“Don’t cry my precious one, cuz I ain’t got no sympathy for you”

A short history of being told how to feel. Part 1

The man who advised me I need men like him to organise effectively. No one can affect change alone.
I don’t suck socialist dick.

The woman who advised me my truth could upset women whose truth was more important. Had I considered an edit?
I don’t kiss feminist cunt.

The woman who wanted a pet to publish, her name on my collar.
Pets bite.

The woman calling me a nazi bitch in private and maintaining a feminist front.
You need help.

The woman giving me a public dressing down because my behaviour was hostile.
Keep climbing that greasy ladder my love. I won’t be the cushion at the bottom when you fall on your arse. No hand above will hold you firm.

The many, many women perpetuating the lie that I stalk and am obsessed with posh bints.
I don’t want your pearls duckeh, if I did I’d have ripped them from your neck time ago.

The man telling me I should see people not class because we all come from the Mother Earth.
Just fuck off back your pottery class at St martins. What ever shit you’re smoking is substandard and you probably overpaid for it.

The woman privately telling me if I’d have said I was a “survivor” I would have been better understood.
I’m not Michelle you know? She has a career in gospel. Go survive with her.

Are we done yet? Because part 2 won’t take me long to write.

“Thick words of gratitude, what a price to pay…Stuck in my throat, I sell every word I say”

Utah Phillips said “The long memory is the most radical idea in this country. It is the loss of that long memory which deprives our people of that connective flow of thoughts and events that clarifies our vision, not of where we’re going, but where we want to go”. Now we can take Utah as a man of his country or a man of his class. As an American or as an anarchist. The long memory is something we are all grasping at.

We, who have a history of struggle to draw on, but nothing firm to grip for our draw. Reaching, pulling, reaching, searching. There is a pain from our void and a cry from our anguish. Oxygen to a drowning woman, rushing, filling, soothing, stinging. We must breathe in our struggle. Absorb life into each cell.

We crave life.
We crave joy.
We crave release.
Each word, each line, each song, each novel. These are our footholds. Our handles. The pencils we have carved, from the roots of our pain, through the body of our blood, to the branches of our future. We carve our own tools. With these we can draw. Draw on a long memory. Sketch in our voids. Vividly painted in love, we see.
We see.

I see back to the women and men whose words I clung to, who bled poetry for me to drink in the dark. I feel for the women and men, whose calloused hands pulled me from under. I grasp and I cling.

They pull.
They sing to me. And I swim.
I swim.
I break through. I drink in the nourishment. The power and the joy. I float in the slipstream, their sunlight it warms. It wakes and it burns. It feeds, consumes and it burns. I can scream. I scream to my sisters and to daughters unborn. I run to my brothers, my son will be forewarned.

I see to the door. And I leave it just ajar.

And when the quiet comes I remember
“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation”.
What Oscar awoke was acceptance, who knew it slept here?

“You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don’t think twice, it’s all right.”
This one was the quiet nod from across the room. Not silent, Bob, but knowing and watching, singing and strumming.

“We negotiate with chaos
For some sense of satisfaction
If you won’t give it to me
At least give me a better view”
And Ani. Dear, dear Ani. Bleeding pools into shadows on a cave wall.

But she who has held me so often, without, I would just fall. A beautiful rage, her Skin shining, a beacon to that door.

“I’d like to invite you
To this pretty little thing
Where the fruits of your labors
Are eaten by the queen
Yeah I’d like to bequest you
A seat with greedy boys
But I’m sorry,
I’ma stop you, at the door”

“Who are you bitch, new lunch? Ima ruin you cunt”

We’ve reached a point in feminist discourse where the raw honesty of working class women who have been surrounded by “foul”, “vile”, “abusive” language our whole lives, as general chat, can’t speak in our own voices.

I know how to code switch. I don’t know a single working class woman who doesn’t. We have our home voice and we have our work voice. We all know how to enunciate yes sir, of course madam, let me get that for you. Is there a reason our sisters expect the same behaviour when these bitches ain’t even paying us?

Anti feminist slurs. Bitch. Twat. Even fuck off if directed at someone with a vagina. Fuck off is a special case though. It’s not abusive if a middle class woman is directing it at someone who has hurt her. She is angry, hurt and tone policing her shouldn’t even enter your head. It is only our pain that isn’t visible. Because pain from the daily grind of surviving patriarchy is only valid if you use the right words, in the right voice, to the right people.

If we’re in pain, yet furious and betrayed because we long ago learnt that working class women are only useful in feminism when we’re dead, as statistics, or more recently as dead honey traps well then our fuck off is abuse. So you know, bite your tongue. Respect your betters. Listen. Learn. Read. Read again if you haven’t understood that you’re thick yet. Know your place.

If you must say something and sound rough doing it for god sake can you make sure you’re speaking as a “survivor” or as an “exited woman” or someone “vulnerable”. You can be disabled and a victim of cruel cuts. Or a single mother who can demonstrate how government policy impoverishes women. But once you’ve been taken out of your box to prove the point get back into it without too much fuss. Remember feminist activism is for all women, and the proper feminists are working for the really vulnerable women like you so be fucking grateful would ya.

Girls must play nicely. Girls must not tell lies.

When a transgirl throws around some dangerous lies about brain sex so that everyone nods and agrees to her cry for validation about trans periods. No. Just stop your fucking noise. This. This right here is what feminists have been fighting against for CENTURIES. And now to be nice we’re supposed to nod and agree that all of us have a sexed brain in utero. No. You can call your synthetic hormonal cycle whatever you like, I have no possessive attachment to period.

Period. You know that thing inflicted on me as a girl, regular like clockwork period 4 sociology right after lunch every 4 weeks without fail. The most intense pain I’d ever experienced, fresh again every four weeks. Feeling grateful I knew it was coming so there wouldn’t be blood coming through my school uniform when I had to be excused from class, walking past all the staring girls and boys who all knew I would be leaving and not coming back to the next lesson because I had “woman troubles”. Having to miss a chunk of my education every four weeks because the pain would make me physically sick. I would get home then throw up till I had nothing left to throw up then sit all afternoon in the bath tub crying waiting for painkillers to work. Big pink coloured ibuprofen that my doctor prescribed because we were skint as fuck and we got free painkillers but not free sanitary towels. Why they were pink I never knew, it seemed like a cruel joke at the time. Having to be pretty much alone as my brother and sister would still be at school and my mums periods were even worse so she just gave me the tools she had and let me get on with it. In case the context of school wasn’t enough when I say girl here I mean an actual child. Not an adult who likes that description as part of a gender identifier.

No just fuck the fuck off back to patriarchy town and stop pretending you’re battling on a horse called feminism. You. Are. Anti. Feminist.

“About two months(9-13 weeks) into gestation the genitalia of the fetus is determined. ******The gender differentiation of the brain doesn’t occur for another five months.****** We like to think that genetics or chromosomes determine everything. But a lot of your DNA is switched on and off by environmental factors. This layer of factors above genetics is called epigenetics.”

I’ve thoughtfully put stars around the anti feminist propaganda slipped into the otherwise innocuous passage. This “gender differentition of the brain” has always been the excuse to oppress females. We couldn’t vote because of our female brains. We couldn’t own our own property because of our female brains. We couldn’t have our wages paid into a bank account in our own names because of our female brains. We couldn’t say no because of our female brains. We have had to be protected because of our female brains. Passed from father to husband as chattel because of our female brains. Raped without the ability to call it rape by these selfsame protective husbands because of our female brains. Denied access to opportunity, education and careers because of our female brains. And now those female brains are what males know more about because they have them too, inside a body with a penis. And if we question the existence of a female brain we are evil bigots who want to exterminate the female brains inside the bodies with penises.

Fuck. That. Shit.

Have your period. Buy a pink hot water bottle and use it with chocolate bars and pain killers once a month. No one gives a shit. But you don’t need to trash decades of feminist activism, which has gained so much for girls like us (and by extension girls like you) just because you want validation that transgirl periods are a thing. I have a secret for you, this thing, we feminists call it gendered socialisation, yeah that. It means you’ll get your validation without your lies. Because girls must play nicely.

Rage reference

You don’t get a free pass on using dead sisters for political gain.

The End Demand campaign’s choice to use photographs of women, semi dressed, gained without their consent, to create a fake escort site sickens me. Our dead sisters are NOT a political football for you to kick around the Internet to have your “Aha! She’s dead!” moment with sex buyers. Feminist Current’s supportive and ignorant coverage of this campaign leaves me so disappointed. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

LET IT BE KNOWN, IF A MAN EVER MURDERS ME, NO FEMINIST HAS THE RIGHT TO PHOTOGRAPHS OF MY OBJECTIFIED BODY TO SELL AN ILLUSION TO MEN. NOR DO THEY HAVE MY BLESSING TO USE MY DEATH AS A SPECTACLE.

If you come into my commentary section to ask for peace, reconciliation and openness with other feminists I’ll aim my vomit your way. Meghan Murphy has no inclination to discuss this with women who disagree with her, she’d rather battle misogynistic trolls, and continue to run her site the way her politics see fit. And that’s her business. And it’s your business if you support these editorial decisions or not.

Do not tame the shrew. Reclaim hag.

In a nursery adults do not address a group of mixed sex children as “girls and guys”. They are children, kids, or “girls and boys”. That is because the masculine version of girl is in fact boy.
Guy is a male adult.
Girl is a female child.

There is no adult female equivalent of guy. Girl does not fill this gap. Women do not need to be constantly infantilised. It is good for no one.

In formal/semi formal settings groups of men may be called gentlemen, women ladies. And you may find women in groups when being called ladies because men claim male only time after dinner and “ladies” would be expected to fill the time together waiting. Sometimes women only time is merely the absence of men. Truly women only is the presence of women and women only. We are defined by who we are, not who we are not.

Informally women are not expected to be present in groups. Because historically women would be home. Or in paid employment if working class. So you may have a group of women called “shop girls” or “factory girls” because even as adult working women there is just not the history of women as groups of adult people, together, without men.

I like that feminism has historically challenged the gaps in our male centric language, and has rejected the divide and conquer of ladies/women. I like that feminists do not generally call one another, as adult women, girls. But as always backlash will find a way. The alphabet soup grounded in queer theory keeps idolising gender as an innate feature of our identity not as a system of oppression which dominates females. That is seemingly the new normal. But note too that their language, despite much professing that this form of identity politics is grounded in intersectional feminism, continues to infantilise female or feminine identifying people.

One may be a demiguy, demiboy is an infrequent alternative. Yet they haven’t dreamed up a demifeminine informal equivalent, you may be merely a demigirl. When rmab* people wish to identify as demishrews and demihags I will accept growth and maturity from their movement is possible. While ever adult people of either sex are identifying as partially aligned with a female child identity I can treat them as I do my actual female child. With love, patience and much laughter over the years.

Worshiping female youth is patriarchal to the extreme. Infantilising women is patriarchal to the extreme. Honouring adult women, recognising what our experiences, our mature bodies (with our body hair, our scars, our wrinkles and very often our stretch marks), and of course our mature minds have to offer is what is missing from the alphabet soup. And it always will be, despite profession that it is an intersectional form of feminism. Reclaim the hag. Because our queer siblings are not going to.

*recognised male at birth. Sometimes labelled as identified male at birth or more dramaticaly assigned/forcibly assigned male at birth.