Opinion

On Being a Woman Part III: International Women’s Day Edition

The other day, I put forward the offer to write a piece for International Women’s Day. I had just finished The Female Eunuch and purchased The Feminine Mystique. I was feeling, once again, that I could put into words that very unique, but also somewhat universal concept of what it is to be a woman.

I wrote my first On Being a Woman essay this time last year. This was fuelled by a seething anger and profound devastation following the murder of Sarah Everard. It discussed violence against women, sexual harassment and how there are consistent attempts to silence both the female voice and female truth. This essay, one year on, isn’t necessarily intended to be a reflection. It will not say look how far we’ve come because at the moment this is not how I feel. What I feel is boredom; not apathy or fatalism but sheer boredom. A sense that as many famous placards so often read: I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit.

I am bored of being angry and I am bored of being conceived as boring. A stuck record. That outspoken one who won’t leave things alone. That girl who ruins other people’s fun. (I distinctly remember a mutual acquaintance telling me they were off to see Fifty Shades of Grey and she hadn’t wanted to tell me because I’d ruin it with my feminism.) I am bored of hearing that it’s not all men. I am bored of the patriarchy and I am bored of the perception that being a feminist is undesirable; that if I define myself this way I am purely here to ruin your fun. That I hate men and long for a world without them. That I’m complaining about solved problems and conceived notions. That I should bloody well recognise that we’ve never had it so good (and then, consequently, shut up).

Germaine Greer infuriates a lot of people. Germaine Greer infuriates me. There are many reasons why this is the case, which in recent years has a lot to do with her attitudes towards inclusivity. At this point I’d like to make a full disclaimer: I do not intend to discuss this, I intend to focus on the fact that I have recently read The Female Eunuch and how I feel about that particular work. I propose taking a Roland Barthes-esque approach here; a focus purely on the text and less on the author.

The Female Eunuch is provocative. It’s pretty provocative now so when it hit shelves in 1972 it was even more so. It has to be read in context, which at times I struggled to do. It also took me quite a long time to read, which for me is never a good sign. As a twenty-first century reader I found that some of the arguments Greer made lacked a certain nuance. There’s a whole chapter on the womb (that ever present menace in the female anatomy), which felt like it ended with her telling me to just suck it up; if you want equality with men you can’t let a silly little thing like bleeding once a month get in the way. For me, being equal is not akin to being the same. It is possible to treat others equally, with the same levels of dignity, respect and worth whilst acknowledging difference, whether that be anatomical, social or cultural. This was gripe number one.

Number two came in the form of her appearing extremely critical of women in general, implying that as we are complicit in the patriarchy we are basically digging our own graves. Literally. I became more sympathetic to Greer’s discussions in the final few chapters on male violence towards women, but again Greer implies that part of the problem here is that within every woman is a masochist willing the event to happen. Feminism, like anything, is difficult. Not everyone is going to get on. Women are people too(!) and people don’t always see eye to eye, I get that, believe me. However, much feminist theory starts from the point that women are the largest underclass and they just haven’t realised yet. In order to achieve revolution (whether that be class, race or gender based) the oppressed class must become aware of their oppression and identify their oppressors. No one is ever going to get on with everyone, but as long as there is criticism and infighting within the oppressed group, their oppressors have nothing to fear. My main problem though is that in the book’s final pages I wasn’t left with any hope – no solutions, no breaks in the cloud – just a simple question: What will you do?

Become pissed off apparently. Greer pushes boundaries, which has invited scrutiny recently, but she’s been infuriating people for much longer than this for one simple reason: she’s a woman who has no qualms complaining and making people listen to her opinions. Those opinions may be questionable, but they are opinions, not facts, and I couldn’t begin to tell you the amount of questionable man’s opinions I’ve had to listen to over the years, often with no dissenting voice in the room. Everyone (women and men included) finds it easier to silence the female voice than the male’s. And this is what I am bored of.

I finished The Female Eunuch and said that it just didn’t feel relevant anymore. This is unfair. It is relevant because had it not been written then all the feminist writers I read today would not have had one of the cornerstones to this cannon. Also, a lot of the ideas are still applicable. Violence towards women is still an epidemic. The pressure from the patriarchy to look and behave a certain way is still there, only now there are more voices expressing dissent.

I know that generally I have an innate desire to please. I write these kinds of pieces and desperately try to justify myself so as not to come across as difficult. I want my arguments watertight, factual, backed up with truth and statistics so as not to appear too emotional. Because as a woman, that’s where they dismiss you with the most ease, with the notion that you are simply hysterical.

As I write and voice my complaints I feel guilty. There are privileges I have that many women do not. The point of International Women’s Day has been to celebrate women’s achievements, not bring a downer on the whole thing with negative pieces such as this one. However, I shouldn’t feel guilty. I am not ruining anything, not playing the cynic or negating the marvellous things women achieve on a daily basis, but I am realistic. International Women’s Day is great but sometimes it feels like there’s a manipulation of this event into yet another capitalist machine that simply exists to placate women. You’ve got your day, what more do you want?

In the Victorian period women had to put up with such nonsense as the ‘wandering womb’, then came Freud and the idea that what us women were in fact suffering with was ‘penis envy’. Then Mid-Century capitalism told us that we had it all, what could we possibly want with feeling discontent? Extra measures were put in place to shield the middle-class housewife from the horrors of the world; we were placed in protective bubbles made up of laundry, hoovering and decent homemade meals and then they wondered why many felt trapped. How long is it going to take for it to be universally accepted that what is wrong is patriarchal systems and the incessant insistence of men to seek to define us.

Let women tell you what the problem is. When we visit doctors don’t tell women that the pain they are feeling is simply in their heads. Let women tell you why they are afraid to walk alone in the dark as opposed to simply exclaiming that it’s nonsense women feel this way because it’s not all men. Let women run for parliament without fear, let women make policy, enact change and have a say in the communities they participate in. Let women lead in areas where they are most affected and where they have the most expertise. Let it be the right person for the job, not the right man. Let us examine our language and reveal how ingrained the patriarchy actually is. Let women have autonomy over their own bodies and let women tell you no without fear of the repercussions. Let yourself take all women seriously, not just your wife, mother, grandmother, sister. Let yourself extend respect to women beyond your direct understanding; those of different races, ages, classes, abilities and cultures.

Yet again I feel the record is stuck. This essay arose from the reading of seminal feminist literature and the hope that I would see how far society had progressed from the days of Germaine Greer and her female eunuch. I think feminism has progressed. I’m not too sure about society.

When women are still being murdered by strangers in public places at an alarming rate I find this difficult to believe. When even more women are being murdered by loved ones in the place they call home I find it harder still. When convictions for rape remain so alarmingly low and when truly representative statistics for all the above crimes remain so hard to come by I continue to feel despair. When I see and read that globally those who suffer most at the hands of the climate crisis and war are women and children I struggle to see the progress. Inequality for me is acting as if someone or something has less worth than you and ultimately I believe this still happens for women, especially in a global sense. Things have advanced somewhat in the West but there are still complexities. If it was solved I wouldn’t be writing this alongside countless others who are arguing similar points. Progress is not victory, but the small victories are important so that you know it’s worth continuing.

I am going to end this piece with a reading list. I am angry and I know I deploy a certain amount of wilful ignorance so that I am able to live my life day-by-day without internally combusting, however I dislike the notion that there is no hope. Hope for me is not expectation, it holds no guarantees and no disappointments. It is faith. I have faith that as long as women keep using the voices they have; those unique, compassionate, angry, intelligent, hopeful voices, that there will continue to be small victories. There will continue to be small victories that are big victories for those they directly affect, forming great triumphs on the road to a world that will continue to get better.

After all, no one suggests to me that my womb has found its way into my brain anymore so things must really be looking up. (Although I cannot speak for all women on this point, it’s probably still happening somewhere.)

Further Reading for Hopeful Futures:

Invisible Women – Caroline Criado Perez
My Life on the Road – Gloria Steinem
The Most of Nora Ephron – Nora Ephron
All We Can Save: Truth, Courage and Solutions for the Climate Crisis – Edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson & Katharine K. Wilkinson
Difficult Women – Helen Lewis
Sharp – Michelle Dean
By the Light of My Father’s Smile – Alice Walker
Cassandra Speaks – Elizabeth Lesser
The Pursuit of Love – Nancy Mitford
Decisions and Dissents of Ruth Bader Ginsburg – Penguin Liberty Collection
Things I Don’t Want to Know – Deborah Levy
The Beauty Myth, Promiscuities & Vagina – (All) Naomi Wolf
The Feminine Mystique – Betty Friedan
Let Me Tell You What I Mean – Joan Didion
The Female Eunuch – Germaine Greer (if you dare…)

Saffron Rain lives and writes in Stockport. She was born and raised around Manchester, only moving away to get her degree and subsequent MA in English Lit in Sheffield. During this time she wrote ardently on the North, particularly female writers and filmmakers.

Her preferred form is the personal essay and she enjoys writing about topics that she connects to on a personal level. Some of these have appeared in independent publications and she shares longer pieces on her own blog. She loves to read, particularly women, and will take any opportunity to crowbar Joan Didion into a conversation.

Photo by Flora Westbrook from Pexels

Upon the Death of my Favourite Author

There is a distinct comfort in knowing that certain people are still around. A reassurance in knowing that there are people out there who see the world in ways that seem familiar to oneself. A relief that there are those who are able to put into words those things that at the time you are not capable of doing. When we lose these people, known intimately to us or not, then we are left with a certain empty feeling; not simply as a result of the physical yet metaphorical ‘hole’ they leave behind, but also the emptiness of knowing that we are losing a certain viewpoint on the world, one which we found to be sound, wise and safe.

I am reliably informed that a request to write this piece arrived shortly after the news broke, during which time I had received several messages from friends, enquiring as to my wellbeing and sending me love. Due to my complete ignorance of the current facts this was strange, but it being the 23rd December, a welcome addition to the festive period. Six days have since elapsed in which several paragraphs have been discarded after numerous failed reworks; my only success coming in the form of a few (potentially) throwaway sentences. Instead, on this, the sixth day, I have reread two collections of essays; Slouching Towards Bethlehem and The White Album, in the full knowledge that it is only once I feel comforted that I will be able to find my own words.

Several times over the past week I have been posed with one striking question: How does one go about writing a tribute to someone who is so immortal? Although I will gladly take any opportunity to crowbar the name ‘Joan Didion’ into any conversation, I have been consistently struck these past seven days with the futility that lies in trying to write about her life. She did it for us. If you require an obituary, read Where I Was From. Social critique: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Intimate glances into the author’s psyche: The White Album. Advice on how to grieve such a loss: The Year of Magical Thinking. When talking to a friend yesterday there were three words I returned to over and over and over again: she’s eulogised herself.

I am unable to tell you anything about Joan Didion that Joan Didion has not already told us. It is impossible to write a legacy without simply using her own words. I do not mean that the odd quote here and there is useful in understanding her life, rather I mean it quite literally. Everything she wrote is so well crafted, so intimate, so personal and so subtly powerful that it would be wasteful of me to attempt anything new. Her legacy is a unique one, in that it is she who lays the most claim to it.

Five years ago, I experienced a grief so intense I felt I had lost my personality. I knew there were many things I had just lost in the space of three days, perhaps most importantly to me, a unique viewpoint on the world. Upon my uncle’s death there were certain people who wrote about his life, his work, whatever legacy it was he had left behind and I hated it. I do not remember much from those first few weeks and did not put pen to paper aside from once; in the haze of my memories I distinctly remember writing down how strange it is that when one dies we no longer have control over who we are. How it is so easy to be interpreted, reimagined and redefined. This scared me. The only thing I wanted was for him to be able to speak for himself. To lay claim to his own legacy. To fashion his own eulogy.

Joan Didion taught me about grief. The Year of Magical Thinking was avoided for as long as I still had other Didion to read. There was something within my being that knew that once I began her account on how to navigate unimaginable loss, the one I had felt would have some more finality. I knew that through the reading I would be moving closer to some kind of acceptance. It took me three years but it made me feel sane. I was acutely struck by the moment in which she is urged to remove John’s clothes and shoes, a task she logically understands but is unable to comprehend and therefore do. What will he do when he comes back, she wonders, as upon his return he will most certainly need both his clothes and his shoes. When you know exactly how this madness feels, someone writing it down and having the courage to publish makes you feel the sanest person in the world.

It was my closest school friend who introduced me to Joan. (Not personally, although it’s often felt that way.) As I’ve shared before, he had taken a work-related trip to the States and returned with an edition of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which he promptly leant to me uttering the words, “you’re a woman who can’t help but include herself in her writing, you’ll like her.” At the risk of cliche, our first encounter was transformative. I didn’t simply like Joan Didion, as my friend had suggested, I was completely enamoured.

The first words I ever read of Joan Didion’s attributed suicide, divorce and prickly dread to the Santa Ana winds. She said they worked on the nerves, disrupted your breathing and helped hillsides to spontaneously combust. We are being told this as a prelude to a story about Lucille Miller, a thirty-four year old woman who was tried and convicted of murdering her husband on Banyan Street in the middle of the night via their 1964 Volkswagen. This is extraordinary journalism and even in my ignorance, with that first paragraph I was able to see that for her, place matters. It influences everything; lives, language, loves. It determines our attitudes and our destinies. It soothes us or it works on the nerves. It shapes our identities. It is not a mere backdrop for the players on this stage, rather a character within its own right, an integral part of the action, a plot device waiting to pounce.

Time and time again Joan’s own words have been used to describe her: a place belongs to the person who claims it the hardest. Although she is using this in relation to James Jones and how for her, he lays claim to Hawaii, the words unsurprisingly are the only ones that can do justice to what she was to California. I have never been to California, but in the California of my mind’s eye it is Joan Didion’s. It is sun-kissed, sixties hedonism and it is the Manson Family Murders. It is Jim Morrison arriving late, or not at all, to record with the Doors. It is San Francisco, Los Angeles, Sacramento and inevitable wildfires. It is a land where rain is a mystery, water a fascination, rattlesnakes a certainty. It is endless highways, the Pacific Ocean, car travel and the Beverly Hills Hotel. It is synthetic light, migraines, dinner parties and endless absurdities. It is one Pan Am flight from Honolulu and it is the final frontier. It is now, thanks to Joan Didion, one of my greatest obsessions. A mystery so intimate to me I wonder if I ever need go.

For days I have been attempting to vocalise how Joan’s writing actually makes me feel. I have come up with nothing aside from feelings of being overwhelmed. I am always overwhelmed by emotion, neither sad nor happy. As I write I come to realise that she encapsulates a certain melancholy; a word that for me evokes feelings of desolation, emptiness and heartache alongside a certain comfort or reassurance.

I have turned to Joan’s writing for consolation many times over the past two years. More frequently than not, the center has not been holding. I have turned to Joan as her work reminds me that there is a universality in chaos, in dread, in the impending sense of the end of the world. Generation after generation has stood on the precipice of the world collapsing in on itself and remarkably, every time, it does not.

There is much uniqueness in Joan Didion’s writing but there are two things I find particularly striking. The first is her ability to explore some of the most mundane things with such intricacy that they become the most exciting and enchanting things in the world. The essays Holy Water and Bureaucrats are excellent examples of this. In one, she visits the Operations Control Center for the California State Water Project and in another Caltrans, the California Department of Transportation’s Operation Center. Neither of these are particularly exciting places yet as Didion notes the minutiae in their workings and how her own thoughts and feelings interact with these places they become sensational. I knew when I was gripped to an essay on ‘the 42 mile loop’ that I was reading a writer like no other.

The second is her capacity to include so much intricacy in the sensational that they in turn become mundane. As in Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream, (the story chronicling Lucille Miller and the death of her husband) where we are told that after Miller has given birth following her incarceration her elder daughter came to take the new baby home in a white dress with pink ribbons. We are consistently brought back down to earth. Told something suddenly, in an often offhand manner, that changes the whole feeling. This could happen to you. This could happen to anyone. One day you sit down to dinner, and life as you know it ends.

Reading Joan Didion did not make me want to become a writer. Reading Joan Didion assured me that I am a writer and taught me why. Why I Write is one of the most sensible things I have ever read. Why I Write taught me to unlearn everything I thought I knew about grammar. Told me to treat each sentence as if it were a melody, adding the rests and the short notes wherever I felt they should be. She taught me that writing is an art form, and that whenever I shift the structure of a sentence, I change it in the same dramatic manner as taking a photograph from an entirely different angle. She spoke to us often of her own doubts and reassured us that everyone has the feeling that they are sometimes simply passing as the person they think they are or would like to be.

In the preface to Slouching Towards Bethlehem Didion claims that there is one thing we always need to remember: ‘writers are always selling someone out.’ I reread this yesterday and, as always, was amused until I began to wonder who is it I am selling out by writing this piece. I still don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s Joan, I’m selling out what she actually meant, what her true point was through some well-meant misinterpretation. I am, however, more inclined to believe that in this instance the person really being sold out is myself. Never will my (currently unfinished) novel land in the aged yet eccentrically expressive hands of the remarkable Ms Didion. Never will I be able to express to her how it was she who helped me make sense of my burning desire to work things out through the written word; that need to grasp a permeance in the midst of chaos.

Maybe I am selling myself out through what I now feel has become some kind of intellectual love letter to a woman born generations before myself, on the other side of the world, in a place I have never been, with whom I feel I have such a strong connection purely due to her exceptional command of the written word. Joan Didion taught me that there is a place in fact for women’s voices and that there is a place in journalism for the personal essay. Order can be found in the deepest disorder. Life is always there, even in the midst of grief. Nothing objective is interesting.

Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.

Joan Didion

1934-2021

Saffron Rain lives and writes in Stockport. She was born and raised around Manchester, only moving away to get her degree and subsequent MA in English Lit in Sheffield. During this time she wrote ardently on the North, particularly female writers and filmmakers.

This New North: A Celebration of Diversity, Short Fiction and Northern Writing Talent

Early March marked the exciting release of a new anthology, packed to the brim with writing from an exceptional lineup of new northern voices. The collection is edited by S.J Bradley, author of Brick Mother and Guest, both published by Dead Ink, and Anna Chilvers, author of East Coast Road, Tainted Love and Falling Through Clouds, novels published by Bluemoose Books.

Featuring 15 stories in total, the anthology celebrates work from 12 new Northern voices who have graduated from the Northern Short Story Festival Academy programme. It also includes 3 exclusive stories from editor Anna Chilvers, Litro Fiction editor Barney Walsh and Richard Smyth, author and literary critic.

Initiatives such as this one are so important to increasing regional diversity in publishing, shining a spotlight on new potential for the industry. We’re seeing more and more of a focus on Northern writing and regional voices breaking through the London-centric noise, particularly with incredibly insightful work from women.

In her foreword to the anthology, Chilvers reflects on the programme:

‘The discussions revolved around how far the form could be bent, stretched and subverted. The writing was exciting and brave… There was an atmosphere of playfulness, a freedom to try out new and innovative ideas.’

These traits can be read as distinctly northern; the seeking of innovation and subversion of the ways we see and write about the world are strongly present throughout the series of stories in the anthology.

In Haleemah Alaydi’s A Very Private Confession, she intelligently explores human desire and intimacy, both up close and at a distance. Alaydi’s narrator is obsessed with the couple next door and becomes entangled in their lives from the other side of the wall. She finds comfort in their intimate moments but the more she has to hide it, the more her own relationship with her partner Gabriel begins to suffer. This story was excellently written, structured with intention and features a twist to rival any bestselling crime novel.

The potential for honesty and vulnerability to be explored through short fiction is certainly a defining feature of the stories in This New North. Another piece that stands out is Jennifer Isherwood’s Artefacts. Capturing the intense feelings we experience in the most mundane of moments, Isherwood crafts a story that is both tender and thought-provoking.

Brian is faced with a letter that brings his security into question — his house has been built on a mineshaft and could collapse at any moment. Through this hook, the reader is encouraged to

think about home and heritage; at one point the author invokes historical locations on the northern landscape that cleverly connect the protagonist with his past. Through outstanding writing and sharp reflections, Isherwood’s story is certainly a memorable one.

Having explored the whole collection, it can be concluded that This New North is an impressive anthology of stories which carefully curates a wide selection of themes and experiences. It’s fresh, artistic and brilliantly captures the diversity of stories and talent in the North. Looking ahead, it will be exciting to see how these voices progress and how projects such as this one will inspire even more northern writers to emerge into the world. This New North is published by Valley Press, based in Yorkshire. You can purchase a copy here.

Words: Beth Barker

Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.

Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.

For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.

On Being a Woman

This is the kind of narrative that could begin with a trigger warning. I’ve never started anything with a trigger warning, and I don’t intend to now. If I were to start this with a trigger warning then, as per the rules of this warning, at birth, all women should be served with such a caution.

Last week was International Women’s Day and I hold this event close to my heart. Every year I take time to think about the women in my life who have influenced me and helped me grow into the woman I have become, and the woman I am still learning to be. I am lucky that I am not the original feminist in my family, in fact the original feminist does not hold a place in my generation, or even my mother’s generation. The original feminist in my family is a crown firmly worn by my grandmother and she is exceptional. I would go as far as to say that her mother, my great-grandmother, whom I knew until I was just shy of fourteen lay the groundwork for a line of women who were not afraid to use their voice or go after a life they felt they deserved.

For a number of years I have used this annual event to celebrate and be grateful for remarkable women, however this year I felt that all this time something was being negated. I was no longer acknowledging the sheer anger I feel on a regular basis, instead happily falling in line and choosing to focus on where women have succeeded, whereas in reality it should be a day to also highlight the fact that a woman’s ‘place’ in the world still has a long way to go.

The problem is it’s hard to be so angry all the time. As I’ve been raised a feminist I have spent much of my adolescence and into early adulthood being really, really angry. And it is tiring. I studied sociology at college and found that the feminist theory I was being taught was in no way advanced enough. I am conscious of my gender so have taken time to learn about how this affects where I stand in the world. Throughout the pandemic I have chosen to use the time to educate myself further and last year I watched a plethora of documentaries on the likes of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Alexandria Orcasio Cortez and Gloria Allred. Upon its release I devoured Mrs America, which has since taken some stick for its portrayal of the Women’s Movement, but I think as an extremely watchable drama it introduced a whole host of people to a topic they didn’t even know existed.

I staunchly researched the Equal Rights Amendment and read Gloria Steinem’s memoir, in fact over recent years I have made a pact with myself to try and read books written exclusively by women. I studied English Literature at university and we were vastly underrepresented, a tragedy I have been endeavouring to change ever since graduation. All of this new learning continued to teach me something I frankly already knew; the voices of powerful women are few and far between, movements that are female led are slow to be taken seriously and amendments pertaining to the rights of women and girls, or the protection of women and girls are near impossible to get written into law, tragedies I have been trying to come to terms with for a good half of my life.

Being a woman, whether that be your biological gender or a choice that has been made, is akin to being a second-class citizen. And that is before you start to explore the different facets that make up this category of people; things such as race, class or disability meaning that the levels of prejudice against women vary extensively throughout society. As I wrote that first sentence the dominant part of my thinking said don’t be so dramatic and as a result I nearly deleted it. This is a problem. A survey released last week announced a very real statistic: 97% percent of women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four have been the victims of sexual harassment.

This did not surprise women and those that did seem shocked (myself included) were simply amazed that the statistic was not higher. I’d argue the figure is closer to one-hundred percent but the harassment experienced has been shrugged off, or deemed not important enough to note. I have been guilty of this for much of my adult life. I was raised to be strong in my femininity and as a result of this I’ve refused to be a victim. I think lots of women will be in this position, where harassment becomes such a norm, or so tiring that you just have to ignore it otherwise you begin to feel yourself living in a constant state of victimhood.

I worked in hospitality for ten years and the industry is rife with sexism, harassment and assault. Being behind the bar can be akin to being trapped in some kind of pen, a pen where men feel that they can say or do whatever they like to you and are completely within their right because of the job you have. To count the amount of times I heard give us a smile, love, you’re prettier that way, would waste more time than I have to spare. (Side note here: there is an excellent Lily Tomlin quote in which she says ‘Science has proven that you feel better when you smile. Unless a man is telling you to do it, in which case, never smile.’)

I would spend many an evening asking men politely to please don’t touch me to be confronted with why or alright love, calm down in response. As a manager I had to ask bouncers to physically remove men who would not take the answer of no from female members of staff, who could not take themselves out of the situation as they literally had to be there because it was their job. One member of staff ended up having to inform the police about a male customer who had begun stalking her, only for our (male) manager to then intervene and inform her that she wouldn’t have this problem if she didn’t dress the way she did. Yes. I just wrote that down and it is entirely true.

I could go on, but like I’ve mentioned, it’s tiring being this angry and the rage I’ve reconciled in relation to these events over many years can so easily begin to rear its ugly head. Some of this is harassment and some of this is assault. Yet when I and the other women involved were living it, it was simply our work. This is another problem. It is so relentless, so overt, so outright and so unfortunately ordinary that it just becomes life. It is when you step back from the situation, when you no longer deal with those things every single day that you realise that that is not what normal should be. When I left the industry one of the things I was grateful for, and still mention being grateful for now over a year later, is that I no longer have to deal with men touching me without my permission. And I am one of the lucky ones.

Women across the country have been shaken by the events that have unfurled over the last ten days. Some men have asked us why and taken steps to instigate understanding and change. Other men have shouted not all men and continued to show women that our experiences, our voices and our truths are not welcome. Women aren’t stupid, we know it’s not all men. The problem is, it transpires that a lot of the time we don’t know which men fall into the ‘not all men’ category. I’m lucky in that my partner and male friends fall into the category of men who understand and this is one of my biggest privileges. For a lot of women (one in four actually) it is the men within their homes, whom they trust enough to live with, who put them in harm’s way. When 25% percent of half the population are victims of domestic abuse then attitudes and behaviours have to change on a large scale.

‘Lad culture’ has a lot to answer for and it is these small acts, often passed off as ‘boys will be boys’ or ‘harmless banter’ that lay the foundations for abuse towards women and sadly, I do believe that a large proportion of the male population partake in these kinds of discussions or ‘jokes’. We all know the kinds of things; that lads chat where one member of the group shares some particularly derogatory porn and everyone replies with lol, that group of blokes you hear in the pub complaining that the Mrs wants them home, the school boys at the back of the bus comparing and rating the girls they share a class with, when a woman is upset and a man within earshot asks if she’s on her period, or that old man up the road sharing female-lead articles in a WhatsApp group with the opinion she’s just overreacting.

The list goes on. And on. And the further it goes on the more it legitimises the idea that women can be treated as secondary objects there for the entertainment of men. If this is what society is teaching its young boys it is unsurprising that some boys grow into men who disregard, harass, assault and, in too many cases, murder women.

It is not fair that one half of the population live with some level of anxiety pertaining to their safety in this way. For those who argue that it is ‘not all men’ then I pose the fact that not all women are raped, not all women are murdered but in these instances all women are asked to take extra precautions to ensure that they do not become a statistic. Like the outcry in the eighties during the Peter Sutcliffe murders, why is it that again all women are asked to abide by a curfew when it is in fact men who are unable to be trusted after dark. It is unfortunate for men that their reputation be tarnished by the actions of a few but women feel the effects in a much more serious way on a regular basis. I’ve already read how the language surrounding this topic is a problem, we talk of women being raped instead of men raping women, of girls getting pregnant instead of boys impregnating girls, of women being victims instead of men victimising and abusing. The language is all passive, these are things that happen to women, there is little in the fact that the power lies with the men who engage in these acts.

There is a reason that the Sarah Everard case has affected women so deeply. It is random. It is inexplicable. It could have been any woman. Like the Black Lives Matter protests of last year, it is the disbelief, anger and fear that comes from the realisation that today’s culture is defined by a lack of both trust and accountability. It is not an irrationality that makes series like The Fall (something I stopped watching) and Luther (something I saw through and had many sleepless nights over) so terrifying. They are a mirror to the world that women live in.

A male friend of mine rang me on Thursday because he wanted to talk about this topic and I was really grateful. He was angry and frustrated but ultimately, we discovered what he truly felt was embarrassed and distraught that people still needed to be told how to keep women safe. As we talked I was reminded of that famous Margaret Atwood quote; ‘men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.’ It is at times like these that this sentiment is keenly felt by all women. It is that underlying knowledge, somewhere in the female subconscious, that this is a reality that keeps us sleeping with the lights on after we’ve watched a crime drama, keeps us on the phone as we walk back to Piccadilly in the evening after a gig, that means we think twice about going for a run after the sun’s gone down, that makes us wonder whether we take that route or the longer, busier, better lit one, that ensures we keep our headphones out when walking somewhere lonely, that means we keep our heads down when those men in that van shout something vile, that mean we cross the road when walking past a busy beer garden and then the more severe. Those instances where a woman will do what a man wants because of that fear; where a woman will agree to a date just to get someone off her back, when she’ll let him kiss her goodnight just to shut him up and (more often than people like to imagine) let him sleep with her because the consequences aren’t worth risking.

Being a woman can be difficult and infuriating and change is vital. Sometimes we fall victim of remembering the Suffragettes and the Women’s Movement and thinking that the work is done, that it’s better than it was, that life is more equal. It is, but it’s not far enough. It is seven years still until we can celebrate the centenary of all women over the age of twenty one winning the right to vote and in those ninety three years things have progressed but not enough. When women look to our current prime minister and see a man who is the subject of many jokes pertaining to how many children he has, with how many women, how can we believe we’re going to be taken seriously. When it takes campaigns and movements to get acts such as ‘up-skirting’ criminalized how can we believe that our rights are taken seriously. When misogyny is still not a hate-crime how can we feel valued and protected.

I think, if you’re reading this then perhaps I’m preaching to the converted. But this doesn’t matter. Throughout my life I’ve found that when I’m angry or grieving or having big feelings that I don’t quite understand, I need to hear them from someone else. I need to read or listen to an experience that provides me with the language to express myself properly. I need to be given a framework in which to discuss my experiences and my feelings.

When the Guardian shared the 97% statistic on their Instagram feed I read some of the comments. One of them was from a fifteen year old girl who said she had experienced some behaviour at the hands of a man that she didn’t like, but she didn’t think that it constituted as harassment. There were tens of replies from other women. No one judged her, no one told her to be quiet, no one told her she was right. All these women told her that if she didn’t like it then she was harassed. All these women told her that her truth was her own. All these women apologized that she had to experience that. That girl has had her experience validated. She has been provided with the language she needs to identify and speak about her gender. The more women do this, the harder we will be to ignore.

Landscapes, Identity and Belonging: Castles from Cobwebs by J. A. Mensah

February marks the arrival of Castles from Cobwebs, the highly anticipated debut from J. A. Mensah, inaugural winner of New Writing North’s NorthBound Book Award. Much like her recent story in The Book of Newcastle, published by Comma Press, it’s as powerful as it is unique.

This magical realist novel comes alive through a weaving narrative, told from the perspective of Imani, rescued and raised by a convent on a remote Northumbrian island. Much like a cobweb in structure, Mensah spins a story out of fragments, mirroring Imani’s displacement and confusion surrounding her identity. This element was particularly poignant from a reader’s perspective, acting as a continuous reminder that her childlike curiosity at the beginning of the book is rooted in something bigger.

‘I’d always known that I was Brown. Black was different though; it came announced. Black came with expectations, of rhythm and other things that might trip me up.’

Divided into three sections, Mensah explores Imani’s conflicting identities through sharply contrasting landscapes. First, Northumbria. While the water that separates Holymead Island the mainland draws attention to her isolation, the protagonist feels a connection with the nature that surrounds her. Here, it is her Blackness that defines her and is the thing that truly makes her feel separate. Then, she is called to Ghana following the death of her biological mother. A chaotic landscape in comparison, full of sound and rhythm and intrigue for her cultural heritage. Belonging becomes difficult again when she realises there is more to her identity than the colour of her skin.

In an interview with New Writing North, Mensah mentioned that the novel is in part influenced by her own experience, working in Northumberland and her father’s roots in Ghana. She explains: “I haven’t lived in either location, but both places are sites that are ‘almost home’ to me. And in both I don’t completely belong.”

Similarly, Imani’s identities continuously conflict and intersect, an idea the author successfully explores and seeks to reconcile throughout the novel. In the process, Mensah brings a brilliant lyricism to the way she constructs the story — poetic, sharp and consciously moving.

‘Tin. / I replay the things Aunt Esi has said. / Tin, tap. / Lay them beside what Aunt Grace toldme. / Tin, tin. / Moving the pieces around, I try to fit them together, to make sense of it all. /’

One aspect of the book that stood out as incredibly interesting were the themes of faith and belief, particularly the distinction between her English and African cultures. The author implements one key symbol which unites the two: Imani’s spirit companion (or imaginary friend), Amarie. The themes of belief, faith and reality are beautifully combined in this character who transcends religious identity, a really intriguing aspect to dwell on as a reader.

This striking debut is a memorable read that shines a light on important social issues whilst telling a beautiful story of hope, friendship and self-discovery.

J. A Mensah is a writer based in the North East of England. You can buy her novel now, available here.

Words: Beth Barker

Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.

For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.

Mindful tips for managing work and life during the pandemic

Words: Heather Howard-Thompson

Heather Howard-Thompson is a Cognitive Behaviorioural Pyschotherapist and Director of Yorkshire Psychotherapy Limited, living in sunny Yorkshire.

What a year this has been! We’re all trying to juggle the normal life struggles with the added pressures of working from home, financial pressures, isolation, home schooling and continuing uncertainty. These all add up to overthinking, anxiety, stress, overwhelm and ultimately can make us pretty miserable. While there’s some light at the end of the tunnel, it can help to learn techniques to manage how you’re feeling until life can start to get back to some sense of normality. That’s where mindfulness can help. You might have heard of it; it’s been a bit of a buzzword for the last few years.

So, what is mindfulness?

Mindfulness is awareness, cultivated by paying attention in a sustained and particular way: on purpose, in the present moment and non-judgementally (Kabot-Zinn, 2012). It is a trainable skill of being more present and aware of our thoughts and feelings so that we are better able to manage them. Mindfulness is often taught to children and adults as part of treatment for common mental health problems, such as anxiety and depression. Mindfulness can dramatically reduce pain and the emotional reaction to it. Clinical trials show that mindfulness improves mood and quality of life in chronic pain conditions.

Research in Neuroscience has discovered that the brain can change its structure and activity. It is called Neuroplasticity. Kabot-Zinn* found that people who regularly practiced mindfulness showed more left-sided brain activity than right in important areas concerning emotional regulation. This suggests an increased ability to deal with situations in a more positive and balanced way. You might be thinking, sounds great, but I haven’t got time for it. The great thing about mindfulness is that you can integrate into your day-to-day activities!

5 Top tips for Informal Mindfulness Practices

1. Mindfulness in your normal routine

Pick an activity that constitutes part of your daily routine, such as brushing your teeth, shaving, making the bed, or taking a shower. When you do it, totally focus attention on what you’re doing: how your body feels, what you can taste, touch, smell, what you can see, hear, and so on, use your senses. Notice what’s happening with an attitude of curiosity.

For example, when you’re in the shower, notice the sounds of the water, notice the temperature of the water, and the feel of it in your hair, and on your body. Notice the smell of the soap and shampoo, and the feel of them against your skin. Notice the sight of the water on the walls or shower curtain, the water dripping down your body and the steam rising upward. Notice the movements of your arms as you wash. When thoughts arise, acknowledge them, and let them come and go like clouds passing in the sky. As soon as you realise that your mind has wandered, gently acknowledge it, note what the thought was that distracted you, and bring your attention back to the shower.

2. Mindfulness of domestic chores

Pick an activity such as ironing clothes, washing up, dusting—something mundane that you have to do (what I call boring jobs!) – and do it mindfully. For example, when ironing clothes, notice the colour and shape of the clothes, the sound of the steam, the creak of the ironing board, the faint sound of the iron moving over the material. Notice the grip of your hand on the iron, and the movement of your arm and your shoulder.

If boredom or frustration arises, simply acknowledge it, and bring your attention back to the task at hand. When thoughts arise, acknowledge them, let them be, and bring your attention back to what you’re doing.

3. Mindfulness of pleasant activities

Pick an activity you enjoy such as cuddling with a loved one, stroking the cat, playing with the dog, walking in the park, listening to music, gardening, taking a bath, and so on.

Do this activity mindfully: engage in it fully, using all five of your senses, and savour every moment. If and when your attention wanders, as soon as you realise it, note what distracted you, and re-engage in whatever you’re doing.

4. Mindful walking

When you’re out on a walk, take time to pay attention to the feeling of your feet on the floor, the sensation of your arms as they swing back and forwards. Notice the temperature, what you can see, hear, how your body feels. Again, if your mind wanders (which it will!) try and bring it back to noticing while you walk, without judging yourself.

5. Mindful eating (my favourite!)

We often eat mindlessly, without paying much attention. Try eating a meal mindfully. Eat slowly, savouring every mouthful. Notice the smells, the sensation of your mouth watering at the thought of food, your stomach rumbling. Chew each mouthful slowly and purposefully and you’ll see how much more flavourful your food tastes!

I hope you find the exercises helpful, remember to keep practicing, they get easier the more you try.

You can follow me on Facebook where I have quite a few mindfulness exercise videos and on Instagram @yorkshirepsychotherapy. On our website we have some helpful blog posts about managing through the current pandemic and more information about the services we offer.

We have a great team of experienced mental health professionals who offer a range of evidence-based therapies for mental health issues. All our therapies can be accessed via online platforms (Zoom, Facetime, Skype, Microsoft Teams, WhatsApp) and you don’t have to live in Yorkshire to access us!

*Kabut-Zinn J (2013) Full Catastrophe Living: How to cope with stress, pain and illness using mindfulness meditation. Piatkus