But when you dig down into the voting statistics, some very obvious truths surface. Those like me–generation X,Y or post Y and/or many with immigrant heritage–voted remain. Almost half of us. The baby boomers voted leave. Was it their fear of change?
These relationships do not live in the past, because for the women at least, there is no past. There is only today. And in my grown life I have sought to emulate that characteristic of those relationships. Why?
Experience inadequacy and confusion when you go out, try to grapple with vastly different public transport systems, inadvertently miss bill payments because the sheer volume of foreign administrative mail takes literally days to wade through. Be misunderstood for your communication and have people shout louder at you thereby triggering your childhood trauma. And then spend even more years trying to learn the language starting with ‘Lesson 1: how to buy an apple’ instead of the more useful topic ‘Lesson 367: dealing with online banking and tax declarations.’
I know what a fucking apple is and how to buy it, since apples and currency work the same in pretty much every language.
Some people will rarely experience that hopping up and down to have sex. Some people will never feel a ‘fuck yes’ about anything. They will make their decisions based on past experience and educated guesses more than a soul-thrilling desire to go for it. They are the emotionally blind. And there’s more of us than you might think.
As a child my memory was rewritten time and again–first by my mother who tried to erase who I was to serve her own narcissistic needs, and then as an adult by an abusive ex (ditto). At twelve years old, I experienced a car accident which must have had more of an impact than the months I don’t recall and I drank my way through my twenties, actively trying to forget many things, which I’m pretty sure had an even larger impact.
To learn on one hand that I have perpetuated systemic oppressive behaviours, and on the other having to face those who have been oppressed and who are angry at me for doing so makes me want to shield myself from the onslaught which risks triggering the terror I felt as a child.
But if I truly want to be an ally, I cannot ignore it.
Captain America’s treatment of Bucky promotes restorative treatment of someone who has unwittingly abused his power, because he himself was abused.
I can’t make my child into an adult before she is ready to become one. You cannot give the third eye of adulthood to your child, they must develop it themselves. I cannot explain to her yet that perhaps the reason she withdraws is because she thinks it is the best way to get our attention. And even if I could it wouldn’t mean she could stop doing it.
At first, I felt guilty about not feeling angry. What had happened? Wasn’t anger a healthy expression at the outrage in the world? I should be feeling it!
“Feminists,” I told myself sternly, “should be angry. There’s a lot to be angry about.”
Consequently, success in British cringe comedy is more often to be found in dry, dark verbal humour where jokes preferred in the US might be perceived by Brits as too obvious and schmaltzy. The British are more likely expect you to do the work and join the ironic dots if you want to laugh. America delivers humour to your door in superbly constructed sets of punchlines.
But I had broken something, something which seemed tiny and unimportant but which turned out to be the foundation of our relationship. I had broken an unspoken and sacred pact with myself. The promise to keep myself safe. And the castles we had built together started to crumble.
I’d like Britain to be a part of that, I’d like Eurovision to become less of a guilty pleasure and more a resounding celebration of popular music for all countries. I’d like to see even more countries became involved in it (Australia please stay, you were great), for Eurovision to become a concept rather than a ‘club’ where certain member states are allowed to participate.
The film is a fest of destruction; it moves from violent sequence to violent sequence excepting some rather trite but nevertheless humorous macho competition around Thor’s Big Hammer.
So a friend of mine has been looking for an assistant. A sign of the times we are living in, he posts a job description on Facebook and receives 15 applications within 2 days. He tells me about the interviews and how he has an excellent woman in mind for the job. I joke saying ‘don’t pick someone based on how hot they are.’ His dry response is ‘well that’s why I picked to work with you.’
Did I choose to suffer when I was beaten by a man who said he loved me? I would have told you no. Never. And anyone who told me otherwise I would have deemed cruel. Privileged. But now it seems I am a person who embraces that truth. And admitting that maybe, just maybe, I am both cruel and privileged (the latter is certainly true).