Month / October 2011

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

On Poundland and Twitchforks

I watched with interest this little storm in a Twitter teacup this morning. (I couldn’t bring myself to write Tweacup. Oh, look, I just did.)

To be honest, I found the whole thing pretty disquieting.

Now, generally speaking I wear a poppy. Even when I don’t, I still give to Poppy Appeal at this time of year. I do not lack respect for what the poppies stand for.

But the attacks levelled at Poundland today through social media really disturbed me. “People died for your freedom!” (to be told what to do by a baying mob). “I bet you’d let a Muslim wear a turban!” (Actual, distressingly bigoted and hilariously inaccurate statement on the Poundland Facebook Page that betrayed what, for this man at least, the argument was really all about).

I rarely talk about my faith, or my beliefs, or anything else that is largely a private matter, but I can tell you this: if my work uniform policy told me I couldn’t wear a symbol of support for something that is personal to me, I wouldn’t think twice about removing it. Because symbols are only external props; they do not take away what’s within. And what’s within can also be kept private; not wearing a poppy is not an act of disrespect.

When it comes to charity symbols, I think that they’re a perfectly valid and enjoyable fundraising tool: from badges and pins to Twibbons, people like a way to indicate their adherence to a particular cause and in our private lives I think it’s lovely that we have that opportunity. But, as grateful as I am to generations of soldiers, I don’t see why one symbol should be an exception when others are not. Poundland’s policy was simply to have their chosen charities’ symbols visible, but no others.

To many, the moral of today is that if you kick up a righteous stink, your wishes will be granted. And that’s true. But, at the risk of sounding like Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben, with great power comes great responsibility. When we march upon anyone waving our pitchforks over something like this, how long before it all stops being taken seriously at all? I can’t help feeling that if Poundland had dug their heels in, everyone would have forgotten about it shortly anyway (and, really, if they hadn’t gone making statements about it in the first place hardly anyone outside Lisburn would have heard of the story), and they would have discovered that it might not have been as big a crisis as they thought.

I really love that people power has been given a new lease of life through social channels. I just think that when you compare this to using social channels to organise a revolution, we might want to think about whether we’re mindlessly abusing the privilege – and whether we’ll be the Tweeters that cry wolf.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Free papers: a masterclass in misogyny

I gave up women’s magazines years ago. It’s not that I have any vast objection to most of their subject areas, because, you know, I dress appropriately for work, I quite like pretty jewellery and the odd makeup tip for creating a desired look is handy. But I have no time for publications that are going to airbrush women to within an inch of their lives and then tell me that it’s the only acceptable way to look. Furthermore, I don’t like the suggestion that man-pleasing sexuality, obsessive dieting, and dressing ‘for your body shape’ are the only ways to live, especially as that’s not required for men.

So, I gave them up. And for the record I’m probably slimmer, better dressed and more successful than I ever was with their help – and certainly more confident.

After a year’s maternity leave, I returned to the world of commuting and therefore free newspapers and magazines, morning and afternoon, in vast variety and abundance. Mostly these do a useful commuter public service, giving us all something to pretend to be gawping at while we’re watching the person opposite pick their nose, and they can be a useful way of getting to know about events, TV shows, etc etc.

But oh boy. I just don’t think I can read them anymore. I can’t even find it in myself to be all that angry about it all, but twice now I’ve garnered funny looks from forgetting myself and literally facepalming on the Tube. (It’s quite a good way to get some more breathing space).

In the last 24 hours alone, I’ve seen the following:

  • A huge letters page, complete with illustration, with no less than three letters from men all making the identical point that Theresa May’s proposed plans to notify women about violent partners are ‘sexist’ because they assume men aren’t victims of domestic violence. This was much more space than was devoted to the original article about the plans, and is accompanied by letters about how if women get a bit narked for being treated as weak and feeble they should ‘smile and say thank you’ because that’s just chivalry and we HAVE TO ACCEPT IT. (Because they were purposely excluded and this has nothing to do with the fact that this is designed to tackle a situation where ONE IN FOUR women will experience domestic violence, so it might just affect them more.)
  • A woman’s article about her partner staying at home to raise the baby and how she possibly feels a bit bad about this, so feminism should be careful what it wishes for. (Presumably because every woman must feel like she does, and those of us who are able to find a shared childcare model can’t possibly exist.)
  • A comment about the possible pregnancy of a famous actor’s wife which comments that because he already has three daughters he ‘must’ be keen on having a boy this time. (Because girls smell?)
  • An article about famous people from a particular ethnic group. For the three women, the comments were purely focussed on their bodies: one was ‘luscious’, one was just a backside and one was only interesting because she posed nude. For the two men (both of which have been sex symbols), it was strictly about their work. (If it’s not necessary to objectify men – and it’s not – then… Oh, I don’t even have the heart to continue explaining.)

And that’s me just sitting here remembering what I’ve been reading. I don’t even have the papers in front of me to pick through them.

What’s really scary is how much of this is just considered matter-of-fact discourse, and can’t even be put down to people trying to be misogynist. They just think this is how life is. Men are serious achievers, women are frivolous decorations. Men must want to populate the world with other men.  When help is offered to women who suffer disproportionately because of their sex, it must have been done to leave men out and victimise them.

Seriously, if you were having a conversation with someone about your issue and they kept talking about themselves, wouldn’t you just feel exhausted by it all?

So, I’m downing tools and giving up the papers again. I lived perfectly happily – happier – without them, after all. And maybe this blog will convince one other person to consider doing the same. And then maybe, as Wayne’s World once told us, they’ll tell two friends and they’ll tell their friends and so on and so on.

Cos really, I’ve seen from one campaign after another that writing to these papers and trying to explain why this is Not Good doesn’t work. Sometimes it’s appropriate to stay in the room and try to yell louder to be heard over the background noise. Sometimes you just figure you should leave the room and let other people make their own decisions.

Toodle pip.

 

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Reflections on Ramona: 14 months

Looking back at the 13 month mark, I’m astonished that there’s so much more to note in such a short space of time. People wonder why toddlers have tantrums, but seriously: can you imagine learning so many things in such a small space of time and not getting a bit cranky?

Leaving aside the leaps in physical co-ordination that are happening, it’s language that’s really astonishing me. I suppose because it’s so obvious all the time, and because it’s allowing me an inlet into communication with my daughter. Because one of the toughest things about being a parent is trying to understand and make yourself understood when there is no common language – except for body language, which is so easy to misread – between you.

So, to mark 14 months, as we dart inexorably on to 15 since I’ve been so late with this update, I give you Whiffle’s Baby Glossary. Or: things wot my kid says.

  • Family: Mummy, Daddy, Yiayia (Greek: grandma), Pappou (Greek: grandpa), Ouma (Afrikaans, grandma), ‘Gamps’ (Gramps), ‘Cabbi’ (Casper, the cat), ‘Aki’ (Alex, the cousin). Occasionally she attempts ‘Ramona’, and gets ‘amona’, which is not bad going for someone with six teeth.
  • Animals: ‘Giger’ (tiger), ‘Ca’ (cat), ‘a pi’ (pig). For ‘dog’ she just strokes the picture and goes ‘aaaahhhh’, and all black cats are ‘Cabbi’.
  • Objects and responses to questions: ‘App-ul’ (apple – tomatoes are also apples, apparently), tea, ‘tthhh’ (teeth), ‘appy’ (nappy, said when a change is needed), ca-ca / poo (likewise), ‘out’ (in response to ‘where did you go?’ or ‘in and…?’), ‘up / cup’ (cup), ‘a boo’ (book), ‘up-ah’ (to be picked up – my mother taught her that!), ‘tah’ (star), ‘baw’ (ball), ‘beh’ (bear).

I’m sure I’ve forgotten more than a few, and those are just the regular ones; often she’ll say something once and then put it away for a few days to be hesitantly brought out again later. I guess being around grandparents speaking two different languages and the varied, positive environment at nursery plus having two parents that don’t shut up is having something of an effect on her.

Incidentally, as I’ve said before, I’m really writing this for my own sake, so I can look back at how she was when she was a tot. I’m not tracking her development, or comparing her to others, and for all I know she should have done all this stuff months ago. I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m just a parent, who, just like most other parents, is fascinated by their own child.

Here’s to every single one of us just happening to have the coolest, smartest kid in the world.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

My name is Alex, and I’m obsessed with MasterChef Australia

Like, seriously obsessed. I’ve forgotten to watch all but one episode of Glee this season, but I get seriously grumpy when I don’t get my fix of Aussie culinary glory.

It’s just so damn good. And at this point I’d usually link to examples to show you what I mean but I’M AFRAID TO GOOGLE IT IN CASE I ACCIDENTALLY SEE WHO WINS. Which would upset me far more than is reasonable.

I felt relatively smug when I managed to predict the likely winner of the last series, but I’ve just taken a kick to the gut seeing my early pegged winner plunge into an elimination and promptly lose it.

Everything about it is wonderful. The challenges are extraordinarily freakin’ difficult. The guest judges and guest chefs are a brilliant mixture of the Nigellas and the Hestons (both appeared just this past week) and less mainstream but even more stellar culinary superstars. I’m not saying that John and Gregg aren’t brilliant, but how can they hope to compete with a contest that flies contestants to Malaysia for a masterclass with Rick Stein?

Although there is a serious dearth of announcements about cooking not getting any tougher than this, which they should really borrow from us.

Also, there’s a Greek judge. Alright, Greek Cypriot, but when you’re half a world away that’s closely related enough. And they help the contestants when they get stuck. And everyone sobs, and you can’t blame them because you can’t even begin to understand how you make a DESSERT THAT HAS TO BE SPRAY PAINTED WITH CARAMEL.

(You’re going to be doing some Googling, aren’t you?)

Oh, the huge manatee. You can keep your X Factor and your Weasels Got Talent. I know what I’ll be watching.