Feminism: Did I Really Say That?

Trigger Warning: I do discuss my views on the pro-life/pro-choice debate later on as an example

About a year ago, I wrote a blog post trying to work out my feelings on feminism. I received quite a few responses - some agreeing, some disagreeing, and some offering me information and sources to look into feminism and expand my knowledge and understanding of the issues surrounding it.

Since then, I have been trying to understand more about the feminist movement and gain a clearer picture of what is happening in it today, as opposed to the fuzzy picture of its past I'd been basing my opinions on. One year on from that conversation with my tutor where I refused to call myself a feminist, I would probably be happy enough to stick it in my Twitter bio. I follow most of the right feminist on the Twitter-sphere, I've engaged in the debates about sexual consent in the YouTube community, I've searched the right terms in Tumblr. There is a right (or should that be left?) way to to Feminism on the Internet, and I think I've got it sorted.

The first thing  I learnt about feminism is that sexism is still around. Following @EverydaySexism on Twitter has been an eye-opening experience; sexual assault is real, and sexist prejudice occurs frequently, in both minor and major ways. Often the perpetrators are unaware that they have done anything sexist, having been poorly educated about gender issues or raised with sexist opinions as part of their cultural norm. A year ago, I reckoned that women's lot was basically 'all-right'. As I sat in the back of a taxi stuck in a traffic queue and tried to ignore the man in the next car masturbating whilst staring at me, I realised that I might just be wrong.

Another thing I've learnt is that feminism isn't just about women's rights, a common misconception I held a year ago. Although women's rights are obviously the core of feminism, feminists recognise that you cannot support the rights of one oppressed group whilst ignoring another, or even allowing them to be oppressed to further your own ends. As a result, good feminist practice means supporting other movements for equality, acting against ableism, racism, and class prejudice. Ableism is a new word, and a new concept, to me, and possibly to itself. It replaces more negative words describing anyone with a disability, preferring to talk more positively in terms of ability, rather than lack of it - a term which removes the dividing wall between 'able' and 'disabled', classifying us instead on a spectrum of ability. Work against prejudice against disabled people has been around for a few decades, but the ableist movement is encouraging people to look beyond the obvious - e.g. allowing disabled students to go to university - and challenge assumptions and practices which disadvantage disabled people. The feminist movement seems to have stood staunchly behind this, especially where the two intersect. Indeed, intersect is the appropriate word here - the correct term for the union of these separate movements is Intersectionalism. I had to Google it the first time I saw it, and this awesome blog post came up - check it out if you'd like more information. It means that no-one acts alone; not only do we stick together, we watch out for ways in which our group maybe committing other types of prejudice, e.g. white woman taking precedence over coloured women at a feminist meeting.

Discovering Intersectionalism has given a name for something I've always felt, the sentiment of Martin Niemöller’s First They Came. But the application of Intersectionalism within feminism seems to be complicated. Phrases like 'check your privilege' and 'calling someone out' are the warning signs. 'Check your privilege' is basically the sentiment of the opening of The Great Gatsy ('just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had'), but reversed - remember that you are privileged, and that your background is the same as the oppressors. 'Calling someone out' means that if someone means publicly correcting someone because they have inadvertently said something ableist, or transphobic, or without awareness of their privilege in speaking, etc. I respect the good intentions of these actions, and agree with their basis, but in practice it seems to lead to a lot of feminist in fighting, squabbling, and divisions. People feel hurt as they fall out of the clique, having forgotten to use a neutral pronoun or dared to write an article from a man's perspective or disagreed with a statement about the glass ceiling in the workplace. Sometimes these issues are huge and should be noticed, and the feminist community should rightly feel proud that it is highly accountable and self-critical.

However, the result of this accountability and criticism seems to have been that a 'right' and a 'wrong' way of doing feminism has emerged, and some feminists will pounce on anyone doing the wrong type of feminism, and forbid them from calling themselves a feminist. This attitude rightly frustrates most other feminists, who are more interested in the practical application of feminism to the world. Laurie Penny, one of my favourite New Statesman writers, had a fantastic rant on her Twitter page this morning about 'Is it feminist to ...' articles. Although we're good at criticising victim-blaming and slut-shaming, we're even better at feminist-shaming.

Firstly, men. Male feminists can be 'Allies' but have to respect that there are certain arguments and places they must have no voice in, and no presence thereof, partially so that women can speak and not fear oppression, partially because they are descended from that great race of oppressors, the Male Species.

As a woman, I'm a bit better off, but a white, cisgender (the opposite of transgender), heterosexual woman I have to watch pretty carefully in case I throw my privilege around. I understand the importance of this; in so many places, the voices of the cultural norm overshadow and dominate the voices of the minority. I don't know what it is like to feel oppressed. However, at times the preoccupation with our differences, especially ones we have no control over, seem to hinder rather than help the feminist discourse. We're so obsessed with breaking down the rankings that we risk creating an alternative social hierarchy, where the right to speak and have a voice is negated by your lack of pre-determined privilege. I'm being careful making this comment because it is the exact same argument that Daily Mail (or Daily Male, right?) readers make when they claim that only asylum-seekers with twenty children get council houses, and that people ought to feel sorry for us poor 'indigenous' white Brits. That argument is clearly balls: my feeling here is that we haven't struck the right balance yet. In an ideal world, oppression would be historic, past disadvantages would be readdressed, and people of any sex, gender, race, ability etc would be able to discuss issues with equal voices. Until that happens, protecting the voice of minorities is important - I just feel that we haven't worked out a good way to do this without alienating anyone who happens to be in the majority, which is particularly galling if as part of the majority (white/cis/het) you're becoming feminist to stick up for the rights of someone in the minority. People get alienated for stupid reasons. I'm not personally offended, but it doesn't exactly make me want to get involved in feminist activities either.

The thing that really causes me problems within feminism, however, is how certain opinions - opinions I don't, and can't hold - have become set-in-stone feminist doctrines, and disagreeing with them seems to reduce the validity of your status as a Feminist. Although one of the principles in feminism is free debate, a little experience tells you instantly which argument will be taken up as the 'feminist' voice, and which the voice of the outsider and oppressor. For instance, I believe that women should have the right to wear the Hijab, so long as they do so because it is part of their personal belief system, and not being forced on them by men. Some feminists agree here, but those who disagree do so aggressively and angrily, labelling pro-hijab groups anti-feminist.

Let's take an even-worse example. I am pro-life. As a Christian (and a practising Catholic!) life is sacred to me from conception onwards. I think that pre-conception contraception is fine, but any form of abortion is unacceptable. This is my personal opinion, and I would not force it on anyone else, but in this case, my faith dictates that I have a moral duty to stick up for my belief, and for unborn children. I chose to do this by supporting better contraceptive advice for teenagers and more support for pregnant mothers etc rather than standing outside abortion clinics with placards, believing that it is better to treat the cause rather than the symptom, and that those kind of tactics are unpleasant and abusive. However, the loud voice of Mainstream Feminism seems to consider that to be pro-life is to be anti-woman, and a form of oppression over women's bodies. Men cannot have a say in what women do with their bodies; their foetus' do not count - in fact, only the woman in question does. It's a valid argument unless you believe in the sanctity of unborn life, which I do. Yet because I hold this opinion, I am seen to be siding with the Oppressor, the continuation of male and societal control over women's bodies. I'm not writing about this to start the pro-life/pro-choice argument, even though I know people will message me complaining about my views. The point is that feminism can be exclusive and restrictive, to its detriment.

Over the last year, my opinions and perspectives have been challenged in many ways, and I hope will continue to be challenged. I've found things I like and things I dislike about feminist, people I admire and people who frustrate me. I've also realised that I, and people like me, need to be active and aware of the complex social issues around us, fighting against prejudice in all its forms - whether that's black people sat at the back of the bus or the local radio playing Blurred Lines. Feminism is a shifting and dynamic movement, and yes, it's imperfect. But you know what? So were all the other movements that made a difference. We look back on the Civil Rights movement or the early gay-rights protesters or Emmeline Pankhurst and the Suffragettes as perfect examples because their cause was just and they succeeded, and we whitewash the flaws and the divisions in their campaigns - but that doesn't mean they weren't there. For all its stumbling blocks and cliques and in-fighting, today's feminist movement could be the successor to the glorious movements of the past, achieving monumental change not just for women but for society as a whole. It's worth baring the hitches and virtual-slapping and bitching to be part of that.

One year on from the pretentiously titled 'A Conversation With Feminism' blog post, I'm finally having that conversation - with myself. In my last post, I asked: 'Am I a feminist?' Today, I can finally answer: 'Yes.'

Joanna.

Dear Joanna: You Look Okay (TW: Eating Disorders)

Trigger Warning: In this letter I talk about body confidence and eating disorders. 

Dear Joanna,

Of all the letters I'm going to write to you, this one seemed like the most important, because it was so important to you for so long. 

At the moment you are thirteen and one of the tallest girls in your year. You are what they call an 'early bloomer' - people often thought that you were a year 9 student when you were only in year 7, which you kind of liked. Your problem is that although you are as tall, and sometimes as mature, as someone in their mid-teens, you still have a child's body shape. You have puppy fat, with big apple cheeks, wide arms, and a stomach that sticks out, especially when you slump, which you have a habit of doing. 

Around this point, you start to realise that some of the other girls in your year look a bit different from you. They have proper breasts and hips, and boys fancy them - and no-one fancies you (that you are aware of. Actually, a few boys do, but they don't tell you till much later!). You become increasingly self-conscious. Around this point you start wearing baggy clothes to hide your shape, and moaning to your friends about how fat you are. Then you discover the scales. 

The record of how much you weigh is scattered about in your diary. The day you tip from nine stone into ten, I remember, is particularly dismal. I remember, around fifteen or so, having to listen to a boy in your class moaning about how he weighed nine stone; you sat there, hating him, but hating yourself more. I remember your joy after you had flu for a few weeks and your cheeks hollowed out a little. I still pinch my cheeks, trying to decide if they're any chubbier than they were the week before.

During the summer before you turn fourteen, you decide to take action. Whilst you're off school, you make your own breakfast and lunch, and as you get up after your parents have gone to work, it's not hard to hide it when you start skipping meals. You have to eat dinner because you eat as a family, but soon you're surviving the rest of the day on an apple and water. You weigh yourself obsessively. The weight is not coming off. After about two weeks of your secret diet, the whole family goes to visit your grandparents, where your Grandma cooks a beautiful roast lunch. You force yourself to eat it, dreading the weight you'll put on. When it gets to pudding, you refuse to eat it, and at Grandma and Granddad's, pudding is not optional. You almost cry. 'I can't do it.' Mum takes you outside and tells you that she'd rather that you were obese than that you had an eating disorder. You talk for a while, then go in, and eat pudding.

Of course, it doesn't end there, even though you do start eating breakfast again after that week. A few months later a girl who starved herself to death is in the news. She weighed under 5 stone, and you looked at her and thought, 'I wish I was as strong willed as her. She went a bit too far - I could stop before I kill myself.' I think you knew that anorexia doesn't work that way, but you convinced yourself that being anorexic meant that you were in charge of your body, not destroying yourself. I can still see that photo of the dead girl. You could see every bone in her body.

At the time, you thought the thing that was stopping you was your lack of will power, and you hated yourself for it, but the real thing that stopped you was your faith, and your family. In God you found the certainty that even though, in your eyes, you were fat and ugly, you were loved and your life had a purpose. It didn't matter what you looked like as long as your were living for him. You were also scared of hurting your family, especially your parents, and so you fought against all the stupid urges, and they supported you, as they still do and always will. 

Of course, you still compare yourself to other girls, and feel large. The honest truth is that you're not skinny, and you never will be - you have a large bone structure, and natural curves, and that's okay. Most women look like you, and most men are alright with that - and the ones that aren't are not worth your time! After a few years your weight stabilises and you slowly get your adult figure, and you'll feel a lot more confident in your body. One of your worst fears was that you'd keep on ballooning into Joanna the Inflatable Girl, a female Dudley Dursley, and it doesn't happen; at 20, you're roughly the national average. You stop growing at 5"5 too, so don't worry about towering over people - you actually spend a surprising amount of time feeling short...

Here are some things I want to tell you.

Firstly, one of the secrets to looking good like those confident girls in your year, is believing in yourself and your body. Wear clothes that make you feel happy and confident, hold your head up high, and believe in yourself. When I look back over my teenage years there's a clear dividing line between the places where I was confident, and had plenty of friends, and the places where I hid and was an onlooker, on the outside. The more you act as if you believe in yourself, the more other people will too. 

Secondly, you need to wash your hair more. Grease is SO not attractive. At thirteen you're hitting the hormones badly. Don't stress - you'll survive it, and one day, you will have a pimple free face. Mostly. 

Thirdly, stop weighing yourself. Instead of concentrating on all the bits of your body you dislike and how much they weigh, try and look at yourself as a whole. Remind yourself of the things you like about yourself: you have nice eyes, your hair is getting really long, you look good in your new jeans. 

Fourthly, stop reading calorie information on labels. Eating healthily means thinking about the balance of food you eat over the entire day, not just restricting yourself from eating anything with more than 150 calories. 

Let me tell you about the turning point, so you have something to look forward to. 

Age fifteen, you go to Florence with your family and visit the Uffizi, which is a very famous and beautiful art museum. Walking around in quiet awe, you notice that the women in the pictures aren't the stick thin women you've looked up to for years. At Titian's Venus of Urbino and Botticelli's Birth of Venus you stare at the female nudes, comparing their rounded forms with your own, and you have a revelation. Once upon a time, beauty meant having curves, having a figure. These women have breasts and hips; their stomachs stick out, their arms are wide. And yet the artists chose them for the women who were the epitome of all beauty: Mary, the Virgin Mother and most holy of all women, and Venus, the goddess of love. Compared to them, the models and ideals of the 21st century seem insubstantial: these women have lasted and will last long after the 'thigh-gap' or 'visible ribs' goes out of fashion. Over the years this will become a point of consolation for you: when you look at yourself and see fat and hate your curves, you will force yourself to think of these girls, and tell yourself that you are a Renaissance woman, and that is beautiful. 

Lastly, I want to tell you that you're happy with your body now, but that wouldn't be true. You are still self-conscious, and sometimes you let it get to you. Last December, when you were struggling with your workload and general health, you stopped eating properly for around two weeks, and lost at least 6 pounds, if not more - and you were happy about it. It's easier to hate yourself rather than doing something proactive to improve your health, and sometimes you give in to those feelings. It is getting better though. You are happier with your body, in general, and you do try to exercise a little more, and eat healthier (most of the time...). There are ups and downs. Mostly you eat what you want, and don't care, but sometimes, like this morning, drinking a glass of milk feels like pouring a glass of fat onto your hips. Maintaining the balance between a healthy consciousness of your health and an unhealthy obsession is tough, but it gets better.

Most importantly, you understand that the old adage 'it's what's inside that counts' really is true. You have friends who love you for who you are and wouldn't care less if you had blue skin and horns, and who you love in the same way. Work on who you are inside, and the outside will take care of itself. Nice people have their own kind of magnetism; they light up rooms; people are attracted to their personality. Faces grow to suit their owners. In the end, your body is just a tool you use for moving your spirit around. Remember that, and look after it, but who you are inside will always be more important. 

Joanna

P.S. You look good today. 

Surviving University: Mental Health

If I could go back in time, and talk to myself this time last year, I would have reassured the younger me that university would be alright. I'd make friends, meet amazing people, and enjoy my studies. Although I can't tell myself that, I hope that these posts will serve to reassure other people starting university, and so I've tried to keep the tone of these posts positive. 

Yet - as you should have guessed from the blog title/image - this post will be a little different. 

Moving away from home and starting again in a new place will always be difficult. Looking at my year group, one year in, I can see that most people are happy, and looking forward to the next year, myself included. But finishing the year positively doesn't mean that the first year of university was easy. Everyone had problem days: deleted coursework, essay deadlines, break-ups, hangovers, broken equipment, student finance struggles, depression, anxiety, financial worries... Whilst the majority of students come through their difficulties, a very small number of students every year drop out of university,  or suffer serious setbacks. It would be disingenuous to pretend that this doesn't happen, and all students are happy, all of the time. If you're about to start university, you should have high hopes and expectations, but you should also be prepared for some tougher times, when it won't seem as shiny as the prospectuses make out. 

This is something I know about first hand. I've just passed the first year of my dream course with a solid 2:1. I've had some fabulous experiences, met some amazing people, and have a clearer idea of what I want to achieve in my future. September and second year can't come soon enough! But four or five months ago, I wasn't feeling quite so positive. I am one of the one in ten people - and one in four students - who struggles with mental health issues. Before I go on, let's talk about the term 'mental health'. 

'Physical health' is a pretty self-explanatory term, referring to whether you are free from illness or disease. As GCSE P.E. taught me, you can also be 'fit' - a state separate from health, defining whether your body is running at peak capacity. An athlete with a cold is fit, but unhealthy. I, on the other hand, am healthy(ish) but pretty unfit... 

Mental health is more complex than this, and more disputed. Some people argue that mental illnesses are imagined, or a by product of the society in which we live in, as exemplified by the ever-expanding Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published in the US. Mental illness has a tremendous stigma surrounding it. (Check out this Huffpost blog by my friend Beth for more thoughts on this issue). 

My own problems are, thankfully, mild compared to some of the conditions I've seen friends fighting. Yet they do have a significant impact on my life. I have a mild form of depression, which I suspect began in my early teens. It wasn't diagnosed or treated until the summer before my eighteenth birthday, after a year in which I came close to screwing up my AS Levels, had panic attacks, become increasingly withdrawn, and attempted self-harm. During my second semester at university, my depression returned, and I began to question whether I belonged at university, or whether I was studying the right subject. I felt like a failure, out of my depth in my modules, and no longer able to make logical decisions about my day to day life. I dropped out of societies I'd been committed to in the term before - much to my present regret - and spent more and more time in my room, glued to my laptop. 

Thankfully, I recognised the symptoms, and after dithering for a few weeks, mustered the courage to see my doctor and my personal advisor. With the kindness of my friends and family, and some good advice, I was able to complete my first year and recover my mental 'health'. I will always have to watch myself carefully, trying to spot the symptoms of depression before it overwhelms me, but I know that it is something I can manage, and live with. 

The reason I'm telling you this isn't about sharing the details of my personal life, or trying to make myself some kind of martyr. On the contrary, the thought of telling people about my illness terrifies me, as it does all mental health sufferers. The fear of rejection and misunderstanding is a serious one for anyone with a mental health problem, and I am inspired by people who talk about their conditions publicly, such as the woman interviewed on the BBC this week about the benefits of antidepressants. 

One of the things that struck a chord with me in Beth's article is her statement that she 'felt as if she was being nothing more than a melodramatic teenager'. Too many people struggle in silence because they feel too ashamed and embarrassed to talk to anyone. If there's one thing I'd like you to take away from this blog post, it's that there is no shame in needing help. Admitting that you need help, like the proverbial fool who dares to ask a question, is the wisest and bravest way to tackle the situation.  

To this end, here are some very basic suggestions for protecting your mental health, and coping with the stresses and pressures of life at university. Whether or not you suffer from a mental illness, looking after your mental health, and supporting your friends, is important in getting through the challenges university throws at you. 

• Try to eat at least one 'proper' meal every day. Ideally you should be eating three meals a day and loads of fruit and vegetables. 
• Keep the amount of junk food and takeaways you eat down. The chemicals in junk food can act as depressants, as well as hurt your general well-being. On one of my worst days this semester, I drunk four litres of diet coke, as well as staying up late and only eating junk food. It was a weird, psychotic experience, and put me off diet coke for life.
• Exercise. Even if it's 'just' walking (like me!), make sure you get outside every day. 
• Watch how much alcohol you drink. Alcohol is a depressant; if you're already feeling low, it'll probably make things worse. 
• Try to create a regular sleeping pattern. I know this is difficult as a student, more so if you're struggling with insomnia - a frequent symptom of depression - but it really does help. Apparently, we sleep in four-hour blocks, so I reckon eight hours is probably the optimal amount of sleep per night for a student. Don't sleep in too often: it messes up your body clock, and makes you feel more tired. 
• Confide in your closest friends when you're feeling low, or just need a hug. In return, you can support them when they need you. Friends are lifesavers; don't keep it all to yourself. Talk to people, even when it's hard. 
• Treat yourself occasionally. Keep records of nice things people say to you, or things that inspire you. Put up posters that make you smile. Open your curtains during daytime (seriously, not everyone does this at university, but perpetual night WILL make you feel low!)
• Limit how much of your day is spent attached to a screen. Computers, phones, tv - it doesn't matter. If you have to work, then take regular breaks, and do something completely different in you breaks. I like to sit in the kitchen and bother whichever member of my flat is unfortunate enough to be in there with me ;)
• Be organised with your work. Keep a record of what you have to do and when it's due. I've done all-nighters. They're not fun. 

If you are concerned that you may have depression, or a related mental health issue, talk to your doctor. Some symptoms to look out for are: 

• struggling with low feelings on a regular basis
• rapid loss or gain of weight; eating too much or too little
• not sleeping properly; feel disproportionately tired; insomnia
• losing interest in hobbies or work, lack of motivation
• avoiding social contact
• low self-esteem
• suicidal thoughts or self-harming tendencies

Most importantly, don't be afraid to go to the support services at your university if you need them. They are provided to be used! Every university has a slightly different system, but there will always be support in place for you. At my university, the first port of call is my personal advisor, who monitors my progress overall, and looks out for my welfare. Next is the Dean of Students office, who are able to provide extra support, deadline extensions, and arrange councelling if necessary. Then there's the student-run support service, Nightline, who exist to provide an anonymous, listening ear. I believe there's even a society dedicated to supporting students with mental health issues. Lastly, there's the Medical Centre. 

The difference between school and university - between school and the rest of life - is that to reach these networks, you have to make the first step yourself and ask for help. When I 'crashed', half-way through my second semester, I thought I was a failure, for 'letting' myself get depression again. I was wrong. 

J.R. 

If you'd like me to blog further on mental health issues, please let me know. I'd be interested in exploring the topic and talking to people whose experience could be useful to readers of this blog, if it would be helpful. Leave a comment, or send me a tweet @corybantically. 

Fear and Hope

One of the greatest blessings in my life are my friends. I get to spend my life with the kind of people who make a room brighter just by being there. The kind of people whose first response is always kindness and tolerance, who dream about doing brilliant things, who listen to the world and want to explore it. And being around these kind of people makes me want to be a better person, to deserve the love I receive from them and be able to try and return it.

Then the news is full of anger and violence and pain. Distorted people, blurring away from the cameras, fists in the air. We stand for ourselves. Not them. Out. An eye for an eye. 

And they seem to think hate is good. One EDL member was asked on twitter what the difference between the neo-Nazi's, KKK and the EDL is (by and anti-EDL protester). His response: 

"easy to prove [that the EDL are different from the other groups] ..the Kkk hate black people nazis hated the jews and the edl hate muslims.....the only connection is hate ...so"

The only connection is hate, he said. And that's okay, of course, because it's not the Jews. Not black people. And not white people either.

But I'm lucky. I was always loved and taught to love. Trying to be loving is easy. So I try to understand. Hate begets hate; people who are hurt lash back. I don't like the EDL or the BNP or  UKIP. I hate what they stand for; everything about them repels me, and as a white British Christian I'd like to distance myself and everything I stand for from everything they claim to stand for, and the associations they make with white, British nationality, and even Christianity. 

But it is tempting to hate them sometimes. To sneer. To slap back, violent protest against violent protest, swearword for swearword. I'm a guardian reading leftie; of course I'd like to shout at Farage or Griffin. I'd love to tell Tommy Robinson where he can stuff his Britain. 

But we're trying to be better than that. And again I'm reminded how blessed I am. There's the Hope Not Hate movement, the mosque which opened its doors to the EDL, the good, sensible people who stand up to point out that extremists don't stand for the majority, who rebut mad nonsense with calmly-stated facts. A terrifying amount of people are trying to make hate the norm in this country - in this world - but more are responding with hope and peace. When the EDL protest, when the terrorists bomb towns or blow up cars, when rockets fly over walls instead of over our one planet, there are people who light candles, who pull children out of the wrecked buildings, who hold talks. John Green, in his video response to the Boston Bombings, called these people the helpers:

'If you look at those videos [the Boston bombing clips] you see two extraordinary things [...] all these flags lined up together, none higher than any other... those 96 flags of people running the Boston marathon are side by side because they stand for a larger us, an us sharing a human endeavour that doesn't require a 'them'. And the flags aren't blown over by the explosion, but within seconds some of those flags do come down. They come down when people, onlookers, first responders tear down the barricades to get to the injured. 'Look for the helpers', the great Mr Rogers said about tragedy, 'You will always find people who are helping.'  [...] Think I'm cool living in a world with flags, but I am most proud to live in a world where no flag flies above any other. There are people who don't want to live in that world [...]  but I know that we are not going to give it up. And I know that we can always look in hope to the helpers, and endeavour to be among them.'

John Green,  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2X1gA5apcU, April 16th 2013

I don't think I can put it better than that. 

J.R.

Surviving University - Introduction

I sat my last exam on Friday, finishing my first year at university. It's been an incredible year, filled with ups and downs, opportunities, friends, and work. This summer I'll be volunteering, going on holiday with friends, and looking for a job - plenty to keep me busy!

I've learnt so much this year. With the help of my family, friends, and the people around me, I've got through the challenges of leaving home and living independently, and I'd like to share some of the advice I was given and the things I've discovered. Schools give plenty of advice about student finance and predicted grades, but not much else - and those little things like how to use a washing machine or what to pack matter too! 

Over the next few days, or weeks, I'm going to write a series of blog posts dealing with some of those little things. Possible topics might include:

• Budgeting
• What to pack
• Choosing accommodation
• Socialising, clubbing, and living in residences - things to do and things to avoid!
• Easy meals, shopping for food and cooking advice
• Grades and Clearing
• How university works: credits, choosing modules, Erasmus, and other baffling terms

I hope that this will be helpful to someone, especially those of my friends who are sitting A-Levels at the moment and preparing to go to university in September. At the end of the day, if you have done the best you can, you don't need to worry about any of these things; just enjoy your summer, and try not to worry too much about it - or do what I did, which involved thinking of endless alternative plans for the situation in which I failed to get into university... 

If you have any suggestions, questions, or good/bad advice which you would like to share, please leave a comment or tweet me @corybantically ! For instance, if you went through clearing and could offer a blog post on the process and experience, that would be great - I'd love to have some guest-written blogs!

Until next time (which might not be too long!),

J.R. xxx

A Politician Dies: Feeding Time for the Press

I found out that Margaret Thatcher, once Prime Minister of the UK, had died through Facebook.

Normally, I'm a bit of a news fanatic. I wake up to the sound of Radio 4 on my radio alarm clock. I read the Guardian and the BBC websites most days, buy the Guardian occasionally, and read Independent, Guardian and HuffPost articles through social media. (Although I have to admit to the odd glance at the Mail Online... c'mon, who doesn't?) Usually when something big happens, I see it trending on Twitter, and the first posts are usually links to breaking news articles, followed by the first few caustic comments, then the babble of opinions, jokes and arguments as the world wakes up to the news

Social media is a cruel world. On Facebook and Twitter, the words 'Margaret Thatcher has died...' are not followed by '...of a stroke at the age of 87' or '...in her bed at the Ritz, after a long struggle with dementia.' Aiming to impress our friends or followers, people rush to make idealogical statements. I think the first comment I saw on her passing was a Facebook status celebrating it, followed by one calling her a witch. News has never been just news, of course, and people have always and will always comment on it - as is only right - but this wasn't news. This was a death.

When a child is murdered, or a soldier dies in Afghanistan, the 'British public' falls silent. Twitter silences are grandiosely upheld, trolls spam the hundreds of 'RIP' pages, and the online community competes to offer its unwanted sympathy. Tributes to the innocent, respectable dead overflow into anger at their killers, grotesque expressions of violence and disgust, a pantomime of grief.

But when someone like Margaret Thatcher dies, the same people are celebrating. 'Ding dong, the witch is dead!' has been one particularly popular reference. 

If you've read anything on this blog before, it's a safe bet that you can guess I'm not a fan of conservative politics, Thatcher included. But as much as I disliked all she and her party stood for and did, I don't want to be one of those people gloating because, like all of us, Margaret Thatcher is mortal.

And fair enough, I'm not an expert on the eighties. I'm not old enough to remember her whilst she was still a powerful political figure in this country, and I don't have any personal or family grudges against her. To be honest, my political knowledge is self-taught, and although I'm not quite naive enough to think the 80's was all Billy Elliot, perhaps I would have stronger feelings if she'd been my prime minister. 

Yet even if she had been, or if it was someone like David Cameron - who I do know about and whose policies I dislike - who had died, I still wouldn't be celebrating. 

And it's not about the taboo of speaking ill of the dead which some journalists (especially on the left wing) seem to be using to justify their attacks on Margaret Thatcher. She has a family, who need time to grieve. No matter how much you dislike someone on a personal or political level, using their death for political leverage is, frankly, disgusting. If there's one reason for leaving well alone at this point, it should be consideration for her family and friends. But that's not something the British press are good at; they barge in on the families of murdered children, press their cameras and opinions into people's faces, invading privacy under the excuse of freedom of information. If the press was a person, they would be a hated social outsider, but there's nothing we, the public, seem to like better than our intrusive window into other people's lives, a window protected by Cameron's poor response to the results of the Leverson inquiry. 

And behind the hundreds of news articles, the press coverage, the disgust, outrage, genuine morning, ambitious political mourning, the recalling of parliament, the state funeral, is the ending of our human life. The loss of a mother, of a friend, of an ill, elderly woman. 

Forget the taboo of 'speaking ill of the dead'. What about speaking ill of the living? Broadchurch last week featured a storyline about a man hounded to his suicide by the press, but most importantly, the people around him. When difficult issues come up, responding is difficult, and so people throw insults. Of course we need to argue, to criticise, and to debate, but then it seems to slide downhill into personal insults and aggression.

I went to a left wing political rally at my university a few weeks ago. Owen Jones was the key speaker, as well as Natalie Bennet of the Green Party, and I'm afraid I went on the strength of their names and the slogan 'Against Austerity' rather than any really knowledge of what the rally was about. It was  interesting, and made me think. But one thing made me uncomfortable. Whilst making their points, speakers - both from the audience and the invited speakers - frequently made derogatory, even near-abusive remarks about their political opponents. Bennet slagged off the Labour party - prompting an angry response from a Labour party member present - the Socialist Workers were as aggressive as normal, and David Cameron was denounced with some pretty graphic language, to which the general response was 'Hear, hear' and banging on the lecture theatre desks. The only positive speaker of the night was Jones, who didn't descend to that level, and instead talked about hope for the future, and for that I respect him. 

I'm not writing this to criticise left wing politicians in particular - the right is just as bad. As it happens, I sympathised with most of the sentiments expressed that night, just not in the way they were expressed. Sometimes hard times call for hard words, but I refuse to accept abusive words, abusive actions. I think David Cameron's welfare plans are cruel, class-biased and uninformed, and I think my argument is stronger for saying that instead of just tweeting 'Cameron is a tosser'. He's not; he's a human, as fallible as the rest of us, with feelings, with a family. God cares about him, no matter what us left wing-loonies call him at rallies. 

How can we make the world better by celebrating someone's death? How can we possibly have an effective political system based on politicians belittling their opponents in the houses of Parliament, or a reliable press based on selling controversy? 

Writing this, I have the feeling that I'm not saying anything new. We've probably all had these kind of thoughts. But this kind of vile stuff is still out there. If I log onto Facebook now, I'll see pictures of shared images, telling me 'If U get offended by our flag, get the F*** out of our country!'. Or maybe this time it'll be a status telling me that the Pope is a homophobe who should be burnt alive. I've seen some stuff that is so vile, so logically inexplicable, so nasty, that it has made me laugh with shock. And this often comes from people I know, even people I consider to be friends. I won't like your status saying paedophiles should be tortured, that immigrants should be booted out, that somalians are ugly kmt, because you are better than that. Because I believe in more than just the fundamentality of human rights for everyone, deserving or not (although who are we to judge?) - I believe that every person is special, unique, wonderful, and yes, made by God. 

Perhaps sometimes we celebrate the death of someone we disliked because it feels like life has got its revenge on them, like we've won. In some cases, like when Osama bin Laden was killed, it is a genuine breath of relief for the world. But no matter how understandable dislike of a person is, no matter what political or social or other reasons make their death desirable, revelling in someone else's pain is inhuman. We have to be better then that. 

So on the day they bury Margaret Thatcher, no matter what my views on her as a person, or even on the public expense incurred by her burial, I, for one, will keep silent. 


J.R.