When I was six years old my Granny and Grandpa got a cat called Jasper. As a pet-less child at the time, this was a big deal to me and I fell in love with him pretty instantly. My brother and I would spend hours upon hours for so many years squealing with delight as we rolled marbles across the floor for him to chase and we would shout at my Dad whenever he picked him up because we were convinced Jasper didn't like it - as if he was our younger brother being bullied in the playground by a bigger kid.
Jasper had a fantastic intuition for human identity and emotion. I suppose any animal lover or pet owner will claim that of their furry friend, but it's true. Jasper knew when people were arriving and leaving and he remembered them from their last visit. Jasper knew when you were relaxed and he knew when you were busy...and would interrupt you regardless. Jasper was beautiful, funny, clever and greedy all at the same time and had a permanent throne in my heart. When I was 14 I did an art project on him for a whole term, and to this day I still have a huge folder full of these sketches and paintings in my bedroom at home. I have truly never met an animal with more of a vibrant personality.
When I was about 10 years old I developed an allergy to cats. Whenever I'm near them now I begin to sneeze continually, almost without pause for breath, get a chesty cough and my eyes water. And yet, I still love cats. I love cats wholeheartedly and unconditionally.
Unconditionally - that's a word that I learnt from Jasper. When we met I had no allergic reactions to the feline world; they all appeared after I'd grown to become very fond of him. But for 10 years more, 'in sickness and in health' as they say, I would pick him up, hold him and play with him regardless of consequence. (There would always with a box of tissues and Piriton allergy tablets nearby.)
Yesterday I was told that Jasper had been put down. I'm heartbroken and hurt in a way that is new and raw and tender to me. But my comfort in the news is that we did say goodbye. Animals drop hints when they're leaving. The last few times I saw him I could feel his spine a little more and it was clear that he was an old man now. When I last left him in summer, I picked him up and held him tighter than normal and my Mum said 'Rosemary don't be silly, don't make yourself ill' and I said 'I'm not being silly, this might be the last time I see him', and it was. I think Jasper knew it too because he didn't squirm and he waited at the door as we left.
I feel silly pouring so much emotion onto a page for a cat I saw 3 times a year. But that was 3 times a year for my entire childhood. All Christmas and birthday cards for the last 13 years have been signed from him and any phone calls to my grandparents included updates about Jasper. He's left a hole bigger than I'm willing to let adulthood fill.
But I like to think he's residing somewhere lovely now - somewhere warm, with children to play with and strategically placed meat scraps to snack on.
And with that thought, I end this post. Sorry it was sad and sorry if it seemed unwarrantedly so, but one of my first ever friends just died.
Ro is listening to: She's Got You High by Mumm-Ra
On this grey
and miserable first Monday of September, I come to understand that many young
people across the country are returning to school today. How my heart weeps for
those poor unfortunate souls. I'm sorry for their inevitable treading/sitting/placing
their hand on chewing gum incidents. The 'it was only banter' name calling. The
painful realisation that this year is not the year they become cool, but maybe
next year. And I’m sorry for the drudgery of Gove's shadow - aspirational
grades and targets and their teachers having breakdowns and their friends
having breakdowns and Learning Objectives and What am I Learning Today
before they've had a chance to sit down.
I don’t miss
school. I used to worry I would because I don’t like change and my life up
until now has been very familiar and simply a case of placing one foot in front
of the other on a very even terrain. But now that I’ve jumped off that pavement
and onto a sort of yellow brick road, heading towards this big green mystery, I
can see that the pavement was quite grey in places and didn’t have much of a
view because there were so many speed limits and signposts in the way.
School was fun
and made me laugh and shaped me in a way that nothing can knock out of place. School
filled me with insecurities but it also filled me with a raging fire and I am
finding value in both. School is the home of my early adolescence and that’s a
connection that doesn’t leave you. But I honestly can’t say I miss it. In year
nine Mr Lucas played the entirety of ‘Summer of ‘69’ by Bryan Adams in an
assembly and told us that we were in our golden years. I believed him for long
enough to appreciate school for what it was, but I realise now that my ‘golden
years’ lie very far from the confines of over-sized blazers, science classrooms
and parents evenings.
But perhaps
there are things I do miss, if I dare to let myself admit such a sin. I may not
miss the grey and gritty institutional side of school, but there
were little by-products of being a teenager in a familiar environment
everyday with the same people that were pleasant. I miss the simplicity of it
all. I think that's something I never knew to appreciate because it didn't feel
simple at all at the time. I sorely miss the biggest deals in my life being
what part I got in the school show or my incompetence in French lessons. Even
at A Levels, when I felt more worn down and empty than I have ever felt in
my life, I recognise a year later that there was still a certain
simplicity about that time. I remember Mr Morrow telling me in Year 12,
when I was staying after school to do a history mock exam paper, "A
Levels are the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in education. Honestly,
University is much easier". And in many ways, he was right.
University is freedom, but school had its own type of freedom too - the freedom
of still being a child. It's tempting to try and shake that label off
as soon as you can but there's really no need to - children are
allowed to find things overwhelming and challenging and children are helped by
grown ups when they struggle. When children cry they are comforted and their
deadlines are extended and their essays are marked before submission. That's
not to say that Universities are any less supportive - there
are many means of seeking comfort and guidance, but it's not part of the
package and it doesn't seek you out in the same way that a teacher who has
known you since you were 11 would notice you're not quite yourself. You have to
make the effort and help yourself, which isn't quite the same but it's adult.
I left school
very bitter. My favourite teacher suddenly stopped making an effort with me
right when I needed them most and my final grades were much lower than I had predicted.
I was filled with a feeling that all was for nothing, but that was as untrue as
Mr Lucas telling a room full of 13 year olds that their school years were their ‘golden
years’. Sixth form was a sad time but I guess the rest was pretty great. This
was cathartic.
To end, here is some advice for those still trapped:
Stay in school kids, but there’s no reason to cry at prom.
Note - I wrote the bulk of this post in early June, but left it unfinished.
I decided to leave the opening context the same for ease of read, but the date
of publishing will be a few months later.
~
A few days ago I was sitting in the sun with a group of friends,
predominantly boys, enjoying a BBQ. In the midst of conversation, one friend
joked that my legs wouldn't get burnt if I didn't shave them. Perhaps
I should have laughed but instead I responded 'I didn't want to shave them'.
There was a pause, leaving just enough time for me to tell myself a hundred
times in my head that I shouldn't have said that. Then a short discussion broke
out in front of me, lead by my male friends, about how inconsequential and easy
it is for a woman to 'just not' shave. Regretfully, I partook little in
this moment because I was too engrossed in listening to what these
boys had to say about a subject they are dreadfully ignorant about. However,
since then I have had time to mull it all over and now I have things to say...safely behind a screen.
First of all, I wish to make clear that I am not challenging the simplicity
of not shaving. On a totally practical level, the act of not doing rather than
doing, it goes without saying, is easier. I also don't believe myself, as a
woman, to be under any force to shave. I recognise and appreciate my
fundamental ability to choose and I do, for much of winter, take advantage of
this. However, when told by a group of boys, the same boys who will tell
me at length how attractive the girl with the smooth skinned
hairless body is, that it is easy for me to 'just not' shave my legs, I can't
help but feel uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable because by saying this they
disregard all of the external factors that influence my
choice to shave (or not). Factors that take more guts than they would know
to override and ignore. There is no 'just' in deciding not to shave my legs. There
is fear of judgement, fear of not being beautiful, fear of rejection, fear
of bringing an elephant into the room with me. And whether other people
deem these justified or rational fears is not relevant because they are mine
and they exist by no lack of reason. I am reminded every day, subconsciously as
well as consciously that beautiful women have hairless bodies, and not wishing
to speak on behalf of womankind, that's really difficult to ignore.
These male friends of mine do not deliberately encourage women to look
a certain way, and they cannot personally be held accountable for attitudes that
are the result of generations upon generations of patriarchal brainwashing. But they
do play a part in my choices, and to close their eyes to that with their hands
in the air as if to say that I haven't been taught to seek male
gratification since I was a child is frustrating.
I'm not asking for a solution or an apology or for guilt. I'm
not imparting any blame or seeking sympathy. I'm simply
nodding to this state of affairs I find myself in where there are (whether we
choose to acknowledge it or not) deep rooted ideas of beauty ingrained within society which leave many people feeling paralysed into a state of robotics; doing things not out of choice or necessity but from a blinded perspective that this is normal and that normality is law. To
quote a fantastic Mitchell and Webb sketch, 'Men: shave [just your face!] and
get drunk. Because you're already brilliant.' But for us ladies, there's contouring, waist trainers, Brazilian waxes and Kylie Jenner lip kits
sweeping the Western world like an unwelcome flu virus. And for every one
of these brainless epidemics on the cosmetics counter, the ever unreachable bar
has been raised for what it is acceptable to look like when leaving the house.
I will stress again here that of course we do not have
to abide or follow these trends. And actually, I think deep down and lost amongst
the ifs and maybes of this piece, that's precisely my point. No one has any
obligation to obey social expectations or gender stereotypes, but it's
difficult not to. This is not a practical issue, it's an issue of attitude on both sides.
So please, guys, don't tell me to 'just not' when you belong to
the body that instructs me to do so.
Ro is listening to: Toothpaste Kisses by The Maccabees
