PhD (in Women's Studies) anyone?
so, after a *very* long hiatus, i have decided to have another go at the blogging. over the past few weeks (especially the past few weeks) i've had several nuggets of blog-worthy experiences. a run in with some homophobe's, where, while i sat seated on a sofa, one of them exclaimed "oh my god! he's so GAY! they need to get him off the tele!" to which i responded, "that's really homophobic" to which she reponded, "i'm sorry, but i just can't help it. i mean, look at him, he's dressed like a girl!" ; an outdoor theatre production of romeo and juliet, which featured a plus-size woman who was the brunt of all slapstick humour, including being spun around and around in circles by man after man, after man after man, which left her out of breath and dizzy, and, could have easily passed as abusive; a recent visit from a male acquaintance, that left me facing some difficult questions regarding my own position as a feminist, speaking out about women respecting their bodies and their boundaries, yet denying my own; (and, lastly) a reconnecting conversation with an old friend, who confessed to me some unsettling details about her boyfriend's proclivity for talking about their sex life (as well as his imaginary sex life with other women) in a pretty insensitive, immature, indisreet and tactless fashion, with others...as well as his penchant for porn (which he had, up until this point (almost 3 years of dating), suceeded in hiding. oh, the choices!
and i find it interesting that i don't so much want to talk/post about those incidents. i mean, i did want to... to talk, that is. and, i did, eventually, with friends and family and flatmates and coursemates and so on. but i'm more so thinking about my impending start to my PhD studies. because i've been thinking a lot about feminism. and a lot about my feminist position. and how, at times, i feel like i don't have one. or, possibly, don't even want one. i mean, it's feminism, after all, that enabled me to internalise the above scenarios in the ways that i did. it shaped my responses. it triggered the grimace. the consolation. the questioning. and, yet, i've been sitting here, reading all day, about methodology, and feminist research. and although i find comfort in reading about other feminist researchers as they grapple with their own grimace, as they review tapes of women who've undergone hysterectomy, the struggle to find consoling words when they learn that these female patients were, in fact, unlearned, unaware. how to answer questions, "you're beyond childbearing years, should we take out the whole thing, or do you want to keep the ovaries?" (as my friend, p, said last night over curry, "the contrary, well, you don't need your sperm to make babies anymore, might as well chop off those bollocks!") the questioning that comes with being both a nurse as well as an academic, uncertain as to whether she should remain loyal to the male dr's sponsoring her research, or the woman in front of her, who should clearly be filing a lawsuit? comfort, yes. but i also read Black American Barbara Smith's protest:
"Women who teach, research, and publish about women, but who are not involved in any way in making radical social and political change, women who are not involved in making the lives of living, breathing women more viable... If lifting oppression is not a priority to you then it's problematic whether you are part of the actual feminist movement...To me racist white women cannot be said to be actually feminist." ('Racism and Women's Studies', Frontiers, 1980)
and i'm a bit torn. torn between feeling like she's absolutely right. right on. and i all of a sudden feel quite crap about (as gxx said) feeling like i'm standing in a train station, still, with everyone moving around me. active. me: (asside from a daily trip to the gym) unactive. but is the line that separates everyday life and feminist research that bold? or does it only seem unpronounced because of the fact that i try my damn best to live out my feminism? to be intentional. and responsible. and accountable. and compassionate. and so on.
i don't like sitting on my arse, reading all day. i don't. i read really, really slowly. i'm so *not* a fast reader. and i have a really creative mind, and i'd, in many ways, much rather be taking photos, or designing, or thinking about colour theory, etc. you know i used to write music? for the piano? when i was like 12? and i'm much, much better at supporting and motivating others than doing whatever the hell it is that *i* need to do. and so, for me, this is hard work. it takes a ton of discipline and focus. and i have to find something that i'm tuly and whole-heartedly invested in, or else i won't be able to pull through. and, perhaps, even more so, i'm gonna need to hold on to my faith. because, in those moments of questioning, consoling, grimacing...well, that's all i've got. faith. because even though this is hard for me, i think that Barbara's right. it's way harder out there, and you can't call yourself a feminist and not acknowledge that. so this arse-sitting...it's just me, biding my time. because i can't wait to get out there and raise hell. that's where i want to be. what i want to be doing. but, first, i've got to get my PhD. and figure out a way to do it from within the academy. because it's really messed up in there, too. and since i'm teetering between 'out there' and 'in here' anyways, always, i'm just gonna go ahead and embrace it. at least for the next 3 years. :-)
and i find it interesting that i don't so much want to talk/post about those incidents. i mean, i did want to... to talk, that is. and, i did, eventually, with friends and family and flatmates and coursemates and so on. but i'm more so thinking about my impending start to my PhD studies. because i've been thinking a lot about feminism. and a lot about my feminist position. and how, at times, i feel like i don't have one. or, possibly, don't even want one. i mean, it's feminism, after all, that enabled me to internalise the above scenarios in the ways that i did. it shaped my responses. it triggered the grimace. the consolation. the questioning. and, yet, i've been sitting here, reading all day, about methodology, and feminist research. and although i find comfort in reading about other feminist researchers as they grapple with their own grimace, as they review tapes of women who've undergone hysterectomy, the struggle to find consoling words when they learn that these female patients were, in fact, unlearned, unaware. how to answer questions, "you're beyond childbearing years, should we take out the whole thing, or do you want to keep the ovaries?" (as my friend, p, said last night over curry, "the contrary, well, you don't need your sperm to make babies anymore, might as well chop off those bollocks!") the questioning that comes with being both a nurse as well as an academic, uncertain as to whether she should remain loyal to the male dr's sponsoring her research, or the woman in front of her, who should clearly be filing a lawsuit? comfort, yes. but i also read Black American Barbara Smith's protest:
"Women who teach, research, and publish about women, but who are not involved in any way in making radical social and political change, women who are not involved in making the lives of living, breathing women more viable... If lifting oppression is not a priority to you then it's problematic whether you are part of the actual feminist movement...To me racist white women cannot be said to be actually feminist." ('Racism and Women's Studies', Frontiers, 1980)
and i'm a bit torn. torn between feeling like she's absolutely right. right on. and i all of a sudden feel quite crap about (as gxx said) feeling like i'm standing in a train station, still, with everyone moving around me. active. me: (asside from a daily trip to the gym) unactive. but is the line that separates everyday life and feminist research that bold? or does it only seem unpronounced because of the fact that i try my damn best to live out my feminism? to be intentional. and responsible. and accountable. and compassionate. and so on.
i don't like sitting on my arse, reading all day. i don't. i read really, really slowly. i'm so *not* a fast reader. and i have a really creative mind, and i'd, in many ways, much rather be taking photos, or designing, or thinking about colour theory, etc. you know i used to write music? for the piano? when i was like 12? and i'm much, much better at supporting and motivating others than doing whatever the hell it is that *i* need to do. and so, for me, this is hard work. it takes a ton of discipline and focus. and i have to find something that i'm tuly and whole-heartedly invested in, or else i won't be able to pull through. and, perhaps, even more so, i'm gonna need to hold on to my faith. because, in those moments of questioning, consoling, grimacing...well, that's all i've got. faith. because even though this is hard for me, i think that Barbara's right. it's way harder out there, and you can't call yourself a feminist and not acknowledge that. so this arse-sitting...it's just me, biding my time. because i can't wait to get out there and raise hell. that's where i want to be. what i want to be doing. but, first, i've got to get my PhD. and figure out a way to do it from within the academy. because it's really messed up in there, too. and since i'm teetering between 'out there' and 'in here' anyways, always, i'm just gonna go ahead and embrace it. at least for the next 3 years. :-)
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