CULTURE
When we the last time you said something controversial online? I don’t mean ‘I’m not a fan of chocolate’ controversial, but more ‘your politics don’t match up with mine and here is why’. I can’t remember the last time I did.
Put me in front of you in person and I’ll gladly lecture you on your own male privilege, the importance of using someone’s preferred personal pronouns or why, no honestly listen, we still don’t have racial equality in this country. These are just a few examples of recent debates I’ve had down the pub. Have I put any of that stuff online? Not a chance in hell. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, the notes section of my phone is full to the brim with work, but something has been stopping me. That thing, which I can feel pulsing in my chest right now as I write this is, is fear.
I stopped speaking out for the fear of being wrong. For the fear of being the minority viewpoint, for fear of the group backlash that is so quick and unforgiving in it’s judgement. You’re either right or you’re wrong. There are no grey areas. There’s no healthy discussion to educate both sides. There’s something about ‘not staying in your lane’ that really riles up a lot of people, especially those with union jack flags as profile pictures. One foot wrong and you’re done. Not like Woody Allen done, where you’ll always be given a second chance because you’re a ‘creative genius’ but Lena Dunham done, where people are happy to have finally caught you out and kicked you off your podium. Just like back in the 1500s, people love a good public takedown.
"The fear of being wrong has not subsided, but there is a stronger feeling, the fear of being complicit."
Since I started working in the startup space a few years ago, I’ve quickly absorbed the fact that discussion and debate are the way you get shit done. No-one is as respected as their last idea, and you have to throw your expectations to the side in order for innovation to happen. It’s the only way to grow. However, the cultural patterns and behaviours we have formed for the online experience are far more extreme than we would find in reality. When else would you have to sum up your position in 140 characters or less? In our hurry to try and get to the point, many people miss the point entirely.
There are some glimmers of hope. Case and point is the notorious and meteoric rise to stardom of Diet Prada, the fashion insiders calling bullshit on design copycats and shady behaviour that has, until now, been the industry standard. People are listening and talking, and only a few are trying to personally attack the Diet Prada duo for their well researched opinions. More importantly, is the matter of online activism and campaigns such as #Repealthe8th which have helped to form many people’s opinion and actually change legislation. But, here's the question, when will an individual’s opinion and experience have the same acceptance and curiosity as a movement? When that happens, movements will start daily as it will be less terrifying to take that first step through the door.
The fear of being wrong has not subsided, but there is a stronger feeling, the fear of being complicit. Not wanting to just muddle along in the mediocrity and post photos of my brunch with a motivational caption next to it. Just because you’re posting online doesn’t mean you are really saying something. As an educated white woman, my silence doesn't help anyone. What is does do it breed consent to the things I don’t call out. As a teenager I was constantly called out for always having to ‘have the last word’, now I hope someone accuses me of that again.
‘I should have brought a fucking coat’ I muttered as I stepped out of Westminster station and turned towards Downing Street into the #TimesUp rally. Stoically stood outside Theresa May’s humble abode for the next two hours, by the end I was hardly the picture of an empowered woman sticking it to the patriarchy. Instead I looked like a shivering puppy who’d been left outside in the rain. My voice was hoarse from chanting, my hands were chapped and cold. I was not alone. The girl stood to my right, her hands white knuckled a plank of wood, frozen stiff but defiant like the ‘patriarchy sucks’ badges pinned to her lapel.
I didn’t have a sign to hold but my presence contained the message I wanted to send. As a woman who has experienced domestic violence first hand, I have often shied away from conflict. But there comes a moment where silence is more painful than speaking up. There were women in front of me holding signs in all forms. Big, funny, angry, sarcastic, many with witty punchlines, the best of which were ushered to the front for the purpose of the press. I took great pleasure in reading the sharp quips ‘This is a bloody joke’ one read, with sanitary pads dangling from its edges. I absorbed this humour, this energy, this light like a sponge (or should I say a tampon) because when you’re aware of what we’re here to protest, you have to find something to smile about.
The first Women’s March was held on the same day last year, 21st January 2017. The first day of Trump’s presidency. His election was a catalyst, the straw that broke the long suffering 52% of the populations’ back so we formed, and we rallied under a clear mission:
“We believe that Women’s Rights are Human Rights and Human Rights are Women’s Rights. We must create a society in which women – including Black women, Native women, poor women, immigrant women, disabled women, Muslim women, lesbian queer and trans women – are free and able to care for and nurture their families, however they are formed, in safe and healthy environments free from structural impediments.”
This is not about Trump. This is about us. This is about ending discrimination towards women, ensuring our sisters in Poland, Ireland and other nations have reproductive rights, that ALL women are uplifted and empowered.
Why is it then that we don’t trust women to tell our own story? Why must our protests be dismissed as ‘Trump-bashing’ or ‘attention seeking’? The media loves to write about a villain, to sensationalise a character, but they don’t like to tackle the issue of entrenched cultural misogyny. To dismiss the Women’s March as a superficial movement is the easy thing to do. What’s not easy is to confront the complexity of dismantling a patriarchal society. It’s not easy to collectively admit that this is going to be a hard fight. To accept that this is well and truly unchartered territory, a unified grey area.
This is why the media is so reluctant to tackle it. We women have the vote, we have it good enough already right? The rise of female empowerment is coming at a time when long-form journalism is dying. Without our snappy signs and the association to Trump would the media pay attention? Do they have the capacity to make the nuances of female issues digestible for the culpable masses?
“Our movement isn’t perfect, but it’s here. We work with what we have. We, the minorities, the lowest earners, the emotionally and physically bruised do what we can.”
‘What happens now, you’ve protested, now what?’ in the age of instant technological dopamine hits, the world expects instant gratification and a clear cut perfect performance. The critique on women’s activism is unrelenting. If we only campaigned for one issue, we would be seen as neglecting the other causes. When we campaign for all areas of women’s equality we are criticised for being ineffective and too general. Dismantling a patriarchal civilisation is a general issue is it not? To quote the eminent Roxane Gay “We have this tendency to put visible feminists on a pedestal. We expect them to pose perfectly. When they disappoint us, we gleefully knock them from the very pedestal we put them on.”
Those judging the movement from a voyeuristic high ground of privilege fail to connect with the people behind the issues, or to research beyond their own understanding. Yes, we spoke about Trump, but was also a profound moment where a trans woman, Paris Lees, stood on stage fearing rejection from the crowd but instead was welcomed with applause. Her raw emotion was like a tangible thread of connection running through us all. That is why we were really there.
Our movement isn’t perfect, but it’s here. We work with what we have. We, the minorities, the lowest earners, the emotionally and physically bruised do what we can. We make signs out of cardboard because we can’t donate money to twist the arm of a CEO. We are still mostly excluded from the systems of power to create change, so we have to make our own. Some say it takes seven generations to truly change a cultural behaviour, and to coin a phrase from the march, the thing we are trying to change is the glass ceiling. It starts with a small chip, these chips turn into cracks and then the glass begins to shatter. The Women’s March was one chip.
How are you making a chip in the ceiling?
This article originally appeared on The Nopebook. Follow me on Twitter, Instagram or Pinterest or drop me an email: jlouisemontgomery@gmail.com
Activists. Entrepreneurs. Feminists. Designers. Filmmakers. Photographers. Creators. Politicians. Innovative women are having a bit of a moment.
In a world where having washboard abs and shiny hair was once the pinnacle of female success, things are finally changing. Powerhouse women like Gucci's girl of the moment Petra Collins, writers Zadie Smith and Roxanne Gay, designers and film directing sisters Kate and Laura Mulleavy, editor Tavi Gevinson, and beauty revolutionary Emily Weiss are persistently showing up. They influence us, educate us and move the gender goal post one crucial inch at a time. They are the poster children for the next generation. This means that suddenly, somewhere between my early self doubting twenties and the release of the new Joan Didion documentary, being smart is the thing. Intelligence and singular creative thought are now more coveted than H&M's latest collab.
Growing up as somewhat of a school nerd this is music to my ears. As 21st century women we have rather a lot of things we need to put our minds to. The fact that we still don't have equal pay and the recent outpour of sexual assault allegations in Hollywood are true testament to that. What we have dealt with so far is just the tip of the iceberg. So, I for one am thankful that my energy can now be better spent developing my the space between my ears, rather than trying to reduce the fat between my thighs.
However, as we admire and put this new breed of woman on a pedestal, it's sending ripples out into the wider world. Most disturbingly, out into the tumultuous and still inherently sexist realm of heterosexual dating. Far from men romanticising the good old days when women were just nice to look at and never spoke, instead there is a particular persuasion of fella who seems intent on dating creative, innovative, nasty women types only.
“He liked me because I was bright and shiny. I was this thing that edified him."
My first encounter with one of these men in the wild was on a first date, with a now - praise the lord - ex-boyfriend “Oh so you're CREATIVE” he said beaming from a cosy velvet sofa at The Hoxton, simultaneously filling up my wine glass with more Pinot. "The whole package." I can’t lie I was flattered and what what would later turn out to be fooled. In the past, relationships have blown up into my face due to mismatched ambition, so meeting someone who seemed like and understand how I moved in the world was bloody refreshing.
I saw it change the first time I cried in front of him. Like a beautiful woman taking off her makeup at the end of a date, I was dismantling the facade that he had made me wear. Removing the reasons he wanted to be with me, my superficial strength and glamour dissolved, quite literally in front of his eyes. His adoration of my side projects was only skin deep. He embraced the idea of fucking a feminist to make him feel like a good guy, but he didn’t embrace me. Turns out being with a multifaceted woman was not what he had signed up for.
Like the well versed stereotype of the 'cool girl', the ideal of the ‘creative woman’ is reductive. It removes all personal complexities and nuance, right down to a two-dimensional caricature that we can never live up to. When this idea crossed my mind, I thought I had lost it. Maybe my ego was trying to heal my somewhat bruised heart from the inevitable bitter ending of the relationship, but it turns out I was not alone in my experience.
Cue my friend Heather. Fashion Designer, kooky, always wears a maxi dress and Valentino pumps even in the middle of winter. We were sat over coffee in Soho, lamenting her most recent breakup: “He liked me because I was bright and shiny. I was this thing that edified him.” she said “He rushed to tell his friends that he was dating a fashion designer. Parading me about on his arm at parties, but when we got home he didn’t want to talk about things, about what I was feeling and what was actually going on in the relationship.” “He walked away when the shine had worn off. The shine he’d rubbed off with his clammy hands.”
We all know the trope of the trophy wife is soon to be dead and buried. Melania Trump and Harvey Weinstein’s now estranged wife Georgina Chapman are its final examples, need I say more? So when that’s all said and done, who else are men going to hold up like a prize?
Objectification of women is a societal behaviour that has long been embedded in the male psyche, but now we are wise to this game and are, for the most part, refusing to play ball. This shift to objectifying women’s personalities rather than their bodies is a Darwin style survival tactic that I’m not surprised men have started to adopt. It’s difficult to detect. If you date a strong, independently minded women, how can you be one of the bad guys?
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