Tag: Feminism

Feminism /

Lift a Sister Up

Queen Bee syndrome, women tearing women apart, women “behaving more like a man” once they’ve achieved a certain level of status or power, revealing or concealing sex or gender as deliberate acts of fitting in and getting on, these old tropes abound from the workplace cafeteria to the most senior positions in government. Yet who is it that stands to gain from all the backbiting? Certainly not women.

Kept outside the corridors of power in our most lauded public institutions, entitled to full suffrage only since 1928, predominantly doing the lowest paid, most insecure work and doing the bulk of all unpaid care work, I’d go so far as to suggest that women have hardly made it, while men, for the most part, have it made. Perhaps not just their tea, but their beds, their bank balances in some exceptional cases, and most often their kids raised as well.

Every once and a while, there comes across a small opportunity to be heard, taken seriously, truly supported in every aspect of our lives and it being so rare, sometimes, we don’t even notice what’s being offered. At other times, we find the weight of patriarchal conditioning so heavy that we start to erase ourselves out of the very support or recognition that we deserve. How many times have you found someone offering you help, only for you to say, “no, no, it’s fine, I’ll manage”, then in the next sentence go on to talk about how exhausted you are by the busyness of life.

I’ve often been dismissed or outright rejected when I’ve tried to offer words of support to another woman doing fabulous, interesting or important work. We are neither expected to want that recognition and nor do we know how to accept it graciously, far less pass it on. I’ve sometimes felt embarrassed when giving someone a compliment, worried that as a lesbian woman, I’ll be judged by the blokey standards of wanting something in return (and yes, I do mean “wanting something” as a euphemism). What a waste to avoid saying something heartfelt and true that would lift a sister up, because I’ve worried I’ll come across as too passionate, too intense, too much, or worse, creepy and entitled.

If COVID has taught me anything (after handwashing and the polarities of science), it is that we have lost a sense of deep connection to one another and our planet. And so it is true that pre COVID, there was plenty of room for improvement to support one another as women, it is even more essential now.

Lift a Sister Up series focuses on the cool, the quirky, or the fascinating work of ordinary Highland women. We are an exceptional and talented bunch of women living and working in rural and remote areas, so why not find ways to shout about that? The series aims to highlight some of these women in ways that might inspire and uplift others, or simply give them recognition for their contributions to life in the Highlands. Historical accounts may often reduce us to the caricature of the herring lass, or weaver, of the 1900s, but we were at Culloden too, and our skeletons live on sites of the Clearances. We burned for our talents (see Katherine Stewart’s account of witchcraft in Women of the Highlands, 2006), we worked the land, bore children, and today, we educate the next generation, we operate at Raigmore, consult at the Belford, we clean the public toilets at Garve, and serve customers at Glenfinnan. We make artworks, write books, care for elderly people at home or in homes, we shoe horses, run businesses, herd cattle and much, much more besides.

Yet despite these achievements, we are not overflowing in recognition, often scorned for self-promotion which is ironic in a world intent on living life through socials, and waiting for improvements to be handed down from up above. Since my own mid-life awakening, everywhere I look, I see the less often-told, s()heroic efforts of hundreds of Highland women and I am making it my business to write about, learn from and share their work with my audience. If you are a woman with an interesting project, job, business or hobby and would like to take part, please email lisa@thehighlandfeminist.com. Equally, if you would like to refer a woman doing fabulous things or with an insightful or interesting tale to tell, please tag her in one of these posts, I’d love to hear from her.

You do not need to be a feminist, call yourself a feminist to take part, nor are the views expressed on this blog a reflection of any of the participants in the Lift a Sister Up series. The session will usually last about an hour, then once written up, usually within the fortnight, you get the chance to review it for factual accuracy before it gets published. The whole point of the articles is to work together so that the end piece is a collaborative effort that you are comfortable with and that promotes you or your work.

What are you waiting for? Let’s chat and see if this series is right for you 🙂

Feminism /

What Makes a Feminist in III Acts

As far back as I can tell, I have always been a feminist. A shy one, an angry one, a closeted one and now, a more compassionate one as well. In my early twenties, I remember the joy at discovering that the rape crisis service I’d applied to work for was an openly feminist organisation. What luck, I thought, to have finally found a home for my feminist views.

But alas, I was too young to be able to handle what it threw at me and as I reflect from what I hope is at least the mid-point of my career and life, I offer up some insights as to what made me into the feminist I am today and what on earth I’m going to do with the gift of experience.

Act I – The Garden of Eden Holds Few Sweet Blooms

I was about nine or ten when the local boys lined up outside a rickety old shed in one of their back gardens as they took turns at going inside to kiss me. They didn’t hold me in there against my will, they just expected that I would submit to their awkward, hard, sloppy kisses. I did submit, because I was a good girl and I always did, or at least, tried to do, what others told me to do. I felt no pleasure. But I did desperately want to fit in and by the time I was nineteen I’d had more boyfriends than girlfriends, which was a terrible shame really. No gold star for me.

Eventually, the forays of burgeoning sexuality gave way to the more serious pursuit of education on the path to young adulthood. I left the North of Scotland for the bright city lights of my family’s hometown, Edinburgh. Still the good girl, I applied myself more than ever, desperate to prove myself worthy and gained an MA (Hons) in Languages. I spent four years locked up in the “computer lab“ studying until late at night, before jumping the bus at midnight to become safely embalmed in the city’s hot, sweaty gay scene, seven nights a week with my favourite partners in crime. Life was peachy and I swapped the garden shed for the sticky basement of CC Blooms, only this time, we were all willing participants.

The day I gained my undergraduate degree, I cried hot tears of relief, releasing the fear that I was not clever enough to gain my degree. My peers made a good attempt at covering their delight at my 2:2, but I knew I had learned a powerful lesson about applying myself and I mused about what dizzy heights would await me if I studied something I was really interested in, as opposed to what I’d been good at in school.

Gradually, I set about securing a collection of certificates and degrees and scholarships I am only now beginning to appreciate. Nothing less than distinction became my mantra over the next 15 years, and I applied this in my professional life as much as to my education. I never felt the urge to compete with others in this pursuit, but I was a cruel opponent to myself. Driven to achieve, as if the external symbols of success would give me a free pass to a better, more satisfying, more successful life. And to be fair, everything did seem rosy, at least on the outside – good jobs, well paid, with opportunities to grow, learn and travel, a mortgage, a pension, holidays, festivals if I wanted them, food in my cupboards and enough to pay the bills. Then, boom, biological failure struck without me ever realising that I had been afraid of it.

Act II – Cheerio success, hello failure

I had controlled everything else in my life quite nicely, thank you very much, so why would becoming a mother be an exception? But round after round of Intra-Uterine Insemination, drug-assisted efforts, a private donor, and finally IVF, over an emotionally exhausting four years, and I had finally met the darkness that sought to defeat me. My body wasn’t cooperating, and my spirit broke a little more each month I bled.

I had played by the rules for so long, I was devastated when my tried and tested methods got me nowhere. No amount of raspberry tea, or yoga, or dieting, or abstinence, or keeping fit were going to get me pregnant. I needed the help of the cold, clinical laboratories to get pregnant and this went against everything I’d ever been taught to think about conception and motherhood. Heck, I didn’t even fully know how my reproductive organs and hormones worked back then. All I had to rely on was the familiar, punishing self-cruelty, as I blamed myself month, after month, after month, for not being able to do what happens so naturally for many women (or at least, that’s what we’re all led to believe).

Of course, I had an obvious barrier to motherhood – as a lesbian, no amorous lie-down on a Friday night was going to create the child I so desperately wanted, but beyond that fact, there were multiple barriers to be faced. I had silently coped with the chronic pain of undiagnosed endometriosis for twenty-three years, so even the strongest of swimmers would have found the journey through my tubes a treacherous one. When it came to IVF, the haul of eggs to be harvested was half the ideal crop lessening my chances further. Thirty-six years of shame about my useless, incapable, female body all bubbling up to the surface each time the fertility nurse brought out the speculum. Then there was the lack of donors. The achingly slow administration of healthcare. And to top it off, coping mostly alone, or in my own head, and out of reach of anyone who tried her best to help.

The pain and the silence became crippling until I decided I needed some professional help. I took a career break believing that I needed to have done everything I possibly could to give myself the best chance of conception, and in any case, I had tried everything else. I didn’t want to look back years from then and regret that I’d not given myself the best chance of conception, so I found a therapist to navigate the complexity of emotions. I was inconsolable and desperately sad that the script I had so dutifully followed, yielded none of the return I had expected. Being a good girl sucked if it meant that believing in the myth of meritocracy or the study-work-pension-retire narrative you’d been told for so long, especially if you still felt useless, worthless, and hopeless.

Then suddenly it all changed overnight.

Act III – The Breaking of the Cycle

Years of trauma gave way to the hope and delight of feeling my son grow in my belly. I remember each stretch of a foot or bout of nausea or insomnia, with pride. I did it. I grew a beautiful, perfect, baby boy inside my body. Today I bear the visible remnants of my pregnant body with joy and gratitude for the life I created. I had changed though and although it would take another few years before I found the grace to say what I wanted without upsetting those closest to me, I started to speak out about the overwhelm I felt as a new mother. This was not what I had learned about myself, a capable, competent, independent woman who knew what she wanted and worked hard to achieve it.

Of course, the instincts I felt as a mother were there as soon as I knew I was pregnant. I sang to him all day long, took him swimming in the ocean, gently rode on horseback for the first few months, I cradled my bump like there was no other comfort. I applied the same rigour I had learned in the university library to the treatment of gestational diabetes, only this time it worked. My blood sugar stayed low as I followed the advice to the letter. But I also started noticing the frequent disparities between the advice of different healthcare professionals and the treatment of women in the hospital or clinic. I felt gratitude for the fertility clinic, but the treatment of expectant or new mothers felt like 1950s midwifery window-dressed as modern-day management practice and it was anything but comforting or soothing to my broken spirit.

My emotional reserves were depleted until one day I woke and realised that this was my life, and no-one was coming to save me, or give me the answers, I would have to dig in and fight for my life so that my son wouldn’t have to. You see, it wasn’t just the highs and lows of down-regging or the sixteen failed attempts at conception that deflated my soul, it was the accumulation of lots of little, and too many big, events that had caused years of underlying trauma to go unaddressed. The speculum eventually enabled my son’s conception and yet it had also enabled what felt like the intense scrutiny of my vagina, my cervix, my womb, and my ovaries, in a world that had taught me I was shameful and dirty. My preparation for this had been anything but helpful. I had grown up in a materially well-provided for but frightening home, conditions that do not make for taking up the space needed to process and thrive through fertility treatment. The years of trying to prove myself had taken their toll and although it makes sense to me now that my body and my emotions were not a safe haven, back then I couldn’t have told this story or explained it in any other way, than I was a failure.

When my son was nine months old, something woke me up out of the nightmare I’d been living. I knew I had to survive because dying wasn’t in my son’s best interests. I had first-hand experience of a close family member’s attempted suicide and I simply could not allow myself to get that bad. I needed a plan.

Slowly but surely, I gathered the energy to think about going back to work and I did so in spectacular style (if I rate myself according to the Good Girl Rule Book). I took on a big job that I had no idea would transform my outlook on life completely and kickstart my recovery from a Good Girl to a Fulltime Feminist working to support women to free themselves from whatever uncomfortable situation they find themselves personally, or at work.

I had followed the rules and done what I thought was expected of me as a child, a young woman, a daughter, an employee, and by and large, it all looked good on the surface. But the hidden aspects of my life as a woman left my soul in denial about the reality of a woman’s place.

Trauma arising from domestic violence, multiple “minor” sexual assaults, undiagnosed endometriosis, fertility problems and treatment, sexism at work, patriarchal models of living forced on us by big society, governments, the media, tech giants and commercial interests are terrible ingredients to sustain and nurture women and girls. When I say it like that, it’s a wonder I didn’t reach this conclusion sooner, but it was not until I faced the full wrath of a few desperately unhappy people that I begun to realise that no-one likes a successful, capable woman, especially if her very existence causes them to take a long hard look in their own mirror. Much easier to smear another woman than address the weaknesses in oneself. There I said it. Sexism is as alive among women as it ever was, and for those who should know better, you’ll find them staring at their shoes so that you become ostracised as the angry, unreasonable, hostile woman it is comfortable for them to believe you are.

But bit by bit, we must refuse to accept anything less than our right to live our lives as the capable women we were born to be. My silence cost me dearly in the past and it is too high a price to pay for my wellbeing, for my son’s future, for the futures of the men, women, and children I may be lucky enough to connect with in future. If not for ourselves, ladies and gents, then for our children.

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