Author: The Highland Feminist

Full-time feminist, mother and change-maker. I blog for fun, challenge and fulfilment and if I meet kindred spirits along the way then so much the better for our online feminist community. With a very wide spectrum of feminist views, ideologies, philosophies, theories and lived experience in all of us, there is fertile ground on which to think, write, debate and challenge ourselves. I find that few of us rarely fit neatly into one category or another and that often they are misaligned, misunderstood or worse, written off as being irrelevant in today's popular culture. I try to present an open-minded and balanced critique of different views in order that we encourage debate, not stifle it, while also doing my best to be respectfully curious about views that are not my own. If in doubt, I try to err on the side of caution and at the very least, not to say something hurtful or unkind. I'll let you, the readers, be the judge of that.
Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender /

L-E-S-B-I-A-N (Not a Dirty Word)

Say it, it won’t hurt you, and if you repeat it often enough, lesbian, lesbian, lesbian, you might just become one. Kidding. It’s not contagious.

Unless…

Still kidding.

Like many lesbians, my relationship to the word lesbian, is ambiguous, context-dependent, and in almost every instance, carefully considered before using it. As if women need any more reason to analyse and self-censor. Thank you, patriarchy, additional mental load is just what women need.

As a woman attracted to other women (not all women, relax will you?!), it is a strange paradox that we need the word to describe ourselves yet also feel ashamed, embarrassed or awkward about its use. Could there be any greater headf£ck than this when it comes to finding and building the loving relationships we seek. Pfft, the love that dare not speak its name.

When I was in my teens lesbian or its derivatives lez, lezzer, lemon, were used to insult and hurt any young girl who didn’t conform to society’s order of the day. Newsflash, that meant being pretty according to the male gaze, being a compliant good girl yet being available for boys, and not doing anything that might set you apart from your peers, much like things are today really, only with crimped hair.

In my twenties, I’d boldly proclaim “I’m gay” which was really an act of subservience to the patriarchy. Being gay still aligned me with men, but if I could rely on some gay men’s protection perhaps that was better than none at all (because you do know that neither of us is “the man” in a lesbian relationship, right?). Only when I was in what I considered to be lesbian-friendly territory would I open with “I’m a lesbian”.

I’d like to say that this has changed over time, and while it is true that in some ways it has, even today I find myself going through the mental gymnastics of working out if I have the energy for the declaration or not. Oftentimes, I can’t be bothered, but it bugs me enough that I thought to sit down and write about it. To get it out of my system, to say what I really think or feel about it. L-E-S-B-I-A-N, or, leasbach anns a ghàidhlig, not a word uttered in any Western Isles church I’ve ever head of, ach co-dhiù, where was I?

It seems like the times we are living in do require a certain reclamation of words, descriptions, places and spaces that once were more than clear. In my thirties, I rode the rollercoaster of same-sex and queer jargon designed to make us all feel equal and less stigmatised. Girrl, was I wrong about that! Laudable initial aim to make us all feel included but look where we’ve ended up?!

I kind of liked it back when people could disagree about their opinions, but the growth of the EDI industry, following the introduction of the Equality Act 2010, and the subsequent commercialisation of that once comforting, now infuriating, so-ubiquitous-it’s-almost-meaningless, rainbow flag has got me thinking that we need another turn of the revolutionary wheel and it won’t be found in the dilution of our words or language.

So now that I’m in my forties, here is my best effort at embracing the word L-E-S-B-I-A-N without giving any more air time to the numpties who’d like us to pretend we’re all equal people.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been attracted to girls and women. To my mind, why wouldn’t I be? We are gloriously complex and emotional beings with a huge capacity for love, growth, overcoming challenges, and expressing ourselves in a world that would rather endorse our exploitation than end it. Whether you do an unfair share of domestic labour to further someone else’s career or lifestyle, or you’ve been at the extreme end of male violence, the patriarchal values and systems that perpetuate our suppression have no interest in making us feel comfortable about being exclusively attracted to other women. It is much, much easier for them to make us feel ashamed about being a lesbian.

So how do we counter such a negative and hostile backdrop?

  • We write, we print t-shirts, we organise – see Get the L Out https://www.gettheloutuk.com/index.html
  • We piss into the Highland wind of the internet in the hopes that someone reading this might stop and think, or better still, engage and learn. http://www.thehighlandfeminist.com or for the far better established https://afterellen.com/
  • We take inspiration from the delightfully bold Lesbian Project https://www.thelesbianprojectpod.com/.
  • We seek comfort in seeing Hollywood representations of ourselves on the screen, thanks Ilene, while ironically hitting refresh on our online dating apps more times than we’ve said the word L-E-S-B-I-A-N out loud. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHThghz8crtS0yvCrM1FSEg
  • We believe in love, we love other women doing their thing, we try to catch the eye of a cute or interesting woman we’ve recently met, we support our lesbian friends and sisters through the ups and downs of life.
  • We support one another to come out, to stay out, to not give up on love, to believe that in this country of 57 million people, 5-8% of those are lesbian, gay or bisexual, which must surely mean that there is someone for everyone, no matter how awkwardly small our dating pool is! Surely Doc Stock has done the analysis here. If not, please could someone tag her… (see The Lesbian Project above)

I digress once more, because there is so much to talk about and precious few places to do so, but now that I’ve reached the end of this piece, how’d I do? Have I exercised lesbian enough yet or have I been unclear?

L-E-S-B-I-A-N, a seven letter word to describe women who are solely attracted to women in all our glorious technicolour.

I’d say try it, but this club is an exclusive one 😉

Community /

Come Here To Me

Part of me feels reluctant to share these secrets with you, part of me wants to shout them from the rooftop. I’ll let others decide if I’ve made the right call.

The Isle of Lismore rises from the waters of Loch Linnhe and is nestled between the mainland area of Port Appin, Argyllshire and the Morvern peninsula. If you catch the passenger-only ferry from Port Appin, you’re just a short ride away from a slice of the Goddess’s own country. Lush green pasture covers ancient limestone, drystone dykes mark the all-important croft boundaries, and the butterflies dance from one wildflower to the next.

There’s the charm of the Bothy or a walk around the Sailean loop, a visit to the delightful Heritage Centre or the Church, or perhaps for the bold, a dip in one of its fine clear-watered lochs.

But to extoll the virtues of this beautiful island in all its glory, it is the people you must meet while you are there – the islanders, native or not, the holiday makers, the walkers, or those who, like me, are making their annual pilgrimage to Mairi Campbell’s Fiddle Retreat. A real (re)treat indeed. A skillfully blended mix of traditional music meets all-level players from across the world, from the United States, Belgium and Ireland.

Carefully curated by Mairi, with dollops of space and time to explore the island and relax, and to enjoy delicious healthy meals prepared with love and local ingredients.

A true Mother-Earth-meets-musical-experience made unforgettable not only for its location and the easy teaching style of our host, but so too for the connections made with the most delightful group of women I may now call upon as travelling musical sisters. Each one, her own woman with a rich history of music making, sharing, and nurturing their own talents and others.

Under conventional wisdom, taking a group of mixed ability, mixed age players onto retreat could have been a recipe for frayed nerves and fallouts, but owing to the mastery of our time-served facilitator, and the generosity of spirit of all the women in the room, slowly, we all let go of the inhibitions that held back our playing, and embraced new techniques in improvisation, ornamentation, or simply messed around with chords and harmonies.

There was no pressing need to commit the tune to memory, or give a performance, just a commitment to learning a little more than when we first walked through the door on Thursday evening. So, yes, we were on a fiddle retreat, but it gave us so much more than a musical experience. We sang, and laughed, and shared, and retreated to silence when that too was needed, each finding our edges in a group of strangers, then letting them dissolve a little more as we became firm friends for a few days, and more.

No event would be complete without a little nod to the Goddess in us all, and my new pals were up for strengthening our bonds as women through a red tent, but you all know by now, that these are sacred secrets I’ll never divulge, for if I told you those, well, I tell you what…

And so, I find myself reflecting on this beautiful, soulful experience in a Fort William café, before returning to the hubbub of daily life.  A little more peaceful, a lot less distracted, and whole lot more grateful for the wonderful women who made it all possible. Mairi, Siobhan, Anne, Marguerite, Shirley, Mary, Susan, you made my weekend, thank you for sharing yourselves, your wisdom and your music.

Ssshh, though, it’s a secret.

To book for next year, click here

Community /

Love Letter to the Fèis

In the Beginning

The year was 2007, and I was 27 years old. On a whim, I decided to buy myself a fiddle from the music shop in Tain. A gift to myself, or so I thought. Little did I realise then that the act of becoming proficient at playing it would be an act of labour, love, and patience, and not just my own. The tutors that have taught me over the years have shown equal amounts of encouragement, support, and top tips to make my playing better and sweeter than how they found it. This is why I am constantly amazed by the sheer array of talent in our region, and in Scotland more widely. I’m also slightly saddened that the value we place on the arts to create community bonds, to inspire artistic excellence, and to develop inquiring and creative minds, is often overlooked. But this is not a political statement. This is about what binds people through the arts.

     About the same time as I realised that owning a fiddle did not a fiddler make, I came across the well-known and junior fèis stalwart, fiddle tutor, Alpha Munro of Foulis. I trundled up the road faithfully every fortnight for about two years, to break the back of the early years’ practice, inflicting insults on tender ears and feeling horrendously self-conscious by every bum note or scrape of the “e” string. But eventually, frustration gave way to pleasure, and I while my adult self was painfully aware that my beginner renditions of Paddy’s Leather Breaches, would win no mod comp, Alpha directed me to one of Scotland’s finest gems in the trad scene, Fèis Rois.

Team Fèis

     Led by the indomitable Fiona Dalgetty, her team’s commitment and energy to bring all parts of the trad community together through events, classes, and ceilidhs is boundless. My love affair with The Fèis had begun, and I spent most of the next decade modestly progressing my session abilities or trying out new workshops in step dancing, Gaelic singing, or whistle playing.

     But I am also a realist, and coming late as I did to trad music, I learned to restrict my efforts in this lifetime to very average, yet enjoyable (for me) fiddle playing and leave the multi-instrumentalism to the exceptionally talented youngsters, and time-served professionals of the fèis movement. They are, after all, what keeps the traditions alive.

Ullapool

     This May bank holiday weekend was no exception. Once again, I made the annual pilgrimage to Ullapool for the adult fèis, an event so spectacular in its simplicity, as it is in the talents and good craic of tutors and participants alike. For three wonderful days and nights, participants are treated to a wild display of talent, and teaching, and if anyone comes home feeling anything less than uplifted by the spirit of trad music, then their soul must have got up and left the building.

     It always begins for me the moment I turn the key in the ignition and set forth westbound along the A835, letting others take care of my responsibilities at home or on the croft for two of the three days the fèis takes place on. The drive towards Ullapool brings me great pleasure – the narrow winding roads from Conon to Garve, the vast open expanses of the Dheerie, before spotting the safe haven of Lochbroom, where I try to calculate if I have enough time to make it to the school to pick up my wristband for the weekend.

     Full of anticipation for the days ahead yet savouring the quiet moments before it all kicks off tomorrow, I spend the evening with family hosts and enjoy the delights of a homecooked “Seafood Shack” recipe for monkfish curry. See here for yourself. We swap the stories of our lives since last spring, what’s new, and what’s not, over a glass of something red and delicious.

A’ Chiad Latha/Day One

     Then boom, the classes begin. First up, it’s an upper intermediate (UI) class with a tutor new to me. Step forward Mr Charlie McKerron, renowned fiddler with Capercaillie and Session A9 to name just a few of his many accomplishments. Clearly, and deservedly, he has a following among the participants of the class, and I can see why, light-hearted and witty, he made the UI class fun and enjoyable for everyone. We shared notes on the brilliance of Gordon Stevenson’s fiddle-making and he even made my fiddle sound better, although that was more down to his playing it than anything he managed to teach me!

     A well-earned lunch break took me to An Talla Solais to listen to Mairearad Green and Kim Richards, who flawlessly duetted their way through tune after tune in the intimate art gallery setting. What a great addition to the fringe programme for this year.    

Back to class, where cheeky chappy John Carmichael led us through the tunes in a “playing for dancing” class. I swear I hope to be as happy at my work as this man when I’m an octogenarian (he’s not a lady, so I can mention his age). He entertained us with stories between every set of tunes, showed us cheat-sheet intros for Canadian Barn Dances and Strip the Willows, and had a smile on his face so broad, you couldn’t help but mirror it back.

     There are some years when I might have snuck off for a quick norag after class to get ready for the session later on, but not this year. No visit to Ullapool is complete without a visit to a bookshop, or a wee deoch at the Ceilidh Place, and the warm spring sun made it the perfect way to unwind after the first day of learning. One of the things I love about the fèis is that you often get the chance to speak to people you wouldn’t ordinarily meet. Here I met two hardy women from the north of England who were heading up to Clachtoll to camp for a few days. They were amazed by all the musicians stotting around the village and most disappointed when they learned that the evening’s concert was sold out. No matter, they, too, will be back next year, they told me.

    Shortly after a warming brandy from the Ceilidh Place, I collect my order from the Seafood Shack – I buy not cook their delicious recipes – a haddock wrap (there is simply no better fancy fish supper than this) and a trout salad for my more health-conscious cousin to set us up for the evening ahead. I’ll be glad of this later I tell myself.

     It’s 7.30pm by now and we’re in the MacPhail Centre, adjacent to Ullapool High School, waiting for the evening’s instalment of talent. Props here to Blas Festival for selecting Chloe Bryce as their latest, very worthy recipient of their annual commission. Bryce and her band tell us a generous, warm-hearted, and fascinating tale of the Summer Walkers, the last known travelling folk of Easter Ross to make a true summer pilgrimage around the north coast of Sutherland to earn their money by tin-smithing and horse-trading.

     She tells us of the marvellous Essie Stewart, and her family, as they made their journey northwards. To hear recordings of their Gaelic was really quite something. Hearing it for the first time made me happy yet, sad too, at the loss of the dancing tongues and forgotten ways of the Highland travelling folk’s East Coast Gaelic. To say this commission deserves a wider and ongoing airing would be an understatement.

     The second part of the concert was brought to us by Olivia Ross, well known for her role in the band The Shee.  A voice like clear honey and commanding starts to each song that captured our attention from the get-go with the experience and grace of a seasoned performer.

     Not content with delighting us throughout the performances, the sessions continued aplenty all across the village.  The Arch Inn and the Ceilidh Place for me until the wee small hours before hoofing it in the dark up the road to Braes for a few hours kip before doing it all over again.

An Dàrna Latha/Second Day

     A slightly bleary-eyed start to the morning but no less than two great workshops with Charlie and John once more, before submitting to the journey home to pick up the reins of life once more. I might have managed to slip in a visit to the merch stand and picked up a copy of Amy Geddes’ album “Messing” to keep me company across the Dheerie. Track 3 Lisardo Lombardia of Asturias by Fred Morrison kept me captivated as I reflected on all that is magnificent about the Scottish trad scene.

     For those able to stay for three wonderful days and nights, the tutor concert on the Sunday tonight brings all of this talent and more to one stage in a delectable display of trad delights par excellence. On top of FOMO, I am green with envy at those who would have heard nothing short of brilliance in what surely must be a one-of-a-kind event.

A Final Word

     There are of course many more artists, staff, volunteers and venues to mention that I couldn’t do justice to, but that’s the beauty of it, because this trad family will be there again next year with a new programme of events and tutors to discover.

     All that remains to say, is that if you haven’t ever been and felt the spirit and traditions of this community, it’s high time you did. I’ll content myself for now with the memories and a last laugh when, delightfully exhausted by all the learning and the fun, I reached for the eye make-up remover late last night before falling into bed, realising just in time that the bottle I’d lifted off the shelf was in fact nail varnish remover – and that, perhaps more than all the gushing words above, is a sign of a great weekend!

Feminism /

Unleashing Sacred Rage

I have spent many tragic hours wishing for my body to be other than what it is, and it has taken me until age forty-one, to realise that my thinking efforts were misdirected. Today, I long for all women to feel wonderfully empowered by the beauty of their own skin, their bodies, their minds, their talents, and their capabilities. I want this because as a young woman growing up, I rarely felt this for myself. I cannot say with great authority how common this is in 2023, but from the circles I move in, it appears to me that more women than not, don’t feel great about their bodies, and despite some delicious moments in between, my mid life is only now awakening to the pure joy of my female body and all her wonderful imperfections.

     It has been said that we often try to create that which we feel lacking or missing in the world, and I am no different. I have been burnt by the glare of others’ judgement, and as a sensitive soul with a yearning for love, and peace, and beauty, and acceptance of the glory of our female selves, I have taken on board more than a little of the harsh criticisms about what it is to be female. Yet as I transition to the full delight of my early forties, my desire to create a life full of joy, and recognition of what it is to be female is supported more and more by the women I surround myself with.

     One of these women is the artist Kat Shaw.

     To be clear, I don’t know her personally. I am a fan of her artwork which seeks to portray women in all our fabulous glory, however we look. She loves women.  She is a fierce defender of our rights to live in and celebrate our bodies whatever our shape or size. She is a bold temptress who encourages us to tap into our courage and to share our beautiful, sensual selves with the world. Hiding does not come naturally to her and thank f*ck for that.

     She is a blessed tonic in a world that shames women for existing. She deserves more recognition for her work than can ever be mustered up in words, but simply put, to be around her social media spaces, to take part in her projects, can only empower and heal parts of you, you didn’t even know needing healing, and what woman doesn’t need that?

     Earlier this year, she put out a call for volunteers to take part in her Sacred Rage project for International Women’s Day 2023 (IWD23). She was looking for women to take pictures of themselves, naked, in poses that represented Sacred Rage, and to write a story about what sacred rage meant for them. Her intentions were to use the images and inspiration provided by the women taking part to create new artwork to celebrate IWD23.

     Intrigued, I signed up, and awaited further instruction. Kat recommended setting up your phone to video mode and letting it run while you, naked, got into various poses that represented your scared rage. She then advised you could take screenshots from the video. Oh, and the light had to be good too.

     At face value, these instructions were simple and clear, and hypothetically, at least, I was happy to follow through, or at least I was, right up until the point of delivering the goods. Distracted by work deadlines and child rearing, I kept putting off the necessary camera shoot and before I knew it, there was just a few hours left between a return trip on the Scotrail redeye down the A9, and Kat’s impending deadline.

     Mercifully, I got through the bedtime routine with my son quite quickly, and soon my body became aware of what I was going to do. Sh!t was about to get real. My chest felt the sense of deep foreboding, like I was doing something wrong, or weird, or worse, disgusting. Immediately, I thought about what other unknown people might think of me for doing this, but with a few deep breaths to reassure myself, something inside me said, push that thought aside, and just play around with the poses, and see what happens.

     I was in my own bedroom, with no-one else around, in a home I feel safe in, and yet, naked, in front of a camera, I worried about whether this was too lewd (because women taking naked pictures of themselves must be, right?). I felt exposed to the world, but still I kept on. I got annoyed with the camera angle and my protective brain tried to tell me to give up, that it was too hard, and not worth bothering with. But I was determined to accomplish this part of the task at least, and not become too overwhelmed by all the thoughts or feelings that might come afterwards.

     Eventually I found a resting place for the phone that would give me the chance to capture the shots I needed. I spent the next three minutes getting into poses that I felt showed me in strong yet soft poses, images that might convey what it feels like to be a strong woman expressing her sacred rage.

     I did symmetrical poses, ones with my eyes closed or my fists clenched. I did relaxed poses with my hands behind my head, pulling my curly hair up and out of my head.  I stuck two fingers up (you know which ones). I did my version of Viola Davis’ portrayal of Woman King.  I placed my hands over my womb in a heart shape. I thrust my first skyward, while I looked deep into the camera, willing anyone to thwart the sacred rage being channeled through my body. “Who even am I?”, I mused as I smiled wryly at the camera. 

     After my earlier fears of how weird doing this might make me appear to others, I felt instantly liberated and transformed, and more than a little surprised at how good it felt. Why aren’t there more spaces or places creating these opportunities for women and girls to feel this good about themselves and their bodies?

     Why on earth did I need to randomly volunteer to take part in a project by an artist I met online, who isn’t paid by anyone to show up and do this work, in order to catch a glimpse of this liberating feeling? The fury unleashed, my sacred rage was alive and kicking now.  Frustrated and saddened by all those years of not feeling good enough in my own skin, then I watched back the video…

     …I saw myself in full naked glory pulling poses, and genuinely, for a few short seconds I was humbly captivated by my own image. I saw my curvaceous, beautiful body anew for the first time in a long time, particularly, since giving birth, and I thought “wow, you sexy woman!” No longer was my head criticising my body and telling me that what I was doing was weird or that my body wasn’t good enough, it was saying “holy shit, you look fabulous!”

     Don’t get me wrong, the whole thing wasn’t quite as bold as Betty Dodson and a hand mirror (one day perhaps…), but that delicious feeling of liberation at seeing a positive image of my own curvaceous self was arresting in its simple beauty. And if that wasn’t enough, the fun and the fear wasn’t over yet.

     Next, I had to take a series of stills from the video and attach the pictures to an email and send them to Kat, a social media and creative Goddess, but a stranger nonetheless.  I cannot tell you how many times I thought this must be a joke, or that I was going to end up on Only Fans. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t, and so I rushed out a few words about my scared rage story and sent them off with the pictures to wait and see what would happen next.

     I needn’t have worried where they’d land, because ever the caring Goddess able to hold safe space for other women, the very next day, there was a simple, yet generous message in my inbox “Received with love – absolutely amazing xxx”.  Phew, she was real, and I am safe to have done this.

     Every day since then, Kat has been posting pics into our private FB group so we can see her progress.  As well as being a bold, caring, creative Goddess, she’s also been sharing her process with us all, taking us on the journey of creation with her. The group is private so I cannot share what is written there, but what I will say is that I am not alone in feeling this way, and that many of us have thanked the courageous Kat Shaw for all that she has given us; a little bit of ourselves, in a world that too often, seeks to keep us quiet or hidden, unless we display a view of ourselves that matches the unobtainable, and frankly absurd, beauty standards of the patriarchy.  We say f£ck that.

Follow her here https://www.facebook.com/katshawartist or better still, buy her artwork here https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/KatShawArtist

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender /

Gay Marriage is not the Issue

The hounding of Kate Forbes MSP over her past and more recent position statements on gay marriage, abortion, and having children out of wedlock is a sad, if predictable, indictment of our times.

     When I voted yes in 2014, it was because I’d carefully weighed up all the options and on balance, almost right at the last minute, I fell for the dream of self-determination.  Not because I didn’t like Englanders, or because I hate the Tories, I was simply persuaded that my country could better govern its own affairs from Edinburgh, and while it wouldn’t have been an easy path, I believed that our thrawn and resilient nature as a people would see us through the rough times. We are, after all, nothing if not able to live on a shoestring, with our backs hunched perennially against the wind, and a penchant for being dour as a life choice. Or maybe that’s just tattie-growing Highlanders.

     In any case, almost a decade has passed since then and what has passed for political debate in Scotland in recent years has lost all of its expected argy-bargy and been replaced with a populist-seeking, self-serving political elite hellbent on pushing so-called reforms like the Gender Recognition Reform Bill through a parliament which seems to have lost all sense of its public duty. That Nicola Sturgeon pinned her colours to the queer mast, and then lost her position as First Minister, her credibility, and the previously buoyant weight of public opinion, goes only to show the limitations of divisive, nationalist politics, whose leader cannot handle conflict or the middle ground. Nor has this political culture created a bountiful breeding ground from which to draw the next leader whom you might believe can lead the country to independence.

     Paradoxically, I doubt sincerely that Scotland is ready for the return to a more socially conservative politics were Kate Forbes MSP to survive the public trashing she’s currently receiving, stoked not just by the mainstream media but by members of her own party, and most worryingly by senior party colleagues. I almost long for the command and control style of earlier SNP administrations, at least, the narrative was coherent, even if the people were stifled.

     In any case, while I am completely in favour of public scrutiny of our elected representatives’ opinions and voting records, I am not a fan of bashing the Christian now that she’s dared to put herself forward for the highest office in our land. Do you even know what strength of character that must take or the toll on her wellbeing?  But I digress, I’m almost certain Forbes will be asking herself if it’s worth it when she has at home a beautiful baby she could be staying home to look after. Ok, that’s a little harsh, women can have careers you know.

     But seriously, Forbes was a Christian the day before she announced her intention to stand as a candidate in the leadership race, and it’s hardly as if her role as Cabinet Secretary for Finance and the Economy was a bit-part. She is also a bright young woman, an accountant by profession, and has shown herself to be a capable politician in the chamber. So why is it that when she deigns to want to be First Minister that we see the ghouls emerge.  Where were they on the 19th Feb 2023 or any of the other days since 2020 when she’s served as Minister?

     The truth lies somewhere in the capture of the left by social justice warriors seeking to queer and dominate the left’s agenda. Scotland likes to pretend it’s among one of the most progressive countries in the world, but scratch beneath the surface of the state of our country and you’ll find enough regressive attitudes to have you thinking the furore about the World Cup in Qatar was overblown. The point is that those of us talking about politics in Scotland are often not those most badly affected by our real problems. Living in poverty, being abused by your partner, having no means of escape, bean-counting our way to cost effective additionality in public services ignores the fact that we need a radical new political landscape.  We need political leaders less interested in identity politics and exploiting fringe issues in order to appear progressive, and more leaders interested in understanding the issues, occupying the middle ground, and some adults who understand how to de-escalate conflict around sensitive issues.  

     To be clear, I disagree with Forbes’ views, but I will fiercely defend her right to hold them, and may even go so far as to suggest she might want to surround herself with better, more centrist advisors if she wants to advance her political career. I am a single, lesbian, mother who cares not one jot about how she voted on the issue of gay marriage. It’s done now, and no-one is proposing a roll back. But if we were to analyse that very issue on its merits, I think many would find that the very precept of gay marriage is historically based on fundamentally Christian views, and is based on the control and domination of a state’s people through the privileges conferred by the mere act of being married.  Convention and conformity are two sides of the same marriage coin, gay or heterosexual.

     Furthermore, marriage as an institution, has historically been associated with the control of women, making them the property of men, unable to own or hold our own property, enslaved to a life of domesticity, and while much has changed in the past 40 years or so, one need only speak to women over forty to find out, that the motherhood penalty, male violence, poverty, and incessant demands from a society who wants us to look good, and to put up and shut up, are as alive today as they’ve always been.

     So perhaps, Kate Forbes will reflect on her position in the days and weeks to come and think that temperance of her personal views won’t have cost her the leadership race. I certainly hope so, on both counts.  But until then, the issue isn’t really about gay marriage at all.  It’s about whether Scotland, its political leaders, and the progressive left really are as open minded as they like to think they are, or if, as it can often seem, tolerance and acceptance are only promoted when one adheres to the right kind of thinking as defined by many middle class men and women on the left.

Feminism /

Just Another Woman Breaking her Silence

I have tried to write this piece for over a year now. I have watched, read, and listened to endless diatribes about trans rights and women’s rights. I have tentatively responded as best I can in online spaces, I have tried a hold reasoned conversations with friends or family, strangers and acquaintances alike, but I am truly losing patience with and am tired by the new victimhood rhetoric of the national LGBT organisations that purportedly exist to make my, and other lesbians’ lives, better. What follows is therefore my personal assessment of what is happening in this debate in Scotland, and my rudimentary attempts to find a way through rather than against the tragedy that is unfolding in our children’s and young people’s lives, in our schools, our public institutions, through our public broadcaster, in our parliament, distracting us from much more concerning political issues affecting women’s and children’s lives.

    Before I do so, I should say that I am not an expert in any one of these issues, but I am experienced in third sector culture and practice, I am a lesbian, I am a mother, and I have possibly done a little more than the average person to consider what these issues really mean. I, therefore, write from my own perspective and seek simply to add to the plethora of braver women’s voices who are already, or have been doing this work for years now, some for decades (I admire your resilience and tenacity).

    I have had the somewhat unique experience of working in and with the so-called “women’s sector” and the “LGBTQ” (or whatever alphabet spaghetti is the latest “inclusive” acronym) sector. I have also held senior positions in charities, undertaken professional research on hate crimes, won awards for my trans-inclusive work in the police service and finally, consider myself to be a feminist. On the latter point, I have no academic prowess in this arena. I know only that as my experience as a woman grows with time, so too does my fury and sense of helplessness, as well as my hope that the next generation will get a better deal, but more on that some other time.

     I’ve also spent a great deal of time healing from the effects of family dysfunction, domestic abuse, and the challenges brought on by many attempts at failed fertility treatment. These experiences are too innumerable to mention but processing them has led me back to being able to trust my gut instincts, after years of ignoring the warning signals given off by people or situations I’d now rather avoid. This leads me to talk about the differences between who I was in my twenties and early thirties and what influenced my thinking back then.

     I learned early on that to get on in life I was going to need to get myself an education, earn my own money and rely on no-one for the benefits I thought these material possessions would bring to me. I was a Good Girl. I dutifully followed the script of study hard, work hard, and it worked fairly well, until I started to try to fall pregnant and become a mother. While it remains true for me that my education and earning my own money have undoubtedly help me to avoid some of the most horrendous traps that can befall a woman, it is also fair to say that these alone have not protected me from the myriad ways the patriarchal system we live in has hurt me, nor has it isolated me from the power plays of other people’s agendas.

     And so it is that I arrive at my analysis, tinged with fury, heartbreak, confusion, and ultimately sadness, that this is the quality of the political debate in Scotland. We deserve better from our elected leaders. Our children, young boys, and girls, need us to be adults in this situation, to use the best of our human and collective experience, skills and knowledge to resolve this toxic debate and find a better set of answers to our most pressing human difficulties and social problems.

     If there are a growing number of children and young people with gender dysphoria, then we must ask ourselves why, and design interventions that are free from political interference and harmful ideological assumptions. Above all, we must put our children and young people’s wellbeing at the heart of every word we say, and every action we take, informed by evidence not popular opinion.

     We must also wake up to the fact that the next generation are inheriting a shitshow of mental health crises, isolation, increasing individualism, fewer real economic opportunities, greater global instability and don’t even get me started on the status of women and young girls. Degrading sexual violence, rape prosecution rates that haven’t changed in decades, the ubiquitous nature of online pornography and child exploitation, poverty, sex trafficking, poorer health outcomes. It’s a state so depressing there are times I can’t even bear to express it fully in words. Indeed, where to begin when the adults are so busy arguing about what a woman is, that we can let months and years pass ignoring the real plight of actual women and children.

     Of course, I don’t have all the answers to these problems, but I do know that when I woke up this morning and checked my Twitter feed, I was angry enough to finally snap out of my own complacency and fear of speaking out to write this post. My earlier versions were full of the all the terrible practice I witnessed in the “LGBT” and “women’s sectors” and there was a lot, believe me. But exposing all this dirty linen would simply keep the “gotcha” point scoring alive and perhaps, there has been enough of that.

     What we really need are for our politicians, our public institutions to wake up to the facts of what are going on, and then to stop leaving the need to find better answers to the new-found women’s and same-sex rights groups or the individual women (because it nearly always women doing this work) with tragic personal stories, to shout about the tragedy of what is going on. I am not as brave as those women on at that frontline, but, I will no longer maintain a silence when our hard-won rights are being jeopardised by the very leaders supposed to protect us. Women are adult human females, and we deserve a right to single sex spaces, our own language, and our sex based rights, whenever we decree it so.

     Trans people deserve their freedoms and rights protected too, of course, but when they start to impinge on women’s rights and seek to redefine our language, our sense of self, and what our needs are, then something has gone wrong, because no social justice movement should ever, by design, be about forcing radical new theories of thought and behaviour on a group of people, who know to their very core who and what they are. Men cannot be women no matter how much they might wish it so.

     I’ll close by signposting to some of the most thorough work done by others on this very topic, and simply let you make your own mind up. If you think the tone of this piece is transphobic, then I’ll have failed in my efforts to persuade you that we need to do better to hear each other’s difficulties and find better answers to the challenge of protecting women, girls, and boys, and anyone who is struggling with their sex and the gender stereotypes, and I’ll try again tomorrow.

Lift a Sister Up /

Darling Don’t Be Silent*

Mairi Campbell performs *Darling Don’t Be Silent, from her album Pulse

The creation of something new often involves a letting go of something or someone that has been holding us back.  The first time I came across Mairi Campbell’s work was when my fiddle tutor recommended that I look her up if I wanted to experience something a little different from the mainstream trad collections I was familiar with. As luck would have it, Mairi was touring with her show Pulse around the same time and so off I went with a dear friend to Eden Court Theatre in Inverness. Little did I know it at the time, but there began a delightful foray into the more creative side of my own life, and like a magpie to shiny things, I found myself drawn to learn the creative techniques Mairi had to share, and tentatively began to apply them to my own life.

As I got to know her work a little more, I became intrigued, captivated even, by the song Darling Don’t be Silent from her 2016 album, Pulse. (https://mairicampbell.scot/shop/#cds) Initially, I was mesmerised by the simplicity of the tune and the way in which time seemed suspended for three sweet minutes. In the way that many of us play and repeat new material until its charm gives way to something different, I listened to it daily, at times of joy and despair, and waited until my interest would run dry. 

Not so. My fascination and comfort from the song remain as strong as ever and nearly eight years since I first heard it, I invited Mairi to discuss the song’s roots and whether she thinks it has resonance beyond what was in her mind when she first wrote it.  Graciously, she accepted.

I was keen to know how the song came about. Was it a catchy little tune that simply appeared to her one day on the Portobello Promenade or was there deeper narrative she was trying to express?  She tells me clearly that connecting with Kath Burlinson on her Authentic Artist course was a turning point for her in her career that helped to break her open and in turn, break new ground and bring forth new material.

Mairi says, “I was classically trained in viola and very immersed in the traditional music world, so as a hybrid player I was neither a classical only nor a trad-only player. It felt to me that there wasn’t space to accommodate a wider bandwidth and I was frustrated by that”.

As I read my notes afterwards, I search for connections to what she is saying from my own experience, and I listen again to the song.  As she plucks out the tune and establishes the beat, I start to feel into the spaces between the notes and the words, which feel as important as the sounds and lyrics themselves. Something soulful strikes me as I get carried away on the melody, simultaneously enjoying and being distracted by its sweet divergences, but then always back to the beat which keeps its own time, before I’m left wanting more. If only I could have found a way back then, to speak or to write what I’d kept inside for so long, I think to myself.

My early encounters with the song coincided with a thesis I was writing on women’s experiences of fertility treatment, a subject close to my heart. I was struck by how my own silence had caused great suffering in me and was desperately trying to make sense of what was happening to me as treatment after treatment failed. As I interviewed countless women on their experience of fertility treatment, I was unable to find the words to express my own difficulties.  To acknowledge one’s own suffering is to acknowledge its existence and while I wasn’t ready to do that then, I did find comfort in a beautifully composed and deliciously resonant, perhaps even universally appealing, soundtrack.

I was terrified to speak my feelings out loud, lest I be judged too intense, too vulgar, too much, and so the lines “I don’t care if you scream, it’ll help you hold your ground” and “I don’t care if you look crazy, it’ll help you find your feet” struck a chord somewhere deep in my psyche that comforts me to this day, as I navigate new challenges and make my own new beginnings. As women, we aren’t often encouraged to express ourselves, far less do it imperfectly, so the idea of making any sound at all and being free to do so, seemed like a simple yet bold invitation.

Mairi goes on to reveal that in her fifties she had to learn to dissolve who she thought others needed her to be musically, and to find a new place in her that represented what she wanted to express through her work. Using improvisation has, she says, freed up her voice and her movement.  “After twenty years of learning to play in time with others as part of the scene, all of a sudden I found myself wanting to connect to my own beat, to discover this pulse within me that had always been there, if a little dulled by the conventions of either the trad or the classical scene.”

By this point in our conversation, I want to jump up and down in my seat and shout yes, that’s what I felt, this is what I’ve been looking for, this is what I felt in the song.  I know that I’m not alone in thinking this as a short post I made on social media later revealed a wider following for the tune’s resonance. 

We chat about whether it is different now for the next generation and she mentions, with warm pride, how her daughters are making their way in the world, full of dreams and with a clear sense of what is important to them. She mentions wistfully the halcyon days of the punk generation and how little energy there appears to be, since lockdown, for speaking out against the machine in ways that musicians of her generation were once famous for. It makes me think of my endless fascination with, and fear of, the current culture wars being played out in mainstream and social media. I wonder how the power of art and music can interplay with the personal and help us find ways to express ourselves that set us free, not bind us to the norms we’ve become accustomed to.

I feel certain that this is an anthem for our time, and indeed, for any woman who wants to unlock the power of her own voice. Seeking refuge in art, through music, and creative pursuits, can offer us all new perspectives.  I invite you to find your own inspiration and to check out Mairi’s work below.

*Ends*

With thanks to Mairi Campbell, pioneering musician and wise woman, can be found here @mairimusic or www.mairicampbell.scot

Part of the Lift a Sister Up series.

Uncategorized /

My Journey to the Red Tent

Ever since I read Anita’s Diamant’s novel The Red Tent I felt the draw hosting one, but I didn’t really know how to get over my fear of doing something spiritual, something women-centred, something so completely different from anything I’d ever tried before.  My first attempt resulted in a meeting in my living room of about nine women whom I thought might be interested in a conversation about the things that mattered to women. We were animated and angry, and annoyed and frustrated but we were also keen to help make a difference in the lives of other women and young girls. We settled on doing some campaigning work on abortion rights and access to period products, and we then wrote and signed letters to MPs and MSPs in the hopes of adding our voices to the more organised women’s groups actively campaigning for reform and change.

After the initial flurry of activity, I was glad to have organised the meeting, but I felt instinctively that I wasn’t getting to the heart of what was missing, and what I was drawn to in Diamant’s novel.  I was too in my head, using the patriarchal ways I’d learned about how to organise and get things done, but it didn’t come close to satisfying the inner yearning I had inside me for something deeper, more spiritual, more connected to other women. It wasn’t until the confines of lockdown that I decided to venture forth once more and set up an online Red Tent group of willing friends whom I thought might be interested in getting this tent up. Lockdown seemed to have an impact on people’s need to connect so the timing felt right, and we met for about eight months before I felt brave enough to try offering something face to face.

The whole time I was organising this work, I was quite anxious about what I was doing, I felt scared about what I was offering and whether it would resonate with anyone.  I was having a hard time seeing myself as someone who held space for others in a sacred space when compared to the professional roles I’d held throughout my career. But as with much in life that challenges us to come out of our comfort zone, I decided to explore in earnest what connecting with other women could mean on a spiritual level and I signed up for Molly Remer’s Red Tent Initiation course.  Molly is a priestess, author, creator of all things divine feminine and together with her husband Mark, they run Brigid’s Grove (def worth checking out www.brigidsgrove.com).

Over the coming year I would read and learn all I could about facilitating red tents.  I went to other women’s red tent spaces, I watched You Tube videos and took inspiration from Isadora Leidenfrost, De’Ana L’am, leaders in the Red Tent movement. I listed my Red Tent offering with the Red Tent Directory in the UK, and slowly over time, any awkwardness I felt about offering a sacred circle to other women disappeared and became replaced with the magic of holding space for women to come together and share, connect, feel uplifted and be heard and seen in ways our society rarely stops to think about, far less offer.

I’ve since had the honour of listening to the experiences of many women as they journey through life; words never spoken aloud before, stories of joy, of shame, of fear, and wonder. I am regularly lost for words after hosting a Red Tent and I am drawn to the power of a circle of women speaking and sharing their own truths.

Sitting with other women in circle is a tradition lost to many of us in the western world, but it needn’t be.  Free from the expectations and demands of daily life, for an hour or two, you too, can find the magic of stillness, peace, connection and a little piece of soulful acceptance in the Red Tent. I only wish I’d known this magic years ago.

Fertility /

Women Aren’t Failures When Fertility Treatment Fails

I remember vividly the day that I disclosed my multiple failed fertility treatments to a colleague and how tough I was finding the whole process. To be fair, I was fairly detached as I spoke at my sadness and the rollercoaster of emotions, and she was most familiar with me in my work mode, where I was capably continuing to go about my day job with few noticeable outward displays of the distress and turmoil I felt inside. Nonetheless, her words hit me like a sucker punch in the gut. “You’re not used to failure are you?”. Until that moment, I hadn’t ever considered that I had been failing, more that I was in the middle of a process that was excruciatingly painful at times, yet also one that offered the greatest hope of conception. Whether she was trying to help by pointing out these failures and my unfamiliarity with them, I can’t honestly say, but her directness forced me to identify with a deeply buried feeling of failure.

She was right that on the surface, I was very driven to achieve excellent results for my students, that I set myself high standards and enjoyed making and seeing progress in my work, but the thing about fertility treatment is that there is so much that can go wrong at each step of the process. Of course, a woman can improve her chances by making good lifestyle and health choices, but the truth of the matter is that we are more at the mercy of our biology and health technologies than we realise and despite placing our faith and often great expectations on the incredible teams who work in reproductive healthcare, the reality is that treatment is tough on the mind, body and soul, failed cycles of treatment hurt like hell, and the odds, sadly, aren’t promising for two thirds of us from the get-go.

But as women we have been encouraged to believe that we can empower ourselves enough to overcome anything, that if we dream it real, think positively enough, drink enough raspberry tea, then we too can have the much desired child we deserve to have. But life and its creation doesn’t work like that. As Ellie’s character in this week’s episode of River City showed, biological clocks tick on, eggs or sperm may not be of good enough quality, even where they do exist in high number, and the emotional toll can be so great, I certainly asked myself more than once if I had the strength to carry on.

My main message though is this. If you are trying to conceive, are mid treatment or have even exhausted the treatment process, whether you have a child or don’t, you, my brave, beautiful friend, are the furthest thing from failure it is possible to be. Please try not to beat yourself up, you don’t deserve that. You need as much self-care and compassion as you can muster from yourself and your inner circle. We cannot control these outcomes anymore than we can the weather and while that won’t stop us trying to do everything we can, I beg of you not to hurt yourself more in the process by identifying with the label of failure. Women are so much more than (in)fertility can make us feel and although we’ve moved many strides forward in our place in the world, old expectations about child rearing are not only influenced by those around us, by societal expectations, but so too, do we face the double-bind of wanting our place in the world free of the limitations of our biology, while desperately wanting to do what comes naturally to may women and couples; to create life.

Take good care of yourself and find support wherever you can.

With a warm hug.

Lisa 💜https://youtu.be/leCi-I7KrEM

Education /

For The Love of Teaching

Anna-Wendy Stevenson, Teacher Extraordinaire

Anna-Wendy Stevenson comes from a long line of musicians, tradition bearers and creative talent. Her father, Gordon Stevenson, most well-known for his exceptional workmanship as a master violin-maker, her grandfather, Ronald Stevenson, a gifted composer and violin player, and her aunt Gerda Stevenson, poet and actress, author of “Quines, a selection of poems in tribute to Scottish Women”.  It is hardly surprising then, that Anna-Wendy herself has many plaudits to her name as a player, composer, poet, and teacher.

It is the latter that I wish to turn a spotlight on. So often we can focus on the tangible achievements such as the awards, the albums, the stage performances, but having known Anna-Wendy for nearly 15 years, it is her remarkable character and exquisite gifts as an enabler of all that is good in her students. Some people say that like attracts like and if you’ve ever been taught by her or been in her presence as she seeks to bring together the many disparate elements of musical collaboration, then you will recognize that you have been touched by her talent and passion for teaching and enabling.  Her style welcomes you as your own thirst meets a drink.

I recall over a decade ago now, a time when we arranged to meet at a youth hostel in Perthshire. We hadn’t known each other too long then but we chatted and caught up over coffee, and she taught me Stan Chapman’s Jig, which I’m sure is still somewhere under my fingers. Later that day, we were driving to Perth when she tentatively asked me if I would like to listen to something she had recorded. She put on “My Edinburgh” and waited for some feedback while I listened. As my mind was treated to the full-bodied, delightful details of all that my ears could handle, she told me casually how she wrote all the parts for each of the musicians and instruments, which of the characters she knew and what the Edinburgh scene had meant to her.

My eyes leaked a little, and I knew I was listening to something special, not only because of her skill in playing and interpreting music, but because of who she was and what it must have taken to produce such delicate, sweet notes, each one carefully considered or spontaneously heard in her mind. A person of ego might have spoken incessantly of her own work, and maybe she thought it, but all I felt that day was the true joy of learning a jig from a beautiful soul who stepped with ease and grace between her own highly talented world to my own stumbling one of the adult learner, replete with bum notes and those screeches.

Since my own personal gains arising from her teaching talent, and throughout the growth of our friendship, I have also seen Anna-Wendy blossom into the highly skilled professional educator and leader she is today. I clapped (online) as she won the MG Alba Na Trads Award for Best Tutor in 2018. I listened to her exceptional talk at the University of the Highlands and Islands International Women’s Day event in 2019 and I barely recognized the now-blossoming feis tutor from years back. She owned that stage and had every woman in the room inspired by the way she wove story into music, and back to story again, as she let her career unfold in the most creative of ways. She reminded me of the university professors at my old Alma Mater, Heriot-Watt, whose breadth of talent allowed them to teach in their second language while working as active interpreters and translators in their mother tongues, teaching students, and marking essays and handling all the other aspects that must surely come with academic life. Anna Wendy was, and is, a truly creative professional, able to do and to teach with equal ability and flair.

If it weren’t for the considerable skills in her self-effacing playbook, then I’m certain others would be jealous of her abilities and talents. But the quiet way she works through each challenge to produce such beautiful work, whether it’s a student event, or degree assignment, or a house ceilidh, her love for her work shines through, and it is hard not to appreciate those talents in others, even if we might envy their position. She, of course, is too modest to even consider that someone might think her so capable, but it is my duty as her friend and student, to shine a light on her, the most beautiful of musical souls.

I still smile inwardly at the delight I took in her teaching me Stan Chapman’s, while she hid the true extent of her talents. But that is who she is. Barely a glance towards her own considerable talent and potential, and always willing to help an eager student like myself. If you ever find yourself in her class, bask in that glow.

*Ends*

You’ll find her here https://www.anna-wendy.com/ and here https://www.uhi.ac.uk/en/research-enterprise/cultural/institute-for-northern-studies/staff/anna-wendy-stevenson/

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