This weeks blog was written by the very talented Frederique. Not having a sister myself, reading it at this point of time made me think of what I think of the new university students. I wish that when I came to university, with my young glory eyes, I had taken advantage of everything that was before me. Now, my thoughts are angry of these people who have years in front of them, jealousy consumes me, and I blame and am bitter. This reflection incapsulates all of these feelings of age so beautifully; the ups, the downs, the triumphs and disappointments.
Thank you once again for your beautiful words Frederique.
Life lessons for my little sister:
In youth, the beauty of things is not decided by predetermined standards but by the young incorrupt mind that perceives it, the young glowy eyes that see it. But age, the ugly beast, scratches wrinkles into slumped skin, obscures the view, push push pushes past wisps of baby hair, falls through the fontanelle, like poison: stretch, deform, intoxicate. In the womb; unknown, unknowing, unknowable. The venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. Whispers of doubt. Au fait; keep up – the new mandate of others, opinions narrate absolutely on beauty. The rouge lips of Curley’s wife deceptive, the glass ceiling shattered into a thousand ugly pieces cutting until the Yellow Wallpaper is speckled, her hands are bloodied with battle and envy and each and every woman bears scars. Sister, remember, you are not a member of the Second Sex. Read de Beauvoir, live in this world, not the bell jar. Thank Thatcher for setting her ladder and not leaving it for the rest to clamber up after. Smashing the token totem of female progression. We still exist in taxonomic system: age politics colours gender - 52%, or more? Is my body legal tender? Remember. Uncensored. Workplace equality. Democracy. Don’t act the victim. Don’t succumb to the dictum of androcentrism. Be the cataclysm, eradicate sexism. And drown in a new world order, in a river of dreamy folklore: join Baba Yaga, join Rosa, join the league of women too powerful to be nice. Hag, witch, whore. Fight, Boudicca. Watch life and love flicker. Be Joan of Arc. March. Laugh in the face of the patriarchy. Take a leaf from Wollstonecraft. You want to be valued, in ways that You are not; You want to be more than valuable. Mourn youth. Mourn minds. Mourn creativity. Colour, confidence, courage. Splatted like acrylic and churned and churned until it forms an ugly brown. The all-colour that used to form those paintings papa stuck on the fridge door. Your painting. Put on a pedestal just to make you feel like he cares. Behave. Running through a field of wheat is the catalyst to fucking up a country. Stick together the broken glass. Now curtsey. Be understanding. Scrub and scratch red paint off your hands. You’ve got a grey hair. Cellulite. Your period is late. You’ve put on weight. And afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state. One last push to bring life into this world. Your purpose: creation. Pull the alien out with forceps, breech. Grow up in the footsteps of Millicent Fawcett. Wash your hands. Stand on your soapbox. Deliver your speech.