Tart

This morning I had a conversation about feminism with some friends on Twitter.  This week's Secret Teacher article in the Guardian  discussed why 'feminism is still  a dirty word in the classroom.' http://www.theguardian.com/teacher-network/2013/nov/23/feminism-classroom-dirty-word-secret-teacher and I am really encouraged that people are starting to discuss the linguistics around the word feminism.  I am glad that we are starting to have these conversations.  Until there is global equality between men and women and girls and boys then feminists still have work to do.  The secret teacher notes how women do not appear in the History curriculum but we know that there were women in history.  Women have always been there and doing things.  It's just that no one ever thought that what they were doing was important enough to write down.  That's why it's called his-story; half of it is missing.

We know (those of us discussing the subject on Twitter) that if we admit to being a feminist then many people, who we know to be intelligent, well educated, thoughtful individuals will look at us as though we are strange beings from outer-space.  They say, "You can't be one of those, you have such nice shoes."

The solution could be to change the word.   We could call people who want to fight or argue for gender equality personists but we shouldn't have to. The word isn't the problem.

I pointed out on Twitter that all female words are considered to be bad things.  In our society, male seems to equate to good and female bad.  My friend questioned, "All of them?" and so I've been trying to think of any female word that was good and so far I've failed.

Cow, sow, bitch, pussy, queen, vixen and mare are all female animals that are used as insults.  The only female animal names I can find that don't seem to be particularly insulting are Jill, hen, tigress and pen.  Male animal names are less often used as insults and often seen as compliments; buck, bull, ram, stag, macho (male llama) and stud.  Sexual part words from both genders are considered to be insulting but the very worst words are female.  Given a choice, you'd rather be called a dick than a cunt.  It was hard to type that second word, which just shows how bad it is.  There are more euphemisms for female parts too, so there are more choice of insults available. Even worse, words that just mean female person are insults.  "You throw like a girl," "Just a little Princess," "That woman,"

Some things that are bad have male attributes and therefore end up seeming good.  Any boy who dares to show his emotions is told to 'man-up' because bottling everything up and being emotionally retarded is a male characteristic and although we all know it is really bad, it therefore becomes good.  Being sexually promiscuous is bad for a woman and good for a man.  Women are tarts, whores, sluts, slags and men are studs.  The line in Grease where she says, "Tell me about it stud," would have been a whole lot different if he'd said to her, "Tell me about it tart!"

Tell me about it, stud

I recently read a very interesting paper about gender representations in children's literature by Janice McCabe http://www.vanneman.umd.edu/socy428/McCabeFGPT11.pdf, where they found the balance between male and female characters is skewed towards the male.  This was particularly noticeable when the character was an animal and that when animals were not assigned a gender then parents reading the book would automatically call the animal 'he'.  

We all do it and you may be reading this, thinking that I've gone totally crazy, focusing on the use of a words in this way.  After all what does it matter?  There are good men and excellent women who use phrases like, "throw like a girl," and it doesn't make them not want equality.  I know that but it doesn't hurt to understand how ingrained into our language the negative connotations of being female are.  We need to remember that it's good to be a girl, a woman, a princess and that tarts are wonderful.

Sticky Walnut Tart

Don't Fly Too Close to the Sun

Primary schools probably unwittingly shape the mental health and attitude of their pupils.  Children who go to certain Prep schools grow up with a sense of entitlement; they know they are the best and therefore only the greatest things will come to them.  My school was a bit different from that.  I was left feeling as though it wasn't seemly to be too good at anything, that trying hard and succeeding against the odds was more important than anything that comes easily and that you will be horribly disfigured if you had firework parties.  I made all of these assumptions from school assemblies.

I liked assemblies.  They were a chance to practise sitting cross legged on the floor in a way that takes up the most possible room.  (I can see now that this was an early love of Yoga)

Sukhassana - or the assembly pose.

You could drift off and have your own thoughts for 20 minutes at the beginning of the day and wake yourself up with a bit of a sing.  I feel sorry for today's children who don't start their day with an assembly to wake up but have to wait until the afternoon, when they are already awake and have to actually listen.  As a consequence of the early morning assemblies I can only remember a few.  The first I remember, is the annual firework assembly.  Each year they would show us pictures of horribly disfigured children.  I particularly remember one, where my teacher talking about a pupil she taught who had a firework blow up in her face and the delight this teacher, in her floral skirt and comfortable shoes (that is the only bit of a teacher you see when sitting cross legged on the floor), expressed as she paced up and down the length of the hall describing injuries in full horrific, technicolour detail.  I also remember how guilty I felt later in the day when she tried to open the vertical blind and it fell off the wall and hit her on the head, causing it to bleed and her to be rushed off to hospital.  You might think that I had no reason to feel guilty but all through the assembly I was thinking, "I hope something horrible happens to you and someone enjoys telling everyone about your injuries."

The second assembly that stuck in my mind was the one about someone from the war who had their legs blown off and when he overheard the nurses saying that he couldn't survive he decided to get better.  This was given by our headmaster, who was rather keen on corporal punishment.  I remember the boy sitting next to me who was already well acquainted with Sir's slipper saying, "I bet he would have beaten that man for not trying to walk even if he was sat in bed the next Shakespeare play."

The final assembly I remember from my Junior school days was one given by a new headmaster, who arrived in my final year.  We all called him 'Baggy Adams' because he always wore the same pair of brown trousers that had a rather saggy bottom (again, the view we had of him from the floor). He told the story of Icarus.  I think he probably went through lots of Greek Myths because I remember tormenting my little sister by telling her that her hair was all snakes and that she better not look at me because she would turn me to stone.  The story of Icarus struck a chord with me, though. The idea that you could get into trouble if you tried to be more than you were destined to be; that flying too close to the sun could only end in disaster; your wings would melt and you would come crashing to the ground, has stayed with me for all of my life.  

I fear that I am flying a bit too close to the sun at the moment I can feel my wings might be about to melt.  What if someone finds me out?  Soon, someone will realise that I'm a fraud; that I'm making it all up as I go along; that I'm just lucky to be working with talented children.  

If only I'd gone to a school where they told stories in assembly of Hercules and Theseus but then I would probably end up like the ex-chairman of the Co-operative Bank and really have something to hide when I finally get found out.

Choir's for Girls

There is still a lot of work to do to get equality between the sexes.

Yesterday, a boy came to see me. He said, "I'd really like to join choir but my mum says I have to go to football club."

"Oh," I said, "I thought you loved football."

"I do," he said, "but I'm in three teams anyway and I could miss the school football club and still play loads but I can only come to choir once."

I was impressed at the thought he had put into it and although I would love to have choir that doesn't clash with any club to force children to make difficult choices, there just aren't enough hours in the day or days in the week to make this possible, so I suggested he try his brilliant argument on his parents.

"Oh, I did," he said, "but she said choir was for girls!"

Tell that to this to the Vienna Boys Choir or the amazing Great Western Chorus that sang at the Barnardo's concert, with their female Musical Director.

A New Approach to the To Do List

Today I made a list of things to do.  There were twenty one large items on it.  I looked at the list and my heart sank.  How was I going to get through all that?

I might be the only person who, when faced with a dauntingly long list has a tendancy to procrastinate.  Once the list is started then success seems unlikely.  I have thought about not writing a list and then failure wouldn't be inevitable but I know that without the list I would just go round in circles, worrying that I had loads to do but not getting any of it done.

So, today I thought I'd make a second list; a things I've done list and I put everything on it.  It started like this:

1. Read 2 chapters of my book

2. Looked at Facebook and Twitter

3.  Watched a video (from pintrest) of a teacher using Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to make a musical.

4. Deleted and read e-mails

5. Got out of bed

6. Showered, did vocal exercises, cleaned teeth, got dressed.

7.  Walked dog

8. Fed dog.

Without my 'Done' list then I would have just been in a position of failure.  It would have been 9am and I'd have done nothing but as it was at 9am I'd done 8 things.  At the moment of writing this blog, I currently have 61 items on my 'done' list and I'm feeling quite proud of my acheivements.  There are lots of things on it that I wouldn't normally think to count but things that nevertheless take time like 'made and ate lunch' and there are the things that I did to avoid some of the big things on my first list like 'made banana bread with overripe bananas' or 'washed kitchen floor' but the amazing thing is that as I added more items to my 'done' list I felt less like a failure and more able to tackle some of the 'to do' items.  

There are only 7 things left out of the original twenty one.  If I hadn't done sixty one things today though, I might consider that a failure but it feels like a real acheivement.  

I might market the 'done' list.  I could write a book, go on lecture tours, wear white flowing dresses with flowers in my hair and explain the secret of my serenity.  Oh no....wait....I've still got seven things to do on today's list and there will be more on tomorrow's list...........  PANIC.

Zero Gravity

When films get great reviews and are tipped to win a fist full of Oscars it can be very difficult to give an honest personal opinion.  There is a touch of the 'Emporors New Clothes' about the whole thing.  You don't want to be the first person to say that the film was the biggest pile of horse poo you've seen in years, just in case you show your ignorance.  Cloud Atlas, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Matrix and Lost in Translation are all films like that.  You feel as though they must be really clever but if you are me then you probably don't really 'get' them.  Then there are the films that have had so much hype that by the time you see them they can only disappoint.  For me, The Kings Speech, Lincoln, the Curious Case of Benjamin Button and probably Titanic fall into this category.  And finally, there are big budget films that are just rubbish but no one seems willing to say so.

Today, I went to see Gravity.  The reviews are brilliant.  Every national newspaper has given it 5 stars.  Sandra Bullock is tipped for an Oscar and I would be mad to disagree with any of this.  The Telegraph reviewer said, "(it) is a heart-achingly tender film about the miracle of motherhood and the billion to one odds of any of us being here."   "You must watch this film in 3D and the bigger the screen the better.  It's a life experience you can't miss," said another review.  I was a bit concerned about motion sickness, which is considered to be the only problem of this film.  As I have been known to be sick on Dodgem cars and the chair planes at the fair I thought that spinning around in space might be a risk.  Hot Fuzz and Eragon both made me sick. The signs on the door of the cinema warned me too, so I was prepared.

Being prepared for a bit of travel sickness is one thing but nothing could have prepared me for just how truly terrible this film actually was.  I had persuaded my son and the Long Suffering Husband to go and watch the film and by the end I was almost hysterical at the look on their faces.  I had deprived them of 2 hours of their lives that they were never going to get back and I found that really funny.  Clearly, I am mad, because I disagree with every single reviewer.

The film starts with the trailer that everyone has seen, where Sandra Bullock is spun out into space and that is the best bit.  We never get to empathise with the characters.  It was impossible to care whether they lived or died.  I was quite pleased when George Clooney seemed to come back, not because I cared about his character but because I was getting a bit bored of Sandra Bullock although apparently his appearance was all in her head.
I thought her survival was completely unbelievable and maybe that is what we are meant to interpret as the 'billion to one odds of us being here' The problem is, when you know that in real life, if it wasn't a totally made up film she wouldn't have survived then the whole premise falls apart.

I had issues with the film from a feminist point of view too, which is really sad because I know that Sandra Bullock is a feminist and would have been thrilled to play a female astronaut.  The film gave us a 'softened' version of a female astronaut.  She was a doctor, working in a hospital who had only had a few months training and her appearance there seemed all very accidental.  Female astronauts (there have been 57 out of 534) have higher level degrees such as PhDs in Science or engineering, years of experience in the Navy or as test pilots.  There were medical doctors but they all undertook at least a year of NASA training and often had other degrees in Chemistry and lots of flying experience. There have only been about 7 women who have walked in space and they were all long serving military officers.  Sandra Bullock's character is given a man's name and is morbidly sad because her daughter died.  These were not the things that I really cared about though.

This is what really made me laugh:

And I did laugh.  Have you ever seen pictures of female astronauts in their vest and pants?  No, of course you haven't.  The film maker had to have her as nearly naked as he could, so he could promote the idea that this is some kind of birth metaphor.  If she could have been starkers in the foetal position he would have been thrilled but I guess that would have made the film an 18 and he'd never have received Oscar nominations then or made back the cost of all that green screen technology

She was also completely lacking in body hair, after a week in space!  I can't believe that female astronauts shave their legs, bikini line and armpits in outer space.  Male astronauts have to use a special razor attached to a vacuum to remove their beards because little stray hairs are not allowed to float around the space ship.

There will be people who are thinking that she was in her vest and knickers because she couldn't go back to her own craft and get a proper orange or blue boiler suit on.  That is true but I have checked and this is what astronauts of both sexes wear under their space suits.

This underwear is essential space kit as it keeps a space walker cool.  It has 300ft of narrow tubes running through it through which cool water is pumped.  There are vents in the undersuit that draws sweat away from the astronaut, which is then recycled in the water cooling system.  Oxygen is pulled in at the wrists and ankles to help with circulation around the suit.  She would have also been wearing one of these:

Astronauts don't take toilet breaks on their 6 hour space walks.

At the end of the film she lands in water, doesn't drown and crawls onto a sandy shore (this is probably meant to be another birth metaphor - this film maker really needs to get out more!).  The only question the Long Suffering Husband wanted answering about the film, was where the lake was.  I suggested that maybe she didn't really land anywhere but had died at the beginning of the film and it was all some elaborate dream, like Pamela had in Dallas.  He didn't care if she had.  He just wanted to know the location of the lake because he liked to look of it and would like to visit one day.  I've looked it up for him and it was Lake Powell near Utah, so maybe we will visit one day.

This film didn't make me sick but I would give it zero stars.  The only upside is that I have learnt a lot about female astronauts, what they wear under their space suits,  if they cut their hair, wear a bra (most don't bother) and how hard they have had to work to get their job.  I have read a lot about Space missions on the NASA website and I suggest that if you are interested in seeing Gravity you give it a miss and just check out the fantastic pictures and stories that NASA provides. http://www.nasa.gov/index.html#.Un__efm-3Kk

Peggy Wilson is the woman who has done the most number of space walks (5)

Twinkle

Yesterday I took my year 5/6 choir to sing at the Royal Albert Hall. They were brilliant and we had a fantastic day. It was a concert organised by and in aid of Barnardo's. I hope that it was more than just a fantastic experience for my choir and that it has also raised shed-loads of money to help other children who aren't quite so lucky.

I was so proud of all the children in the choir who had worked so hard to learn the songs (and even told me off when I got the verses of Hey Jude muddled) who stood up and sat down when they were told, who watched the conductor, who were happy and cheerful even when they were tired. I was especially proud of the boy who sang a solo. Sometimes I have to pinch myself just to remember how lucky I am to be working with such wonderful kids. 

We had also learnt how to play the Ocarina for the concert. We played a tune called Ode to a Joyful Star, which was a 6 minute combination of Twinke Twinkle, Ode to Joy and the New World Symphony. Ocarina Workshop and the Schools Music Association had decided to use the Barnardo's concert to attempt to break the Guiness  World Record. I admit that I was skeptical about how good it would sound. My choir had worked very hard to learn how to play, and being recorder players it was quite an easy transition but I know how long it can take to blow gently enough and in the right way, cover holes with fingers, have the coordination to move fingers in time and follow the music. They had said that they were going to teach the audience and have them join in as well. Some of my choir were worried about this and assigned themselves the personal challenge of teaching their families. They probably weren't the only ones because it didn't sound too bad. There were loads of squeaks but the tunes were recognisable. 

The conductor, Sir Douglas Coombes deserves another knighthood. He was lovely all day: he smiled even when telling children not to blow the ocarinas, or trying to fix a mis-learnt song. I learnt a lot just by watching him. He was very clever in getting us over the 4pm hump by making us dance like Old People to Trevor (I think I'm a little bit in love with Trevor) playing the organ (it's rare to find a man who can really handle his organ). I did feel very sorry for him though during the concert. He had 1300 children in the palm of his hands but there were lots of audience members who were so badly behaved it was untrue and I could see that this upset him a bit. When a conductor has silence from his choir and is just about to start the song he doesn't expect people to shout out their child's name. At first I thought it was an unfortunate person with Tourette's who couldn't help themselves but if it was then Tourette's is catching. I don't understand what they thought they were adding to the evening and if their children are anything like those in my choir they would have been mortified.

At one point I thought I might not be able to take part in the ocarina world record attempt. When some children were told not to blow their ocarinas it was suggested they tuck them in their T- shirt. Unfortunately, my ocarina became firmly wedged in my cleavage. On the plus side, though, it was nice and warm when I got it out. 

We smashed the current world record. The Chinese had managed to get 808 people playing together for 6 minuites and we managed to get 3400 people playing. Some people had to be disqualified for acts such as laughing, getting lost, running out of puff (totally understandable) and stopping to take pictures or shout out their child's name to distract them (not understandable)

Because I knew my choir were going to be stars I made some end of concert cakes, as a sugar rush when on a post concert high always makes for an interesting coach journey.

Back to normality today, I had to teach year 5/6 their normal music lessons. I showed them the painting of Bacchus and Ariadne and told them that we would be using the picture as a stimulus for composition. I told them that there was a tune that they had to use in their composition and asked them to try and guess that it was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that I wanted them to use from the story of Ariadne. I said that Ariadne had been made into a constellation. 

"Who can tell me what a constellation is?" I asked

"It's the stuff you have in the loft."

"Mmm. That's insulation."

"It's when you can't squeeze a poop out!"

"No, Twinkle, that's constipation," I laughed until I cried.

And now for the Tweather

I'm a little bit obsessed with the weather.  I follow loads of extreme weather sites, the met office, weather forecasters, volcano and hurricane watch Twitter accounts.

This morning one of the earthquake and tsunami sites posted that there had been an earthquake of magnitude 5 near Tokyo.  This isn't very unusual.  There are about 5 earthquakes of that sort of magnitude a day but not often near such built up areas.  I was also interested because I have a friend in Tokyo at the moment.

So I checked the hashtag and it was the first time I have ever felt sorry for a natural phenomenon.  You can't rely on Twitter for accurate weather reports.  In the last storm that hit England, you would have encountered a mix of people who were disappointed with the lack of devastation (I think they were hoping for a re-enactment of The Wizard of Oz) to people who were devastated because trees had fallen on their houses and everything in between.  The only way to really decide what was going on was to get out there and find out for myself.  I discovered that it was mainly OK but there were some really strong gusts (I don't like the word gust but I can't think of a better one) that were enough to push trees over.

I was hoping that Twitter would give me an early warning about whether people were OK.  Twitter was very vocal about the quake and apart from a cute picture of a scared panda clinging to his keeper's leg most people were saying that it was a bit shaky but not too bad. I will admit, that not being able to read Japanese did put me at a slight disadvantage because I have no idea what the words say.

The worst thing about this Earthquake, though, was that it angered One Direction fans.  You think being in an Earthquake would be scary.  That's nothing compared to angry 1D fans on Twitter.  How dare this natural phenomenon threaten their boys, the love of their lives, the only reason they have for living?  Then to make matters worse the pop lads didn't seem to understand their fans concern and didn't immediately Tweet to say that they were alive.  That must mean they were dead, damaged, hurt or had had their thumbs blown off. I like to think they just slept through the whole thing after a heavy post-gig party but I will probably never find out, as I'm not interested enough in them to follow them on Twitter. (They are probably lovely people with great singing voices. Please don't hurt me!)

I am pleased to tell you that my friend posted her safety on Facebook, although she did have to sing, "These are a few of my favourite things," to get through it.  I love that there is always a song for every occasion.  I wonder what the One Direction lads were singing?

Bra Burning Feminist

I haven't stopped thinking about 'feminism' and a good alternative word since the Newsnight programme.  Ruby, of the beautiful eyes and lip-biting self deprecation, from the British Bake Off has written another brilliant comment piece for the Guardian today.  http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/nov/01/woman-feminist-shout-down-ruby-tandoh?CMP=twt_gu
She says that we mustn't "facepalm" (I can promise you I have never facepalmed in my life) when Angela Epstein says that her blow-dried hair is evidence that she's not a feminist.  Mrs Epstein's position is one shared by many women.  Many women think that they can't be feminists if they want to look nice, wear make-up, be a princess, pole dance for their boyfriend, knit or have children.

I am a domestic feminist.  I knit, make cakes, stayed at home to raise my children but I still advocate women's rights on the basis that there is (or should be) equality between the sexes.  I raised a feminist daughter, who loved pink, would still like to be a Disney Princess and spends her free time thinking about make-up; a feminist son, who loves science, food, geography, maths and cooking and am married to a feminist man, who likes shopping, moaning, drumming out of time and films.  Everyone in my family would want women to be treated fairly and equally because they believe that there should be equality between the sexes and that's what makes us feminists.  That is the definition of feminism.

Maybe, Angela Epstein and others who agree with her are saying that men and women are not equal.  If so, I think they are confusing equality with being the same. Of course, men and women are different.  Women don't cry for three days if someone throws a ball in their crotch and men don't have babies or have breasts that require support. No two humans are the same but that doesn't make them less equal, or it shouldn't.  Because women have been suppressed for so long (I would love to be a fly on a wall to go back in history and find out how that happened) we have become used to gender stereotypes and associating male roles as good things to want and female roles as bad.  This is where feminism may have made it's big mistake.  Instead of agreeing and denying the female roles they should have said how great these things are and allowed men to do them too.  There are men who want to wear make up, smell nice, have shiny hair, shop, cook, knit, sew, remove all the hair from their bodies, have tidy houses with nice curtains, stay at home to raise their children.  There are men who would be better at these things than their wives or partners.  There are also women who want to build things, be strong, run enormous companies, dig allotments, do maths or science who would be better at those things than men.  We need to stop assuming that there are things that only women do.  My daughter and I were having a discussion about feminism yesterday and she was telling me how she had analysed a 'style' magazine, as part of her course, looking at roles of men and women.  She said that they had found all the top jobs, editors etc, were taken by men but all the writers were women.  She qualified her statement with, "of course all the writers were women because of the content of the magazine."  This is what we need to change.  We need to teach our boys that feminine qualities are great and we need to be less frightened that they will steal these great things from us.

Denying female activities was what defined feminists in the 1970s when I was growing up.  They railed against some things that many women wouldn't want to give up.  If a couple wants a baby, it is the woman that has to have it and if a woman has breasts over a certain size they will need support.  I grew up with the images of women burning bras and would have probably been put off feminism if my mother hadn't shown that you can wear a bra and be a feminist and that you can even wear those big 'suck everything in knickers' and believe in women's rights.  As a teenager, I was desperate for a bra, despite having nothing to put in it and so my mum took me to be measured.  It was a humiliating experience for someone who really should have been wearing a tight vest and so I refused to be measured again until I had my first child and really needed proper support.  Since then, when I was a 34H I have been measured about 5 times and each time the answer is amazingly different.  I have been everything from 32AA to 38D, which is a surprise to me and probably would be to anyone who has known me because I have remained a constant size 10-12 dress size.  Each time I have been measured I have then bought a bra that the shop assistant insists is the right size but I am unable to wear for more than 4 hours without permanent injury.

This half term holiday, my main job was to buy some new bras.  I threw out a draw full of uncomfortable ones and discovered that I had two that were still just about possible to wear.  One was that horrible washed, I don't know if I'm white, grey or beige colour and the other has a small hole at the edge of the underwiring which is threatening to pop out and stab me to death the next time I bend over.  The Long Suffering Husband came with me for the first attempt.  He likes to shop and has opinions on what makes a nice bra.  I couldn't find anything that seemed to fit.  I tried all the sizes I'd been told I was before but nothing was right.  "You'll have to get measured," he said.  I resisted and went home and measured myself and went back to try more on, still without much luck.  Then on my 4th trip to the shops (and if you know how much I hate shopping you will realise how difficult that was for me) I gave in.  I stood in the Debenhams' changing room in a bra, with a little roll of fat hanging over the top of my jeans, looking older and uglier than I remember ever looking and reluctantly called for the young, pretty assistant to come and stare at me.  Yesterday, I wore one of the bras that she decided were perfect.  By 4pm I was on the verge of tears, there was a stabbing pain just above my left rib and I still had a 3 hour drive before I could properly take the thing off.

Suddenly being a bra burning feminist seems like a good idea. Ignore everything I just said about women and men being different it's a tight vest for me from now on.