Friday, 26 August 2011

My perspective on the Slutwalk

When something fails to ignite any interest in me or I deem it an activity that doesn't align with who I am or what I stand for - I pay it no attention.  But if that something is not disappearing from subjects in the media, personal conversations, etc. the curious creature awakens.

The topic in question is an event that dates April 3rd of this year as its debut, in Toronto.  Quick background: some time in January, Constable Michael Sanguinetti at a crime prevention forum said, "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order to not be victimised".  He later apologised for his distasteful remark.
Ponder on the amount of vast ignorance cited in that statement and the damage it carries, the hurt it lashes out relived in many sexually harassed victims upon reading or hearing those words.

Moving along, Heather Jarvis and Sonya Barnett are the co-founders of the what's been said to be a controversial movement, called the Slutwalk, based on Mr Sanguinetti's sentiments.  In a recent post (Aug 25th) by Heather, on their site she writes that she's not urging anybody to call themself a slut but rather that it,
"can be seen as less about you when you're called a "slut" and more about them."
 Furthermore, I read stories by contributors about their personal experiences with regard to being violated and stripped (excuse the pun) of their integrity and the freedom of womanhood, on the very same site.  Heartrending stories.  I did all this to gain some perspective on the Slutwalk that has come to South Africa, first Cape Town this August and will be held in Joburg this coming September.  Tweets, comments on media forums, blogs, etc. all commenting with ferocious yays or nays about it.  In retrospect, I find that many were unwarranted and that the authors of some of what was said based their opinions on little background as to the why, what, and who.

Reading the ordeals posted by participants or those for this movement makes you understand why.  The term "slut" perceived as utterly rude and offensive, hence, the 'I refuse to attend a campaign that labels me as such' backlashes.  Those participating feel that they have been reduced to that term and all it connotes.  They were rendered powerless, and the march paints a symbolism in that it gives them back some power.  It removes the shame.  The guilt.  The victimisation.
"the intent behind the word is always to wound, so we're taking it back. "Slut" is being re-appropriated."
-- One of the "whys" posted on the site.
 
Umeshree Govender, writes in an article, "SlutWalk Cape Town, perhaps surprisingly, was not organised by an anti-rape organisation or a feminist group, but rather by three unwitting masters students: Umeshree Govender, Stuart MacDonald and Michael Clark...".  She points out the many facts that proved to be a common thread describing the march, that it is about divorcing yourself from misconceptions, that 'asking to be raped' is an oxymoron.  It's unbelievable the number of people who think women or men ask for it.  She writes too, about a woman who wore to the march exactly what she did the day she was raped, now that's bravery personified.  Read more of the article here: From the 'Chief Slut' Herself .

Not too long ago, I read a novel, Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan, where more than one of the young ladies characterised are subjected to different accounts of sexual abuse and rape and younger girls prostituted.  In an underlying tone, the perpetrators saw no harm in their deeds.
It's upsetting, when you're out on leisurely strolls, errand running, not in the least bit looking or dressed for any attention to receive catcalls, wolf-whistling,  or the odd grope, etc. by random strangers; men who still see you as just an aesthetic object for their pleasure.
Just the other day, I tweeted about an incident, where I was asked to pose for a picture that this nobody on the streets would use as a screensaver on his cellular phone.  Appalling.  And disturbing, not to mention how uncomfortable you're made to feel.  I responded, with words unkind and continued on my way, albeit, questioning how I was dressed, did my walk insinuate anything, you know.  No one asks to be assaulted, not sexually nor criminally, so from that standpoint I see the message loud and clear conveyed in the Slutwalk campaign.  The term used, unfortunately, does dilute a worthy cause - there are always victim-blaming tales cited in these assaults, many people are just missing the point because they are rather consumed by the semantics of the title.

That being said, the event generated media attention, the name and movement caught on globally and is still spreading.  An education, especially in Africa, is muchly required more so now, after reading about Malusi Gigaba, Minister of Public Enterprises, having tweeted that he'd like to attend the Slutwalk because he might get lucky.  There is definitely some schooling needed.  You being the victim, should not even be mentioned in the same breath as incitement or justification for an assault of any kind.

Rape is about the violence, the act of domination not a short skirt, a top with a low-neckline, a dress that fits too tight, boots too high on thighs, a lipstick or a hairstyle that appears too bedroomy. And maybe, our officers and society as a whole need to be taught how to receive rape survivors with support rather than judgement.  Allowing us to move one step forward in this fight for those reduced to powerlessness.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

An enemy bigger than my apathy

Simplicity and sincerity: I thrive off everything derived from these.  I pick up their nuances so easily, it's like second-nature to me.  Ranging from what I wear, indulge in to just about everything. In this instance, however, I've got the pretty, delicate and filled with melancholy sounds of Mumford & Sons playing in the background of the room I'm in... and in my head.

I love their music! It's simple, in the entire meaning of the word, with trombone flourishes and banjo picking in essence of the anthemic folk sounds.  Sincere in lyrics, that are intertwined with passion, intimacy and enthusiasm; presented in tinges of courage or sweet or hopeful tones with subtle connotations of religious riddles here and there.

When listening to their genius, I'm overcome with images blended in fervour and memories as each note and word is sung.  With a leading vocal so raw, you feel it ripping at the layers of your skin, delving deep into your innermost until you find yourself, unsuspectingly, lost in all its honesty.

Their lyrics carries poetical inclinations too, filled with metaphors and exposing a vulnerability and fragility - my favourite type of music to listen to, and listen to again, to listen to over and over, that vulnerable.  In elaboration: that you're drawn to cusps of losing your breath in the same moments as your eyes being brimmed with hot tears.

Anyways, Mumford & Sons' music is commanding and I'm looking forward to their new album so that I could tweet away my fav' lines from their songs.  Each of their songs render something majestical to me, I love them all individually and as a collective the album is just magical.  I Gave You All, however, deserves a special mention and this is it.

Musing over.

Friday, 12 August 2011

Even with the chaos "...It is still a beautiful world."

I'm about to expose a part of me I usually keep sheltered.  It's nothing dark and sinister, or maybe it is but we are all morally dwarfed in some manner. Yes?

Not indulging and enjoying this behaviour in a sickening and demented way, rather a mild obsession to delve in deeper to discover more and know more about these sort of happenings.  I'm sweet on heartbreak and chaos.

They ignite a frisson of intrigue in me.  An intrigue of inquisitiveness, mostly.  I draw to events that are out of the ordinary.  You know, they don't happen often and when they do, crowds the world over are gradually drawn in and we all form a part of the consciousness that this event is creating.  That chaos.

Right now, that chaos is packaged in the economic crisis in the US of America, the desperation in Somalia, the tension on the streets of the English, the reaching out to achieve peace in Libya and so forth.  All these events, indicates human wreckage to me.  And the questions mount in a burning fury, which in turn, has me wandering in the drama to silence my mind with neat or not so neat answers.

Reasoning always brings me back to the beginning and the core of my beliefs regarding life and human nature.  As a collective, we are able to operate under adversity's black clouds - and that, there is always beauty in the damage.  I watch the terrain and the circumstances, those involved and how their emotions and intellect steers them in their decisions.
The unruliness caused by some is met with the need for quiet by others.  It's always been that way, like yin and yang, how else will the world function.  There has to be discord in order for peace to be restored, even in places like London where it seemingly appeared to be all tea and scones all day every day.  I might not know anything for certain regarding these riots but there's not a chance that it is all sudden and startling.  It's built up and suppressed anger that is being displayed in these vile showcases of ruin and looting.
It's quite amusing to see the nation wanting to pack it away neatly and quickly.  These rioters had no slogans or demands as is expected with these type of rallies.  This is different and that is what has peaked my interest.

As is obvious, race and social and economic dimensions are always cited in these disturbing events - leading to more pressing questions.  In every society, are people marginalised by the abovementioned dimensions, and they are generally frustrated and feel obvious seclusion from the rest.  There are always elements of silenced crying, a hunger for opportunity or merely a chance to do better and be better.

So, during my quest to understand the cacophony, the politics, the humane element; I flick through the channels, click on the buttons, turn the pages, visit the histories of something similar all the while feeling exquisitely uncomfortable as I get occasional glimpses and examination of wonderment by those around me who are nonchalant by the chaos.

It happens every day, in the little things or the not so little things that I discover just how individualistic I am.  The hurt, anger, the aches and the chaos I navigate to is a concentrated yearning to see and find and befriend the subtle beauty in it all - because it is always there.  Always.  So, I scratch at the chaos and become exonerated in what lies underneath:  the luminous glory of that which is larger and way more profound than all the rubble and debris we beings can manufacture.

Thursday, 11 August 2011


Edward P. Morgan:
A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face.  It is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy. 

Poetry by Joshua Bennett

I have an intimate affair with all things beautifully crafted with words.  Poetry being the pinnacle of it all.  I sketch my own pieces too, I don't fancy posting them publicly so chances are mighty slim that you'd read any of my work here.  However, I will share with you the written mastery of others, quite so often.

[Also, I've been terribly occupied and I extended starting this blog because I felt that I didn't want to blog the odd post every couple of months; and already I've fallen prey to doing so.  I won't whinge about what's been consuming my time, but I'll work at delivering at a more frequent pace.  This is not a fashion/picture/quotes/etc. blog, so I have to dedicate more to writing then just copying and pasting pics and what-nots.  More worthwhile visits, maybe?]

10 Things I Want To Say To A Black Woman by Joshua Bennett watch it here.

A fellow 'twitterer' suggested I pay attention to it months ago after reading my blog and finding that I'm a lover of poetry.  He has since come back to me with a differing opinion, but we'll leave that to the birds.

I was awe-struck.  And thankful because, I've grown to love Joshua's writing and how he delivers and executes his art.

I then watched his performance at the White House Evening of Poetry, Music and Spoken Word, where he received a standing ovation from the President, his First Lady and about 200 guests. In a spoken word and sign language piece, "Tamara's Opus", dedicated to his sister.

Instead of posting another link to a video, which you'd probably stumble upon after watching the aforementioned one.  I will post the poem itself, it is highlighted by asterisks, where Joshua signs these words.

Tamara has never listened to hip hop.
Never danced to the rhythm of raindrops or fallen asleep to a chorus of chirping crickets. She has been Deaf
for as long as I’ve been alive.
And ever since the day I first turned five my father has said:
“Joshua.
Nothing is wrong with Tamara.
*God just makes
some people
different.*”

And at that moment
those nine letters felt like hammers
swung gracefully by unholy hands to shatter my stained glass innocence
into shards that can never be pieced back together
or do anything more than sever the ties between my sister and I. I waited,
was patient numberless years anticipating the second her ears would open like lotuses and allow my sunlight senses to seep into her insides
make her remember
all of those conversations we must have had in heaven back when God handpicked us to be sibling souls centuries ago.
I still remember
her 20th birthday.
Readily recall my awe-struck 11 year old eyes as I watched Deaf men and women of all ages dance in unison to the vibration of speakers booming so loud
that I imagined angels chastising us for disturbing their worship with such beautiful blasphemy.
Until you have seen *a Deaf girl dance, you know
nothing
of passion.*
There was a barricade between us that I never took the time to destroy never even for a moment thought to look up the sign for *sister, for family, for goodbye. I will see you again someday.*
remember the face
of your little brother.

It is only now I see
that I was never willing to put in the extra effort to love her properly.
So as the only person in my family who is not fluent in sign language
I’ve decided to take this time to apologize.

Tamara
*I am sorry
for my silence.*

For true love knows no frequency, and so
I will use these hands to speak volumes that can never be contained within the boundaries of sound waves
I will shout at the top of my fingertips until digits dance and relay these mental messages directly to your soul.

I know
that there is no poem
that can make up for all the time we have lost so
please,
if you can,
*just listen.*