feminism – Page 2

Deborah Frances White, The Guilty Feminist

Author bio

Born in Australia to an adoptive family, Deborah speaks openly of her experiences in finding her biological family, being indoctrinated to the jehovas witness religion, and ultimately leaving this ‘cult’ to pursue university education and a career in comedy. After starting her now world-famous podcast in 2015, Deborah Frances White and her many incredible co-hosts, special guests, and audiences (equally important in my opinion) have been storming the patriarchy with quick wit, hilarious anecdotes and fundamentally, an allegiance of feminist confession. What makes Deborah such a phenomenal woman is both her honest, engaging comedy, but also her insistence on putting inclusion at the top of the podcast’s priorities in both guests and theme.

Review

As a total devotee to the charming, hilarious wisdom of The Guilty Feminist podcast, and unrelenting groupie of the mighty DFW herself, reading her book The Guilty Feminist was simply non-negotoable. Deborah describes the book as having a generous dose of new material alongside highly requested favourites from the podcast, which I totally love. With key episodes bookmarked for my relentless enjoyment, having this hybrid of classic DF Dubz and thrilling new stuff is exactly what I wanted from the world.

Much like her podcast, the book is intelligent, witty, and painfully funny. The Guilty Feminist succeeds in being both boldly enlightening, and relatable on a very real level. She discusses every area of life, from work to relationships to weddings, with a zeal of language that makes the book impossible to put down. One feature of the book that I particularly loved was her inclusion of historical, and often guilty, feminists. With the rise of historical writing reinstating the value of often forgotten icons, like, Deborah makes her contribution through extensive discussions of the life, work and philosophy of remarkable women. Perhaps my favourite was an extract covering the fascinating African American entrepreneur, Madam C. J. Walker. In the name of ‘parasite feminism’, Walker created a monumental enterprise in haircare for African American women, utilising the status-filled credentials of her ex husband’s name to brand herself in a way that would be marketable to a racist society. She knew what would sell and she took it – boldly thrusting open the doors to opportunity without invitation. When Walker was denied space or voice, she took it anyway. Deborah’s account of the life and work of Madam C. J. Walker is little less than inspiring, paying testament to the value of taking and making exactly what you want in life.

Throughout the book, Deborah maintains a conscious awareness of the climate in which she is writing. Quoting comedian Michael Legge, ‘I’m left wing but it’s probably hard for you to tell right now because I’m not currently arguing with someone I agree with’ (p. 205), she acknowledges the debate-driven political world we live in, particularly among left-wing circles. This awareness is reflected in the tone of her writing, which is driven not as ‘this is fact’ or ‘I am right’, but ‘this is fair’ and ‘this has the potential to be debated’; she addresses the need for organised discussion and the importance of different opinions, whilst never undermining the validity of her own thoughts. It is perhaps this very awareness that makes her ideas so potent, by maintaining a calm and comfortable approach to addressing certain topics without the obstinate, stubborn refusal of a second opinion. On the contrary, Deborah embraces debate and disagreement, specifically when she references episodes of the podcast centred on religion in which she and her co-hosts disagreed on their topic of discussion – a situation she treats with fascination rather than resentment.

This is why we are heading towards an Orwellian ideological hegemony if we do not start to accept that there are different ways of looking at things. Plurality of thought and the ability to set our own intellectual boundaries has never been more important.
The Guilty Feminist, p. 206

I think the above quote summarises perfectly the danger of singular way of thinking. Not only that, this entire discussion presented the surprising realisation to me that arguing and disagreeing is a form of engagement so rarely encouraged, but rather is demonised into a battle for moral high ground. The term ‘calling out’, as Deborah highlights, is the perfect example of this playing out in language, embedded into an emerging culture in which the first person to call the other person out is automatically the moral winner.

This critical analysis of the language of disagreement and moral battling felt so eye-opening to me, and made me realise that I am constantly terrified of holding the wrong or un-woke opinion. A recurring mantra in discussions of social progress is that ‘we are all learning’, which is entirely true, but this is often lost in unrelenting, one-person-takes-all arguments. I’m very aware of the fact that if I don’t know much about a topic or don’t hold a fully-formed, concrete opinion, I won’t dare to discuss it with other people. I don’t feel qualified. The danger in this is that we’re excluded from that learning process we are trying to encourage, instead blindly taking the unanimous view of our chosen tribe on Twitter – i.e., ‘this feminist holds this opinion on the matter so I must believe that too because I too am a feminist’. A world without individual, intellectual exploration is not only dull, but also, as Deborah points out, scarily indicative of an Orwellian society.

Deborah’s discussion of disagreement and argument is not just covered in theory; she includes an interview she conducted with transgender, non-binary social neuroscientist Reubs Walsh. In the interview, the two discuss matters of gender identity, performativity, how to engage in trans-friendly chat with others (such as enquiring about pronouns, without undermining a trans person’s desire to ‘pass’ as their identified gender). What makes the exchange so fascinating is how both contributors stage their opinions confidently, whilst consciously engaging in the thoughts of the other. Deborah Frances-White displays tone that combines respectful, inquisitive understanding of Reubs’ views, as well as a comfortsbility in expressing her views and thoughts on this topic that she is less ‘qualified’ to speak on. Here, we are reminded again of a fact very scary to modern woke minds – in performing true allyship and not speaking over unrepresented communities, we are not as a result entirely banned from the discussion. That, in fact, would be counter productive. Deborah willfully encourages the perhaps more privileged readers of her book to actively engage in these discussions in order to both better understand the experience of marginalised people, but also to invite new ideas and terminology into our hegemonic discourse.

Her deeply thoughtful lessons on both the vicotires and confinements of our evolving society are exactly what make The Guilty Feminist such a phenomenal read. As a pre-eatablished icon from the success of her podcast, it is no wonder Deborah Frances-White’s book has flourished, but that in no way takes the primary credit away from the sheer rallying, rampant voice with which she writes. Deborah’s book, in exploring the diverse and uncovered, made me ever more excited to encounter a diverse collection of writers during my project, making it the perfect place for that journey to begin.

Yin and yang relationships, unapologetic honesty and political ambition in ‘Becoming’

It seems only appropriate to begin US Black History Month by reviewing the recent autobiography of one of my most revered icons, Michelle Obama. My review in a few words: I may have cried several times. May even cry now as I write about it.

Becoming is divided into three parts which all uniquely and beautifully convey Michelle Obama’s journey. ‘Becoming Me’ shows us her childhood, surrounded by a close-knit, hardworking family in the South Side of Chicago, documenting her personal development and the intricate personalities in her family. ‘Becoming Us’ tells the charming, gorgeous story of Michelle’s blossoming love with Barack and the growth of their family. Finally, ‘Becoming More’ shares Michelle’s feelings as their lives shifted onto the political stage, as well as the deep, unending efforts they invested in improving their country. Of course it is just one book when these parts are combined, but when you’ve had a life as rich and busy as Michelle Obama’s, it feels like you’re getting three for one.

On a personal level, one of my favourite components of Becoming was the honesty with which Michelle writes about her relationship with Barack. At first it’s almost funny when you read those chapters and think oh yeah, the ex-president of the United States is also a regular human too. Meeting him when he began as a Summer Associate for Michelle’s firm, the assertion that ‘Barack Obama was late on day one’ in particular made me laugh (p. 94). What follows is a sweet series of anecdotes on their blossoming love which filled me with utter warmth. However, rather than paint her life under some fairy-tale guise, Michelle is forever honest about the struggles she faced, even in her relationship. She describes Barack as the yin to her yang; the cluttered ball of never-done-enough chaos to her neatly organised schedule. It’s endearing, but she reminds us that this isn’t just a sweet case of opposites attract – rather, she reinforces the strain it sometimes put on her own psyche.

‘In the presence of his certainty, his notion that he could make some sort of difference in the world, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit lost by comparison. His sense of purpose seemed like an unwitting challenge to my own.’
Michelle Obama, Becoming, p. 132

Whilst utterly adoring both of them, from a female perspective I wondered how I would cope if I were the wife, the allocated sidekick, the pretty, smiling and waving face, of someone whose political aspirations outweighed my own. It was so refreshing to hear Michelle confess her struggles, even her strong hesitations about Barack’s various political campaigns, and subsequently grapple ruthlessly with her political power as First Lady. Throughout the book, Michelle professes her unconditional love for her husband as exactly that – her husband. She documents their political journey and gives testament to Barack’s efforts and impact whilst never relenting the power-balanced husband-wife relationship they so wonderfully have.

During the chapters describing Barack’s presidential campaign, Michelle gives a fascinating and often emotional account of what it meant to be a black woman in the political spotlight. A motivated and compassionate person herself, Michelle makes no secret of the fact that she wants to make positive changes as First Lady and harness her power. However, she acknowledges the backlash that falls upon outspoken women in politics, writing about the attacks on Hilary Clinton and her active role in the — during her husband’s presidency. Clearly, it was a case of knowing how to do as much as possible without taking any of the spotlight. The worst thing to do would be to seem ‘too assertive’ in a society terrified of powerful women.

‘I was now starting to actually feel a bit angry, which then made me feel worse, as if I were fulfilling some prophecy laid out for me by the haters, as if I’d given in. It’s remarkable how a stereotype functions as an actual trap. How many “angry black women” have been caught in the circular logic of that phrase? When you aren’t being listened to, why wouldn’t you get louder? If you’re written off as angry or emotional, doesn’t that just cause more of the same?’
Michelle Obama, Becoming, p. 265

Throughout ‘Becoming More’, Michelle reminds the reader repeatedly of the racial discrimination and prejudice faced by her and her husband during the campaign. As the first black First Family, it would be impossible to ignore the significance of their skin colour. Anticipating the weight that this would hold on their every move, she writes that ‘As the first African American family in the White House, we were being viewed as representatives of our race. Any error or lapse in judgment, we knew, would be magnified, read as something more than what it was’ (p. 295). Far from painting her and Barack as worthy idols, Michelle addresses the pressure put on their family to represent their race. However outrageously illogical, Michelle shows her awareness that perceptions of race across America would very likely be affected by Barack’s acts as President.

However, Michelle does not uphold this singular notion of her family as the representatives of blackness. She gives voice to many silenced individuals, sharing their stories and reinforcing the prevalence of race issues in American society. Whilst her documentation of the campaign process conveyed Michelle’s desire to support vulnerable groups, her acts as First Lady cemented this through her four main initiatives. Let’s Move!, Reach Higher, Let Girls Learn and Joining Forces all make invaluable differences to the lives of children and young people in particular, as well as military families. From not knowing a great deal about her work before reading Becoming, I learned about the concrete, measurable change that her initiatives brought about. In addition, Michelle committed her time to engaging with communities facing high rates of gun violence, particularly talking to young people. The page describing her meeting with the students of Harper High School, in which nearly every student had lost someone to gun violence, was one of the most raw and powerful extracts in the entire book. Rather than make promises to these children, Michelle’s answer to the question ‘what’re you actually going to do about any of this?’ from a child is honest, respectful and heartfelt:

‘”Honestly,” I began, “I know you’re dealing with a lot here, but no one’s going to save you anytime soon. Moist people in Washington aren’t even trying. A lot of them don’t even know you exist.” I explained to those students that progress is slow, that they couldn’t afford to simply sit and wait for change to come, Many Americans didn’t want their taxes, raised, and Congress couldn’t even pass a budget let alone rise above petty partisan bickering, so there weren’t going to be billion-dollar investments in education or magical turnarounds for their community. Even after the horror of Newtown, Congress appeared determined to block any measure that could help keep guns out of the wrong hands, with legislators more interested in collecting campaign donations from the National Rifle Association than they were in protecting kids. Politics was a mess, I said. On this front, I had nothing terribly uplifting or encouraging to say.
I went on, though, to make a different pitch, one that came directly from my South Side self. Use school, I said.’
These kids had just spent an hour telling me stories that were tragic and unselling, but I reminded them that those same stories also showed their persistence, self-reliance, and ability to overcome. I assured them that they already had what it would take to succeed.’
Michelle Obama, Becoming, p. 387.

In 421 pages, I went from excitedly rushing to learn about Michelle and Barack with fan-girling curiosity, to crying at the hundreds of powerful, heart-wrenching, inspiring, and often painful stories that unfold. This book is wonderful in its ability to allow the public to indulge in our desire to be dropped into the life of the ex-First Family, to learn their ins and outs, whilst also teaching meaningful lessons. Having to finish Becoming and rejoin the real world, with its political catastrophes and apparent reversal of our recent progress, was difficult and emotional. It is solely with Michelle’s encouraging words that we are able to retain hope, just as she still does at the very end, and continue to fight for progress – to continue becoming.

I’ve got 99 feminisms but white ain’t one

In the past few years, a lot of things have got me thinking about intersectional feminism. Firstly, the Gender and Women’s Studies class I took in my first year of uni; a choice arising from simple curiosity and a requirement to pick an extra module, and culminating in a burning passion for the cause. The first lecture introducting the term ‘intersectional feminism’, previously alien to me, and the subsequent weeks of studying feminism intersected with race, sexuality, gender identity, migrant status, class, religion, and more. The realisation that my own experiences fit into just one strand of this deeply and intricately woven fabric. This was when I became interested in feminisms, and in externalising my concern and compassion towards those so often ignored in the western feminist agenda.

In Emma Watson’s famous UN speech; in Judith Butler’s theoretical writing; in Deborah Frances White’s commentary, I find feminism. All informative, rallying and established in their own way, this was feminism as I originally perceived it: icons. Almost like valuing the glamour and glitz of hollywood and ignoring the perverseness that lies underneath. Beneath those feminist voices lie the reason that they exist in the first place.

In my feminism, I try to listen as equally as I speak. Perhaps my greatest praise of social media is that it gives unheard voices a platform, and I try to listen to as many of them as possible. It makes my perception of feminism grittier, messier and therefore more real. It has taught me that there is no binary between a feminist and unfeminist act, agenda or individual. Lines can be crossed, intentions masked.

A recent article by The Guardian revealed that the Spice Girls t-shirts in aid of Comic Relief were produced in ‘inhuman’ conditions, with factory workers paid the equivalent of 35p per four in a 54-hour week. First response: appalled, disgusted, angry. This abominable action has been declared as unbeknown to Comic Relief, The Spice Girls, or their commissioned retailer Represent, yet it reminds us of the institutionalised abuses of human rights that are enacted on a daily bases. The Spice Girls, as Deborah Frances White declares on The Guilty Feminist, are a gateway drug to more active feminist attitudes. Yet the mistreatment and abuse of workers producing their t-shirts is far from a feminist act. Again, we are reminded of intersections; race, nationality, class. An issue of these is a feminist issue. No, The Spice Girls were not directly to blame for this, and yes, they are a cultural icon tied to girl power and feminism – but that does not unhinge them from the responsibility of ensuring that every act they undertake is humane, feminist, and in line with their ideology.

‘Saying the conditions appeared to be “far beyond the normal illegalities” at factories in Bangladesh, Dominique Muller, the policy director at the campaign group Labour Behind the Label, added: “It is absolutely essential that celebrities, charities and brands ensure that their goods are made in factories which pay a decent wage and provide decent work.”’
The Guardian, ‘Revealed: Spice Girls T-shirts made in factory paying staff 35p an hour’, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/jan/20/spice-girls-comic-relief-tshirts-made-bangladesh-factory-paying-staff-35p-an-hour

The lesson here is to remember that fact: there is no binary between a feminist and unfeminist act, agenda or individual.

In this same line of thought, it is essential to pick apart the cultural understanding of ‘feminism’ itself. In contemporary feminism, the notion of ‘white feminism’ has been understood to convey the exclusionary way in which feminism functions in the western world. In largely denying the experiences of non-white women and other minority groups, the symbolic ‘woman’ of feminism is painted as white and middle class. In the predominantly white women championed as feminist icons on magazine covers; in the institutional racism that prevents women of colour from achieving more senior roles; in the idealised white-and-slim-but-curvy body image, we are confronted with feminism as a white middle class fight.

Through this homogenising of the white middle-class woman, western feminism becomes a symbol of privilege rather than of struggle. The class and racial privilege of the ‘we can do it!’ woman insinuates that feminism is a philosophy driven by vocality and forced self-inclusion; masking the inherent exclusion and invisibility that takes place within it.

‘The notion of a generic “woman” functions in feminist thought much the way the notion of generic “man” has functioned in Western philosophy; it obscures the heterogeneity of women and cuts off examination of the significance of such heterogeneity for feminist theory and political activity.’
Elizabeth V. Spelman, Inessential Woman, p. ix

If you’re not a white middle-class feminist, you’ll be all too aware of the exclusion that takes place in modern feminism. If you are, however, at least white, you’re likely unaware – like me a few years ago. I identified with the feminism I saw, so I took no issue. This is why it is so vital as people of privilege that we listen to other people’s experiences, rather than just talk about our own. The media may be a wider force, but we are all co-authors of moderm feminist attitudes. When we realise the injustice within a movement that inherently strives for the very opposite, it’s easy to simply be angry and resentful. I started noticing that all of the fitness accounts I followed on Instagram were those of slim, conventionally attractive white women, and I felt mad that this body type alone is exclusively seen as ‘goals’.

Now, that would be a valid feeling if it weren’t for the fact that I am in charge of who I follow. There’s a common misconception with certain elements of media that there is a lack of diversity in the people it showcases. As Kim-Julie Hansen states on the podcast Talking Tastebuds, this is not true. It is not lack of diversity, but lack of representation. We are all consumers and it is our choice what we consume. Sure, the algorithms may suggest more skinny white athletes to match our the skinny white athletes we already follow, or possibly because they are (problematically) the most popular, but that doesn’t prevent us from actively seeking out different voices. Making the conscious decision to listen to a diverse range of people should be the most basic action taken by any intersectional feminist. Maybe you don’t have the time to lobby for important causes or use your power on a greater level, but you certainly have the time to diversify your feed.

With this in mind, I think that this singular notion of white feminism comes as a result of the increasing passivity of the general public. We are quite literally drip fed from our phones, instilled with the news, influences and wants that it is assumed we should have. It is all too easy for us to sit comfortably in the faux-progressive umbrella of white middle-class feminism – if you are white and middle class, that is. As with many issues, the solution comes with us doing more.

Pride and vocality is so important to progress, but much like the injustice that took place behind the Spice Girls’ campaign for empowerment, we can’t forget the voices that go unheard. Remember those people, listen to those people, and fight for those people. Use social media and online platforms not as the bullies that reign our emotions, but as the tool through which we orchestrate our own ecosystem of voices. Your feed should reflect your ideology, it’s as simple as that. And beyond this, remember that intersectional feminism (and life – because I think many of us need reminding) stretches far beyond the electronic plane. No one is on Instagram shouting out about poverty pride. Class is an intersection that is thoroughly unspoken about, because who wants to shout about their impoverished circumstances? It’s dehumanising. It’s wonderful that so many communities and people are gaining confidence and pride in their identity, but we mustn’t forget those who are continually shamed, deemed ‘less than’.

I’m not writing this post to attack people. Feminism has so many shapes and sizes, and ultimately the textbook definition will always dictate that you are a feminist if you believe in the equality of the sexes. However, in a world so complex and diverse as we now have, it isn’t enough for everyone to just believe. When BAME people receive little digital spotlight, when women with disabilities are excluded from what is ‘conventionally attractive’, when trans women are denied their womanhood altogether, and when poverty stricken women are too destitute to even share their story – when all of this is our world, it is not enough to believe. We must do something.

Fatphobia: in culture and in consciousness

Today I re-watched the Friends episode, ‘The One With All The Thanksgivings’. I love Friends, but its problematic tropes are no secret, particularly the transphobia towards Chandler’s dad, the various examples of toxic masculinity and the fatphobic ‘fat Monica’ gag. In this episode in particular, the last two are rife. The characters recall past Thanksgivings in which Monica overhears Chandler call her fat (after mocking her for her weight behind her back beforehand, I might add). This triggers Monica’s decision to lose weight – problematic enough as it is – and Chandler is immediately attracted to her in their next meeting. One thing leads to another and, in a bit to seek revenge for his treatment of her, Monica accidentally drops a knife which severs part of Chandler’s little toe.

I’ve always found what happens to be strange, but now it just pisses me off. Two things are exposed: that Monica’s extreme weight loss came as a direct result of being mocked as ‘fat’ by a guy she liked, and that Chandler’s injured toe was an accident – yes, still an accident – that came as a direct result of him calling her fat. Yet Chandler is the one who gets to storm off, demanding alone time and unwilling to even talk to Monica. I’m sorry, what?

When I was younger and found that sequence a bit strange, the feeling I hadn’t yet discovered was utter tiredness towards this toxic masculinity that exudes entitlement and ignorance. In a battle between a malicious remark and an accident caused by the trauma of that remark, how is the man with the slightly stunted little toe the one who gets to be mad? It honestly makes me rage. There’s also the fact that Chandler doesn’t remember calling Monica fat – clearly so mundane in his vocabulary that it didn’t even make the cut in his first memories with his now girlfriend. Honestly, I cannot.

This episode aired in 1998, over 20 years ago, and so is filed away in the ‘of its time’ category of ‘not ok’ aspects of culture. But regardless of a show’s filming date, when it is replayed incessantly to the present day it is important to question these tropes. After all, the fat girl and the trans parent are still laughed at to this day.

In this instance, and in all of the examples I’ve seen of people hating on the character of Ross in particular for his frequent (unchallenged) toxicity, I am somewhat relieved that modern audiences are one step ahead of antiquated views. We allow these elements of the past to remain, so long as they undergo our rolling critique. It’s good, and it’s giving the consumer a proactive role in cultural censorship, but it can make us feel more ahead of our time than we really are.

Two hours ago I ate what I estimate to be four servings of granola. Possibly the least interesting sentence you will read all week, but for me it instigated immediate fear, repulsion and anger towards my body for taking an action that – in my head, at that moment – would result in me becoming fat. What’s worse: the fact that I immediately believed I would become fat, or the fact that I felt terrified of that possibility? In the style of my favourite podcast: I’m a feminist, but I openly acknowledge my cognitive dissonance in aggressively challenging fatphobia, whilst also being terrified of gaining any weight in my own body. I’m dealing with two issues here – the completely twisted and media-influenced perception I have of the relationship, processes and functions that occur between food, exercise and the body, and my unconscious fear of gaining weight. Who am I to fiercely call out fatphobia when I myself can’t shake the fear of gaining weight? I’m a hypocrite, I know, but I promise I’m working on it.

‘If we are feeling bad about our looks, sometimes the thing we need to address is the feeling, not our actual physical appearance’
Matt Haig, Notes on a Nervous Planet, p. 59.

I believe that many people struggle with the same hypocrisy and the same fears. We have been indoctrinated with the idea that fat = bad, and in our outwards thinking culture we forget that deconstructing fatphobia is as much an inside job as an outside one. In the past year I have really, truly been trying to diminish my inherent fear of fatness that came as a consequence of my disordered relationship with food. So in the process of recovery, I had to teach myself not only to love and respect my body and to understand the vitality and joy of food – I also had to teach myself that gaining weight wasn’t the enemy. I would say to my boyfriend, ‘even if I did get fatter it’d be fine wouldn’t it? Nothing about my life would change, right?’, and he would say ‘Charlea, you’re not at all fat!’, believing that I was still building up this fear. Instead, I was trying to reverse the demonising that I had placed on gaining weight. If I gained a few stone, nothing about my life would change, and anything that did would almost certainly by the result of socially prescribed views on weight gain. If I retreated to my own thoughts, I would be the same person, and weight gain would cease to be the enemy.

So now, reminding myself of this journey – of the incredible voices and influences that have helped me, of the value in who I am outside of my physical appearance – I don’t really give a shit about how much granola I ate. I no longer want to get out my scales, weigh out how much I think I ate and calculate the calorie intake. I no longer want to tailor my trip to the gym around burning more calories, before having a vegetable-based lunch purely for minimal consumption. I want to continue to fight and call out fatphobic media content, and to maintain this regained consciousness for the next time I fall victim to the pressures of beauty standards. I’m happiest when I’m sat reading, with a cup of tea, surrounded by the people I love. And since my weight has zero impact on this scenario, I won’t even allow it to take up space in my mind, because I have shit to be doing and saying and no magazine cover will continue to derail my happiness.

My 10 favourite books this year

I may not have reached my Goodreads reading challenge this year, but I found some incredible books nonetheless, so I’m calling that a win. I always remember the books I’ve read as companions throughout individual periods of my life; like photos, they take me back to when I first picked it up. As the year now draws to a close, it seems only natural to reflect on my life in books this year, having poured through so many wonderful and diverse texts. Here is a summary of my favourite ten books, detailing their personal significance and contribution to my life:

1. How To Be Champion by Sarah Millican

I’ve always loved Sarah Millican. She’s hilarious, doesn’t take things too seriously, but also speaks openly about issues of self confidence and happiness. Her autobiography was everything I’d hoped it would be – hilarious, chatty, honest. Never before had I received genuine advice on how to lesson my anxiety and lead a happier life whilst also falling off my chair laughing. I was also surprised by how easy this was to read; I usually find autobiographies to be quite heavy, but How To Be Champion was refreshingly the opposite.

2. We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I’ve picked up this book at several points throughout this year, when I’ve needed a boost in self-assurance and empowerment. Small in size yet massive in its message, We Should All Be Feminists is one of my favourite reads of all time. When Adichie says that we should all be feminists, she really does mean all; this book does not speak exclusively to women, but to all people. She speaks not only about sexism against women, but also about confinements placed upon men. However, for me the most poignant aspect of this book is Adichie’s perspective as a woman of colour, and specifically as a Nigerian woman. Her insight is personal and political, and totally inspiring.

3. Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud

I read this book for my contemporary literature module at university whilst studying graphic novels. I’d never read a graphic novel before, and loved the first one I encountered. However, this love was mostly for the storyline alone, and the same love I feel for novels. Realising that I had no critical insight into graphic novels, I picked up McCloud’s guide and immediately loved it. Set out in comic strip style itself, it is incredibly informative, interesting and gorgeously illustrated. By the end, I wanted to write my own comic and read every graphic novel in existence. If you’re new to the genre, or have any interest in books or comics, this is simply a must read.

4. Kindred by Octavia Butler

Kindred is another book that I read for university; this time for my sci-fi module. I’ve always been drawn to books that write about slavery, because they’re always such emotionally hard-hitting reads and present extremely strong-willed, independent characters. Kindred presents a fictional hybrid of the slavery narrative with sci-fi time-travel. The main character, Dana, is a woman of colour who is repeatedly transported back to a plantation in antebellum Maryland, where she has to learn to live and communicate with the people she encounters. This novel is totally captivating and different from any other I’ve ever read.

5. A History of Britain in 21 Women by Jenni Murray

This book is a staple for any feminist to brush up on their history. What’s great about Murray’s book is that it’s not an overly heavy read; each chapter provides a brief overview of one remarkable woman’s life, achievements and greatest contributions. In just a few pages you can brush up on an adored feminist figure (I’m looking at you Mary Wollstonectaft, aka queen of my dissertation), or discover a whole new inspiration. I’d never heard of – and – before reading this book, and frankly I think everyone should know about these women. How else are we going to inspire more girls to get into maths and computer science? (Says the girl with the English Literature degree…)

6. Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge

In my blog post ‘Navigating intersectional feminism as a cis-gendered white woman’, I explain why this book was so revolutionary to me. If you’re the kind of person (like me a year ago) who says you don’t ‘see’ colour, and believe the best way to be an ally to BAME people is to see everyone as just the same, then you need to read this book. Reni Eddo-Lodge vitally confronts white people and forces the reader to acknowledge their own privilege. Not only did this book teach me facts and case studies and anecdotes to shut down any claim that racism is not still a violent force of oppression in society, it also taught me the importance of checking my privilege and always being conscious of the background from which I think, speak, and live my life. I genuinely believe every single person should read this book.

7. The Power by Naomi Alderman

Although I’ve heard mixed reviews about this book, I had no hesitation in adding it to my list. The Power is a tantalising piece of fiction that depicts a world in which women suddenly develop electric powers which allow them to completely upturn patriarchal society. Whilst on the surface the idea of women gaining power sounds like a world I want the sign up for, this book follows the dystopian route of showing how excessive power can only leat to destruction. Alderman’s characters are passionate, emotive and strong-willed, and my favourite aspect of this book was the personal journey they all pursue. Whilst the world falls into chaos as women rise, I loved this unique twist on classic dystopia, and the inspiring stories of women who reclaim the power that had always been taken from them.

8. Notes on a Nervous Planet by Matt Haig

Notes on a Nervous Planet is another book that everyone HAS to read. I honestly think it changed my life. I’ve had anxiety disorder for nearly three years, alongside periods of low mood and a terrible relationship with food and my body, so Matt Haig’s voice of experience was an invaluable comfort for me. Haig’s book talks about how we can navigate this chaotic and confusing world which feeds on our unhappiness and anxiety, often focusing on issues of technology and capitalism. More than any other book I’ve read, every page of Notes on a Nervous Planet had be thinking ‘wait, yeah, of course, that makes SO much sense’, as if teaching me something I should’ve always known, but which we’ve been untaught by a cruel and predatory society. I’m not normally a fan of rereading books, but I plan on reading this book every year. You absolutely should too.

9. Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton

After struggling with reading for months, Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love was the perfect book to get me back in the pages. This memoir is simply gorgeous, and writes about love – in every sense of the word – and friendship, ambition and careers, life and loss. My review of her wonderful debut, ‘Self-love and friendship: Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love’, describes in more detail why I loved this book, but one thing I will say is that it would make the perfect gift for a beloved female friend.

10. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

This list is in chronological order, yet ‘save the best until last’ certainly fits The Bell Jar. I read this book recently and it reminded me of why I first started reading classics. Sylvia Plath writes in a beautifully personal and honest style, depicting the character of Esther to whom I instantly related. Whilst some may struggle with the content of this novel (TW: depression, suicide), I surprised myself by not feeling triggered and by actually feeling comforted by Plath’s novel. The Bell Jar felt like a close friend and a form of medication all in one. I’ve written more about this in my review, ”I am I am I am’: Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar’, although I honestly don’t think any blog post could be long enough to explain my love for this book.

Sexism in sport and the issue with so-called ‘apologies’

Last night, the world was given yet another reminder of the prevalence of sexism in sport – as if we needed reminding. In the inaugural women’s Ballon d’Or, Norway forward Ada Hegerberg won the award in a career-making moment, stunted by the remarks of DJ Martin Solveig who asked her to ‘twerk’.

Of course, social media has done its thing and the reaction to this incident has been of disgust and anger. Solveig reached out on Twitter today to give his ‘sincere apologies’, which should have been a good start, until he diverted along the classic route of mansplaining the remark which was actually a funny joke, and which viewers sadly misunderstood. His statement, posted on Twitter, is as follows:

Now, many people will read this and think ‘ah, it’s not as bad as it seems – there was context behind it’. Since when does context constitute justification? If there were no context behind his remarks, I would be equally offended but with the addition of being more confused. I understand his explanation but do not accept it.

Clearly, Solveig has completely misunderstood his error. He even goes so far as to blame viewers who ‘misunderstood’ the joke, claiming that Ada herself ‘understood’ it. He’s practically screaming, ‘She’s on my side I swear! So if you’re on her side, you’re on my side!’ As I said, this shows that he (ironically) does not understand what he did wrong. He thinks this is a matter of contextual omissions that twisted his remarks. On the contrary, it is the full story itself, and the very language he has used – both in the initial remark and his proceeding statement – which are the issue.

If his aim was only to humorously juxtapose the style of dance accompanying ‘Fly Me To The Moon’, why did he not say to dance the robot? Do some breakdancing? Give an abstract performance of mime? ‘Twerk’ is quite clearly, undeniably a word shrouded in sexuality. It is associated most commonly with a woman dancing in a way which has been sexualised. Not only that, he specifically asked Ada to twerk; at no point did he invite both of them to twerk, or say that he might be inclined to twerk. He asked her to perform a dance which epitomises the fantasy of the heteronormative masculine gaze.

So that’s your issue, Solveig, and tragically you don’t even get it. I could rant for years about this problematic entitlement that many men feel, and the ease with which they seem to slip through empty-hearted ‘apologies’. However, I believe it is important to establish why I, and so many others, are angry about this. Firstly, I am angry because this incident has entirely detracted attention from Ada Hegerberg winning the Ballon d’Or. People who had never heard of her before will now remember her for this – a sexist cloak covering her incredible achievement.

Secondly, I am angry because sexism in sport is by no means rare. The industry is crawling with it on a worldwide scale. Besides the inequality of broadcasting, attendance and financing in women’s sports, attitudes and treatments of women in sport are way below the bar. Only four months ago we had Serena Williams branded under the ‘aggressive black woman’ stereotype during the French Open. When athletes show frustration in sport, “for some (read: white men), these emotions are construed as “passion” and “grit,” but in others, they’re derided as “outbursts” and “tantrums””. Like every other strand of existence, discrimination in sport is full of intersections.

Whilst these two instances have been very high-profile, sexism in sport is a daily practice. There are too many examples to even list. From ridicule towards women in sports like rugby and boxing, to the unabashed sexist chanting seen at football matches (namely, ‘get your tits out for the lads’ as Chelsea’s club doctor walked past fans).

I really hope that out of these outlandish instances of sexism in sport comes a greater awareness and anger towards it. Sexism as a whole is a much bigger ball game (pun intended), but us sport fans hold the responsibility of diminishing sexism in sport at every opportunity. The guy next to you at a match made a sexist remark? Call him out. Women aren’t well broadcasted in your sport? Go find those women and champion them. Watch women’s sports, support women’s sports, just goddam support women. And if you plan on asking a woman to twerk – who you don’t personally know, whilst on a stage, in front of millions of viewers, with literally no reasonable circumstances (would still apply with just one of these conditions) – just go home.

Navigating intersectional feminism as a cis-gendered white woman

Relinquishing guilt means opening up a new space for learning; we’re all learning, and that’s okay. It’s the best thing we can do.

Before I begin this post, I want to clarify that I am no professional in feminist thinking. In the words of my absolute favourite podcast, I’m a guilty feminist. I’m okay with this, because accepting guilt, and accepting my privilege, has been quintessential to my exploration of intersectional feminisms. Relinquishing guilt means opening up a new space for learning; we’re all learning, and that’s okay. It’s the best thing we can do.

One of the first books I read in 2018 was Reni Eddo-Lodge’s Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race. What an endlessly important book. This book taught me the lesson that I needed to hear, but didn’t want to ask because it is not black people’s responsibility to make me woke. Most significantly, I unlearned vital prejudices which I had been conditioned to believe, and my mind felt blown at the realisation. I confess I was someone who would say ‘I don’t see colour’, thinking it meant I don’t discriminate. Now, I know how wildly ignorant, exclusionary and privileged that is. To “not see colour” is to be at the ultimate level of privilege. Realising this, I felt ashamed.

Reni Eddo-Lodge
Colour-blindness does not accept the legitimacy of structural racism or a history of white racial dominance.

When I first read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s We Should All Be Feminists, I immediately declared it amongst my favourite reads and felt positively about the fact that I was championing the work of a WOC. For a brief, naive, ignorant moment, I thought that was my role as a white ‘intersectional feminist’ – simply to celebrate both black and white women. If We Should All Be Feminists was launched me through a canon of self-empowerment, Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race was the brick wall I quickly crashed into; bringing me back down to the ground. I felt affronted, guilty, defensive. I thought I’d always been doing things right. My conception of feminism radically and suddenly turned from a well-intended (albeit shallowly educated) passion for equality, to a conscious lesson of the structural discriminations that intersect with feminism. It’s not all girl power, it’s recognising the social, economic and political disadvantage that POC face every day.

In the weeks and months after I read Eddo-Lodge’s book, I thought a lot about how to be a good intersectional feminist. I realised I didn’t want my feminism to inflate my ego to allow me to fly through that canon – I wanted to look at the people around me every day and march this fight with them. (That isn’t in any way a negation of the importance of Adichie’s text for me; it fills me with uncontainable passion on my darkest days and emotionally equips me to fight for the feminist agenda). As part of this desire, I decided first to look at what information I take in. Or, who do I follow on social media? The answer was at least 99% white women (not an exaggeration). I didn’t even mean for this to happen. How could I only be following white women? Why didn’t I follow more WOC? Well, that’s a whole different discussion. Social media, like every other industry, rewards white people who present the same skills as POC. White and black influencers with the same skills appear to have a vastly different following, and I simply hadn’t come across many influences who were WOC. There – another moment of me trying to excuse myself. It’s not my fault, I try and tell myself. No, it’s not my fault that industries structurally discriminate against POC, but it is certainly my responsibility as an intersectional feminist to seek out and listen to black voices.

So that’s what I did. I discovered the wondrous Shona Virtue to fuel my fitness motivation, the hilarious Receipts Podcast to listen to as they chat all things life, and the informative and stimulating Mostly Lit podcast to satisfy my bookish needs. POC are in every industry. They simply aren’t afforded the same opportunity, exposure or privilege that white people inherently receive.

Six months into the year and there I was; conscious of my place and privilege, and pleased with myself for making the effort to seek out more influence from POC. (Part of me is worrying that that sentence is not appropriate, and now I feel stressed). I started thinking more and more about race, and how I could be an ally to POC. Should I promote these wonderful influencers who I love so much? Or does that make me some kind of attempted “white saviour” talking over POC? How much can I talk about how much I love these POC? Or should I only be listening? But then how can I be an ally if I’m not spreading their work? These questions still haunt me. I’m still navigating this complex space and learning as I go. Sometimes, it stresses me out, and I’m terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, because I only mean well (ref. back to previous brackets – still stressing if this sounds like I’m making championing POC an entitled form of self-gratification). Then I realised – again, like a brick wall right in my face – is this really the summary of my problems? Worrying if I’m saying the right thing? Having to think about my language? Reminding myself of the cases described in Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race, I realised how laughably small this ‘dilemma’ is. To worry about the language I use and be ever-conscious of this is, much like many other parts of my life, a privilege.

It’s nearly the end of 2018 and I’m still learning. I’ll always be learning, because intersectional feminism is not one textbook that you can read front to back; it is an inexhaustible topic. Immediately, I’m asking myself, ‘why does this post only talk about race as an intersection with feminism? what about queerness, transgender, disability, etc.?’ In reality, I’m talking about race in this post because it relates to my person experience, i.e. I read a compelling book about race and therefore wanted to discuss race. It makes sense. I will not reprimand this post for discussing race alone as an intersection. Instead, I will remind myself of this and use it to fuel more learning. I will use it when thinking of future blog post ideas, and when finding new people to follow. I will continue to try my best, and hopefully for now that is enough.