure with your comport.
"Let's make a deal then - you can see what I am actually like, and I won't hide my feelings from you."
Thus concluded one of the most awkward parental conversations I've ever had (it rivals the 'facts of life' speech I got when I was 9). Not to sound too tacky, but I really did feel a weight lift of my shoulders - I didn't have to hide from her anymore. It must be said that she is adjusting well - instead of scolding me when I begin to rant, she swallows hard and thanks me for sharing. A less magnanimous individual would revel in the shadenfreude of it all. Resisting said reveling is a daily struggle.

So I am here today to officially state the following: I refuse to remain quiet when I have something to say. I will no longer assume that people won't care about my opinion. I will no longer try to please everyone, and wind up doubting my abilities. I will claim my voice. It's a snarky voice that may be laden with profanity, but it's mine. If Feminism can help at least one more young woman find her voice in the din, then I'll consider it a victory. 

Bauld Feminists - Today and Yesteryear

Stylishly Bold  - but the lack of rights leads to lack of LOLs

Our vision is of a sound society, with good craic to be had for one and all 

Warning: This image will offend all those opposed to oppression

Having come across this on facebook, posted by a 'facebook friend', a guy I met while working with an anti-sweatshop organisation in London a few years ago. Being a liberal black male activist, his facebook posts are always critical of political and social issues, namely political hypocrisy and the subordination of minority's in society to name but a few. 

Looking at this picture of a leather-clad black mannequin supporting its 'owner' - a white Russian socialite, only highlights the relevance of intersectionality to not only feminism but to anyone who oppose the oppression of any social group. 

This picture struck me first, having recently done a project on Lily Allen's 'Hard Out Here' video which has been hugely criticised for using the bodies of black women to convey Allen's point of female objectification in modern popular culture. 

Furthermore, the original mannequin furniture by Allen Jones (1969) which is what inspired the piece of furniture in question makes clear that this objectification also touches on society's disregard for sex workers as crude objects as well as a wider subordination and objectification of women. 

Unfortunately, this is not the first time women have been so explicitly objectified either in the media or otherwise (Robyn Thicke's Blurred Lines in particular, comes to mind), but this is something that has got to be addressed before gender and racial equality (or the intersection of both) can ever be fully achieved. 

A response to a subtly sexist remark (without the drama)

Having recently read Caitlin Moran's newest book 'How to be a Woman', I found one piece of advice particularly impressionable and so I thought I'd share it.
 Moran describes the kind of blatant sexism that used to persist, the type that you didn't have to think twice about as anything other than putting you in your place as a woman. Today, Moran claims Sexism is alive and well in society however it has taken a different form, one that is more subtle and may take you until hours later while you are lying in bed to realise, he was being sexist! If however, you realise what is actually being said (as it is being said) and like me, you are shamefully slow-witted, take Moran's advice and hit him where it hurts, insult his manners!
 Say; "thats quite uncivil actually Pat" or "thats a bit impolite John", this way you're no crazed Feminist who is instantly discredited for being a man-hating lesbian, you are simply more polite than them and calmly getting the upper hand. In my opinion, you're doing yourself a favour here, sexist comments are irritating and disappointing but they're not worth the argument, instead oust him as a manner-less fool and let him secretly wallow in that for a bit while you move on.
This will not however work on all men, .i.e those who couldn't care less about such things as manners in which case, deal with them as you will.
We're not exactly beginning a rebellion here, we're just playing these men at their own game, avoiding the drama, that's for another day.
 

Masculinity in Crisis?

Masculinity = Margaret Thatcher

Femininity = Cillian Murphy

What a great day! The day that the movies 'Hunger' and 'Breakfast on Pluto' gave me the ideal argument why gender and sex, masculinity and men or femininity and women do not naturally coincide. In 'Hunger' it is Margaret Thatcher who performs the perfect hegemonic masculinity, while Cillian Murphy simply embodies the most gorgeous feminine woman.

Deranging the binary system as we now it:

As of today I say: If society insists on a binary gender scale with masculinity on one side and femininity on the other. FINE! But only if Margaret Thatcher is established as the ideal embodiment of masculinity and Cillian Murphy or better Petty Kitten as the ideal feminine! And something tells me, that society would no longer be so hesitant to the idea of abandoning this whole idea of a binary!

The Cinderella Complex- An anecdote on masculinity in crisis 

About a month ago my best friend and I went out, celebrating 10 years of wonderful friendship. That night my friend met someone, they chatted for quite a while and he even offered to walk us home. When finally arriving at my friend's place I gave them some space, waiting for her patiently inside. The moment she entered, I asked if they had exchanged numbers. Her answer: " No, he ran! When I asked if he'd like to give me his number he just said: Sorry, phones dead! And took off. Literally jogging away from me!!" We both bursted into laughter and agreed that it made no sense. A few days ago I remembered the situation when someone commented on a similar behaviour by calling it 'the cinderella complex'. Two aspects make this comment so brilliant: For one, it mocks the illusion of romantic love as a fairy tale, and two it jumbles internalised gender roles and invalidates the notion of masculinity belonging to men and femininity to women.

Men can be Cinderella without stopping being a men and a women can be the prince , putting an effort in the search for her 'love', can't they? And why should it be less of a love story, less of a fairy tale because of that?