“These days, loneliness is the new cancer–a shameful, embarrassing thing, brought upon yourself in some obscure way. A fearful, incurable thing, so horrifying that you dare not mention it; other people don’t want to hear the word spoken aloud for fear that they might too be afflicted, or that it might tempt fate into visiting a similar horror upon them.”
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, Gail Honeyman
Eleanor Rigby, a song about lonely people, is one of my favorite songs from The Beatles. Now, I am reading a book about another lonely woman but with the same first name, Eleanor Oliphant.
Loneliness is a theme often present in books that I have loved. I take delight in reading about the eccentricities of people who have chosen to be obscure. However, the delight of reading about loneliness vanishes when you realize the familiarity of silent days, talking to the walls, talking to no one but your brain, reading a book out loud to hear your voice and to remind yourself that you still exist. The joy of reading about loneliness disappears when you realize that you yourself is one of those lonely people The Beatles sang about. This joy turns into a dash of sadness, that will later turn into a tad of confusion about how you lived your life, and finally into a question: ‘Why am I so lonely?’
Before I moved here to Australia, a lot of people had warned me about the solitariness of living in a foreign land. I just shrugged off all their comments for I have always considered myself a master of isolation. With all the goals and confidence I packed in my luggage I came to Sydney feeling better than ever. And yes, I was in bliss for the first few months. I had no social obligations. I went to grocery shops disheveled with no fear of meeting a high school classmate. I stayed in my room all day to read books on my free days and no one would tell me to get out. I was living my dream life.
Then the lonely days crept in.
On New Year’s Eve while everyone at home was busy preparing for their festivities, I was alone at my new house. I was skimming through Netflix titles and wishing that there was someone else with me who could choose a movie in a heartbeat. I wished I had somebody to hug me that night. I had forgotten what it’s like to touch another human being.
Three days after, I found myself crying on the morning of my birthday. I woke up early expecting to smell my mother’s cooking and my father’s voice but then I remembered that they are 3, 540 miles away. I spent the whole morning sobbing and hugging myself.
Loneliness is not romantic. It isn’t always an image of you drinking wine in a tub surrounded by scented candles. Most of the times loneliness is staring at the ceiling all night or scrolling through all your social media accounts for hours waiting for a friend’s message.
Perhaps, John Donne was right when he said that ‘no man is an island’. Yes, there is beauty in solitude but we need each other in order to live and not just exist. I learned that the hard way.
I am still lonely now at times, but I have learned how to reach out. I hope Eleanor Oliphant learns that too.
How do you write a review for literature that feels very personal?
Ten years ago, I picked up a poetry book that was sold for ten pesos in Booksale. During that time my only exposure to poetry was the discussion of poems by dead white men in my English classes. When I read that poetry book I was astounded by how distinct and personal it was. With all honesty, I cannot remember the exact title of the book but I know it was written by a Filipina living in the United States. Her poetry was clothed with passion, confusion and isolation, and the power I felt whenever I read them stayed with me. Ten years later, TAKE CARE, a poetry book written by another Filipina reminded me of that feeling—the feeling of being heard, healed and transformed.
TAKE CARE is a collection of poems written by Eunice Andrada, a Filipina poet and educator who is currently living in Australia. It explores the experience of being a Filipina woman in a system that is blind to their struggles and lack of agency. The title of the book itself will give you an idea of her poetry, “Take care”/ “Amping ha”/ “Pag-amping intawn” is what we, Filipina women, usually say to each other as a send-off. I say it to my younger sister, my friends and to all the women I meet, together with a little prayer in my heart that they will be safe and will come back home whole and unscarred in a world that remains to be dangerous for them.
There has been a lot of talk recently in Philippine literary circles about the merits of diaspora literature. What constitutes Philippine literature? Filipino writers most especially those living abroad have been talking about the importance of decolonising their work. Yet, when I pick up books in this genre I cannot help but ask, ‘To whom is this written for?’. I will not dismiss the literary works of the Filipino diaspora but I do wish to find more writing that I could share to my students (if I ever go back to teaching in the Philippines) that would speak to them in a familiar voice, not a foreign one. This is the reason why I am so glad to have read TAKE CARE. Andrada’s poetry is not written for white people to seek their validation but it is written for Filipinos to validate their experiences.
Her poem “Comfort Sequence”, perhaps my favourite in the collection, is innovative in form and it perfectly delivers what it feels like as a woman to live in a country that perpetuates misogynistic culture. Starting from the absurdity of removing the statue of the ‘comfort women’ to applauding a president that spews rape jokes like its nothing, reading the long poem has made me hold my breath to stop myself from exploding—it is the exact same feeling I get when I try to hold back my tears while I explain to the men around me about rape culture so they would take me seriously and not tell me to stop being too emotional. I then exploded in her poem “Vengeance Sequence” that encapsulates the rage every Filipina woman who has been told by a white person, “You must be really good at taking care of people since you are a Filipina.” In the same breath you are told that young Filipinas are gold diggers who somehow enchant old crusty white men to save them from their third world country. These are the same white people who continue to uphold the imperialism that has forced the necessity of Filipino diaspora. Many of her poems reveal the ridiculousness of how the world sees and treats Filipina women. We are only seen as carers—we take care of the world that continues to exploit and look down on us.
Eunice Andrada’s strengths as a poet do not end in her excellent command of the form and her talent to weave the right words together and evoke powerful emotions. Her greatest strength, I believe, is that her writing is aware that poetry alone will not bring forth the change that is needed. There is a lot more work to be done and her poetry will give fuel to every woman who is ready to take part in the fight to abolish the systems that dehumanise us.
Before this book was sent to me, I was working on a personal essay with the title “I don’t want to hear about your ‘tiny’ Pinay ex-girlfriend.” I have been working on that piece for months but I keep on scratching parts and sometimes throwing it altogether because it sounded too angry. I always thought that maybe I was too sensitive about the comments I get as a Filipina. However, after reading this poetry book I realised that I have every right to be angry. The candour and bravery of this book’s verses pushed me to continue writing my own stories in the hopes that collectively “our song maps the terrain/of past to future labour. /We trust the others hear us. /They are gathering.”
“Film as dream, film as music. No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.”
― Ingmar Bergman
Being stuck in my room for two months now my days has begun to melt into puddle of beigy dullness. I have spent most of my days just trying to reach the next day’s daylight. Writing for work and leisure is extremely hard when your brain refuses to light the little sparks of joy you are trying to feed it. When everything else fails I go back to the thing that always picks me up, gives me a hug and makes me a warm chocolate drink: cinema.
As to how much I love films, its elements, and its production process warrants another essay. For now, I want to talk about the six beautiful films that I have watched last week. They are all Korean and Japanese films, so if you are not into foreign movies then maybe this is the time for you to open your hearts to them. As Director Bong Joon Ho said in his Oscar speech: “Once you overcome the one-inch tall barrier of subtitles, you will be introduced to so many more amazing films”.
So, shall we begin?
The unexplainable comfort of sad romantic movies
Movie #1: Josée (2020)
Josée is a South Korean romantic drama film based on a Japanese short story Josee, the Tiger and the Fish written by Seiko Tanabe. The story begins with Yong Seok finding a woman sprawled by a side road, having fallen from her electric wheelchair which had a broken wheel. The woman introduces herself as Josée. An unlikely relationship blossoms between the two, as Yong Seok continues to visit Josée despite her protestations. He finds out Josée is a voracious reader, and has fabricated a whole made-up fantasy world of her own to escape the realities of her hopeless situation.
I am sucker for melancholic films. I do not know why but I find comfort in knowing that sometimes good things have to end. This film has succeeded in reminding me of that. The flow of the story is far from perfect and the ending felt rushed and some things are unresolved. However, the visual storytelling is impeccable. It made me miss Seoul even though I have never been there. The mood and the entirety of the film can be capsulized using one of its poetic lines:
“In the autumn the leaves are dying, silently and prettily dying.”
Watching a delightful musical as the world falls apart
Movie #2: Dance With Me (2019)
Musical meets road trip in this lighthearted comedy with an outstanding performance by Ayaka Miyoshi. Shizuka works at a big Tokyo trading company and harbors a secret crush on her dashing boss. One weekend she takes her niece to visit a carnival hypnotist to inspire her for an upcoming school musical. But it is Shizuka who falls under the spell and she is soon breaking uncontrollably into song and dance whenever she hears music. With an important meeting coming up, Shizuka is desperate to break the curse, so she embarks on a cross-country hunt for the shifty hypnotist, dancing the whole way.
I love musicals and I feel bad for people who hate them for being too “corny and unrealistic”. Don’t you want some music and joy in your life? As a perpetually sad person, I definitely do. I watched this film after reading a lot of heavy tragic news from my home country and other parts of the world. Watching this film is like eating a cotton candy when you’re in a carnival–it is soft, sweet and melts into your mouth perfectly. The musical numbers are vibrant and fun and the theme which is about letting go and following your heart never gets old. What I like about it the most is it made me smile, a lot, and that is already a win for me.
Another Ghibli film that consecutively broke and rebuilt me
Movie #3: When Marnie Was There (2014)
This studio Ghibli film is based on Joan G. Robinson’s same-named novel. It transposes the setting from Norfolk, England in the original novel to Hokkaido, Japan. The film follows Anna Sasaki, a young girl is sent to the country for health reasons. Anna comes across a nearby abandoned mansion, where she meets Marnie, a mysterious girl who asks her to promise to keep her secrets from everyone.
I have not seen any Ghibli film that I did not like and this is not exception. I am not going to deny that at first I thought this movie was queer coded but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless. This movie is blessed with abundant narrative and visual beauty and it is magical as any other Ghibli film. It has captured the anguish that comes with being young and not understanding yourself and gives an ending that feels redemptive and hopeful. This film reminded me that in the end I will always find my way back to myself no matter how many times I get lost.
A better Jazz movie than Whiplash (according to Letterboxd)
Movie #4: Swing Girls (2004)
This film is directed by the same person who made ‘Dance With Me’ and that is how I found out about it. Swing Girls is tale of delinquent and lazy schoolgirls who accidentally fell in love with jazz. In their efforts to cut remedial summer math class, they end up poisoning and replacing the schools brass band.
This movie is chaotic, hilarious and comforting. I absolutely loved it. The premise and narrative are formulaic but you will love it more because of it. Everything is so delightfully predictable that you need not waste time trying to unravel it. Instead, you just sit back and enjoy the presentation.
P.S. You do not need to know about Jazz to enjoy this film. Just watch it and revel in its heart and hilarity!
Influencer meets shy poet and the charms of young love
Movie #5: Words Bubble Up Like Soda Pop (2020)
A meeting and romance starts between two people with communication issues. Cherry always wears headphones and puts the feelings he cannot utter into his hobby, Japanese haiku poems. Smile always wears a mask to conceal her large front teeth, for which she has dental braces. As a popular video star, she streams a video about seeking “cuteness.”
If you are a jaded adult like me watching anime films that centres on the innocence of young love is always a good antidote to the cynicism slowly enveloping your heart. With vibrant candy colours, fluffy music, and a cute couple, this movie will surely make you smile. Also, you will get a lot of good haikus which I really need because I am bad at writing good ones myself. Overall, this movie is cute.
A film that held me
Movie #6: House of Hummingbird (2018)
This film is a coming-of-age story about a lonely and awkward teenager struggling to figure out who they are and who they hope to become in a time of upheaval both in their personal life and in the outside world.
Based on that description alone, you might come up with a number of movies that fit this parameter. This one, however is one of the good ones. This movie for me is a character study that is captured through poetic cinematography. It also one of the few coming of age films that perfectly captures the loneliness and isolation of growing up. It is slow but not dragging, poignant but hopeful. There are so many wonderful things to write about this film and one of those is the remarkable performance of the main young lead. The last lines spoke to me, as if it’s holding my hand and stopping me from jumping off the bridge.
“What’s the right way to live? Some days I feel like I know, but I really don’t know for sure. I just know that when bad things happen, good things happen too. And that we always meet someone and share something with them. The world is fascinating and beautiful.”
Films, just like any other art form, will not save the world. However, it can save you from yourself while you figure out how to not fall apart with the world.
The first time I heard of Isabel Allende was when Rory of Gilmore Girls mentioned her and a week after that “Daughter of Fortune” fell into my hands. I was scrolling through Facebook marketplace to look for a vintage wall mirror when I saw a listing that says “Books for free”. I met Maria who is a delightful, retired literature teacher and she gave me her half of her collection. I always consider that incident as a serendipity. The entirety of this book is also a serendipitous journey for each character especially for the spirited heroine, Eliza.
Abandoned as a baby in the British colony of Valparaiso, Eliza is raised by Jeremy and Rose Sommers, a prosperous pair of siblings who consider the girl a gift. Eliza falls in love with Joaquin Andieta, who got her pregnant and then sails for the promise of gold in California. The “terrible weight of idealized love” pushed Eliza to follow Joaquin with the help of her new Chinese physician friend, Tao Chi’en. What began as a search for love ends up as the conquest of personal freedom. Allende has clearly enjoyed providing rich elaborations that may not particularly advance the story but affirm her theme of personal discovery. Each of her characters finds “something different from what we were looking for.”
History is thematically rich no matter how it is presented. When properly observed and documented, any piece of the past can expose both the best and worst of human nature. “Daughter of Fortune” chooses to emphasize the vast inequalities between men and women, whites and people pf colour, rich and poor. The haughty imperialism of the British towards the native population of Chile underscores the point as even when vastly outnumbered, white men still maintained full control over a country not their own.
This novel is a marvel of storytelling and I cannot wait to read more of Allende’s writing. I thank Allende for introducing to me such an appealing, adventurous and independent-minded heroine. Eliza had the courage to reinvent herself and create her own destiny in a new country and that to me is very inspiring. As someone who is also continuing to navigate a new life in a new county I hope I get hold of her luck, bravery and resilience.
If you feel like there is something out there that you are supposed to be doing, if you have a passion for it, then stop wishing and just do it.
One of the most popular idiomatic phrases in Filipino is “ningas cogon” which literally means a fire that extinguishes quickly and is used to describe someone who is only doing well, in whatever it is that they’re doing, during the beginning. Ladies and gentlemen, that someone is me. Perhaps this is my fatal flaw—I start so many projects but I lose interest in a snap and I abandon them all like an unwanted lover. However, this time I created something that I truly want to commit to and I believe I got the one thing that will help me fix this fickle passion of mine, purpose.
I wish I was one of those writers who writes every single day. Sitting at my living room, the sun hitting my face and looking regal and serious as my pen takes control of me, that is how I envision myself when I think of writing. Sadly, most of my writing happen at 3:45 am, my brain drunk with a mix of misery and ideas and my hand dragging my pen. I wake up the next day unable to read my own words. Then one sleepless night while I was reading “The Bad Feminist” by Roxane Gay something snapped within me. I rushed to my laptop and opened this blog after leaving it for a year to be devoured by internet termites. The desire to write again consumed me and so I did.
“The Bad Feminist” started as a place on the web where I dump all my mind’s ramblings. I posted random think pieces, short stories and photos and named it “girl with paper wings”. I did not give a care about who would read it and what they would think of me. Things changed when I pretended that I was a writer for Scarlet magazine, a fictional magazine in The Bold Type, a show I was binge watching. For a night I was a junior writer in New York, caffeinated with drive and ambition. I submitted “Why I read more books by women” to my imaginary editor and for the first time in a long time I was proud of something I have written. The next day I woke up to messages from friends and strangers telling me how my piece made them think about their reading choices. I was reminded of I why I have always wanted to become a writer, not only to share stories but also to write pieces that would push people to think and question. Ideas flowed from my head and they looked like a web of nonsense on paper but when I gave them a chance to reintroduce themselves to me I began to see what they wanted me to write: women and their stories.
Once you find the purpose of something you are working on everything else just follows, they might not fall immediately into place but knowing where you are going gives you courage. “The Bad Feminist” last month is my personal blog where I write book reviews to promote books by women. That remains to be true, but now I don’t want it to end just there. I aim to create a platform that will help budding female creatives. I intend to create a community where women can talk about issues that matter to us—a safe space of understanding and growth. That is not to say that men are not allowed. Feminism is not a female exclusive movement, as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says in her TED Talk, We Should All Be Feminists: “My own definition is a feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there’s a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.”
I know that the words I will be writing here might be just a shout into the void but I do hope somehow this reaches anyone who needs it. I pray that it reaches you and it gives you the push to do that one thing you have always wanted to do.
P.S. Please follow us on our Instagram for more content coming: @thebadfeministwriter https://www.instagram.com/thebadfeministwriter/
If you are a budding woman writer please feel free to send us your work for review at email@example.com
Misogyny is boring as hell. That is one of the most valuable lessons I have learned when I started to read more books by women. Two months ago, I was scrolling mindlessly through Twitter when I saw a tweet about “Her Body and Other Parties” by Carmen Maria Machado. I honestly did not even read the tweet because I was too busy admiring the book cover. I know that we should not judge a book by its cover but a great cover draws you in as a light invites a moth. I immediately borrowed the book in our local library. The book turned out to be as wonderful as its cover.
When I say wonderful I do not mean wonderful in a way where you try to stop yourself from smiling too much while reading it on a train, it is wonderful in a way that you have to put it down once in a while to grasp for air and say ‘fuck.’ “Her Body and Other Parties” is a collection of eight short stories which centre on women’s experiences and are mostly written with a queer, haunting, otherworldly, and erratic qualities to it. Machado was able to craft tales that are perfect blend of horror, science fiction and fairy tales.
I love anthologies. My short attention span works well with the bit sizes of stories but many compilations are a hit and miss. A lot of times writers put their best story in the middle and you have to wade through the other mediocre ones to finally get the prized gem. Machado did not do that. Her first story “The Husband Stitch” is probably one if not the best horror short stories in contemporary fiction. It is also the best story to set the tone of the book. It is narrated by a wife and is set up like a retelling of a doomed love story. The narrator weaves in popular tales in her storytelling. Through these communal stories Machado explores the deep roots of the horror women go through from childhood to marriage. At the same time, she challenges our individual readings: “That may not be the version of the story you’re familiar with. But I assure you, it’s the one you need to know.” Once you have finished reading this story, I suggest that you should look up what the “husband stitch” means (though medically the internet says it actually does not exist) and you will be horrified, that is if this tale did not disturb you enough.
“The moral of that story, I think, is that being poor will kill you.”
from “The Husband Stich”
In the second story, “Inventory”, a woman lists her erotic experiences as a virus depopulates the world. Striding through these memories of lovers both male and female, the story delves into the blurred connection between physical intimacy and connection. And as much as I hate to say this, reading a story about a pandemic while we are in an actual pandemic is daunting. It also made me think about the connections I made and if all of those were worth something if this is indeed the end of the world.
“But the fucking thing is only passing through physical contact,” she said. “If people would just stay apart—” She grew silent. She curled up next to me and we drifted off.
I have been showering the book with praises but it is not to say that it is perfect. Machado’s risks and experimentation with the narrative form is sometimes dizzying and this is observed in the next two stories: “Mothers” and “Especially Heinous”. In “Mothers’ a same-sex couple defies nature and has a baby, sending the narrator into a tailspin of fantasies and memories we are not sure are real. “Especially Heinous: 272 Views of Law & Order: SVU”, the longest piece in the collection comprises vignettes in which Machado borrows characters and episodes from SVU and constructs a supernatural saga of doppelgängers, alien abductions, and ghosts of murdered teen girls with bells for eyes. I do not care much about SVU as a series but her prowess and passion with crafting a narrative has held me hostage. You cannot put it down even if you may feel lost in the whirlwind of it all.
“It’s not that I hate men,” the woman says. “I’m just terrified of them. And I’m okay with that fear.”
from “Especially Heinous: 272 Views of Law & Order: SVU”
“Real Women Have Bodies” is a commentary on the fashion industry and how it preys on women’s self-image issues. In this sad tale, two young women fall in love as a mystery epidemic causes women literally to fade away. The writing here may not be as astonishing as the rest of the stories in the book but I personally find it one of the most depressing. All the calls for inclusivity and diversity in the beauty industry does not eradicate the fact women are still held to an impossible standard. To what extend are we willing to let our true selves fade away in the chance of being accepted by this fucked up society?
“The woods are quiet but for the hum of insects and twittering of birds. We peel off our clothes and soak in the sun. I examine my fingertips against the light, pink-amber halos around the shadows of my bones.”
from “Real Women Have Bodies”
The neatest narrative in this collection is “Eight Bites” and it is a familiar tale (at least to me) of self-hatred and the obsession with weight loss. It centres on the promise of transformation: “It will hurt. It won’t be easy. But when it’s over, you’re going to be the happiest woman alive.” Every woman who has been through the incessant cycle of weight gain and weight loss has been too familiar of this promise. Just like the narrator of this story who hates her body I have contemplated a lot of times on whether my life will be fixed if I have the perfect body. When you are told again and again that your life will be better once you lose all that unnecessary fat you will begin to believe it and you starve yourself or go through some bariatric surgery like the main character. If you are like me and you have participated in one of those fad diets and continually obsess with the idea of being pretty and thin or if you have an eating disorder please read this story with caution.
I lean down and whisper where an ear might be. “You are unwanted,” I say.
from “Eight Bites”
“The Resident” borrows the common elements of the Victorian gothic tale: an eerie out of town setting, bad weather, eccentric guests, and a mad woman. The narrator juxtaposes her present moment at the residency with a traumatic experience during Girl Scout camp years ago in that same location, an experience that occurred as a result of displaying her queerness. She descends into ‘madness’ as the lines between her past and present begins to blur. At the same time, she is writing a novel about a madwoman and another resident criticizes her for doing and ‘being’ an overdone trope. Personally, this story also makes me think of the isolating nature of the creative process and how easy it is to get stuck in our own heads. It also asks the overarching question: How much are we willing to suffer for the sake of art?
“I understood that knowledge was a dwarfing, obliterating, all-consuming thing, and to have it was to both be grateful and to suffer greatly.”
from “The Resident”
Lastly, in “Difficult at Parties” a woman experiences a sexual trauma and while trying to rebuild her sex life with her partner, she suddenly hears the internal thoughts of actors in porn videos. It is an uncomfortable read not because it is graphic but because it is emotionally raw. Unlike a lot of fictional stories where a women’s trauma is turned into some exploding revenge fantasy, in this tale our main character finds it difficult to function normally again (whatever “normal” means). Trauma does not always make you stronger, often times it destroys you and the people around you.
“I want to say, Don’t bother asking me anything. I want to say, There is nothing underneath.”
from “Difficult at Parties”
These eight masterfully crafted stories critique the intricacies of the feminine experiences. This collection centres around bodies that have been harmed by other people, collectively or individually, but sometimes the perpetrator is the woman herself. Women are never safe in the world of this book. Tragically that is also true in the real world. Machado was able to reveal the truths about our world through these otherworldly tales. Reading this book is an exhilarating journey and I wish everyone I know could experience it.
The first time a man told me that he does not read books written by women because he finds the writing to be too “feminine” and unrelatable I was appalled. I took a step back and gave myself time to think about it. All my life I have been conditioned to accept that books written by dead white men are the gold standard. I never questioned that even though I forced myself several times to finish Moby Dick (sorry still can’t finish it). I just accepted that these stories of angry and miserable men going to wars or having an existential crisis are the important stories. Not until a guy told me that he only read books by male authors did I start to question my very own reading choices.
That encounter was five year ago. I felt invincible when it comes to talking about literature because I devoured 70-100 books a year during my undergrad studies. I read almost everything that I came upon, the popular ones, the ones considered crucial, and I finished most of them no matter how bored and unengaged I was. I ate books without chewing. But that sentiment changed my reading habits. I was enraged. What makes a book too feminine? Why are feminine things considered inherently inferior? These were some of the thoughts in my head as our conversation went on.
After that chat I examined myself and dug deeper. I then started to realise that unfortunately I was a bad reader and a bad feminist. Is this why I don’t talk much about all the Chick Lit I have read because I unconsciously don’t want to be known as the heart-eyed woman who only reads romance novels? Is this also the same reason why when we talk about Jane Austen we often dismiss her as the old maid who wrote the best novels about courting and marriage that we tend to forget that she also made arguably the best commentary on the English middle class and elite? I almost fell into the trap of an inherently patriarchal and misogynistic literary thinking where domestic stories of women are regarded as less essential reading. I did not even question then how most male writers struggle to create complex and nuanced female characters. I had no idea about what the “male gaze” is all about. The male gaze as Margaret Atwood beautifully explains it in her book The Robber Bride: “Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
I was determined to push off that man inside me.
Getting rid of that internal misogyny that was installed in each of us from birth is a complicated task especially when the literary world is full of it. But it was a challenge I was very much willing to take. I have decided to teach my younger self who loved YA novels how the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope is a tired and lousy trope. This was not that easy as I have spent a lot of my teenage years trying to mould myself into that archetype. I was an “I am not like other girls” girl. It even affected how approached dating when I first got into it. I unintentionally turned myself into the kind of woman who thinks she could change and save a man who in actuality needs a therapy. I had a lot of unlearning to do. I needed to admit that I had internal misogyny (probably the toughest part) in order to work on myself and be free from it. From then on I turned myself into a more critical vigorous reader. That night I have decided to actively seek out books written by women. I will no longer read anything just because it is popular. I promised to seek out stories from women of diverse backgrounds and from different parts of the world because these stories matter. And that is the one of the best decisions I made in my entire life.
I promised to seek out stories from women of diverse backgrounds and from different parts of the world because these stories matter.
I was taken aback by how invigorating it is to read about female characters who are not put into boxes. She is not just the dream girl, the patient wife, or the symbol of a man’s desire. She is a girl, a woman, and she can be anything. She can be messy, ugly, and she is not defined by how big and smooth her breasts are or how her lips feel when she is kissed, because in this world she is more than just a body. Her thoughts, journey and growth filled out the pages.
My new reading choices has not only opened my eyes to many realities but it also made me more empathic. It has also made me felt seen and validated. I have felt less lonely and more understood. Virginia Woolf in her long essay, A Room of One’s Own, made me see the struggles women writers have gone through the centuries. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s book, Americanah, helped me make sense of my own battles as I was adjusting to a new country. The book made the hardship and confusion of the diaspora experience easier for me to navigate. Margaret Atwood brought me to the incredible world of speculative fiction. Roxane Gay taught me about intersectional feminism and has inspired me to pursue this blogging journey. Arundhati Roy, Jumpa Lahiri, Bernardine Evaristo, Chingbee Cruz and many more women writers continue to produce writings that inspire and educate me.
Just recently I read an article written by MA Sieghart in The Guardian entitled: Why do so few men read books by women? The article provided some very alarming and disheartening statistics. I don’t want to bore you with numbers so let me quote a part of the article that somehow encapsulates it (I highly suggest that you read the whole thing: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/jul/09/why-do-so-few-men-read-books-by-women): “Women are prepared to read books by men, but many fewer men are prepared to read books by women. And the female author in the top 10 who had the biggest male readership – the thriller writer LJ Ross – uses her initials, so it’s possible the guys thought she was one of them. What does this tell us about how reluctant men are to accord equal authority – intellectual, artistic, cultural – to women and men?”
Now you might be thinking why am I so bothered by this? Why can’t I just let men read more about men. I honestly wished I do not care at all. But I do care about it because I believe in the importance of literature and how it can help anyone understand different experiences. When men refuse to read books by women they deny the opportunity to learn and understand women’s perspectives and experiences. MA Sieghart puts it well in her article previously mentioned:“If men don’t read books by and about women, they will fail to understand our psyches and our lived experience. They will continue to see the world through an almost entirely male lens, with the male experience as the default. And this narrow focus will affect our relationships with them, as colleagues, as friends and as partners. But it also impoverishes female writers, whose work is seen as niche rather than mainstream if it is consumed mainly by other women. They will earn less respect, less status and less money.”
When men refuse to read books by women they deny the opportunity to learn and understand women’s perspectives and experiences.
I still read books written by male authors of course, I am not doing this for some misplaced feminist anger. I choose to read good books and whether we accept it or not a lot of good literature today are penned by women. For centuries, women are made to feel the inferior sex and it is time for us to dismantle this patriarchal bullshit. In that note, I shall not stop writing to honour the women before me. I owe it to them to tell my story and I hope you tell yours too. Our stories matter.
He is back. He knows that I will be visiting the place where we last met.
“Did you miss me?” he whispers as he strokes the palm of my left hand.
I flinch but I do not answer back.
I love the red gum trees and the huge rocks that surround me in this trail. These woods can hide anyone who does not want to be found and that comforts me. A lace monitor climbs a tree. One cannot help but stop and marvel at that beauty but I have better things to do. I continue to walk towards the creek.
“I brought a gift for you. I do not want you to think that you have left my mind even for a second.”
I pause and look at him. He takes my hand, places a dead rose and then he closes it. Despite everything that happened between us I cannot deny the fact that we are a good match. He knows me well. My heart starts to sink. I drag my feet towards our sacred spot.
“You will never get rid of me, you know that, right?”
He chuckled. The wind as if to laugh with him rattle the leaves of trees. That does not stop me.
Twenty more steps towards our holy ground.
It has been four days when we broke up at this piece of land. The bushes witnessed my pain that day. He screamed at me and called me names as I cried. I had to wash all the blood in my hands as the birds sang their song in a melody of my misery. It was too much.
I grab his cold hand and give the dead rose back to him. I can’t close his hand now.
“They have been looking for you. I won’t tell them where you are now. Don’t worry. I told them that we broke up a week ago and I have not heard from you since. I might have mentioned that you’re probably hiding at Jennifer’s place.”
He does not respond.
“I just came here to see if you are still here. I haven’t slept for days thinking about you being alone here. Do you miss me?”
He looks me in the eye with that soulless expression.
He has changed a lot. His heart along with his love for me starts to decompose so I take it out of his chest before it’s all gone.
I do not cover him. This time I am willing to share his body with others. Let the insects feast on him. I have his heart now.
I look at him for the last time, “Babe, I told you so. You will always be mine.”
If an alien abducts me today and tries to scan my brain, our otherworldly friend would definitely be disappointed because what it will see is a sole sentence written in fine print: YOU RUIN EVERYTHING, YOU STUPID BITCH! (Coincidentally, this is a song title in Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, a great musical tv show with a hot mess as a main character—the representation we messy bitches need).
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to that shitshow that is my mental space. Last fortnight I have decided to revive this blog by writing a piece that ended in a hopeful note. I wanted this blog to be the opposite of what I am actually feeling most days. I even named her “girl with paper wings”, a name I gave myself five years ago when I was a doe-eyed girl with the belief that my hopes and dreams would be good enough to make me fly. Perhaps, this is my attempt of bringing my old self back. Sadly, it is not working.
Trust me, I have tried myriad ways to romanticise my life. I even started a YouTube channel (you can check it out and please subscribe lol) just to convince myself that I having the best life by going to lovely places and inserting poetry in my videos because I so badly wanted to channel the art hoe and cottage core aesthetics. Tragically, pretending to be some main character of a cringey YA novel just does not make your mental anguish disappear. And it took me two years to admit that moving to a foreign country where you do not know anyone will not magically transform you into a new polished person.
It is about time for me to accept that I am no girl with wings. I am an angry and sad potato. I have been obsessed with projecting a fairylike version of myself who goes on delightful afternoon walks, listen to morning affirmations and do nothing but read books. I am no self-help pixie. My real hobbies include binge eating junk foods, drinking mixed vodka and having both an existential crisis and a stomach ulcer attack at 2:30 am. I spend lots of my time nursing my resentment by lurking on social media posts of the people who have wronged me. My weekends are spent binge watching the same shows with antiheroines (i.e. Fleabag, Search Party and of course, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend) and when I am sick of watching the lives of these fucked up characters, I google the nearest ocean and think of Virginia Woolf and her suicide note. “I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate.” Same, girl. Same. And before I could think of sticking my head into the oven (I don’t want to burn my flatmate with me, she’s a good person, sorry Sylvie) I call the Beyond Blue hotline and say to the voice on the other line that it is nice to hear a voice that isn’t mine.
Sarah, the lovely and kind counsellor who uses her precious time to talk to messed up people like me at 4:00 am, tells me I should go to a GP and get a referral to see a medical professional because I have signs of depression and anxiety. Yes, Sarah, I know. “I don’t have a GP and I don’t have Medicare but I will find a way somehow. Thank you so much for your time, Sarah. The world needs more people like you.” I lie to the likes of Sarah every time because I don’t have the heart to tell them that I am too broke to get therapy and I would rather pay rent and live in a semi-beautiful apartment in misery than pay someone $200 to talk about my childhood and adult traumas and live in a bunker bed or worse in the streets. I know it has been said before and been talked about a lot but I am going to just repeat and scream it out loud, THERAPY IS SO FUCKING EXPENSIVE!
Is it the pandemic that has made me feel this way? Yes and no. Yes, because ever since Miss Rona came all of my sense of stability has been thrown out the window. And no, because these dark emotions whatever you want to call it (demons are too dramatic tbh) has been there since I was ten (childhood trauma, ammirite?). I am aware that I am not the only one feeling this way. As a matter of fact, I am part of a generation that makes self-deprecating and depressing jokes on the internet as part of our personality because we don’t know how else to talk about it. Does this comfort me? Not really. I wish we could find a way to talk about our little miseries without feeling guilty because our parents had it worse. I wish there was a way to say, “I am not okay.” without adding ‘lol’ or a bunch of laughing emojis. Because why would we be? We just saw the ocean on fire and it was as if we opened a gateway to hell. We just lost loved ones to a virus that has also eaten our days. So, I guess it’s okay to be sad and angry. It’s okay to not know when we’ll be truly alright. Nobody knows the answer (not even the billionaires who are having a dick race towards the outer space).
I should just go to sleep and hope for things to be better when I wake up…it will be alright, right?
I have been thinking about my body,
how it looks beside someone else’s skin
I think about people telling me how smooth my skin is as I rub my breasts in circles with lotion for the second time of the day
I have been wanting to turn my skin into milk fresh and white and sweet that men would want to drink the very last ounce of me
the same skin I wanted to shed off for years
my soul wanting to crawl out of this shell and possess the next most beautiful thing I see
I have been thinking about my body and how it would look like without the grasses of hair that continues to grow unwanted
I can feel them rough and just newly born and I condemn each one of them along with all their mothers who lived and grew before them
I let the light burn them and curse each tingling sensation as I pray to the gods of fire that they may never see the light of day again
I have been thinking about my body and wonder what the mirrors whisper to each other when they see me and I am curious to know do they hear the growls my stomach makes when I refuse to hear its yearning as my spirit demands for a smaller space to live in
I feel the temple that I have built becoming hefty but saggy and I have been looking at
the sacs of fat that cling to my every inch and I think of the men who told me I should lose weight as their cracked lips sucked my pumped and brown nipples like an infant holding on for its dear life
I have been thinking about my body and the face that it carries everyday fair and soft in calloused hands that have tried to hold it and I think of all the tongues that have forced themselves down my mouth hungry and angry and always asking for more then
I pick up the razor and I allow my pale face be damned with blood and I laugh
and I put on my red lipstick and I wait for men to worship me.