feminism – freadom

Lily Allen, My Thoughts Exactly

author bio

I usually use this section to introduce this week’s writer, but the blurb of Lilly Allen’s book, My Thoughts Exactly, does this perfectly in itself: ‘I am a woman. I am a mother. I was a wife. I drink. I have taken drugs. I have loved and been let down. I am a success and a failure. I am a songwriter. I am a singer. I am all these things and more. When women share their stories, loudly and clearly and honestly, things begin to change – for the better. This is my story.’

review

I was so excited to read Lily Allen’s book, but not just in a happy-excited way. I’ve not read many celebrity autobiographies and, whilst I (as does Allen herself) acknowledge the privilege of those with fame and wealth, the lifestyle seems toxic and destructive at every turn. Not to play devil’s advocate in the privilege hierarchy, but I think we need to start talking more about the celebrity culture we uphold.

My Thoughts Exactly is exactly what a confessional, honest, defensive, this-is-me autobiography should be. Throughout, Allen declares her side of events – the side so often excluded by tabloid press – whilst also acknowledging that others might disagree. There is no propaganda to be seen here. From the start, we are aware that we are quite simply reading, as titled, her thoughts exactly. It’s refreshing, and places authenticity back in the power of interpreting one individual’s perspective.

Lily Allen delves into many different aspects of her life, making this book a truly fascinating insight into pop-fame. She neither boasts about her life nor claims to be totally hard done by – she simply tells her life how it is, the good and the bad included. In her early adulthood, she describes her sexual exploration, and how her lack of self-worth hindered her understanding of sexuality during her formative years.

I was confused at the beginning of my sexual life about my own desire for other people. Often, if a guy fancied me, that was enough for both of us. My self-worth was low and so being fancied, which I translated as being wanted (and thus loved), felt intoxicating enough to agree to sex.
p. 148

I related to this paragraph so much it actually shocked me. I’d never read someone putting these feelings out in such a clear way, but it made so much sense. My first boyfriend was someone who fancied me, and I genuinely can’t tell you how I felt back because I didn’t think about that; him fancying me meant we were good to go, and I’d finally been ‘chosen’. I can never really articulate how I even felt about this person, and to anyone asking ‘but if you didn’t like him why would you have gone out with him?’, this paragraph articulates those feelings perfectly.

Sexuality is a prominent theme throughout the book. From sexual exploration, to finally learning how to orgasm, Lilly Allen doesn’t hold back in telling us her story. (TW: sexual assault). Beyond her autonomous experiences, though, she also describes the assault she was victim to by a music executive. This section, quite late in the book, was uncomfortable to read but painfully representative of a much wider culture. Not naming the perpetrator, Allen describes having been drunkenly carried to the executive’s hotel room (despite her own hotel room being equally close by), and waking up in the early hours to feel his naked body attempting to rape her. Even writing this puts a lump in my throat, and its awful to read, but equally important as it is uncomfortable. Allen describes her ‘lousy’ feelings towards the fact that she didn’t report the executive, but in sharing her story she is chipping away at the shame in how we discuss assault in the music industry. Hopefully, these stories shared will induce a ripple effect.

My favourite parts of My Thoughts Exactly where when Lily Allen discusses the ways in which she has learned, always acknowledging her mistakes. At one point she discusses negative criticism towards the music video for her song Hard Out Here, which features a group of dancers in minimal clothing, dancing ‘provocatively’ (not even sure if that’s the right word) to the song that protests sexist standards in the music video. This song was what got me into Lily Allen, and I equally loved the video. I remember thinking I loved the racial diversity of the dance group. Now, I’m not an expert on understanding what is appropriate or inappropriate in these terms (why? hint: because I’m not a WOC so it’s not my say), but Allen describes one negative response to the video and its use of the dancers. I love this section because Lily Allen not only details this criticism (which she could have easily excluded), she also acknowledges how she was initially ‘livid’ until she then started to liten to the critic

But once I’d got over feeling defensive, I listened to what she had to say. What she said made me adjust and shift my thinking. It made me realise that my naïvety over the video and the reaction to it was the privilege of being a white woman. As a result, I began to read about intersectional feminism. I began to learn more and i began to look at my output in a more responsible and considered way.
p. 219

We may not all be music video choreographers, but this is a practice that we can all inhabit. Be strong enough to stand up for your views, but also always be ready to listen to others and adapt your thinking. Lily Allen’s honesty is refreshing and steers way from the classic ‘I apologise that my actions offended’ BS, into a ‘I won’t deny I wasn’t angry and defensive at first, but then I swallowed by pride and listened’. We’re in a world where we all make mistakes, and don’t think anyone could argue that Lily Allen’s response her is a model testament of the only way we can move forwards with voices that are both powerful and empathetic to others.

I want to speak up, and if that means I sometimes get it wrong, then I should be able to correct myself, apologise, move on and still carry on speaking up.
p. 334

This is not the only instance of Lily Allen’s empathetic tone. She later discusses the traumatic ordeal of having a stalker for years, who at one point entered her home, and declared to the police his intention to stab Allen in her face. Reading about her experience is shocking and terrifying, but this dramatic sequence of events is constantly pinned with acknowledgement of not only Allen’s own privilege, but also her empathy to the stalker. When the mother of her stalker opened up about her son’s mental illness, Lily Allen maintains that she wanted him not in prison, but in a psychiatric facility that could give him the treatment he needed. This in itself was refreshing, as rather than demonising her stalker as ‘psycho’ and reducing mental illness to a state of evil, she acknowledges his need for help whilst also maintaining the obvious point that she was a victim in this situation and was invariably put in danger. Most shocking in this discussion was the process by which the police conducted the investigation into her stalking; a process in which many details were hidden from her, and in which she wasn’t believed or taken seriously by police. (One example: the stalker’s declaration that he intended to stab her in her face was confessed to police, with police afterwards telling Allen that he clearly wasn’t a dangerous person). In addition to her empathy towards the stalker’s illness, Allen also remains constantly aware of her immense monetary privilege in affording high-security protection.

If i feel short-changed and I’ve got it all, then how fucking short-changed must every other victim feel, and why isn’t anything being done about it?
pp. 315

She constantly tells the reader that she understands that the security she was able to implement is not available to most victims, and angrily questions what those victims are suffering, when she herself is still suffering despite having ‘it all’. It is, above all else, a terrifyingly truthful point.

That probably provides an accurate representation of Lily Allen’s tone throughout the entirety of My Thoughts Exactly: detailing the suffering she has faced at the hands of a toxic industry, honestly laying out her own failings both personally and professionally, and maintaining a constant empathy for the sufferings and experiences of others. Lily Allen opens up a huge discussion into celebrity culture that, instead of branding celebrities spoilt and with perfect lives, exposes the dangers of the lifestyle whilst maintaining perspective, gratitude, and awareness for what she has.

Amika George, student/activist

AUTHOR BIO

Amika George is a 19 year-old activist campaigning for free menstrual products to be provided in schools. After learning about the impact of period poverty on young girls in 2017, George decided to take action and immediately began her #FreePeriods campaign. The campaign started as an online petition which gained huge traction, and has now become a national campaign. After plans to fund free menstrual products for schools were announced in Scotland last year, the campaign found great success in March of this year when the UK government announced plans to fund the scheme in English schools as well.

REVIEW

I’ve wanted to talk about Amika George for a while, because I’m extremely passionate about the importance of championing the voices of our younger generation. Whilst George is not primarily a writer, her plethora of articles discussing the #FreePeriods campaign gave me the perfect excuse to discuss her incredible work. In the mind-blowing simplicity of her realising an issue and deciding to do something about it, she is genuinely inspiring. Ultimately, George reminds us that we can make change if we aren’t happy with how things are.

The two articles written by George that I’ve chosen to discuss are:

‘Why I started the campaign to get free tampons in schools’

‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’

In her article for Dazed, published in celebration of International Women’s Day 2019, George outlines how the #FreePeriods campaign came about, and how she was driven to fight for the issue. If you’re new to the campaign, this short article provides insightful background into the realities of period poverty in the UK, and the process of making change. George acknowledges the universal obstructions to the education of young girls, whilst also showing her shock at the severity of poverty faced in our own country surrounding the acquisition of menstrual products. To read what she has achieved in just two years, all still in her teens, is totally inspiring.

The right to an education is a fundamental human right – so says the declaration of Human Rights. Yet, we know that this is not happening the world over.
Amika George, ‘Why I started the campaign to get free tampons in schools’

I love Amika George because she is no longer ‘the kid who started that petition’ – she is a badass activist and throwing her all into this invaluable cause. She is now interviewing high-profile women, writing important articles, and broadening her activism far beyond period poverty alone. Now, she’s fighting to change the way to see periods altogether; to, as her Twitter bio states, ‘end the shame and stigma.’

In her article for The Guardian, titled ‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’, George discusses the prolonged implications of stigmatising periods. This article resonated with me a lot, particularly when George discusses being taught to hide tampons up her sleeve and whisper when asking friends to borrow a pad. Honestly, I don’t think my friends and I made one single mention of periods at school, only discussing them one time, when we were in sixth form. Imagine, those hundreds of times I remember scurrying to the toilets with fear and embarrassment, terrified of anyone hearing the sound of me ripping off a pad – and not a single word of it discussed amongst my friends. George is right: governmental funding is vital, but so is open dialogue. Why are periods the one thing that men seem unable to fathom talking about?

I think what’s important about George’s article is it is an honest exposé of the ridiculous culture of disgust surrounding periods. I may have experienced this myself in school just six years ago, but even I had pretty much forgotten the obscenity of it all. This isn’t just childish embarrassment. On an institutional level, periods are hushed within the parameters of education and, as we subsequently grow in this conditioned state, within wider discussions around the world.

Not talking to boys and men about our periods means a quiet subservience, allowing separate, gendered spheres to exist, which validates the idea that anything outside the cis-male experience is abnormal.
Amika George, ‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’

Also vital to George’s article is her statement on the exclusion of trans men from discussions around menstruation. Whilst it was ten years since I had sex education and things may have changed, the binary division of the girls and boys into different rooms for these teachings are incredibly damaging to trans and non-binary students in particular. As a whole, it’s quite terrifying that we’re thrusted with the message of being responsible and having safe, STI-free sex, and then expected to grow up and form mature adult relationships, whilst not even being taught the basic biological functions of both sexes. In what world does that make sense?

As a young person, I’m so proud of Amika George’s work and activism. Not only is she making incredible change, she’s also proving the power of young voices, and doubtlessly inspiring other young people to stand up when we’re not happy with our surroundings. With her equally intellectual and personal perspective on the issues of periods, her voice is not to be ignored – and it certainly won’t be anytime soon.

Grace Nichols, The Fat Black Woman’s Poems

AUTHOR BIO

Grace Nichols is a Guyanese poet, whose writing rose to great acclaim in the 1980s. After moving from Guyana to Britain in 1977, Nichols began publishing collections, now with over a dozen publications. Her writing delves into the vibrant, entrancing culture of the Caribbean, as well as the increasingly multi-cultural British society in which she lived. Nichols is simply a queen when it comes to powerful black poetry, and has won several awards as a result of her skill.

REVIEW

Having read a few of Nichols’ poems during my A Levels, I picked up The Fat Black Woman’s Poems recently and felt desperate to pour through it. This is everything I want on my reading list at the moment – proud, unapologetic identity-driven writing. As a relatively small collection, The Fat Black Woman’s Poems prioritises quality over quantity, and in quality it certainly delivers.

With many of the poems in this collection holding the prefix of ‘The Fat Black Woman…’ in their title, this collection feels very much like a progressive series of events. It’s like seeing the world through the eyes of the fat black woman for the brief period it takes to read the book. I adore ‘The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping’ in particular, for many reasons. The title in itself feels like we’re about to go on an expedition; a seemingly mundane activity suddenly made more interesting by the fact that we’re clearly about to experience it from a whole new perspective, if you are not a fat black woman. My favourite stanza reads:

Look at the frozen thin mannequins
fixing her with gin
and de pretty face salesgals
exchanging slimming glances
thinking she don’t notice
Grace Nichols, ‘The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping’

I love the juxtapositions here, between fat and slim, and between standard English and Nichols’ own dialect. ‘De pretty face salesgals / exchanging slimming glances’ places these women on the totally opposite side of the identity spectrum from the speaker, attributing a haughtiness to the saleswomen. Maybe it’s just me, but I still see Nichols as totally in power here; her heightened dialect suggests a conflict with the women’s presence and asserts herself speaking in a way that emboldens her. Despite their ‘slimming glances’, the women are portrayed as naive: ‘thinking she don’t notice’. The Fat Black Woman seems all-knowing, like the ultimate, wise, omniscient narrator.

In this poem, the identity of the fat black woman is one of awareness of difference, and obstinance against her exclusion; she knows she’s excluded, and besides finding it ‘aggravating’, she just carries on. She is intelligent and bold. In ‘The Assertion’, a comedic scene-setting in which the fat black woman unapologetically and unashamedly unmoving. As white people look at her with ‘resignation’, she sits, ‘giving a fat black chuckle / showing her fat black toes’. That proud repetition of ‘fat black’ is enchanting, like a mantra of the woman’s power.

‘Invitation’ speaks directly about fatness, and the narrator’s comfortability in her own body. This poem is exactly why I adore Grace Nichols; she makes self-love seem so easy, so simple. Whilst we are now increasingly allowed and encouraged to love our bodies (though far from enough, still), this 80s poem is revolutionary in its time. Split into two sections, the first shows the narrator’s contentment in her body:

If my fat
was too much for me
I would have told you
I would have lost a stone
or two
[…]
But as it is
I’m feeling fine
felt no need
to change my lines
when I move I’m target light
Grace Nichols, ‘Invitation’

How incredible is that second stanza? It’s simple, but speaks to so many people so deeply. What’s incredible is that she’s not even screaming about adoring herself, she simply is feeling fine. Rather than feeling the need to excessively throw love into this stanza, the simplicity of its language makes this body acceptance feel more accessible to readers. It particularly strikes a chord with the idea of body neutrality – a growing movement which lessons the pressure of body-positivity into a simple respect for our own homely shells. The second half of the poem takes on the titular invitation:

Come up and see me sometime
Come up and see me sometime

My breasts are huge exciting
amnions of watermelon
your hands can’t cup
Grace Nichols, ‘Invitation’

YAASSS – is my reaction to this. Not overtly sexual, just absolutely owning the strength of her own body. We’re never actively invited to appreciate fat bodies – at best society tells us to tolerate them – so this is exciting and fresh. Don’t just allow fat bodies to exist, damn well embrace them! Here, Nichols tells the reader that we can’t even handle her body, it’s that powerful. It’s self-respect on a whole new level, and I only wish we had more of this narrative now.

In light of our current political ~~fuckedupness~~ climate, it seems fitting to mention ‘The Fat Black Woman Versus Politics’. Boy, can we all relate to this:

But if you were to ask her
What’s your greatest political ambition?
she’ll be sure to answer

To feed powercrazy politicians a manifesto of lard
To place my X against a bowl of custard
Grace Nichols, ‘The Fat Black Woman Versus Politics’

What an absolute mood. This hilarious denunciation of modern politics is painfully fitting to our current environment. It’s a power game, and it comes with a brief ease on our frustrations to read this poem and watch Nichols ridicule politicians with such tenacity. Politicians are powerhungry, whilst Nichols just oozes power.

It seems fitting to end by mentioning the final poem of the collection, ‘Afterword’. This is a true curtain closing finisher, and leaves a message that resonates deeply with me every time I read it. The poem envisions an apocalyptic world, in which ‘her race / is finally and utterly extinguished’. It is a poem that reminds us of the chance to start again, and the power of persistence. Not one to ever be shut down, the narrator storms forth: ‘The fat black woman / will come out of the forest / brushing vegetations / from the shorn of her hair’. A warrior, she emerges, from the erasure placed upon her by society.

when the wind pushes back the last curtain
of male white blindness
the fat black woman will emerge
and trembling fearlessly

stake her claim again
Grace Nichols, ‘Afterword’

This is fierce in every way, and that final line finishes me off. To the very end, she is unrelenting, and refuses to ever give up her space. The ‘fat black’ poems relish in the idea of taking up space, and consistently insists upon the fact that she. will. not. be. moved.

I think, in our own individual circumstances, we can all take something from that assertion.

Hoda Katebi, fashion writer/creative

Author bio

Hoda Katebi is a Muslim-Iranian creative, fashion writer and activist, with a voice that is as unapologetic as it is powerful. The daughter of Iranian immigrants, Katebi writes from a on ethical issues on fashion created by the capitalist western world. Her sensational blog, Joojoo Azad, platforms her insightful and eye-opening articles. She doesn’t stop there though – Katebi is also: author of the book Tehran Streetstyle celebrating illegal fashion and Iran; host of worldwide book club #BecauseWeveRead; and founder of Blue Tin Production, ‘an all-women immigrant and refugee-run clothing manufacturing co-operative in Chicago’. Yeah, this woman is doing absolute the most.

REVIEW

Whilst Katebi’s blog is loaded with essential reading, I’ve chosen to focus on the following two:

‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

If you’ve ever shopped at ASOS, H&M, and the like, you’re probably wincing at those titles. So did I – because I have been a thoughtless customer of these brands for years, only recently becoming conscious of the dangers of fast fashion. In our growing movement in environmental concerns, fast fashion is the most devious industry. As Katedi writes, brands increasingly make feeble changes and mask themselves with labels like ‘fairtrade cotton’ and ‘conscious collection’. This makes it easy to feel as though our guilt can be relieved. I certainly hid behind this screen for a while, but Katedi’s powerful words make that almost impossible uphold that charade.

‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

In this article, Katebi very importantly analysis the marketing practices of H&M in the context of green-washing: ‘an attempt to use self-proclaimed environmental sustainability to wash (or attempt to hide) the human rights abuses that the rest of their clothing is complicit in’. In this practice, brands hide behind futile labels – that don’t even cover their entire range – to mask their unethical operations. I for one can’t deny that I have walked into a H&M store before, looked at an ‘organic cotton’, green-labelled T-shirt, and thought, ‘wow, I love that H&M are becoming more eco-conscious!’ Honey, no.

Because logically, if H&M has constructed an entirely separate ‘sustainability’ collection, what are they then implying about how the rest of their clothing is made?
Hoda Katebi, ‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

What’s brilliant about Katebi’s writing is that she places no blame whatsoever on the consumer here. Shopping at shamelessly cheap, fast-fashion brands like Boohoo and Pretty Little Thing is hard to justify if you’re economically able to shop better, but when brands like H&M plaster ‘eco’ on their labels, we (the consumer) are tricked. It’s only because I follow fast-fashion fighter Venetia Falconer on Instagram that I ever discovered the use of greenwashing at H&M, and without that I’d still be happily consuming their BS. We can’t possibly expect every individual to research the exact manufacturing process behind every product or item they consume – that’s on the business. And H&M is failing us. That’s why Katebi’s article is so effective – rather than saying ‘why are you shopping there? don’t shop there!’, she’s saying ‘H&M are tricking you whilst mistreating their workers and that is not ok’. By making consumers feel tricked rather than guilty, we can increase the allure for ditching these brands altogether.

In the main section of this article exploring its titular issue, Katebi explores the revolution-washing behind H&M’s latest marketing campaign. The campaign is in collaboration with fashion blogger Andy Torres and explores Israel, branding it as a fun, happy, progressive destination. As Katebi states, ‘in short, H&M’s latest collaboration with Andy Torres works to portray a violent apartheid state as the world’s next best travel destination’. Being honest, I know very little about the current political and social climate of Israel, so I don’t want to comment much on something I don’t understand. However, I understand the basic gist of it from Katebi’s accessible and informative writing. In an easily-digestible nutshell, H&M are essentially erasing the destructive political and social happenings of their glammed-up campaign destination, turning it into the backdrop for photoshoots of models in cute £4 tops. What do we say to this kind of green/revolution/everything-washing? Not today.

There is nothing apolitical about a fashion editorial story that works to wash out (whether intentionally or not) war crimes and make normal what is not: Israeli apartheid.
Hoda Katebi, ‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

This article was difficult, poignant, and wholly essential to read. As a feminist, I felt appalled that I’d been supporting the faux-green, unethical practices of gigantic corporations that directly harm female workers. If you feel like you want to know more but don’t know what to think when every tweet and article is pulling you in a different direction, then Katebi’s article is for you. She articulately uses fact, first-hand experiences of abused workers, and certified reports to convey the barbarity of brands like H&M in their supply chain. In a time of greenwashing, this is the wake up call we all need.

Pulling hair, hitting breasts, firing pregnant women, threats of sexual violence and non-renewal of work contracts are just some of the forms of difficult-to-read gender-based violence documented in the report that frame the daily realities of female garment workers across South and Southeast Asia.
Hoda Katebi, ‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

What makes Katebi’s article so powerful is that the facts she presents are both difficult and easy to believe – although undeniably hard to swallow. When we pour into our favourite shops for the week’s new items, we forget the significant of the fact that fashion really is a weekly event now. A ‘season’ has been reduced from an actual season, when our clothing choices endure practical changes, to mere weekly rotations of new prints and ‘essential’, ‘must-have’ styles. I remember when I was younger and everything I owned was either summer or winter clothing – each year, my mum would take me on one shopping trip to buy any new summer clothes I needed, then once again in winter. Now, the need to keep up with the conveyer belt of mass production is forced down our throats at an ever growing rate.

When we think about the mass and frequency of clothes produced by many brands, to then be sold for a feeble £3.99, can we even be surprised that factory workers are being abused in the process? Even for those being paid a fair wage (which is rare), the demand for mass consumption means that factory workers are being ran off their feet, forced to work at an unachievable pace and punished when they aren’t able to do so.

Garment factories exist in nations of color due to the legacies of colonialism, and are systematically dependent on exploitation and gender-based abuse to function within the fast-fashion model of production.
Hoda Katebi, ‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

Again, I want to point out that this isn’t my specialist area of knowledge. I know shamefully little about the realities of fast fashion production, but I’m learning. People like Hoda Katebi are making a huge impact by raising their voice on these essential issues. I love Katebi’s writing in particular because of her unapologetic, angry stance – she is taking no BS from fast fashion, and she does all she can to ensure her readers don’t fall victim to this greenwashing. I particularly love how she intersects fast fashion with other issues, such as feminism and colonialism. Whilst these are all inherently tied to fast fashion anyway, Katebi’s exposure of these ties brings the issue into more easily accessible dialogue. With writers like Katebi in the world, none of us can close our eyes to the facts.

Charly Cox, She Must Be Mad

AUTHOR BIO

Charly Cox is a writer, producer and poet. At the age of 23, she is already a bestselling poet, with her debut collection She Must Be Mad reaching incredible acclaim in 2018. Cox will be releasing her second collection, Validate Me, later this year. In her witty, bluntly confessional poems on mental health and the pain of growing up in the modern world, Charly Cox is a true icon. On a personal level, she is my greatest influence as a writer at the moment, and her achievements at just 23 seriously motivate me to get my writing ass into gear.

REVIEW

I don’t think that I can start this review in any other way than to say – and Charly Cox would probably laugh painfully at this phrasing – that her writing is a genuine breath of fresh air. I’m a big fan of bringing under-represented issues and modern experiences into the creative sphere, so when Cox released a collection of poetry and prose about the very issues I care most deeply about, I was ready.

This collection is a raw and honest documentation of growing into adulthood, encumbered by a mass of mental and societal issues, as well as a bursting wealth of emotions. From the first page, Cox’s voice is authentic and confessional, bursting with stories and sensations from times close and far away. Whilst it includes both poetic and prosaic forms, these seem to weave interchangeably. She Must Be Mad is one of those real gems where you almost forget what the writing is exactly, because you’re so immersed in each word.

Charly Cox is just two years older than me and, with many similar experiences in adolescence, this collection tugs at many chords within me. I appreciate that others might not find such a close bond with the book on a personal level in relation to mental illness and body anxieties, however this does not undo the beauty of each work. Anyone can feel connected to the delicacy and fragility with which she describes love, and the poignancy in her writing on adulthood, childhood and family.

It’s hard to choose favourites in this collection. They all feel so closely intertwined, like a family of poems – some sister poems, some cousin poems, some parent-child poems where you can recognise the different perspectives she develops. Split into four sections (:’She must be in love’; ‘She must be mad’; ‘She must be fat’; and ‘She must be an adult’), Cox compartmentalising these experiences whilst simultaneously transgressing those boundaries as each poem invariably connects with another. As a whole, the collection was soothing to read, like the cool relief you expect from anti-anxiety meds that you don’t ever get, instead just feeling a bit less shit (half joking, half painfully true – but everyone’s different). Whilst the beauty of reading is in the transition of power from the constructive writer to the interpretive reader, I can’t help but connect with Cox’s expressed emotions in imagining this book to have been a welcome weight shifted from her shoulders. Like the horrific vomit whilst hungover that makes you feel surprisingly better. (Me right now: reads Charly Cox once and tries to make everything into a funny, chatty metaphor).

Circling back – I find it hard to choose favourites considering I’ve dog-eared half of the book’s pages, but some poems really stood out for me. Namely: ‘She moves in her own way’; ‘I prescribe you this’; ‘all I wanted was some toast’; ‘wrong spaces’; ‘kindness’; ‘pint-sized’; and ‘seaweed – for grandad’. They are all poems that I will inevitably return to on dark days – and good days even. Brutally honest and times, and cosily charming at others, Charly Cox appeals to the mind in every state. What’s funny is that throughout this review I keep referring to Cox’s writing as poetry, when some of it is prose. To be honest, it’s all poetry, because it’s written with that delicate, witty, intricate, meaning-manipulating rigour that comes with good poetry. Charly Cox is a poet through and through, and a damn good one.

Tolani Shoneye, writer/podcaster

Author bio

Tolani Shoneye is a digital content creator, known for her tell-all articles and hilarious, no-nonsense podcast, The Receipts Podcast. On the podcast, she puts her personality out there to the point that every listener feels like her friend (I wish). As a Nigerian-born Londoner, she talks openly about her experience in both cultures, also drawing on her relationships, friendships, and lifestyle in her content. Under the nickname of Tolly T, she really is your dream best friend who will shut down your nonsense and make you laugh until you cry.

Review

I could talk about Tolly’s The Receipts Podcast endlessly, but I’m here to discuss her writing. The beauty of any podcaster-cross-writer is that it’s easy to read their words in their own voice, always bringing the story to full life. As a freelancer, Tolly has written for numerous publications, but I have chosen to discuss my favourite one:

‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”

‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour” was an insightful, challenging read. As a white woman who tries to be a good ally to BAME communities, I think a lot about the preferred terms in conveying people’s identity. From going through the works in recent decades, recent years have settled on ‘people of colour’ as the most politically correct term of address. I jumped on board.

However, ‘black’ is also in the mainstream dialogue surrounding race. Both seam to be in the ‘acceptable for use’ realm (although can be skewed if a derogatory tone is used), so many white people settle down happy in the knowledge of what words to use. Personally, I hold no valid opinion because I am not black or part of a BAME community, but I’m interested in the views of BAME people themselves. I think often, we forget that we norm can still be disputed – in this case, Tolani’s dislike of the term ‘people of colour’.

The tone with which Tolly writes is exactly the same as how she speaks – no nonsense and unapologetically honest. I love that the subheading of this article reads: ‘Although the term feels politically correct, it’s inclusive and is better than the previously used ‘coloured’, I am still not here for it’. When was the last time you heard a black/BAME person say ‘yes this is completely fine, politically correct, and inclusive, but I don’t like it’? Probably never. We spend so much time discussing what is inclusive/exclusive and fighting those who discriminators, that we forget that under that binary of right and wrong there is room for opinion. Really backwards people would even take a ‘you can’t complain’ stance, which reinforces the point that we have so far to come. It isn’t enough to stop using racist terms – we need to allow BAME people to have their goddam autonomy and individual perceptions.

I first came across the buzzwords on social media: POC (people of colour) and WOC (woman of colour). Initially I had no problem with them. The terms were convenient. They provided me and my diverse group of friends with a title. But at the same time, social media was making these terms into lazy ways of addressing people.
Tolani Shoneye, ‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”, The Independent

Labelling terms such as POC ‘lazy’ is such an interesting take on this evolution of language. I love hearing new opinions, and I see Tolly’s point here – ‘POC’ could potentially act as a label that you whack onto any statement. A ‘I am a good white human give me cookie’ sticker. In that line of thought, we could consider, does the intention/consciousness of the use of the term matter as long as the term itself is inclusive? Or is the intention/consciousness of the speaker that matters most? That’s a whole new discussion that I have zero energy for right now, so I digress.

See, this is the kind of conversation Tolly’s writing opens up. She entertains but also makes you think. Linguistically, terms of address referring to race and/or ethnicity are engineered to operate in the most inclusive, humanising way, but as any phrase can, they can be interpreted differently by different people. When I got into this article and started thinking about the term ‘people of colour’, I wondered – as a white person, with no first-person experience backing the idea – whether it could be construed as passive and therefore dehumanising. ‘Of colour’ might suggest an affliction or an attribute, rather than a fundamental strand of identity. In her article, Tolly writes:

My blackness means too much to me to hide it under the guise of “people of colour”.
Tolani Shoneye, ‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”, The Independent

This perfectly conveys what I was thinking – that ‘of colour’ acts as a kind of ‘guise’, deflating the boldness and strength within black people. When I hear Tolly on The Receipts Podcast refer to herself as a ‘black woman’, I hear the pride and strength with which she says it. As she would say – she says it with her whole chest. That is the kind of tone that seems to be missing from ‘people of colour’. But hey, I know that my opinion on this is inauthentic because I’m white – I just love exploring social semantics.

I love Tolly’s writing for a specific reason. Besides her bold, unapologetic tone, she delves into issues that aren’t quite the biggest fatalities of society – rather, she starts conversations that aren’t being had, opening up nuances in the grand scheme of issues of race, sex, jobs, and more.

Chimamamna Ngozi Adiche, Americanah

Author bio

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche is a Nigerian writer, known for her novels, short stories, and non-fiction. After growing up in Enugu, Nigeria, Adiche studied medicine and pharmacy at the University of Nigeria, before moving to the United States to study communications and political science. She also completed a Masters in creative writing as well as being awarded multiple other degrees and fellowships. Now dividing her time between Nigeria and the US, Adiche continues to write whilst also teaching creative writing workshops in Nigeria.

REVIEW

When I first read Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s book-length essay, ‘We Should All Be Feminists’, I knew I needed more. With her articulate and powerful writing, I was hooked, and immediately bought Americanah. This was a year ago. Despite my irrefutable bookishness, the near-500 pages of small text had me subconsciously postponing picking it up. Rookie error, given that I now wish the book had been even longer.

Americanah is a novel about Nigerian identity; both in itself and in its hybrid forms with Western identity. Whilst it follows a story of timeless love, the novel is fascinating and intellectual in its exploration of Nigerian identity and race. Alongside the charming story of Ifemulu and Obinze’s lives, there runs the inquisitive and often critical commentary of social norms across continents. Needless to say, it is a love story with a big voice. In each uncomfortable dialogue about issues of race and racialised attitudes in Western countries, Adiche seamlessly interweaves discussions of the matters that so clearly concern her most. From reading her ‘We Should All Be Feminists’, I hear Adiche’s analytical and explorative tone clearly in her questioning of racialised and gendered representation throughout the novel. Nonetheless, this does not take away from the genuine authenticity of her characters, who each bring their own unique insight to the table.

The novel so clearly emulates the life of Adiche herself through Ifemulu’s experiences growing up in Nigeria, before having her entire self-perception upturned after she moves to America. There’s something totally polarising about the clash between American and Nigerian identities; equally proud and culture-bound. However, contrast inhabits a jarring imbalance when Ifemulu moves to America. Whilst I expected to see more overt racism in the novel by white characters, instead Adiche focuses on the cultural shifts. This often results in non-racist individuals nonetheless exhibiting arguably problematic views. Ifemulu’s white employer, Kimberley, whose children Ifemulu cares for, is the perfect example. Whilst undeniably holding good intentions, Kimberley reflects many liberal mindsets in her compassionate but often naive and unconsciously patronising tone.

“At first, Ifemelu thought Kimberly’s apologizing sweet, even if unnecessary, but she had begun to feel a flash of impatience, because Kimberly’s repeated apologies were tinged with self-indulgence, as though she believed that she could, with apologies, smooth all the scalloped surfaces of the world.”
Americanah, p. 163

This passage in particular makes me think of the growing discussions around white saviourism in the media. We are becoming increasingly conscious of the naivety in thinking that one can be either ‘racist’ or ‘not racist’; our perceptions of race are inherently complex through the power imbalance that has been ingrained in us. Kimberley means well, but Ifemulu’s frustration is essential in teaching us that this isn’t enough. In contrast to Ifemulu’s experience, Obinze’s friends in Britain uphold strong-middle class pride and discuss racial issues in an airy, ‘educated’ way. At Emenike’s dinner party, the conversations held are incredibly interesting, though nonetheless uncomfortable as opinions awkwardly clash. This is made ever-more poignant in juxtaposition with Obinze’s imminent deportation, and his bitter struggle through migrant life. When he is being deported, Obinze makes a raw observation on the language in this event:

“[The lawyer] was going to tick on a form that his client was willing to be removed. “Removed.” That word made Obinze feel inanimate. A thing to be removed. A thing without breath and mind. A thing.”
p. 279

Adiche’s exploration in cultural differences between Nigerian and Western identity spans much further than race alone. Particularly in Ifemulu’s introduction to America, the cultural differences in perceptions of mental health and wellbeing are rife:

“Depression was what happened to Americans, with their self-absolving need to turn everything into an illness. She was not suffering from depression; she was merely a little tired and a little slow. […] Nobody in Kinshasa had panic attacks. It was not even that it was called by another name, it was simply not called at all. Did things begin to exist only when they were named?”
p. 158

This period of Ifemulu’s life was very difficult to read. To witness her slowly deteriorate into a shell of her former self, having been indoctrinated to dispute the validity of mental illness, was heartbreaking. Particularly in her immersion into a whole new life, the loneliness she faces is almost contagious. In this context, I genuinely admire her strength in pulling through. However, despite its sadness, this extract reminds us of Ifemulu’s constant consciousness of cultural differences of identity. From her confusion in navigating American dialect, to her utter shock at the concept of the thin ideal body image, Ifemulu faces cultural barriers at every turn, with little support from others in breaking them down. This is particularly true in her Auntie Uju, who appears to shift seamlessly into American life and consequently causes Ifemulu to feel even more alienated.

Auntie Uju is actually my favourite character. I surprised myself in this because I usually go for the classic feminist hero who takes no shit and tells it like it is, which would undoubtedly be Ifemulu (who I LOVE). My interest in Auntie Uju is less fan-girly and more fascination. She is perhaps the most fluctuating character in the whole book – not in terms of Adiche’s writing consistency, but in Uju’s rocky life experiences and her constant need to adapt. With her multitude of relationships, fleeing Nigeria in a state of emergency, and bringing up her son Dike in American whilst scraping through her studies, Uju clearly as a difficult life. From entering the story as Ifemulu’s soft-natured, blessed Auntie, she becomes roughened at the edges by the struggles of her life, gaining sensational strength in her autonomy. She may not be the frilliest character, but Uju is strong, persistent, and opinionated – she embodies the reality of struggle, reminding us that we will do whatever we can to survive.

I could talk forever about this book, it is truly fascinating. Coming from a white background with little-to-no diversity in my home town, it’s refreshing to encounter such a powerful voice breaking down the barriers in cross-continent identity. Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche is truly a wonder, and I’ll certainly be picking up more of her work soon.

Rachel Cargle, activist/writer/lecturer

Author bio

Rachel Cargle is an activist, writer, and lecturer. Born and raised in Ohio, she now lives in New York where she is pursuing a BA in Anthropology at Columbia University. Her Instagram account, @Rachel.Cargle, provides invaluable resources on how white people can educate themselves on racial issues, as well as discussing and promoting her incredible work. In 2017, Rachel Cargle started a non-profit to help women afford mental health care. She also runs a weekly newsletter called State of the Woman, and writes for several publications.

Review

Rachel Cargle’s writing is so inexplicably important that I couldn’t possibly discuss just one of her articles, so I’ve picked two:

‘When White People Are Uncomfortable, Black People Are Silenced’‘This Photo Of Me At The Women’s March Went Viral And Changed My Activism Forever’

‘When Feminism is White Supremacy in Heels’

‘When White People Are Uncomfortable, Black People Are Silenced’

Published January 2019, this article remains persistently fresh in my mind despite having read it three months ago. Speaking against the silencing that is continually imposed upon marginalised voices – currently and historically – Rachel Cargle uses her intelligence and an unstoppable urgency to denounce the oppression of marginalised voices in protecting the white ego.

When the truth is held up, it reflects the false securities that our society rests on: the elitism, the capitalism, the racism, the ableism, the sexism, the homo/transphobia, the xenophobia, the anti-blackness.
Rachel Cargle, ‘When White People Are Uncomfortable, Black People Are Silenced’

In her analysis of the resistance that white people demonstrate towards acknowledging our oppressive society, Cargle makes the issue blindingly clear. In the simplistic, idealist idea of ‘why can’t we all just get on’, Cargle’s discussion of ‘truth’ follows a similar strain. It is not a complex idea to say that we should all be treated equally. In the same regard, it does not require in-depth social analysis to discover that society discriminates against certain groups. It is simply true. Yet the uncomfortable fact remains that many white people are consistency reluctant to face this truth; leading to denial, swerving, even defensive anger. This is what makes the issue of silencing so complex. White people (in the generic sense) have not only instigated the issue, but denied it to the level that it becomes multi-layered and, in may contexts, indecipherable to those whom are privileged by it.

The way in which Cargle discusses the silencing of BAME communities reminds me of the idea of colour blindness – the whole ‘I don’t see colour’ narrative. This denial does nothing more than undermine and outright exclude the experiences of BAME people. Such blindness is what renders well-intentioned white people intellectually stunted when it comes to social issues; we don’t understand because it literally doesn’t concern us. It is for that reason that Rachel Cargle attempts to instigate thought and reevaluation in her work, and it’s a method that is so painfully necessary if we want to fight through racial silencing.

In the same way that our sub-conscience can repress traumatic memories, then to be uncovered only after rigorous digging and forcing ourselves to confront the source of the issue, racial silencing is a difficult pill for white people to swallow. Very few people can come face to face with their own privilege and feel entirely comfortable – or, if you can, that’s probably quite problematic in itself. Feeling affronted at first is understandable, because that sense of privilege is so deeply ingrained within us that most of us don’t know it’s there until we’re confronted with it. However, that is in no way to suggest that we should hide away from such fear; to do so is to deny an entire race of their voice, their pain, and their history.

The stubbornness of white privilege, as Cargle writes, has lead to her content being reported on Instagram. Imagine being so furiously uncomfortable with your own privilege that you have to go out of your way to try and silence a black person. Thankfully, Rachel Cargle inhabits such a powerful, unrelenting voice that she refuses to be stopped. In a less palatable truth, she comments:

The efforts to silence my own work will never not be terrifying. But when have black bodies, black livelihoods, black existences ever been safe in pursuit of truth and justice in this country?
Rachel Cargle, ‘When White People Are Uncomfortable, Black People Are Silenced’

This is a painful truth. This bittersweet reminder of the strength held by unapologetic BAME voices is one which forces us to reflect on our history and our present. I thank Rachel Cargle for her enlightening, educational content; not only because it is an invaluable resource to well-meaning white people, but also because she didn’t need to do that. She owes nothing to non-BAME people, yet here she is providing incredible resources and being an absolute boss.

‘When Feminism is White Supremacy in Heels’

Find this title uncomfortable? If so then you, like me, probably need to be reading the article. Cargle begins the article by recalling the tragic murder of Nia Wilson, an 18 year-old girl in Oakland. On taking to Instagram to call upon white feminists to support and platform this tragedy – which was otherwise silenced from the media – the response she received appeared mixed.

‘[Many white women were] demanding that justice be served while expressing their disbelief that such a story hadn’t gained national attention in the same way that Laci Peterson’s or JonBenét Ramsey’s had. But there were just as many white women—women whose bios claim titles like “social justice warrior” and “intersectional feminist”—that somehow took this call for solidarity as a personal attack.
Rachel Cargle, ‘When Feminism is White Supremacy in Heels’

This particularly hit me – the exposure of the fact that such rampant racism, silencing and denial exists even within the feminist community. As someone who has had ‘intersectional feminist’ in my bio many times, I realised upon reading this that describing yourself in one way and acting in another are worlds apart. Words can be incredibly powerful, but they can also be rendered empty by unjust and contradictory actions. Besides the fact that I can’t even fathom the idea of becoming defensive towards such a tragic and painful event, this clearly highlights the fact that racism isn’t solely the straight white man’s game. It exists within so-called ‘woke’ communities themselves.

What could have been a much-needed and integral display of solidarity and true intersectionality quickly became a live play-by-play of the toxicity that white-centered feminism can bring to the table of activism.
Rachel Cargle, ‘When Feminism is White Supremacy in Heels’

Much like her Instagram content, Cargle outlines the essential beliefs and actions involved in true allyship, making the article yet another vital resource. In her discussion of the problematic stances taken by many white people in response to BAME issues, the general pattern emerges that white people need to step back. This is not our time. We can support, platform, promote, but we do not interrupt. That essential message is conveyed emphatically in Rachel Cargle’s writing.

I’m sure I heard this analogy somewhere, but I forget where: imagine all the world is a stage (yes I just involved Shakespeare in this). For all of history, we’ve only attended plays by white people. Now, BAME people are tired of relentless exclusion, and have demanded a stage for themselves. Both white people and black people attend. It’s a great show. You would watch, listen, and then clap at the end. You might then go and tell all of your friends how good the show is. You might shout about the show on social media, retweet adverts for the show, generally create a lot of positive noise about it.

You would not interrupt the show and start talking over the actor. You would not get angry at the show and yell at it, because it’s not your show. You also wouldn’t claim to be a huge fan of shows by BAME people when you’ve thrown rotten food onto the stage at every single BAME play you watched before this one. You literally would go, watch, listen, applaud, and tell other people about it. Allyship really isn’t that complicated – it’s only made complicated when the ego becomes inflamed and refuses to relinquish control.

Laura Thomas PhD, Just Eat It

Author bio

Laura Thomas PhD is registered nutritionist and vocal advocate for intuitive eating, regularly calling out the BS of diet culture. After growing up in Scotland, Laura ventured to the US to pursue her postgraduate studies, staying in the states for several years before returning to the UK. She is now based in London, and is a practicing nutritionist, as well as the host of a food and wellness podcast ‘Don’t Salt My Game’, AND author of the recently released ‘Just Eat It: How Intuitive Eating Can Help You Get Your Shit Together Around Food’.

Review

When I first saw the title of Laura Thomas’ book – specifically the ‘help you get your shit together around food’ part – I felt attacked in a very necessary way. I’ve been playing around with recovery from disordered eating/eating disorder (I still don’t know which it is) for two years now and, whilst I claim to be A-OK, I can’t hide the fact I tally up my calorie intake and calculate what I’ve earned each day. On picking up Just Eat It, I immediately knew that by reading I was signing up to A) finally admitting that my eating is still very much disordered, and B) unsubscribing from diet culture once and for all. It felt like a big task just starting this book, weighted with so much mental baggage.

There are a number of reasons why I chose this book. Firstly, I want to celebrate women/non-binary people who are doing important things, and this book is so inconceivably important. I genuinely didn’t realise how much diet culture has infiltrated us with toxic attitudes until reading it. Secondly, whilst you can gather from the picture above that Laura Thomas is a slim, white female, Just Eat It raised a huge awakening in me about the fatphobia ingrained in society, and how fatphobia is often the discrimination that we don’t talk about – perhaps because we’re all perpetrators. Laura Thomas’ explanation of the poison of diet culture and her gentle guide through the philosophy and practice of intuitive eating gave me not only a personal lifeline for my messed up eating habits, but educated me in a way that left my totally shocked by the attitudes of my own subconscious, and our surrounding culture.

Before I really get into the review, I feel like I should give a brief overview of how Laura Thomas describes intuitive eating, because this concept is often manipulated and distorted. Intuitive eating is, above all, the practice of restoring your body’s innate ability to decide when, what and how much it wants to eat; of listening to your body’s natural hunger and fullness cues (rather than your FitBit or MyFitnessPal); of completely abolishing the moral connotations of food in favour of food neutrality; of taking down the fatal fatphobia that plagues not only society but also our own minds, amongst various other things. It’s natural that this should seam daunting – or, if you’re like me, not at all daunting, until you begin reading and you’re confronted head-on with the realisation of just how conditioned we are in diet culture. If you’re fortunate, it might not feel daunting at all. My boyfriend for example is naturally a great intuitive eater – he eats when he’s hungry, stops when he’s full, and caters to what his body wants when choosing food. I look at him and genuinely can’t grasp how he does it, because every food decision I make is weighted with hundreds of time-consuming, ultimately pointless thoughts.

For all of its guidance and analysis on the topic of intuitive eating, Just Eat It is a massively important read. However, it tends to much more than that. Perhaps my most pressing take from the book was its commentary on fatphobia. Whilst I consider myself a valiant body-positivity advocate, this book opened my eyes not only to my internal fatphobia, but also to the sociopolitical, and physical dangers that come with our fatphobic society. But firstly, some myth-busting:

In 2013, a team of researchers led by Dr Katherine Flegal conducted a meta-analysis, one of the strongest pieces of research we have available. Meta-analyses pull together data from multiple studies into one mega-study; the researchers were hoping they could find out which BMI category has the highest death rate. They found that the ‘overweight’ group (BMI 25<30) had the lowest death rate, and that those in the ‘obese’ BMI group of 30-35 had the same risk of death as those in the ‘normal’ group. Seriously. This isn’t a fluke finding either. A large Danish observational study of over 100,000 people found that those in the ‘overweight’ category had the lowest risk of death from cardiovascular disease and total deaths.
Just Eat It, p. 171.

Surprised? I was. Like most people, I grew up under the impression that becoming ‘overweight’ meant you were more likely to suffer from heart disease and more likely to die earlier as a result. This is genuinely the equation that is dealt by our society. When a larger body is present in the media – e.g. Tess Holliday’s infamous Cosmo cover – uproar ensures, in which people with slimmer bodies slam that this ‘glorifies obesity’, ‘makes their weight seem ok’ and ‘puts a bad influence on children to desire larger bodies’, all in the name of ‘obesity = bad health’. All of these reactions make me simultaneously want to laugh and cry. Imagine claiming that children will see this cover and want to have a larger body, as if children aren’t bullied every day for their size. Imagine seeing any body weight, shape as size as anything other than ok.

Laura Thomas makes a point of saying that the term ‘obesity’ is an over-medicalised term, and this struck a big chord with me. It’s true. ‘Obesity’ is a word that suggests A) being too big and B) a medically credible opinion, meaning that people throw the term about thinking that it justifies fatphobic views. For most people, ‘obesity’ genuinely translates as ‘unhealthy’. This terrifies me. Yet, in Laura Thomas book we are presented with the evidence that being in a larger body does not make you more likely to die. This really shouldn’t have surprised me – it’s not as if every person spouting fatphobic comments has been brushing up on their medical evidence. That’s just not the world we live in now.

So, we’ve established that health-focused fatphobia is BS. So what does kill people in larger bodies more than those in smaller bodies? Fat-fricking-phobia.

It all makes so much sense. Just Eat It unapologetically declares the facts that many of us know but don’t acknowledge. When larger bodies are discriminated against, shame is induced. When shame is induced, people value their bodies less. They feel – as they are told they are – unworthy. They might stop their usual running routine which they love, because people in the park laugh at them (you know, the same people who shout ‘why the hell have they not done something about their weight?!). They might stop going to the yoga class that really supports their mental health, because their classmates laugh at their poses. They might stop going to the doctors about health concerns because they’re so damn fed up of it being pinned down to their weight. They might ultimately fall ill, fatally even, as a result of a health issue undiagnosed because they weren’t taken seriously by healthcare professionals. They might develop eating disorders or other mental health conditions because the relentless hatred thrown at larger bodies is so fierce that it’s just too much to bear. That – not being ‘overweight’ – is what has the potential to kill people with larger bodies.

That paragraph may have felt slightly overwhelming, but it felt necessary to get this out. It is quite literally a fatal issue. Even on a more day-to-day level, people with larger bodies are generally subjected to a lower quality of life as a result of treatment towards their weight.

Weight stigma has been linked to:
– lower educational attainment in children
– increased weight-related bullying and teasing in children (which may lead to disordered eating and eating disorders)
– being penalized in the workplace in terms of salary, employment opportunities and promotion decisions
– negative stereotypes such as lazy, undisciplined and gluttonous
Just Eat It, p. 48

Are you angry right now? Do you feel furious at the infinite subtle fatphobic comments you hear every day, knowing the impact they have on so many people? You should.

I chose to include Just Eat It in my current reading project because its discussion of fatphobia, in culture and in medical practice, is something we cannot ignore. Stop feeling uncomfortable when you see a larger body on a magazine cover, stop fearing lower belly fat (a goddamn biological necessity), stop equating larger bodies with inferior health. That, in itself, is the biggest health risk.

Jamie Windust, model/writer/activist

Author bio

Jamie Windust is a London based freelance writer, editor-in-chief (for internationally sold Fruitcake Magazine), activist and model. They are famous for their unapologetic self-representation, sensational style, and incredibly informed views on social issues. Jamie often writes and speaks about the experiences of gender non-conforming people, fighting to raise awareness both of their experiences as a whole and also the ways in which we as a society can do better. Overall, Jamie is a genuinely inspiring young person who is demonstrating how you can really harness digital platforms to build a voice and make a difference.

Review

I have followed Jamie Windust on Instagram for a while now, purely for their unapologetic expression of identity, incredibly informed content, and (to be entirely honest) mind-blowing outfits. As a model, writer, editor and activist, Jamie’s work translates into various forms, with their personal experiences as a GNC person feeding into their writing. I particularly value Jamie’s LGBT+ content; as a cis straight woman, this is an invaluable tool for me to continually remind myself of the GNC experience and ensure I stay conscious and respectful in these areas.

To celebrate Jamie’s work, I want to talk about their recent article for Dazed, titled ‘How to be a good online ally to trans and non-binary people in 2019’. Scrap the generic ’10 best travel destinations in 2019′ content – this is the kind of time-bound writing I want to encounter. As society becomes (to an extent) more socially progressive, it’s more important than ever to stay up to date on matters of identity. Something so fundamental to our existence deserves constant coverage, and as Jamie writes, ‘knowledge and information we have acquired 12 months ago may have changed’.

On first glance at the article, I immediately felt immense gratitude to Jamie. Allyship is a hot topic at the minute, and one often conflated with overstepping the mark and silencing those very groups we want to support. In the conscious desire that allies hold to listen and learn from marginalised groups, this places an unjust sense of duty on that person to teach and guide – as if their life isn’t already stressful enough. This, of course, creates a situation in which allies want to learn but aren’t quite sure how, without demanding the time and resources of marginalised groups. In this situation, we must sit back and listen – listen to everything that these groups are saying – and remain respectful. That’s to say, when I encountered Jamie’s article, I felt incredibly grateful that they had decided to share their experience, insight and advice to more privileged people in order to support trans/non-binary people. They were under no obligation to do it, but they did, and for that I am grateful.

The article itself acts as a non-overwhelming, comprehensive guide to trans and non-binary allyship. Grouped into various subheadings, Jamie approaches those areas of life in which we can easily perform allyship in an appropriate way. What makes the article so credibly pressing is that Jamie speaks both through personal experience, as well as intellectual and social understanding. Rather than limiting the article to their own experience, or even singularising cis versus non-cis experiences, Jamie maintains constant awareness of the myriad intersections across all identities, using this to inform their guidance for allyship.

One section of the article which particularly stuck a chord with me was the advice to ‘stop scrolling and engage’. I’m no stranger to the allure of mindless scrolling, but never had I recognised that this is not only numbing our brains, but also wasting vital chances to engage in diverse content. Whilst we celebrate social media as a tool for inclusion, community and elevating repressed voices, we continue to scroll past genuinely irrelevant memes and weird cat videos. This will never be excluded from my digital activity, but it really should occupy a much lower proportion of our time. As Jamie rightfully says: ‘Stop scrolling. Listen, read, learn, and engage’.

Jamie’s final point is directed towards bringing our allyship into real life, physical spaces. In the overwhelming presence of digital environments, it’s easy to forget that the physical world is not only ever present but also still critically unsafe for GNC people. Jamie’s Instagram posts continue this narrative of awareness for safety in non-conforming people, sharing his own traumatic experiences and acknowledging the pain this induces alongside his empowering and self-confident image. In these discussions, Jamie reminds us that even those confident, self-proclaiming, wonderfully proud non-binary and trans individuals are still unsafe and often subjected to abuse. It’s no wonder that so many feel inclined to hide and masquerade their true identity – something that should anger and motivate anyone who cares for human rights.

You can support Jamie by following them on Instagram (@leopardprintelephant) and Twitter (@fabjamiefab) where you can keep up to date with their work, and support their petition to allow people to identify outside of ‘male’ and ‘female’ on legal documentation here.