reviews – 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.

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.

Maggie O’Farrell, I am I am I am

AUTHOR BIO

Maggie O’Farrell is a Northern Irish novelist, and author of seven books, including The Hand that First Held Mine which won the 2010 Costa Novel Award. After growing up in Wales and Scotland, O’Farrell now lives in Edinburgh with her husband and their three children. In her latest memoir, I Am I Am I Am, O’Farrell describes personal experiences, including the viral infection that caused her to miss a year of school when she was a child.

REVIEW

When my wonderful friend lent me this book, my first feeling was utter love for its title, paying credit to the famous line in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, ‘I am I am I am’. Since this is one of my favourite ever books, and definitely my favourite line in literature, O’Farrell’s memoir drew me in rapidly.

Whilst I was eager to read this book, I was apprehensive about the looming presence of death. It is, fundamentally, a book about death, and presents a world in which near-death situations relentlessly appear. I’m not normally a fan of dark, deathly writing, and worried that this book would make me feel a bit odd. Wonderfully and surprisingly, it made me feel incredibly alive. It’s remarkable how O’Farrell manages to make a book about death, so full of life.

Written in a first person, non-linear structure, this memoir is a big journey. It flicks seamlessly between the 80s, 00s and 90s in successive chapters, bending time in a way that somehow makes sense. The stories are both uniquely individual and clearly interconnected, with cross-referencing throughout. Whilst I occasionally became confused by this time-hopping (‘wait, what year is it now? how old is she?’) I found overall that it added to the sense of adventure. In a strange way, this book quickly becomes rather exhilarating to read – not sure if that sounds a bit sadistic, but something about watching the protagonist continually escape death gives it a real thrill factor.

Thrilling, nerve-wracking and terrifying, it certainly is – but this is also a deeply emotive book. Each story of a near-death encounter is padded with delicately sentimental anecdotes and backstories. For every scary situation, there is its delicately personal counterpart where we learn about the protagonist’s life, loves and family. Many of the near-death experiences themselves are also laced with poignant emotion, such as her problematic labour. Chapters like these create a whole new kind of fear that’s almost painful. I can only imagine what this experience would be like for readers who have first-hand experience in these situations. For me, young and relatively inexperienced in life’s chaos, my fear is very much detached.

The book my delve into near-death, but death itself does appear. It feels important to point this out, as many could be affected by the topic – miscarriage. Of all the chapters in the book, I found this by far the most difficult to read. The exhilaration, anticipation and suspense of each chapter subsides here, replaced by a numb lifelessness. It’s a tough chapter to read, and that’s coming from someone with no personal experience in this suffering. If any good can come from it though, it is that O’Farrell really showcases the power of her writing. It perfectly combines an intimate dive into the protagonist’s own experience, and an invitation to the reader to connect with her feelings and explore their own pain.

This book has been unlike any other book I’ve read. Emotionally speaking, it was anything but an ‘easy read’, but it was certainly an insightful and moving read. It teaches a lot about the love and loss of life, with a unique structure and theme. Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am I Am I Am plays with structure and form as opposed to an overly complicated plot, and it is this playfulness that shows the true intellect of her writing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘I am I am I am’: Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar

I had discovered the name Sylvia Plath during my A Levels, yet here I am having only just read her novel The Bell Jar. I am extremely grateful that I hastened from reading this book until now, because at 16 I was an entirely different person. Now, in my experiences with mental illness, it seemed the right time to finally pick it up.

The Bell Jar resonated with me more deeply and sincerely than any other book has. I found myself identifying with Esther’s personality on every page; from her ambitious nature to the chaos and confusion over what she should pursue in life. It is not only her mental illness, but the challenges she faces as a young person trying to find her way in the world, that made me connect with her so well. Esther is serious and dignified, yet innocent and delicate, and her narrative inhibits a raw honesty that I was immediately drawn to. Perhaps deriving from the novel’s semi-autobiographical influence, there’s a realness to The Bell Jar that makes every joyful moment more special, and every dark moment more painful.

One of my favourite moments in the novel is when Esther runs herself a bath as a way of detoxing from the tiresome socialising she has endured. She describes her experience in the bath in such a soothing and comforting way:

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: ‘I’ll go take a hot bath.’
I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself, inch by inch, till the water’s up to your neck.
I remember the ceilings over every bathtub I’ve stretched out in. I remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colours and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs, too: the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the modern coffin-shaped tubs, and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and I remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different sorts of soap-holders.
I never feel so much myself as when I’m in a hot bath.
The Bell Jar, pp. 18-19

This passage utterly warms me. The way Plath writes about the bath is almost romantic, like a person remembering all the people they’ve loved. This appears to be the reader’s most honest view of Esther as peaceful and content, truly at one with herself in this intimate moment. Her baths are like lovers who make her feel safe, secure and whole.

Extracts like this, showing the beautiful character of Esther, make her subsequent mental illness all the more heartbreaking. Speckles of symptoms appear from the start of the novel, growing and growing until Esther is ultimately overwhelmed by her feelings, finally sectioned into an asylum. Esther’s experience was the first time I had read a narrative about asylums before. I think I’ve always been scared to read too deeply on issues of mental health, worried that it would trigger my anxiety. Reading about Esther, though, was the opposite. She presented the asylum is a place just like any other, depicting its daily mundanities and creating a sense of norm. Although she never loses perspective over staggered scale from Wymark, Caplan, Belsize, all standing as landmarks of health, once in Belsize Esther learns the normality of her mental illness in its daily practice. When she chats and plays cards with the other patients, she realises the lack of disparity between inside and outside of those walls:

What was there about us, in Belsize, so different from the girls playing bridge and gossiping and studying in the college to which I would return? Those girls, too, sat under bell jars of a sort.
The Bell Jar, p. 227

What I love, is not only how Esther sees herself and the other patients as normal, but how she also sees people in the outside world as similarly afflicted. The above quote achieves what so many of us are fighting for now – the abolishment of black and white views over mental health (amongst most other things in life). She ditches the notions of ‘sane’ and ‘insane’, instead opting for the beautiful, honest and at times painful truth that mental health hangs over every person, in every moment of their lives.

Throughout this book I was haunted by the knowledge of Sylvia Plath’s own struggles, and her ultimate death. Holding this knowledge, I made the blind assumption that the ultimate outcome for her protagonist would be detrimental, and was surprised by the analogy of rebirth when Esther walks through the door to discuss her discharge from Belsize. The space between Sylvia Plath writing this hopeful ending, and the hopelessness she faced in taking her own life, is a space that terrifies me, but also reminds me to focus on the former.

I was ready to finish this novel feeling sad and hopeless (whilst celebrating its beautiful writing), and the surprise with which I found Esther’s of rebirth is part of why I loved this book so much. It reminded me to not let go of hope and positivity; to remember that there is always time to start again. Sylvia Plath’s early death with always be mourned in the literary world; but on the other side of the scales, her monumental contribution to literature with The Bell Jar will always be celebrated.

Self-love and friendship: Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love

One of the first books to bless us in 2018, Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love had been on my to-read list for the entire year until I finally picked it up a few weeks ago. Like many readers, I expected this book to primarily discuss romantic love. That certainly was a prominent theme of the memoir, but much more compelling was its discussions of female friendships and the timelessness of our platonic relationships.

Non-fiction is the genre that I have most enjoyed in 2018. It feels shameful saying that, because I often find there’s a sense of superiority in our perception of fiction over non-fiction. On Dolly Alderton and Pandora Syke’s The High Low podcast, they talk about the misconception that non-fiction writing is easier because you don’t have to ‘create’ the content from nothing; in many ways, non-fiction can me more complex and challenging as there is no freedom to bend reality without being disingenuous. You have to work with exactly what you have, simply writing and presenting it in the most captivating way possible.

Dolly Alderton does exactly that. Her beautiful memoir comforted me in the many ways her feelings resonated with my own life. If fiction provides us with an escape, non-fiction reminds us that our confusing and stressful reality is normal and experienced by everyone. Non-fiction can very often be a way to feel less alone. In Alderton’s heartfelt testaments to her closest friends, she reminded me of my own friends and made me feel closer to them. She reminded me, in my original misjudgement of the book’s eponymous ‘love’, that love is not just romantic, not even just platonic, but personal and best used self-inflicted. One of my favourite passages is in the chapter ”, in which Alderton experiences an epiphany during her visit to the Orkney Islands. She declares:’

I walked under the stars and along the cobbled streets and an idea crep all over me like arresting, vibrant blooms of wisteria. I don’t need a dazzlingly charismatic musician to write a line about me in a song. I don’t need a guru to tell me things about myself I don’t know. I don’t need to cut all my hair off because a boy told me it would suit me. I don’t need to change my shape to make myself worthy of someone’s love. […]
Because I am enough. My heart is enough. The stories and the sentences twisting around my mind are enough. I am fizzing and frothing and buzzing and exploding. […] I am my own universe; a galaxy; a solar system. I am the warm-up act, the main event and the backing singers.
Everything I Know About Love, p. 305

I had to resist transcribing this entire chapter because it’s just so gorgeous. The language is stunning and it rippled through me in waves. Good writing is contagious and these words filled me with love for books, for life, for myself, and certainly for Dolly Alderton. This kind of self-affirming work is exactly what I needed to escape my reading drought.

My favourite segments of writing from this book come when Dolly describes her friends. She writes about her friends with the sincerity of wedding vows, reminding me of the invaluable privilege of having the friends I have in my life. Much like the above epiphany, Dolly Alderton ties up many of her insecurities and uncertainties throughout the book in its closing chapters, including a testament to her wonderful friends in the chapter ‘Homecoming’:

I know what it is to enthusiastically strap on an oxygen tank and dive deep into a person’s eccentricities and fallibilities and enjoy every fascinating moment of discovery. Like the fact that Farly has always slept in a skirt for as long as I’ve known her. Why does she do that? What is the point of it? Or that Belle rips her flesh-coloured tights off on a Friday nights when she gets home from the office – is it a mark of her quiet rage against the corporate system or just a ritual she’s grown fond of?
Everything I Know About Love, p. 315

I love this passage endlessly. What I love most is how it embodies the deep abyss of knowledge Dolly holds for her friends, alongside the lingering curiosity of questioning this knowledge. We can love our friends and know everything about them, and inquisitively pick apart their habits in a loving curiosity; a desire to know more. This the language of love that I often presumed only applicable to family relationships. Now I’m left with an urge to learn more about my friends and subsequently love them more too.

The image of a single woman who chooses to embrace the love she finds in friendship is one often faced with scepticism. The narrative of the ‘independent woman who don’t need no man’ is judged not as independent but as a loner. I firmly support independence in any individual, but many judge that an independent person is not independent by choice. Firmly and obstinately, Dolly Alderton does not conform to this conception of the single woman. By the end of her memoir, she is: happy; fulfilled by the relationships in her life; a successful writer; stable and powerfully independent. She flips the narrative of the involuntary-single-woman into the narrative of the emancipated, self-loving and caring, compassionate woman of the world. God, I love her.

I’m in a relationship, but that doesn’t stop Dolly’s message from resonating with me. Like her, I experience love, and am on a journey to give more of that love to myself. That alone was enough to feel a close connection to her story. I have struggled with body image and disordered eating, and I have catered to the interests of other people rather than to my own identity. I’d like to think that I am past this now, and that I am in a stage of self-love and recovery much like that epiphany under the starry sky of the Orkneys.