visible disabilities and clothes

I saw a post about this over on the lovely DMHFFH group, and decided I had to watch. Since the fibromyalgia - woo, it has a name - started, and because I'm having one of those days (a whole 'nother story involving Millie, the bed, and me ending up on the sofa and not sleeping) I'm kinda interested in disability and the way disability is perceived.

Well, that and after going to see Frankie & The Heartstrings last night (they were awesome, lovely boys and I can understand why G loves them so), I decided that I needed an extra leg getting home and got my walking stick out. I was wearing a miniskirt (with mini bustle bum-ruffles) and pink tights and boots, and I thought I looked alright. Apparently, however, I was accessorizing with a second head the way I was being stared at once I got my stick out. Attention people: just because a person has a walking stick, doesn't mean they immediately lose all interest in clothing, or mutate into an old lady. If you don't stop staring I'll shove said stick so far up your arse you'll be able to taste it.

So, yes, anyway. How to Look Good Naked... with a Difference was on Channel 4 last week, but I watched it on 4OD earlier (I fucking love internet tv catch up stuff). I don't usually watch HtLGN, mostly because I'm not a massive fan of makeover shows - I'm uncomfortable with the public critiquing of women's appearance, although at the same time I can see how it can help women become more open with each other about their body issues. I do like that HtLGN encourages body-acceptance over surgery or diets to change the women's physical appearance - it's message of confidence in one's self is a good one, at heart. That and I find Gok Wan a bit much a lot of the time. Ah well.

Like Sadie Stein at Jezebel, though, my biggest issue is that they feel they need to devote a whole series to disabled women - in a way, it is still excluding a group by virtue of circling them out for "special attention". To me, it shouldn't be a special attention thing - there should just be disabled women involved in the "regular" HtLGN series without a big thing being made about it. However, because disabled women (and men, for that matter) are so rarely seen outside of alternative and fetish modeling, perhaps drawing a big red circle and screaming "oi, dickheads, pay attention" is the way forward; we have to increase the visibility of disabled persons in shows like HtLGN (and not Britan's Missing Top Model, which was just endless rounds of trying to make typically-attractive girls who happened to be disabled look like able-bodied models while still screaming "no, they're disabled, see, they're different, we're being inclusive") before they can be seen as a normal part of the advertising and fashion industry.

I liked Tracy (the first participant) for her honesty - and her bravery - in admitting that she didn't like her body. I understand her anger at having a body that doesn't quite work "right", at being that one step further away from being "perfect". I admire her confidence, and how much she did change (while I might get almost-naked for LSG's charity drive for Haiti, total strangers in a very public place is not happening). While I don't think being confident in one's body requires the ability to get naked in front of a crowd of strangers, or that it's particularly feminist to do so, at the same time I do like that HtLGN does not require the women taking part to be typically beautiful to do so - there is a part of my feminist side that sees nudity of all forms as an important move away from restrictive bodily ideals.

It is important that disabled women and men have the same access to fashion as able-bodied people; while Tracy showed that there are sometimes clothing has to be adapted to meet the needs of a disabled person - elasticated panels in the waistband of jeans, for example - there is no real difference between asking yourself "will the sleeves catch in my wheels?" or "how long can I wear these heels for before I won't be able to walk any more?" and "will this top be too big in the chest?". They're just bodies, different sorts of bodies with different needs - but the people who inhabit them want - and deserve - the same access to and enjoyment of clothes.

The Telegraph article on the show.

Next step: realising just because someone isn't in a wheelchair or using a stick, doesn't mean they're not disabled.

preserved for... thingumy

Yes, a lot of (magazine) porn portrays women as sexual objects - more so than as willing participants - but perhaps a part of staking a claim in women as sexual participants with their own ideas about sex is porn for women, through which women can say "yes, I like to look at naked men". Women have always been seen as objects and property, I think trying to give women a voice in their own sexuality is a step to reversing this.

On women's porn, when playboy did a female version (playgirl, I believe, I don't know if it still sells) the main readership was gay men. However, there have been some good women's porn out there (Sweet Action was brilliant, although I believe it's no longer in circulation); the problem seems to be that "porn for women" aims to emulate "porn for men" - the waxed-chest brigade doesn't sell for most women. I know it's interpreted as "women are just as bad", but there is a lot to be said for being more open about sexuality - and that includes porn.

I've been thinking again

ok, i've been thinking *pauses for expressions of shock and surprise*

it's probably not an original idea, but bear with me. The trend these days is for women to be slender ("boyish") and relatively small - but big breasted. However, if you look at porn stars, magazines etc, the lauded woman is hairless - certainly compared to porn mags from the 70s and earlier. Breasts and body hair - particularly pubic hair - are both secondary sexual characteristics.

If you look at classical nudes, pubic hair is generally left out; this isn't due to a fashion but because pubic hair was seen as "sexual" - and women were not presented as sexual beings. Come the 70s and the second wave, and women were sexual beings - and we've got a lot more hair and people are starting to accept that women enjoy - and have a right to enjoy - sex. But then comes the backlash.

off comes the pubes. ok. but now let's look at our porn again (although I'm generally talking about magazine porn). You've got no hair, so the genitalia are now more exposed - but further to that, they're bubblegum pink! Now go look at a cunt - particularly one during arousal, and it's not bubblegum pink. Yes, she might be sexy, but she shows no sign (other than a few gurns) of sexual arousal - she is no longer a sexual being.

Add to that the fascination with big breasts (which, by sheer necessity sometimes are artificial) and the "ideal woman" is not only asexual - while definitely female and sexy in appearance, she's not in herself a sexual being; she's not there to enjoy herself, but to be enjoyed - but fake. Effectively, a sleek, shiny, user-pleasing machine.

big bad feminist

Feminism isn't the easiest thing to define. Well, it is. It's belief in the equality of men and women. But feminism means different things to different people - ultimately, feminism is what you make it and what it means to you.

I suppose I'm writing this for two of my friends - well, not specifically for them, but they inspired it. They don't - won't - define themselves as feminists, and so I asked Ellie why. Her answer was simple - because she would happily stay at home and be a housewife. Now, I define myself as a feminist, and I think that's fair enough. If she's happy to do that, then she can, with my blessing. What I don't believe is that women should be housewives first and foremost - I believe that women should have the choice to become housewives or executives or air hostesses or authors or doctors. Whatever they want to do. Some women wouldn't be happy staying at home - I know my mother wasn't, and I don't think I would be. I'd always seek something else to do. But if you are, and that is what you want to do - then that's cool.

For me, feminism is about choice, and the right to make those choices yourself from the same options as everyone else, regardless of the labels that society has otherwise given you. Women should be able to walk down the street without getting whistled, hooted or shouted at. Women should be listened to, their opinions given equal weight. We are not decorative objects for other people's amusement, but intelligent self-determining individuals. Women should be paid the same as men, considered on merit rather than looks or the likelihood of them having kids in the next five years.

Feminists aren't hairy-legged man-hating bra-burning militant pagan emasculating lesbians. Ok, some feminists are gay, or non-religious. Some feminists probably do hate men. I mean, just because I haven't met any genuine man-hating feminists, doesn't mean they don't exist? When I began to identify myself as a feminist, I didn't turn my boyfriend and my razor in at the door. I kept my bras, my tottering spike heels, my make-up, even my sense of humor. Militant feminists are a minority - the most militant most feminists get is going on a Take Back The Night march or taking a self-defence course. And, if you look at the definition of militant, engaging in a peaceful protest rally is hardly posing a threat to others.

Feminists don't hate children. We don't kill babies for sexual gratification (no matter what this guy might say). Feminists aren't pro-abortion, they're pro-choice. As a feminist, as an individual, I believe every woman should have access to safe, legal abortions, whether for medical or social reasons. But more than that - I believe abortion should be rare. Everyone should have proper sex education - and starting young. It shouldn't be taboo to talk about preventing unwanted pregnancy or STDs or the right to say no or what constitutes rape. But it's no use just talking about it - everyone should have access to contraception, whether that's the pill, condoms, or a coil; it's your body, you have the right to say what is done with it.

Feminists come in all different shapes and sizes, and they believe a wide range of things. But what it boils down to: women and men are the same, and they should have the same choices and opportunities. That's it. Really.



linky: "Yes, you are"

everyone fucks up it's going to be ok

This is the worst thing about depression. Knowing I'm getting depressed, as though I'm watching from the sidelines inside my own head, listening to this little part of myself shouting, screaming "no, don't go there, step back" even though I know that I'm only shouting to myself, and the rest of me isn't listening or can't hear or doesn't care, but is blithely steaming into the darkness.

I know stress is a trigger. I know. And I can control my own stress, to some degree. Take regular breaks, walk away from revision, cuddle the dog, stroke a bunny, take a nap. What I can't control is other people's stress. While I can walk away from or block out a stranger's stress - to a certain degree, although it's damn near impossible in uni - I can't do the same to my friends. I can't say "I'm sorry, your panicing about your exams is making me panic, and I'm not really interested in becoming suicidal right now, thx bye" to the people who matter to me, who support me in turn. I can't tell my friends that thier own petty dramas are impacting on my petty dramas - because to them, thier dramas aren't petty, just as mine aren't to me. And because I don't want to lose a dearest, oldest friend because she's getting worked up over an exam, or she's broken up with her boyfriend, or because she is going through what I went through, and is asking for help a lot quicker than I ever did.

I don't want to be heard-hearted or cruel. I want to support them, as they do me, because I can support them now. I can listen, I can sympathise, I can provide wine and chocolate and loud music and a comfy sofa and a listening ear. But will they do the same for me, when thier exams are over, they're done, and mine are just beginning? Will they grow tired of my moaning, my bitching, as often as I do thiers?

Part of me knows there is a single difference between me and them: they are doing thier courses because they want to - they don't know what they want to "be" once they leave university. I do. It's all I've wanted - and I am doing a course to reach that end. But with every year, the end gets jerked that bit further away, and I'm starting to fear I'll never reach that end. That no matter what I do I'll never be able to take that step to getting there.

Perhaps I ought to fight harder, work harder, stand taller, speak louder. That's what the little screaming voice is telling me. She's saying I can do it, I will do it, I'll do everything in my power to do it. But the rest of me isn't listening, she's too busy writing self-obsessive posts and moping over how inept, useless and thick she is.

I Think I Might Have Been Revising...

It’s curious how we can create a fate map, know what cells will form what limbs, nerves, brain and gut, when the ball of cells is only a few days old – so young its age is still counted in hours post-fertilization. That you can go “these cells here, they’re going to form the skin, and these here are going to form the brain” when all you have is a disc just three cells thick. You spend hours reading of dissections, scientists removing first this bit and then that, to see how the cells change their development – “if we remove this bit here, then turn it around and stick it back in, does it make any difference?” – and yet the first time you do it yourself, cut into an egg to remove the chicken embryo, you’re surprised how human it looks. Birds and humans and dogs and crocodiles all look the same at that stage, until the skeleton develops beyond the faintest suggestion of differentiating cells, the brain is more than one end of a darker line that traces the length of the notochord, the cells that aren’t nerves or muscles or even a mix of the two but just cells, parasites off another body and incapable of feeling.

The first time you remove an embryo from its egg, it’s a little blob. The next, you can define a head, here, and eyes – horribly out of proportion – and the faintest suggestion of a limb, not much more than a bump in the rounded comma that exsanguinates under your scalpel. You tell yourself that it can’t feel – it’s dead anyway, if it were to develop any more it would have horrific deformities; indeed the embryo in the next egg is slightly more developed, and if you look closely you can see the start of encephaly. But a tiny part of you twinges with guilt – that in order to learn how to save lives, you must first learn to end lives that never began, study their development under a microscope, dissect limb – with the first growths of bones faintly visible – from body to grow on in artificial fluids. Connect what you see to the pictures in the textbook of the adult dog – connect it to the cadaver in front of you leaking formalin into a bucket. Connect it to the hands in front of you, the bones arranged in an almost identical pattern; carpals to metacarpals to phalanges, no longer humanized but merely another anatomical study. Flex your wrist as you read, already correcting yourself to call it the metacarpal joint, trying to observe the sliding of tendon and muscle under skin, naming deep digital flexor and interossus muscle, knowing that the arrangement of the forearm in front of you is not so different from the dissected forelimb of a few hours ago.

And people wonder why I have such a sick sense of humour.

chez moi

I’ve lost the wire to my internet connection. I’m not even sure if I actually have internet connection, but as the little wire which runs from this laptop to the phone socket is essential to testing the fact, I’m rather stymied. So I’ll write this now, and post it up later, when I either find the connection, or get out the house and return to halls. Where I have internet, I’m playing for internet – so I will use internet.

I’ve moved house. After five – yes, five – car trips (admittedly, four of those in a fiesta barely large enough for the three of us, let alone my stuff) and two days, myself and the bunsters are in place. The bunsters are sitting in their cage, ignoring me. Their cage is open, but the excitement of exploring has been passed on in favour of nap time. They’ve explored; I’ve blocked off the sofa, and all the fun has gone out of it.

Another train rumbles along under the house. The underground runs directly – I have no idea how far – below the house. It’s the house’s only fault, really. No doubt I shall get used to it.

So far, the living room appears relatively complete. I need a desk – I’m sitting on the floor – and the sofa is hidden under a mountain of clothes. I have a few bits and pieces to sort out, but the books are on the shelves, the cds are beside them, and there is a pleasant sort of homeliness to that. I find a room without books is bare; eventually more books will find their way into my bedroom, probably more as the shelves get too full. They’re looking full now, really, or at least the lower ones are – the higher ones are too high for me to reach without a stepladder. Or a chair (I also need a chair). I don’t know who put the shelves up, but it seems silly to have put them up so high. Perhaps they were incredibly tall.

I can hear the taps running as the people upstairs run their water. I haven’t yet figured out how the hot water works (it’ll be fun showering in the morning). Nor have I met the people upstairs, except via a rather snitty note requesting me to not lock one of the locks on the door, as they only have one key for it between the three of them. Ignoring for a moment how three people can live in the flat upstairs (which is no bigger than mine, and possibly smaller) I wonder why they haven’t had copies made. It would make sense, really.

But anyway. I will go to bed, in my newly made bed with its new sheets, leaving the bunsters to nap as they choose. I have to find my nightclothes first, however.

I have yet to start unpacking the bedroom.

Am I a Proper Feminist?

With a capital "F"?

I was brought up among strong women, particularly my grandmother (who wouldn't call herself a feminist, but tells me that the most important thing a for a woman to be is independant). I started to have an interest in equality when I began to realise how much of her independance my mother had given up when she got married - and how hard it was for her to regain that independance - and more so as I left school. It was about then that I started to read "feminist" literature - I picked up an ageing secondhand copy of Germaine Greer's The Female Enuch, and then started on Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication Of The Rights Of Women. It might be old, but a lot of what it says still holds true - particularly the need for respect between men and women. I don't think that women a superior; the sexes are equal, although nature has a great deal to do with the differences between the sexes, nurture is important too. I'm probably a bad feminist because I think that no matter what, girls will prefer dolls and faces, while boys will prefer trucks and building blocks (but then again I firmly believe the best present for any girl is lego).

My interest in Feminism was furthered when I spent half a year living and working in a Muslim country - admittedly quite a liberal one - but my experience as a woman, and the limitations the culture put on me, made me more critical of both that culture, and my own. One of the things I noticed was that because I'm a western woman, it was automaticaly assumed that I was "sluttish" - impure, whatever you want to call it - and treated with less respect in many ways by both men and women. I've also noticed that the younger men watch porn - which is western - and it's the younger men who are the least respectful; the older men would prefer it if I shut up and looked demure in a hejab, but at least they didn't hurl abuse at me on the streets. I'm concerned about the effects that porn has on young men, but also on young women. It's demeaning - it "picks" on women - and gives both sexes the wrong idea. Young men, who don't know any better, assume all women are secretly "gagging for it" and inclined to have sex with any man at the drop of a hat. Young women, on the other hand, learn that sex is demeaning, yet that they should be ready and willing all the time, because men want sex all the time - and that they should be writhing and moaning in orgasm more or less continually. It doesn't paint a pretty picture, and it's not doing either men or women any good, especially as there isn't always alternative information (especially in non-western cultures).

I'd say my idea of feminism comes back to men and women being equal. I'm particularly interested in education - I always remember my grandmother telling "an educated woman has educated children" - and the effects it has on health, poverty and the like - I do believe that poverty is a feminist issue. Women shouldn't be demeaned - but that there is nothing demeaning in choosing to become a housewife - and women and men should be equal in everything. There's nothing demeaning in choosing not to havesex before marriage, but there is nothing demeaning in choosing to have sex before marriage either. It's about choice, and having access to all the choices - including the choice to abort an unwanted pregnancy, the choice to use contraceptives, the choice to sleep with whoever you want, and the choice to access as much education and employment as you want.