Is the light on??

We fought for freedom for hundreds of years. We stood up against oppression, we spoke with confidence and wisdom. We even burnt our bras (although I’m scunnered if I know what difference that actually made but the sentiment was there). Now we can work, study, vote and gain careers of high standing and responsibility.

So, why do I still get a man on the other end of the phone feeling the need to ask me three times if something is switched on?

And, even more shamefully, why did I find myself regressing to “the red light is on” in a desperate bid to make him realise that I did understand the concept?

On or off?

Much like an old work colleague of mine (who was slightly darker skinned than the rest of the caucasian society around us) who always responded to customers who spoke slowly and clearly to her, as if conversing with someone who hailed from another country with the broad, specialised (and clearly first) language of the local area; I feel there has been a communication break down.

We can teach, we can educate, we can even ignite certain intimate undergarments, but some things continue to be ingrained into society regardless.

“Is it switched on?”

“Yes.”

“Is the power on?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure it’s on?”

“Well…the red light is on?”

Now, call me a feminist (it may surprise you to know that I have been accused of such things in the past), but I am doubtful that such a conversation would have happened should a man have been on my side of the line. Especially when the dialogue kicked off with;

“Oh, is that big man not there anymore?”

No. He is not. It is a woman. In charge. Deal with it.

Now I know that all men are not the same – I know some are nice and lovely and fully support women in whatever role. So you can send the high horse back to whatever peddlar forced it upon you.

Some males are highly supportive of women and respect us in great measure. I hold onto the hope that is it the few who let the side down.

That hope helps me to carry on.

I am a woman who has found herself in a position of leadership. A position I did not ask for in many ways but, nonetheless, a position I have been given.

Acceptance and respect are battles that I constantly fight.

I wish I was being a martyr. I even wish, for the first time ever, that I am being an unfair feminist; but I am not. And they are battles I know the male who held the same position did not have to fight.

It has occurred to me that it could be a simple, straight cut respect issue and nothing to do with gender. Yes, of course it could be, but that doesn’t really work in such instances of preference for me in general but dismissiveness when there comes more of a need to obey rather than a request.

It is really refreshing when a member of the team you manage states, in respect to gender roles, “Ah, it doesn’t matter to me who it is. I’ll just do what I am told.”

So why can one man say that and not another?

Is it a question of upbringing? Perhaps there has not been a particularly strong woman in the household, thus ensuring the sons are brought up with a very patriarchal mindset and the idea of a woman in leadership dumbfounds them to their core. I know that statement is incredibly simplistic on first glance but I do believe that there is an element of truth within. Children learn from their parents – surely a point difficult to argue? If son watches dad asserting his authority over the household (which, I want to argue, does not have to be in an aggressive manner) and mum submitting in every way to such rule, son will see this as the norm and will grow accustomed to such ways.

Now, don’t get me wrong, as much as we learn from our parents; there comes a time when we have to choose who we want to be. So those bred to live confused in the leadership of female eventually have to choose how they react in such a situation. So, believe me when I say, I am not excusing such behaviour.

Maybe women don’t do themselves any favours and germinate such behaviour through their own arrogance or geniune failings. Some women feel the need to assert their authority to such an extent that they lose the femininity and empathy that perhaps helped fashion them for the role in the first place. Please do not think I am saying women are always fully innocent. Of course we aren’t.

Perhaps if there is a larger hierarchy, those higher up the chain could be involved? I have known situations where women in leadership have been undermined by a male superior. Situations in which they have been given the appropriate level of responsibility and it has been snatched away. Or, in some cases, they have been built up to a position of leadership and subsequently blocked and in surmouting such a blockage they have been duly and methodically reduced to a state of infancy, crushed confidence and quiet submission.

Harsh, unjustified, never acceptable. But true.

For what reason? Jealously? Threat? Fear? Or, somehow, completely  justified and acceptable in the eyes of the male?

I pray that you never come to a point in your life where you have to stand up to that tyrannical, dominant male (and I do not use those terms lightly) but you know that, although you have won, you will pay for it later.

And you do – as he sits before you and takes you to pieces. Brick by brick.

I pray that you never have to be in that place – and female bosses can be even more devious about it!- but if you do find yourself there; make sure that you win. Not in an underhand, shrewd way; but in a righteous, victorious and kind way.

Until then, there are the benefits of womanhood that can’t (and shouldn’t) be undermined; like chocolate, ice-cream, tea, girly nights, duvets and the Gruffalo.

Boys; you have to decide. More and more women are stepping up to the plate; with even more of us standing on the sidelines with the “coach” hat perched on our heads. What are you going to do? Will you stand alongside us, shouting for our corner? Or will you stand, gloved and ready, to pounce on any mistake and strike us out?

Sometimes, we will lose a few innings.

But, sometimes, we will knock it out of the park and bring the team home.

Where are you?

There is no “I” in team; but there is “women” and “men” in equal measure.

Normality Bites

It was a funny old day.

From questions posed to me such as “Can I lift you up by your head?” to a statement directed to a cat of “You can stay but you have to share.”

What on earth do you do with a day like that?!

It should perhaps fall into the deep well of Forgotten but some mundane, everyday things are too good to be sunk in such a way.

Did I just say ‘everyday’?

Well, everyday for me but (I imagine) not quite so everyday for everyone.

Isn’t it odd how we get used to the weirdest things?

Or how we don’t get offended when a young person announces: “You’re not getting anything from Santa ‘cos you’re ugly, smelly and a spoilsport.”

Ouch.

What is normal to me is not so normal to another. People talk of offices and cubicles and horrible commutes and the 9-5 grind fueled by coffee and gossip.

A totally alien notion to my mind.

Normality to me consists of working with hundreds of young people, living with three cats, working alongside a crazy team amd avoiding being lifted up by my head.

What is normality? I’m sure we all know that here is no such thing. One day I can be answering a phone call from Hitachi; the next trying to help a young person through their darkest hour; and shortly afterward, bouncing a ball in a youth club and gleefully shouting “Doing!” with each spring.

Or maybe its the person that makes the normal a little bit weird.

Maybe we all do normal things and live normal lives but it is the way we act in a specific setting that sets the ‘weird’ gauge quivering.

So, in my example, bouncing a ball was quite normal.

Commentating was not.

I maintain that being asked if I could be picked up by my head wasn’t normal (it was certainly a new one on me) but I reckon my reply of “No. ‘Cos that is stupid” was fairly normal. Maybe it was the questioner who broke the normality code.

So, assuming that ‘normal’ exists at all, I would argue that perhaps normality is dictated by actions rather than situations.

For example, playing games in a youth facility to entertain young people is pretty normal; explaining to them that they have to smear butter on their face and then stick it in a bowl of Cheerios and count how many stick is perhaps not so normal.

Sometimes, I just bring it all on myself.

 

The Others

Boys are funny creatures. I remember in high one of the so-called “popular” lads taking a shine to me. Now, our group of friends was not what you would call cool: to be honest we couldn’t be bothered with all that popular stuff and much preferred to hang out at our friend’s place, occasionally eating ice-cream and often playing computer games. And constantly eating chips, cheese and coleslaw (a local delicacy and, by all accounts, fatty heaven).

I realise that description has probably left your ears ringing with the word ‘losers’, but you will have to believe me when I say that we weren’t.

Honest.

Anyway, this lad seemed to be giving me a little more attention than normal.

“Oi.”

They did call me by my nickname but it was so wildly unimaginative that I refuse to eternalize it here. But it was not terribly inventive or witty; trust me.

“I really fancy you.”

Not only is my home town famed for its chip shop delicacies, but we are also hopeless romantics.

“Whit?” came my terribly intelligent response.

“I pure fancy you. You’re sexy.”

Now, just to go with the whole ‘loser’ label (I’m sure you still have even it though I asked you not to), I was also a girl who wasn’t used to boys coming on to me. Especially one so brazen.

If I could have alerted Jane Austen, this young man would have been positively locked up with only paper and a quill in which to structure his defence.

In saying that, I had humour and a quick wit.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Ok, so not a particularly sharp wit.

But this lad became insistent and I quickly learnt that something was amiss as his heartfelt confessions of affection were very public. He was always in sight or hearing of one of his pals.

It did cross my mind that this lad actually had genuine feelings and he went home every day after school and weeped gently into his pillow at such heartless dismissal.

But I doubt it.

Besides, I did kind of enjoy the opportunity to publicly deny the popular lad as his declarations became more incessant. It got to the stage where I didn’t even pause in walking by and just threw a sarcastic “right, ok” over my shoulder.

My thoughts has always been that when popular folk were talking about whatever it is popular folk talk about (it saddens me to think that chips, cheese and coleslaw probably wasn’t involved), this lad sat gloating to his friends about how he would get the so-called ‘unpopular’ chick to fall for him – or that she would get all giggly and shy and admiring at such a popular, ‘lovely’ boy showing her affection. He would have fun with that.

Crumbs. If he was chocolate he would eat himself.

I am aware that all this is speculation on my part and always has been.

All my sarcastic comments did was frustrate him as he clearly was not getting the reaction he expected.

Eventually, one day I had enough.

“>enter witty nickname here< I really fancy you.”

(He wasn’t very inventive either).

“Yeah, whatever.”

(And neither was I).

“No, honestly- I really fancy you.”

This time I stopped.

“Sure. Stop being a tube.”

“No, really, I fancy you.”

I told you folks from my neck of the woods are hopeless romantics.

The lad was sitting next to one of his guy pals and he was clearly listening in. Good – I wanted an ‘on high’ witness.

“Oh yeah – and who dared you to say that?”

And there it was – out in the open. What I knew and what he had hidden. Out. The gloves were off.

“No-one! I fancy you.”

You know, they might be popular but they suck at lying. I guess I should respect him on some level for showing loyalty to the sacred popular folk conversations- even if they are severely lacking in fried foods.

“Yeah, whatever,” I slung over my shoulder as I joined my friend.

Ok, I know I could have said something much wittier, but I was a young teenager and I can safely say that I would react much differently now. I hope. I’m proud of myself anyway, don’t take it away from me.

Oddly, instances of public devotion quickly ceased from that quarter. And, double oddly, the lad in question seemed to have a certain respect for me then – even if he still was a numpty sometimes.

YUS! Populars: 0, Others: 1

One of the greatest achievements of my school years. Except for exams and lasting relationships. Obviously.

For someone who genuinely had no interest in being in the popular group, I did enjoy getting one-up on one of the ring leaders; as well as foiling his great plan to embarrass the short, unfashionable one.

There; I said it.

What is popularity anyway? In my experience it is a title often self-given and smothered in make-up, square jaws, gossip and perfectly trimmed hair.

How dull.

Ok, so maybe The Others are a bit more au naturale, unkempt and are more likely to be smothered in chip shop fat. But it is much more fun. I wouldn’t change a moment of my high school days – even though we didn’t have the label that many young people seem to chase.

When you are older, what will popularity get you?

Trouble, upset, betrayal, a hefty bill from Loreal and, if you cave to the pressure, an alcohol problem and an S.T.I.

Or, even worse, leader of the Conservative Party.

So, I call all of you to charge your glass and rise with me in toasting that great tradition that should over-rule all else. A group that has saved more lives and delivered more intervention than the NHS. The group we should all strive to fall into.

To: The Others.

 

Old Beginnings

It may seem odd to begin a blog at the end of a year, but it seems the right thing to do. I’m looking forward to firing out some random ideas – both unhinged and unhidden – and thank anyone who cares to take a wander through my meandering thoughts. Feel free to pull up a comfy chair, take a seat by the banks of the river, climb the hills outlying (it is worth it for the view), wander into the local cafe or meet a friend by the bridge. My blog is your blog; make yourself at home.

I wish I could tell you what to expect if you choose to follow me over this future we inhabit but I am not even sure myself. I might talk sense, I might not; I might make you laugh, I might not; I might make you think, I might not; I might infuriate you, but I hope not.

And, so, to work I suppose. And the journey begins and I hope improves from this point. As I was told recently, practice sharpens the pen.

“We are but hollow vessels, washed through by history” (Etty Hillesum, June 1941)