"I once essentially bullied a boy in to giving me a valentines card and then corrected his spelling"

I knew the blog posts would kick in once I had work to do.

After spending most of my afternoon writing an essay and listening to indie/soft rock music from my teenage years (the sort of stuff I was blasting when the world 'just didn't understand meeeee!' Think Paramore, All American Rejects etc.) I feel sufficiently prepared to tackle a subject that has been on my mind for a little while.

Let me set the scene. I've just started watching 'That 70s Show' again. I love it so much - it never fails to make me laugh. Last night I ended up watching one of the earlier episodes before Donna and Eric get together. So, it's the usual set-up - she likes him, he likes her, you just want to bash their heads together and scold them for being so blind etc. Well, in this episode a problem arises. The pair are playing basketball and Donna beats Eric. The rest of the episode focuses on Eric getting mocked for being 'beaten by a girl', but what really hit home is that Donna then had to face the all too familiar decision as to whether she should behave in a more feminine manner so that a boy will like her? I really do love this show, and I'm sure this later scene was meant as a joke, but it still horrified me - Donna's mother pretends she can't open a jar of pickles and calls for Donna's father's help so that he gets a masculine ego boost and then fawns all over her because she's so cute and helpless. The episode kind of deals with this issue, but I'm not sure it did strongly enough for my satisfaction - Donna continues as she is but not before momentarily conceding and attempting to be a dainty, simpering girl. Finally Donna and Eric continue to play games but just stop keeping score. Hmmm. I wouldn't really call that a solution to the problem.

I'm painfully aware that I can easily write about this with scorn and have a clear idea in my head of what the right response to this issue is, but I know deep down it's something that has always plagued my concerns. As fate would have it, from a young age I have never been the sweet, petite girl on the playground - I was always more like a loud, ungainly hippo (good feminist upbringing - girls can do what boys do - aka I threw myself around the place with little delicacy). Actually, I was friends with the sweet, petite girl - she had very long hair, fluttering eyelashes and a voice that honestly resembled a twittering disney bird. Ah yes, another thing, my spectacularly low voice. Yes, Rachel has never been called 'cute' or 'sweet' - I certainly never had the physique for it, and I think my personality has always matched. No boy thinks a girl who corrects their spelling is cute (yes, I did that a lot - I once essentially bullied a boy in to giving me a valentines card and then corrected his spelling).

So, naturally, when the boys started flaunting over the little, charming girls the alarm bells started to go off. What am I doing wrong? Why does no one think I'm adorable? What should I do? My chubby, boisterous childhood, right through to my awkwardly curvy, aggressively academic teenage years were shadowed by the looming threat that no boy would ever like me because I'm really in no way feminine.
I think that's something people really don't pay enough attention to (yes I've read enough feminist articles about it to make your eyes fall out but I think society as a whole has really not taken this information on board) - from my experience and that of my friends, I get this overwhelming feeling that girls are expected to be boy magnets - it is so rough to be the awkward girl at school (not even awkward in a cute Juno-esque way).

And really, it's a natural science right? Boys like girls? (Well, some boys) So clearly boys want a girl who really IS a girl? So I should have done all in my power to be a girly girl?

I make this light and jokey, but that's probably a nicer way to deal with it - ask me about this again on a day where I've been weeping about how I never had an adolescence where I felt remotely attractive to the opposite sex because I've never felt like one of the 'pretty girls'.

Sadly, this anxiety doesn't really disappear. The Art History department was really a bad choice in this respect. The department of immaculately dressed, sexy, beautiful girls. Seriously boys, get yourselves over there - it's where they all are. You really never feel more troll-like than when you crash in to an Art History lecture with unbrushed hair and realise no one told you it was dress-like-you're-on-a-catwalk day (which I've now gathered seems to be every day...)

It feels like there's no in between a lot of the time. Either you can be a walking Vogue editorial or accept your status as a lamp (Haha, I can't believe I haven't shared my wonderful metaphor with more people - I once explained to a friend that I considered myself a lamp - a random household object - no one looks at a lamp with lust - sure, it's a nice object but no one looks at it in that way - see, perfect metaphor!)

So, I can be a dirty great liberated feminist who doesn't get up early to put my face on but does that mean I have to be lonely forever?

I've found myself trying to be more feminine. Of course I have. I think it had pretty much the same result Donna reached - people wondering what on earth is wrong with you and making yourself even more strange than usual. And then of course afterwards I have to scold myself. 'Bad bad feminist! Go sacrifice something at the altar of Germaine Greer and repent for your sins!'

So, what do I do?
And then, of course, the warm embrace of feminism brings me to my answer.

I've been reading Caitlin Moran's book 'How to be a Woman' this summer (a lot of it similarly concerns her awkward childhood and the question of feminine vs. feminist). This book has become my personal bible. Another big 'Oh thank god a woman who felt this way too' moment. Seriously, read this book. I adore it. There are a number of books I keep with me wherever I happen to be living at the time (my all time favourites to turn to) - this is my newest addition. I may be buried with it. What I think, and what goddess Caitlin has reinforced, that what is really wrong here is the assumption that there is a way to 'be a woman' and if you're not that way you're clearly a cave troll. We need to break this. We need a culture of confident women - not the dainty darlings on pedestals and girls who feel like toads hoping to meet a somewhat attractive blind man one day.

Of course, not all is lost. There are already strong female characters out there. An interview with J.K. Rowling about the character Hermione really struck me - Hermione never apologises for who she is or complies with the needs of the boys - she takes command, reads stupidly big books and isn't afraid to have a not-so-delicate moment because that's who she is - a feisty, independent young woman (god I love a good feisty, independent young woman). How exhausting would it be to keep up the girl act if that's not who you are? (Extremely. Believe me, I've tried. The make-up application every morning stopped on day three). Furthermore, I read about a new theory that in situations where children should be praised adults are now being encouraged to tell young girls that they are clever not beautiful. Lets make brains and brilliance the criteria for a 'great girl'. How refreshing would it be to hear someone say: "Oh godddd. She just has it all. I mean, the way she grasped Kant's criteria for the aesthetic experience... I just wanted to applaud her! What a brain! What a woman!"

So, I think we know the answer to the original debate of this post is that you should never compromise on your ability or personality to make yourself more 'desirable'. You don't need to change - expectations need to change.

Woe is me, I am a slug.

This blog title is something one of my friends said when she'd done something wrong. I think it's a good phrase for when you understand that you've been a bit useless. I realise I haven't blogged since July... Whoops. So, I am a slug, and I apologise.

Life has been somewhat busy recently and now I find myself with a week to go until I officially return to university for my (ugh... I don't want to say it...) 3RD YEAR... Where did my carefree youth go?! You know what's equally scary? I'm 21 in a month exactly. 2-freaking-1!!! I can feel myself crumbling already. Strap me to my zimmer-frame and get it over with. This can't be seen on a blog but I'm pouting now... I think I'll just spend my return to university and 21st birthday in denial. Yes. Hiding in a corner somewhere with a nice art history book and endless supply of coffee to ease my pain. I'm not American, I don't have drinking to look forward to - just a reflection upon how I'm really not that close to being a teenager anymore. What on earth am I going to blame my bouts of stupidity on now?! Good God, the world may truly know - it's not hormones, she's just an idiot.

Still, onwards, to happier things! I thought I should probably write a little summary of my summer excursions. When I say little I think anyone who keeps up with my blog will know by now that I use that term loosely - we'll see how small I can keep this on the word front...

Croatia

My first trip abroad this summer (I was lucky enough to make quite a couple of these) was to Rovinj in Croatia. My father befriended a Croatian woman through work and now I have come to be close with her, her sister and her mother. They are all wonderfully strong but empathic women. There are certain people in the world who you talk to, and when you talk to them you feel like life is logical and sorted - they are so certain in everything they say - these women are these sorts of people. To be around them is to be reassured. On top of their great company, Croatia is a beautiful place. The trip was a soul vacation for me - I swam in the sea, cycled along the coast, explored back streets, caught up with some personal writing - essentially took some time to myself in an extraordinary location.

German Romanticism to Expressionism Course at The Courtauld

Following my relaxed getaway (nothing clears your mind like lying on a boat in the middle of the sea in the baking sun) I returned to London for a week at The Courtauld Institute. I'm one of those people who needs to feed my mind - I actively enjoy lectures (I can imagine what's going across some people's minds now - "KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE!") Agh, I'm a self-confessed nerd - I love to think and learn. So, yes, in my summer 'break' I signed up for a course about German art, ranging from Romanticism to Expressionism.  I adored it. When people think of famous art, who are the greats that come in to conversation? Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso etc. etc. Do any Germans spring to mind? Not really. Perhaps Albrecht Durer - but many people really aren't familiar with him. German art has an incredibly complicated and neglected history. There is a sense of insecurity that has run through their practice for hundreds of years. Yes, in the sphere of music they have paved the way (practically dominated it), but in visual art they have been in a constant fight to define themselves. I strongly recommend that people become closer acquainted with their culture and work - it is fascinating.

The Olympics

How could I discuss this summer without mentioning the olympics? It has been my everyday and obsession nearly all summer. I think with fondness about the buzz leading up to the opening ceremony, the pride and thrill of the games and now our new excitement over the Paralympics. Hmmm, how to put this? British people... We're renowned for our self-deprecation. The key difference I notice between myself and my American friends is confidence. I'm part of a culture that really doesn't expect to do well and loves the underdog. In the build up to the olympics we were all wondering if Britain could pull off hosting the games (Mitt Romney had the nerve to voice this - yes, we may be worrying about it but if anyone else strides in here and claims we're not ready we'll turn on them like a pack of hyenas!) To actually rank third in the games was unreal. We're a small, odd, anxious country (we don't charge in loaded with confidence like the Americans, or have the cool skill of the Chinese) and to perform like this made us turn around and think "Okay. We've got something to be proud of." Honestly, to just walk in the streets and see other Brits gave you such a sense of pride - everyone came together in this excited buzz and thought "Yes, this tiny nation has some fight in it". I managed to attend a morning of swimming heats (my favourite olympic sport to watch) and an evening of athletics (things like pole vaulting, hurdles, shot put, the steeple chase). My time at the olympic park was just extraordinary. The joy in those venues was overwhelming - the whole time I thought "This can't be real. I can't be at the olympics. I must soak up every second, every detail". Britain is going to have such terrible Olympic withdrawal by the end of this summer.

Florence

I returned to Florence in early August. Last year I travelled to Florence with the company Art History Abroad and this summer I got to share one of my favourite places with my family. I dragged the poor things around so many museums, churches, streets etc. - they were very patient with me. We began to joke that I should hold up an umbrella like the other tour guides and get a handheld microphone for my talks - I did subject them to mini lectures in front of numerous pieces of art (I did say that they were very patient). You could probably worry about returning to a place so soon after visiting it and becoming bored, but for me Florence could never be boring - I was still overwhelmed when standing in front of the Duomo, somewhat teary again in front of Donatello's Magdalene and at peace before Pontormo's Gabriel. Such sensational work could never be dull however many times I stand before it. Plus, given that I had my family with me, they would draw me to new discoveries and experiences. It was such a pleasure to be back and I know it won't be the last time.

Portugal

To end my travelling this summer I had a small break this weekend in Porto - a large city in Portugal (a world heritage site). Once again, I was travelling thanks to one of my father's work connections. He recently befriended a Portuguese woman so we visited her and her family. She has two young daughters (aged five and nine) - they are exactly like my younger sister and I were when we were young. The elder is very serious, quieter and academic, whilst the younger is a loud, funny, bubble of energy. To spend time with these girls was to really revisit my childhood - I kept looking at that serious little girl thinking "Oh yes, that was me alright. She really isn't going to change that much." Porto itself is beautiful - as you would expect from a world heritage site... Sadly we only had two days to explore so time was limited to wonderful old bookshops, cafes, churches, an art gallery and a palace. One thing that really struck me about the magnificent architecture was the use of tiles - lots of buildings, instead of having a plain facade, are covered in patterned tiles - so so lovely. Being English I must mention the weather! It was spectacularly sunny - I soaked up my last rays and basked in the heat, knowing I'll need to live off these memories in Scotland!


So, that's my summer in a nutshell. Plenty more happened but I won't bore everyone with all the minute details. Perhaps a catch-up over a pot of tea will be required for a greater reflection upon my summer? Honestly, that's what I'm really looking forward to soon. I have so many dear university friends to reunite with.

I promise I'll try to be more vigilant on the blog front from now on! I've got a post about films that I've been working on for an age - fingers crossed I'll move faster with it. Plus, when I'm back to university with urgent work to be done, naturally hundreds of blog ideas will fly in to my head and I'll put my degree at risk to indulge in writing my usual nonsense!