Recently I was directed to a Tumbler thread called "Your Fave is Problematic." I've looked through it enough to understand that this encapsulates everything I hate about the egotistic, extreme end of liberalism.
Your Fave is Problematic is contains a compilation of the "problematic" things that popular, apparently liberal and open minded celebrities have said on camera. The very idea of it is somewhat McCarthy-istic. The people we think are like us are actually guilty of something. Something that, while may not be a crime, may indicate a secret, subversive attitude.
The entire idea is completely skewered, then. That John Green, a community-focused and uplifting author and charity founder, has written a single objectionable compound noun in An Abundance of Katherines, is meaningless. That Benedict Cumberbatch used autism in an analogy to describe a character he plays tells us no useful information about him, and is certainly less indicative of his personality than when he was polite and encouraging about feminism and activism in one of his interviews. But this list makes these statements disproportionately important, listing every statement that could be interpreted as bad in an entire career.
Do me a favour, think back on your life and tell me honestly that you have never said anything that could be construed as offensive, or that was overtly offensive to any group of people, ever.
We all say dumb shit from time to time, either because we are inarticulate in our point, because we reach for the nearest, most convenient word in the common, social vernacular, because we are deep in our own thoughts and are speculating wildly, because we are angry at the time and we want to hurt a specific individual, perhaps we are trying to be edgy and off-colour for effect. Perhaps we have just been exposed to an idea and we are figuring out our own reactions to it. The bonus most of us have is that people aren't waiting around with cameras and tape recorders when we do it.
Truth is, I have to turn to Harry Potter for my guideline here. In Chamber of Secrets (I think) Harry is racked with fear that he is actually bad because the Sorting Hat seriously thought he was Slytherin material; he only avoided being labeled as a genetically evil wizard by begging the Hat not to put him in the cursed house. And that's what was more vital to Harry's personality and moral integrity, not his unthinking circumstances, that he chose not to be Slytheristic.
Like Harry, I really don't think some unthinking remarks these individuals made are the most informative pointers about the make-up of their personalities, whereas their choices, for example, Jennifer Lawrence's clearly well developed and selected views on body image, are far more important than an unguarded, offhand comment. And yet this list, is the go-to place for someone who has just taken against some of these people for one reason or another. These are people whose primary effect in this world is good, they are a force for making the world visibly better, in whatever small way. And what I'm about to say will sound utterly pathetic, but some of us out there look to people like these as little beacons of light. It's lonely out there, and hostile, everyone tells us we are wrong somehow and these kind-minded people give us a frail, blow-away piece of hope that the world really isn't all that bad, that there are good guys in the mix. I'm speaking from a position of feeble mental health, slowly knitting together better as the world goes on, while my eyes slip backwards and remind myself of how bad it was before, and how modeling my view of an undecipherable world on these people helped drag myself to my feet, stopped my stomach dying just a little bit everytime I went outside.
Picking over these people is at best a waste of time, and at worst, shitting all over the good bits of the fame world, which when you think about its heavy saturation and relevance to real life, is really quite damaging.
Thursday, 26 December 2013
My entire Life
I decided a few years ago that being good at something isn’t
for me. I have about average capacity to be good at most things – I did ok at
school even though I was barely there, but not savant level good. Basically, I
could be a good artist or a good scientist or a good storyteller. I just
decided not to be.
Because what is the worth? I enjoy things, yes. I enjoy
learning about ions, electro-magnetism, I enjoy drawing and painting, I enjoy
reading and speculating about things, I love languages and I love inventing
stories (although I normally only invent stories for me to masturbate to.) I
like current events.
But my multiple likes do not create a guideline for my life.
My perfectly able brain has not formed a path I can follow. Nothing really
took, and even when it did seem like I was getting ok at something, it would
lead to further inspection and criticism from the supervising adult –
apparently pushing promising pupils is a common tactic, but I never welcomed
the extra attention. When I was just average, dumb, no tongue in my head, all
the people around me left me alone. Which was greatly preferable.
The people I encountered in fiction were a lot more accommodating.
They didn’t ask me questions that I didn’t invent myself. They were brave, they
were never mean. They didn’t make facial expressions that made me nervous.
Their choice of words and the tone they used never made me confused or behind
in the information. I could mold them
after I had finished the book or the game or the film I saw them in, fitting
them to my mood, my needs. They only said things that were interesting and
meaningful, and they never interrupted me when I was speaking. I could spend as
much time with them as I liked, and because I was mainly watching, I never had to panic over how I would seem. I didn't fit myself into any persona that they could see through.
I never obsess over music in the same way I know some people
do, not except when I am trying to fit in, but music became an important tool
in helping me formulate the rooms inside my head. It helped me create emotionally
elaborate worlds, deepening my connection there. Because I am only interested
in music that makes my worlds more sensory, I ended up having a truly diverse
music collection that I illegally downloaded. Because I had a 360 degree world
which was full of emotional pulls that I had assembled on the very basis of
what affected me and what didn’t, I would cry when listening to something. I
would become enraged, or anticipating, or I would giggle with glee. All alone
in my room, sitting at my desk in front of my itunes, I had a life abundant in
meaning and emotion. Lying motionless in bed each night, I would go through
each gesture that my imaginary friends would make in the pivotal conversations
in their life, their facial expressions. Every night everything became more
sculpted, more precise, the world so sharp it was almost physical.Trying to
figure out the best way to link them all together.
Truthfully, a lot of the time I was coming up with the best
sex scenes. Which scenario’s had the most erotic atmosphere, that would make me
pant. I am not so attractive in real life, so my imaginary friends, who are
almost certainly people I want to be, were all stunning, glamorous at all
times. I am flabby, hairy in the wrong places, I constantly get colds, I have a
big nose and bad skin. Every possible detail of female self-hate can be found
on my body somewhere. So to imagine my skin as smooth and hairless, my hair
voluminous, my teeth even and white. Better than anything.
So there I was. In my world of perfect me and malleable
associates. I still don’t know what the real benefit of leaving it is. I still
go there a lot, at night, when other people aren’t there to distract me. The real world is horrifically unmoveable and unfathomable. I still don't understand what people's criteria are for me pleasing them enough.
My fantasy world was and is a huge part of my psyche, how I know how to act, to connect with real people. I have previously been described as a nerd, because of my preoccupation with characters from different shows. But nerd is too flippant, it indicates that it is the shows or the games themselves that I am interested by. And I do learn as much as I can about these things, because I find them interesting. But the target of my obsession isn't them, but what I can do with them myself.
Monday, 23 December 2013
Vulgarity
What is it when someone tells me how bad something is to look at, how brutal, how stomach churning, I have to see it, and then, try to top it?
Why is it?
I try to break through my fear to look, and I look, and the truth of it is that it is never horrible in the way I was expecting.
It doesn't offend me, it's not a matter of an intellectual capacity to withstand trauma. It doesn't break my mind.
It doesn't do anything at all, and I scoff, amused, I say something worse, I can't stand how soft it is. I want something worse, something that will make everything else fall away.
Instead it just lies there, is just one more horrible thing. I try to subsume it into my mass like that monster in Spirited Away. Make me bigger, more monstrous.
This morning I got a call from my sister. My mum is in hospital.
I'm frightened.
Why is it?
I try to break through my fear to look, and I look, and the truth of it is that it is never horrible in the way I was expecting.
It doesn't offend me, it's not a matter of an intellectual capacity to withstand trauma. It doesn't break my mind.
It doesn't do anything at all, and I scoff, amused, I say something worse, I can't stand how soft it is. I want something worse, something that will make everything else fall away.
Instead it just lies there, is just one more horrible thing. I try to subsume it into my mass like that monster in Spirited Away. Make me bigger, more monstrous.
This morning I got a call from my sister. My mum is in hospital.
I'm frightened.
Thursday, 5 December 2013
Models
When I find out that someone is a model, my immediate thought is that they must in some way be disabled and unable to work normally. Actually, I think being unemployed is a more useful use of your time, as that way you can be a drain on a government that is corrupt and uncaring anyway, while also being the living embodiment of their failure. If you're a model, you're the background to all this, and what you drain is the confidence of literally hundreds of thousands of people who have never done anything to you. And you do it in the most passive, dumb way possible. There is no skill nor effort associated with it.
Friday, 29 November 2013
Patriarchy
Dear Sir,
I am addressing this exclusively to men, and in fact to a special kind of man who I know exists because I've read his comments on various websites, listened to him laugh at women MPs while she takes her turn in speaking, guys who specialise in intimidating their new female colleagues, making sure she never feels that comfortable at work. Men who clearly have done fuck all research on the sexism they are dogmatically, absolutely pontificating on, but have a second hand observation that trumps all other arguments. Yes, even the people who are reporting their experiences in the first-person, where they cite extensive academic studies, surveys, official reports and basic, everyday, right-in-front-of-you facts, even these people can't stand before the almighty authority of this one guy's anecdote. Yes, your "observation" from that one time, made a comprehensive fact in the present simple tense, that is all you have to say on the matter. No listening, no researching, no understanding. Doesn't want to. Self preservation must come first.
Because if you dare admit that things aren't fair, if you stop telling us that we are whiny bitches for wanting fair treatment, if you just say "yes, we are not on a level playing field, men have an advantage over women in almost all parts of life and we need to change it," if you were to do any of that, you would condemn yourselves.
Not men in general. No, men have such an ingrained advantage over women, culturally, economically, politically, I actually think true equality may never be possible - our collective ideas are too entrenched, they are too reinforced by the rotation of our daily rituals. Mankind is absolutely fine, strong, ahead of their female partners forever (which is a real shame for men. I will go into the benefits guys get from feminism in a later post.)
You, however, you as an individual man, are utterly fucked.
You're asking why. I think you know why. Allow me to speculate about you.
You make it obvious when you try to flip it. Most of the time, when someone is getting a raw deal, people don't insist blindly that the victim is meant to suffer because "it is the way it is," or that the crime isn't even happening or that they aren't really the victim in the situation: imagine if the white people of the deep south in the 60s tried to insist that it was actually the black people oppressing them. It's not idiocy, it's calculation. These guys explain away inequality as a gut reaction, desperately trying to squash these voices that keep telling their stories.
The more women become equal, the more of us you're running against, the lower you get ranked. Not on a basis of gender, but on a basis of skill. 50 years ago, your male elders only really competed against other men - specifically, other white men. Women and people who weren't white were relegated to offstage roles, unfit and unsuited to the working world of dogged rivalry and triumph over others. When you insulted the others, you feminised them, because to be a woman was to be weak. It must have been really, very easy to win in those days - the scale of talent must have been really, very limited.
But now, we are running exactly the same race as you. And many of us are actually doing better than you, much better than you. Actually talented guys aren't worried, they are happy to have us on their teams, their skills have stood up to the extra competition and they now see past that to the actual, desirable result of having a greater range and standard of skills.
Their confidence is fine.
But you, Mr. Misandry-Online, are horrified - before the 70s, you would have profited from the limited talent pool, your barely-there ability made to look better by an optical illusion. Now, the sheer number of players drives you down from the top to off the radar. The men who were better than you were always going to do better, but may be before you could have become their right hand man, there wasn't a lot of choice after all. Now it is statistically impossible for you to claw your way out of the mediocre middle. Women, before quiet and non-existent in the world of work, have humiliated you by outstripping you with such seemingly natural ease.
So when women say to you, "you know, we've not got a fair deal" it makes you explode.
Give them a fair deal?! You mean they've been doing as well as you or even better with less to work with!? Christ, what would it be like if they fucking WERE equal!
And so you insist it doesn't happen, that it isn't such a big deal, that you too are being victimised by the system.
You want to perpetuate inequality.
Fear forces you to refuse. Humiliation compels you to insist it's the other way around.
And the entire time you make us feel bad about ourselves, you abuse us, tell us our looks are our currency, call us an aggressive bitch if we are too easily sailing past you. It must sting that we keep doing it, despite being hindered by history, that we so effortlessly render your obsolescence.
Night.
I am addressing this exclusively to men, and in fact to a special kind of man who I know exists because I've read his comments on various websites, listened to him laugh at women MPs while she takes her turn in speaking, guys who specialise in intimidating their new female colleagues, making sure she never feels that comfortable at work. Men who clearly have done fuck all research on the sexism they are dogmatically, absolutely pontificating on, but have a second hand observation that trumps all other arguments. Yes, even the people who are reporting their experiences in the first-person, where they cite extensive academic studies, surveys, official reports and basic, everyday, right-in-front-of-you facts, even these people can't stand before the almighty authority of this one guy's anecdote. Yes, your "observation" from that one time, made a comprehensive fact in the present simple tense, that is all you have to say on the matter. No listening, no researching, no understanding. Doesn't want to. Self preservation must come first.
Because if you dare admit that things aren't fair, if you stop telling us that we are whiny bitches for wanting fair treatment, if you just say "yes, we are not on a level playing field, men have an advantage over women in almost all parts of life and we need to change it," if you were to do any of that, you would condemn yourselves.
Not men in general. No, men have such an ingrained advantage over women, culturally, economically, politically, I actually think true equality may never be possible - our collective ideas are too entrenched, they are too reinforced by the rotation of our daily rituals. Mankind is absolutely fine, strong, ahead of their female partners forever (which is a real shame for men. I will go into the benefits guys get from feminism in a later post.)
You, however, you as an individual man, are utterly fucked.
You're asking why. I think you know why. Allow me to speculate about you.
You make it obvious when you try to flip it. Most of the time, when someone is getting a raw deal, people don't insist blindly that the victim is meant to suffer because "it is the way it is," or that the crime isn't even happening or that they aren't really the victim in the situation: imagine if the white people of the deep south in the 60s tried to insist that it was actually the black people oppressing them. It's not idiocy, it's calculation. These guys explain away inequality as a gut reaction, desperately trying to squash these voices that keep telling their stories.
The more women become equal, the more of us you're running against, the lower you get ranked. Not on a basis of gender, but on a basis of skill. 50 years ago, your male elders only really competed against other men - specifically, other white men. Women and people who weren't white were relegated to offstage roles, unfit and unsuited to the working world of dogged rivalry and triumph over others. When you insulted the others, you feminised them, because to be a woman was to be weak. It must have been really, very easy to win in those days - the scale of talent must have been really, very limited.
But now, we are running exactly the same race as you. And many of us are actually doing better than you, much better than you. Actually talented guys aren't worried, they are happy to have us on their teams, their skills have stood up to the extra competition and they now see past that to the actual, desirable result of having a greater range and standard of skills.
Their confidence is fine.
But you, Mr. Misandry-Online, are horrified - before the 70s, you would have profited from the limited talent pool, your barely-there ability made to look better by an optical illusion. Now, the sheer number of players drives you down from the top to off the radar. The men who were better than you were always going to do better, but may be before you could have become their right hand man, there wasn't a lot of choice after all. Now it is statistically impossible for you to claw your way out of the mediocre middle. Women, before quiet and non-existent in the world of work, have humiliated you by outstripping you with such seemingly natural ease.
So when women say to you, "you know, we've not got a fair deal" it makes you explode.
Give them a fair deal?! You mean they've been doing as well as you or even better with less to work with!? Christ, what would it be like if they fucking WERE equal!
And so you insist it doesn't happen, that it isn't such a big deal, that you too are being victimised by the system.
You want to perpetuate inequality.
Fear forces you to refuse. Humiliation compels you to insist it's the other way around.
And the entire time you make us feel bad about ourselves, you abuse us, tell us our looks are our currency, call us an aggressive bitch if we are too easily sailing past you. It must sting that we keep doing it, despite being hindered by history, that we so effortlessly render your obsolescence.
Night.
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Racist rant/rant about racism
So, as I mentioned in my last post, which is one of the most depressing things I have ever phlegmed-up, I mentioned that I am now at university. Again.
It's been a while, 3 years, in fact, and like trying on a pair of trousers that used to be your favourites back when you were 22, there is an uncomfortably sad moment of realisation that you've changed shape in some way that stops the trousers fitting you like they used to, a reality-based moment which still can not bleach-clean your initial delight of finding the blessed relics in the first place. In short, although I'm freaking out that I have changed a lot since I was at university, I'm utterly delighted to be back in a place that has such holy connections for me.
Hang on, I'll get on to the main point in a tic, I just want to make an observation. Moments that are special to us often get that holy-like quality, becoming symbols of everything that we wish life were like, all the more giddily-held because of the fact that they ACTUALLY HAPPENED while we were ACTUALLY THERE, the living specimen that proves our theory correct. But because it was so long ago and far away, the details drop out of focus. We stop seeing the pointilist detail and instead think the experience was pure, concentrated fantagasm. We do this collectively, on a historical basis too. My generation is often knocked by the one before it as being the laziest, most feckless there is, even though the shit-poor economic situation started when we were sequestered in schools, universities or low-end jobs. And this sneerful attitude is formed by the fact that certain individuals of that generation cannot reflect with accurate, mirror-like perception on the errors of their own lifetime. I would go into more detail on this, but I want to talk about something else.
I'm living in halls, and living in halls comes with the caveat that you will be co-habiting with a bunch of randomly selected other students. Sure, on the application form you had to specify if you were an early-to-bed or a late-to-bed, but besides everything else, there is no common factor between you and your new halls-buddies. This isn't necessarily a problem, but anyone can appreciate some....issues that may arise.
In my halls, there are 3 English people, including myself, and the rest are Chinese people.
Guess who I have a problem with
Ok, that's enough time.
The two English girls I met I find difficult to like. For the purposes of this account, let's call them Liz and Carys. Because those are their names and no one actually reads this.
Anyway, my problems with them so far;
1.) When I first moved in, they had both been here for just under a week, and they were BFFs already. I am very awkward around people, and I always have been, but as I get older the awkwardness is materialising more as wariness. I'm not so much anti-social, as I was 10 years ago and a teenager terrified of the concept of human interaction. Instead, now I know how to get friends, I'm very very selective regarding who I leave my books, my computer and myself for. And I can't help but feel a sort of suspicion for people who can form a sorority/fraternity-like bond with people they don't really know.
2.) The first day I moved in, they showed me the cupboards (which I'd already figured out, thanks. I know how cupboards work,) and then followed it up with a synchronised whinge about how the Chinese don't occupy the maximum amount of space. For what felt like 10 minutes of me nodding, and saying "yes, that's annoying." A few hours later, after buying some plates and things, I found about 2 whole cupboards, full of nothing. These cunts took up my time, bored me solid, made me feel all nervous about a possible confrontation divided along race lines, because they can't fucking open a cupboard.
3.) I'm not entirely sure if I'm being overly PC, but I think they're racist.
First warning sign, they kept emphasizing how EVERYONE in our flat was Chinese. Ok, it may be a bit surprising, but after the 40th mention, I get it. Ok, I understand. It's a surprise how there does seem to have been a bit of racial grouping by the university, but it happens. Then Carys said (all together now)
"We're not racist, buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.........................
all the non-Asian people have been looking for each other to connect with."
I can't help but feel that this is a racially charged sentiment, and naive to the point of idiocy.
"All the non-Asian people have been looking for each other."
Well, in an English city, in England, in Britain... Shouldn't be too hard, but what makes you think you'll like the non-Asian people? I fucking detest the ones I've just spent time with.
The concept that I will bond with you because I share a nationality with you would make sense in what universe?
The only example I can think of is when I was in France, the anglo-phones DID associate with the
other anglo-phones, because yes, I admit that there is an element of "oh fucking good, you're an English speaker.." But those circumstances were totally different, in being national aliens in a country whose language we don't share! There is a real sense of relief from this experience, which you can only experience from actually spending a significant amount of time alone in a foreign country. Because even if the Information Guy at Gare de Nord does speak English, if you're panicking about your health insurance, it's so much more comforting to here what you need to do in a thick London accent, given by a wearied veteran traveller with a sense of "I know where you're from, I understand how it's different where you're from, and here is how you need to adjust."
That is a position where hearing your own language, spoken in your own accent, is a fucking godsend.
We are categorically not in that position. The Chinese flatmates ARE in that position. Which would explain why they would have been stand offish and shy. Which they totally haven't been, btw, they have been fucking lovely, polite and generous at every opportunity.
Oh, and at a pub quizz, about 7 of these English people cheerfully named themselves the "committee of non-Asian residents." When called up on this, one of them actually said something along the lines of:
"we had this segregation forced on us."
Except they really haven't: they have been placed in a flat which is (at a guess) 60% Chinese, probably less, and you have been placed in here in these dormitories, at a ratio of 5 to 3, maybe more, maybe less. You really, really have not been segregated.
Quite the opposite.
In your native country, in your English-speaking city, where most people are white natives, you are living in the most racially diverse bit. You have been integrated, and you are rejecting said integration.
.....
Is this racist? Should people be entitled to live in buildings where they are not outnumbered by other nationalities? Is the anger I feel these people have, when talking about the encroaching Chinese property in their cupboards, when haughtily disregarding our uncomfortable observation, is this justified? Should I talk to someone official about this?
It's been a while, 3 years, in fact, and like trying on a pair of trousers that used to be your favourites back when you were 22, there is an uncomfortably sad moment of realisation that you've changed shape in some way that stops the trousers fitting you like they used to, a reality-based moment which still can not bleach-clean your initial delight of finding the blessed relics in the first place. In short, although I'm freaking out that I have changed a lot since I was at university, I'm utterly delighted to be back in a place that has such holy connections for me.
Hang on, I'll get on to the main point in a tic, I just want to make an observation. Moments that are special to us often get that holy-like quality, becoming symbols of everything that we wish life were like, all the more giddily-held because of the fact that they ACTUALLY HAPPENED while we were ACTUALLY THERE, the living specimen that proves our theory correct. But because it was so long ago and far away, the details drop out of focus. We stop seeing the pointilist detail and instead think the experience was pure, concentrated fantagasm. We do this collectively, on a historical basis too. My generation is often knocked by the one before it as being the laziest, most feckless there is, even though the shit-poor economic situation started when we were sequestered in schools, universities or low-end jobs. And this sneerful attitude is formed by the fact that certain individuals of that generation cannot reflect with accurate, mirror-like perception on the errors of their own lifetime. I would go into more detail on this, but I want to talk about something else.
I'm living in halls, and living in halls comes with the caveat that you will be co-habiting with a bunch of randomly selected other students. Sure, on the application form you had to specify if you were an early-to-bed or a late-to-bed, but besides everything else, there is no common factor between you and your new halls-buddies. This isn't necessarily a problem, but anyone can appreciate some....issues that may arise.
In my halls, there are 3 English people, including myself, and the rest are Chinese people.
Guess who I have a problem with
Ok, that's enough time.
The two English girls I met I find difficult to like. For the purposes of this account, let's call them Liz and Carys. Because those are their names and no one actually reads this.
Anyway, my problems with them so far;
1.) When I first moved in, they had both been here for just under a week, and they were BFFs already. I am very awkward around people, and I always have been, but as I get older the awkwardness is materialising more as wariness. I'm not so much anti-social, as I was 10 years ago and a teenager terrified of the concept of human interaction. Instead, now I know how to get friends, I'm very very selective regarding who I leave my books, my computer and myself for. And I can't help but feel a sort of suspicion for people who can form a sorority/fraternity-like bond with people they don't really know.
2.) The first day I moved in, they showed me the cupboards (which I'd already figured out, thanks. I know how cupboards work,) and then followed it up with a synchronised whinge about how the Chinese don't occupy the maximum amount of space. For what felt like 10 minutes of me nodding, and saying "yes, that's annoying." A few hours later, after buying some plates and things, I found about 2 whole cupboards, full of nothing. These cunts took up my time, bored me solid, made me feel all nervous about a possible confrontation divided along race lines, because they can't fucking open a cupboard.
3.) I'm not entirely sure if I'm being overly PC, but I think they're racist.
First warning sign, they kept emphasizing how EVERYONE in our flat was Chinese. Ok, it may be a bit surprising, but after the 40th mention, I get it. Ok, I understand. It's a surprise how there does seem to have been a bit of racial grouping by the university, but it happens. Then Carys said (all together now)
"We're not racist, buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.........................
all the non-Asian people have been looking for each other to connect with."
I can't help but feel that this is a racially charged sentiment, and naive to the point of idiocy.
"All the non-Asian people have been looking for each other."
Well, in an English city, in England, in Britain... Shouldn't be too hard, but what makes you think you'll like the non-Asian people? I fucking detest the ones I've just spent time with.
The concept that I will bond with you because I share a nationality with you would make sense in what universe?
The only example I can think of is when I was in France, the anglo-phones DID associate with the
other anglo-phones, because yes, I admit that there is an element of "oh fucking good, you're an English speaker.." But those circumstances were totally different, in being national aliens in a country whose language we don't share! There is a real sense of relief from this experience, which you can only experience from actually spending a significant amount of time alone in a foreign country. Because even if the Information Guy at Gare de Nord does speak English, if you're panicking about your health insurance, it's so much more comforting to here what you need to do in a thick London accent, given by a wearied veteran traveller with a sense of "I know where you're from, I understand how it's different where you're from, and here is how you need to adjust."
That is a position where hearing your own language, spoken in your own accent, is a fucking godsend.
We are categorically not in that position. The Chinese flatmates ARE in that position. Which would explain why they would have been stand offish and shy. Which they totally haven't been, btw, they have been fucking lovely, polite and generous at every opportunity.
Oh, and at a pub quizz, about 7 of these English people cheerfully named themselves the "committee of non-Asian residents." When called up on this, one of them actually said something along the lines of:
"we had this segregation forced on us."
Except they really haven't: they have been placed in a flat which is (at a guess) 60% Chinese, probably less, and you have been placed in here in these dormitories, at a ratio of 5 to 3, maybe more, maybe less. You really, really have not been segregated.
Quite the opposite.
In your native country, in your English-speaking city, where most people are white natives, you are living in the most racially diverse bit. You have been integrated, and you are rejecting said integration.
.....
Is this racist? Should people be entitled to live in buildings where they are not outnumbered by other nationalities? Is the anger I feel these people have, when talking about the encroaching Chinese property in their cupboards, when haughtily disregarding our uncomfortable observation, is this justified? Should I talk to someone official about this?
Monday, 7 October 2013
Oh deary me...
I have really neglected this blog.
When I first opened it, I was encouraged by the wonderful blogs of people like Jenny Trout, or my friends Eliott and Mouse, who write screamingly funny and photocopier-paper warm entries about all the utterly lovely things they are doing and all the utterly lovely people they are meeting . That was about 6, 8 months ago. A few embarrassingly pitiful posts on a film I saw, something I wrote into the dead cells of my computer when I was mildly pissed and pissed off, and really contrived pieces where I try to force my personality out of the screen like Samira from The Ring, but more uncomfortable gawkiness than terrifying greasy hair. I guess I gave up because whenever I try to write I leave the building embarrassed that I even tried.
The reason why I feel so inadequate, oh stranger-who-is-probably-up-at-2am, is that my writing always comes across as so much more dull. I love reading the blogs I've mentioned because they have a real zestyness about them. Put simply, these people are doing things, and then reporting the done things. They are having the time of their lives, talking, meeting, they take photos of their intrepid fun-having, and they post it online. Their unbelievably good looking expressions make a trip to the supermarket seem like the most hilarious thing us ugly fat kids could never get in on. And if you think I sound bitter, well, fucking of course I'm bitter!! Looking at their photos makes me suspect that all that enjoyment and socialising was natural for them. They didn't fake their smiles, not once. They didn't have to wait to see how the other people spoke to know which words to use. They never came away from social gatherings shamefaced for reasons they couldn't explain, but which boil down to the thick sludge of revulsion they have for the world, their peers, and themselves.
And yes, this is the blog of someone with recurrent mental health issues. I won't specify what's wrong, or not right with me, because tbh it doesn't really matter and if you've had any experience with that unrightness in your brain or anybody else's brain, you'll understand.
It's getting better as I get older, but I am in my mid-twenties now, and I have hit the granite block of reality, and that is I never will fully get over it. I will never be 100% ok with who I am. There will never be a time when I will forget to be nervous around the happy, light-hearted people, the sort of people who fill their blogs with photos of waving children and unusual food. I have had so many social engagements where I try to reorganise my mind to be fun, to forcibly, consciously pump in happy hormones from my pertuity gland, just so I can relax and stop my brain, the treacherous little shit, convincing me I am a soul sucking black hole of stupid remarks then awkward silence. The cold blue area on the infrared camera. No wonder really, why my blogs seem so down, when I'm so internally focussed. While the others look out at the world, at each other, I am looking desperately inward, scrambling to push these shitty feelings inside, keeping an eye on the others' behaviours so I can mimic them and pass as a real person.
And from time to time, there is a mathematical certainty that I will want to kill myself. Not from the tragedy of it. No Opheliac scene with a willow and river. Just a moment of clarity and the sudden understanding that it probably would be better to die. I don't know if anyone who's also experienced these feelings before also felt it like this, but whenever I've wanted to die, it comes to me so rationally. Like a business someone deciding to withdraw shares from one company and invest in another, because it makes sense long-term, because the time is right, because your gut tells you that of your dwindling choices, this one's best. Like I said before, it's not the poignant tragedy of "I shall break like a bough," and it's not an emotional frenzy (although in the past the calm decision of suicide has followed a breakdown or two.) It's a decision I'm making with a plus and a minus column, with no particular feelings on either side.
When I first opened it, I was encouraged by the wonderful blogs of people like Jenny Trout, or my friends Eliott and Mouse, who write screamingly funny and photocopier-paper warm entries about all the utterly lovely things they are doing and all the utterly lovely people they are meeting . That was about 6, 8 months ago. A few embarrassingly pitiful posts on a film I saw, something I wrote into the dead cells of my computer when I was mildly pissed and pissed off, and really contrived pieces where I try to force my personality out of the screen like Samira from The Ring, but more uncomfortable gawkiness than terrifying greasy hair. I guess I gave up because whenever I try to write I leave the building embarrassed that I even tried.
The reason why I feel so inadequate, oh stranger-who-is-probably-up-at-2am, is that my writing always comes across as so much more dull. I love reading the blogs I've mentioned because they have a real zestyness about them. Put simply, these people are doing things, and then reporting the done things. They are having the time of their lives, talking, meeting, they take photos of their intrepid fun-having, and they post it online. Their unbelievably good looking expressions make a trip to the supermarket seem like the most hilarious thing us ugly fat kids could never get in on. And if you think I sound bitter, well, fucking of course I'm bitter!! Looking at their photos makes me suspect that all that enjoyment and socialising was natural for them. They didn't fake their smiles, not once. They didn't have to wait to see how the other people spoke to know which words to use. They never came away from social gatherings shamefaced for reasons they couldn't explain, but which boil down to the thick sludge of revulsion they have for the world, their peers, and themselves.
And yes, this is the blog of someone with recurrent mental health issues. I won't specify what's wrong, or not right with me, because tbh it doesn't really matter and if you've had any experience with that unrightness in your brain or anybody else's brain, you'll understand.
It's getting better as I get older, but I am in my mid-twenties now, and I have hit the granite block of reality, and that is I never will fully get over it. I will never be 100% ok with who I am. There will never be a time when I will forget to be nervous around the happy, light-hearted people, the sort of people who fill their blogs with photos of waving children and unusual food. I have had so many social engagements where I try to reorganise my mind to be fun, to forcibly, consciously pump in happy hormones from my pertuity gland, just so I can relax and stop my brain, the treacherous little shit, convincing me I am a soul sucking black hole of stupid remarks then awkward silence. The cold blue area on the infrared camera. No wonder really, why my blogs seem so down, when I'm so internally focussed. While the others look out at the world, at each other, I am looking desperately inward, scrambling to push these shitty feelings inside, keeping an eye on the others' behaviours so I can mimic them and pass as a real person.
And from time to time, there is a mathematical certainty that I will want to kill myself. Not from the tragedy of it. No Opheliac scene with a willow and river. Just a moment of clarity and the sudden understanding that it probably would be better to die. I don't know if anyone who's also experienced these feelings before also felt it like this, but whenever I've wanted to die, it comes to me so rationally. Like a business someone deciding to withdraw shares from one company and invest in another, because it makes sense long-term, because the time is right, because your gut tells you that of your dwindling choices, this one's best. Like I said before, it's not the poignant tragedy of "I shall break like a bough," and it's not an emotional frenzy (although in the past the calm decision of suicide has followed a breakdown or two.) It's a decision I'm making with a plus and a minus column, with no particular feelings on either side.
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