Recently my very open minded yet stubborn flatmate sent me a link to a youtube video titled “the problem with feminism in the twenty first century”. We often clash on these subjects thinking each other too pig headed to listen to the other. Both guilty. Equally. But he's worse than me. I didn't mean that. It was a joke. Its safe to say I found the video completely infuriating. I, as a self proclaimed feminist, and I’m super happy to be one, often feel I have to defend feminism. Which, in itself is ludicrous as we all know a woman, most of us love or care for a woman in our lives so why would we all not declare ourselves feminists? Well, it appears that there are a number of men, and indeed women, friends and family members of mine included, that also feel under attack and have to defend themselves. Only they feel they're attackers are feminists. The video talked about the first, second and third waves of feminism; in the most patronising of manners. The man who made it, kindly went into detail of how we women should go about being feminists, being a feminist isn't gender specific of course, but I'm sure he knows that. He suggested how we could all re-think our approach as we’re currently unlikable and, the third wavers are indeed whats wrong with feminism in the twenty first century. Somewhat understating my response I'll just say I didn't take kindly to being accosted with this idiots opinion in the middle of my day. Particularly as it felt completely irrelevant to me as I have always believed in equality only. It did, however, cement the thought that a lot of people believe that modern feminism is being led by these men hating, angry, shouty women who want to take over the world. What I'm sick to the back teeth of and I'm sure many others are too is being unceremoniously plonked in the same category as these unbearable fools. I personally don't know who these ladies are. I cant think of one friend or acquaintance who believes in anything other than equal opportunities for women. I’m not denying their existence. Only because I can't see them doesn't mean they're not there; much like the Loch Ness Monster right? Wait, does that exist? Not all Loch Ness Monsters are imaginary and not all feminists are arseholes. Wait. Does that mean some feminists are arseholes? Yes, it does. Some men are too. Some kids are arseholes and even some cats are arseholes, but we shouldn't let one cat or brat tarnish our opinion of the whole community. With that strange thought in mind maybe in a gesture of moving forward we could start collectively turning the cheek to those bad eggs. There’s always one person who ruins the party by shitting in the sink. They're gross. They probably weren't invited to the party in the first place, but it doesn't mean you cancel it and kick all of your mates out. Being wholly committed to this metaphor I think we should turn up the music, dance together and let the good times roll.
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Well. Here we go. Blog one, as in I have never written a blog before. So lets start with an introduction shall we? Me first. My name is Gemma Whiteley. I identify myself as an actor which means I'm a bartender. I also write, often prompted by being unemployed as an actor. Bear with me, this will be upbeat, I promise. Well, lets say I'm saving all the laughs for blog two. Whilst on my way home from work, feeling all disappointed in myself, it suddenly occurred to me that I have this very distinct persona. A persona I feel I gravely let down today. From childhood, I have been laden with comments from friends and teachers and family such as "she's very mature", "A very together and sensible young lady" and "reliable" "trustworthy" "grown up". Well now I am indeed a grown up. I live away from home. I pay rent. I have a car thats insured and, as of a couple of hours ago has a full tank of petrol. That said, I'm seriously considering asking my mother, who lives one hundred and twelve miles away if she could ring me on a morning to make sure I'm up for work. This morning I started work at nine o'clock. Only I didn't. I slept in. I mean I royally slept in, by three hours. At eleven forty I was woken by a call from my boss. Shit. I apologised, and apologised again. And then again. Oh, and its not the first time this has happened. I'm a deep sleeper, okay. Lets fill in this picture. I work in a bar. Half of my week I work late and often get home at one or two in the morning. The other half of the week I work early, either starting at nine in the morning or at midday. Ive been doing this on and off for nearly five years. Poor me, well, lots of people work similar, unsociable hours. They handle it. They get there. Today I didn't. Yesterday however, I did get there and clocked off at five just like Dolly Parton. I even did lots of work in between. Go me! Today when I arrived, it was cool. My colleagues were cool with it, even my boss was nice to me, I was welcomed and it was initially laughed off. But it was not the first time. The head chef commented that "I needed a hug" "I looked under the weather" and my boss asked me if I "needed a minute" an offer I quickly dismissed. I wanted to make the coffees, serve the customers and maybe have the ground swallow me up. The chef had informed my boss that I was called back into work late the evening before and that I had been feeling ill. I had a cold. Season changes and all that. All this may explain my morning mess up. It's very plausible and all true. But it wasn't the first time. Maybe my cold is irrelevant, maybe me going back to work on my evening off is irrelevant. Perhaps the fact that I have been struggling with severe acne recently, as a result have stopped exercising, haven't had a professional acting job for a whole year, when I'm not working I'm setting up my own theatre company on my own and trying to write a play, perhaps those do have something to do with it. That feeling of trying desperately to run through water every time I apply for a job, the gut wrenching, soul destroying disappointment when I don't get it, actually might be causing my ever reliable, sturdy persona to crumble just a touch. Or as icky as it feels to admit (and it shouldn't) it could just be that its about time I spoke to a doctor about it. And I bet I'm not the only one. |
AuthorI'm an actor and writer living in Manchester. I have a lot to say. Archives
November 2018
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