In contrast to the worship that accompanied Beyonce’s ‘Run the World’, compare the feminist reaction to J.Lo’s chart-topping hit ‘Ain’t Your Mama’. The song is about how women are more than housekeepers and mothers. They are not defined solely by their children, their husbands and their chores.
It was criticised for trying to be a feminist manifesto because the video portrays female stereotypes, even though it proceeds to bash them. ‘Weak’, it was called. ‘Regressive’, even. This despite the fact that the whole video is basically a big fuck you to patriarchy and being barefoot-in-the-kitchen, and plays out scenes of rebellion – a woman dropping a home-cooked dinner on her husband’s head, for example. This kind of mutiny was criticised for being irrelevant in the current discourse. It was not political enough. Not contemporary enough. It lacked ‘substance’, wrote Christina Cauterucci, a staff writer for Slate.
Cauterucci went on to write that the portrayal of feminism in the lyrics and video sticks to
a conservative idea of gender equality that rests on petty comebacks against lazy husbands, leering bosses, and inattentive boyfriends. It’s a cute shtick when it roots itself in the mid-century fight against the image of a domestic, subservient maid-as-wife. But the song’s premise – a woman refusing to cook and launder for her husband, because she ‘ain’t [his] mama’ – continues into modern urban life. Set against that backdrop, the idea of a woman proudly demanding that her husband wash his own underwear, as if it’s some kind of revolutionary feminist act, grates the senses.
Grates the senses? A mid-century fight? These kinds of narrow views suggest that the writer and other critics forget that the nucleus of patriarchy is in the home, and it is in ‘stereotypes’ like the above that feminism comes alive and is most necessary. While many of us are ‘waking up like this’ in this day and age and having academic conversations, this kind of discourse is not accessible because, to these ‘stereotypical’ women, the ‘new-age’ arguments rest on what for them are armchair experiences. J.Lo’s song may not represent the on-fleek feminism we get around every corner today – but it is real. I know this fight against archaic norms and gender roles. I’ve seen it, I have grown up with and around it. It has angered me. And it has enlightened me. There are, of course, problems with perpetuating these roles, but, as stated, feminism is not a one-size-fits-all thing. It’s not a pair of those elasticated drawstring linen pants you can buy at Greenmarket Square.
The Color Purple portrays feminine stereotypes, male domination, the passive nature these women are forced to adopt and how these can be taken advantage of. But Alice Walker also gives us glimpses into the lives of more empowered, independent women than Celie, who challenge the patriarchy and gendered social norms around them. These women demand as much respect as they can within the constraints of the period. Very often, they get it. It’s only because of the bond that Celie forms with these women, so different from her, that she is able to come into her own.
It’s because of the quiet support from others that Celie gets angry, asserts herself and finally finds her voice in one of the most epic feminist scenes I have ever seen. ‘You a low-down dirty dog, that’s what’s wrong,’ she tells her husband, Albert. ‘Time for me to get away from you, and enter into Creation. And your dead body’d be just the welcome mat I need.’
When Celie finds her voice, she starts to ‘wear the pants’, for lack of a better phrase. In fact, she ends up with her own store, Miss Celie’s Folks Pants – where she literally makes pants for other women to wear too. It’s a metaphor rooted, once again, in patriarchy, but still a significant victory in its context.
Celie eventually finding her voice is not an uncommon conclusion. My mom got mad too. She fought. She didn’t shout. She struggled in silence for a long time, but ultimately she won. She stopped conforming to beauty norms, like dying her hair. Grey is taboo for Indian women. She took her life into her own hands. Now, if she wants to go to yoga in the middle of the day, she does. She does not allow herself to be bogged down by the idea that she has to be home to serve lunch. In her own way, she asserts her power and she is fearless. Maybe ‘feminism’ as we know it is the last thing on her mind, but it’s feminism nonetheless.
Maybe we’re not willing to accept Celie’s or my mom’s kind of feminism. Maybe they’re not trendy. But my mother and other women like her are the molecules working at the root of patriarchal control day by day. They may not be ‘free radicals’, but they are true radicals.
Tinder is a pocket full of rejection, in two parts
PART 1
In Standard 4, when we still called them standards instead of grades and worked through an actual syllabus with real subjects that weren’t all followed by the word ‘literacy’, I developed a friendship with a boy. A white boy. Let’s call him Michael.
Michael was really good looking. And not in a weird ‘OMG he is so cute’ kind of way, but like properly cute. Handsome. It was the kind of beauty that wouldn’t be going anywhere. It would not wobble with puberty or decline with age. There was no direction in which his features could one day fall that would render him stale bread. He was going to be forever young and gorgeous. I knew it then, and I know it now. I haven’t seen him in decades, but I would bet my left nipple that he is still fine as hell.
Michael made braces look so good that you wanted braces too. And despite being a metal-mouth, he had the widest smile. His dimples were like warm hellos and his green eyes were like tiny, shiny Hartbeespoort dams. He had olive skin and chocolate-brown hair, but he was white. Definitely white.
On account of my own skin colour and the fact that I was a very intimidated minority, being friends with Michael was something I never even considered. It didn’t bug me, and I never wished for it. It’s just the way life is, I told myself. And I was okay with that. Although depressing, being at peace with a conclusion like that makes life in an all-white school easy. The days roll over and you roll with them, invisible.
All the gangs were friends with Michael. The sports gang. The super-clever gang. The talented drama crowd. And the most intimidating of all gangs: the blonde, Cobain-T-shirt-wearing gang. They stomped around in Doc Martens. They brought their Walkmans to sports days and blasted Green Day and Oasis and, obviously, Nirvana. They were always dressed in dark colours. They weren’t goth. Just rebellious and cool. If Michael was untouchable, this crowd was omnipotent.
They swore all the time and stamped the Stüssy logo all over the school walls just because they could. They also knew what Stüssy was (it’s a skateboard lifestyle brand). As someone who came from a very small, secluded community, I knew nothing about white things like this.
The girls were into modelling and lollipop eating. The guys were into throwing house parties and sneaking into their parents’ liquor cabinets (I’m sure now that these stories were lies told to impress). And everyone was into everyone.
They were also bullies. And they bullied me often. They called me ‘curry-muncher’ and ‘coolie’. Before meeting these kids, I had no idea what a curry-muncher was. At first I thought it might be some sort of endearing pet name. I went home one day and asked my grandfather. He explained its racist roots and I left it at that. I did not want to tell him I was being called that. It was too embarrassing.
They also practised less obvious methods of intimidation. They whispered and laughed at me in corridors in a way that makes you question whether it’s really happening or if you’re just going mad – until you see their side-eyes. The ‘acting busy’ and turning away from me when it came to selecting science-garden duty teams. And when the teacher assigned me to a group herself, it was always such a strain for them to have me around. No effort was made to hide the burden of my existence among the birds and the frogs.
I should also clarify: the majority of name-calling and bullying happened at the hands of the girls.
But then Spring Day came around and my luck changed. I was part of the team on science-garden duty that day. During class we got to feed th
e fish and the birds, and look at the lilies, I guess. It was boring. As a brown person I had no desire to put my hand in a pond thick with algae and catch tadpoles. But I had to pretend this thrilled me, so as to at least try to fit in a bit. The team I was on that week included some of the Cobain crew. The blondes and bullies. And Michael.
After some pottering about, the girls dared me to kiss Michael. He walked up to me as if on cue. Blushing and smiling, he kind of gave me the impression he wasn’t going to be mean about it. And I really wanted to fit in. I wanted to be cool. Actually, I didn’t really care about being cool. I just wanted to feel safe. I thought that by doing this, I would be left alone. So I said yes, fine. I acted all chill about it.
We stood next to the pond with, like, a metre between us and quickly pecked each other on the lips. We weren’t quick enough, though. Our lips barely touched, but as soon as they parted the pointing and laughter began. Turns out, the time it takes to steal a kiss is more than enough time to snap a pic with a disposable camera. I was humiliated. Michael laughed along. I didn’t know if he simply found it funny or if he was in on the deal to begin with. I didn’t care. I only cared about the damn picture and where the hell it would end up. To be more specific, I worried about whether my parents would get hold of it through the malice of these demons. I worried about whether they would pull their whore child out of school and send me to an eternal detention of madrassa where my hair would never see the light of day. My little-girl balls started to sweat.
I lived in panic for the next few weeks. The picture was developed and made the rounds in class during that time. There was no way I could get my hands on it without making myself look like a bigger loser than I already was. I tried to act indifferent. It had not reached my parents yet. Maybe it would tear before it ever did, I thought.
Then it was sports day, and there was a ‘fun walk’ happening round one of the smaller fields. I was making my way there when Michael came up to me and asked if I would like to walk with him. I said yes. We walked a lap or two before he said he wanted to show me something. And just like that, he pulled the picture out of his pocket. He told me he had wanted it because he liked it and the other kids would stop passing it around now. I felt safe. Michael and I held hands and walked like that for the next few laps. I saw the Cobainers, the Stüssy stampers, the bullies. I saw them all, and for once I was the one with the side-eye.
But then a teacher on the sidelines called me from across the field. When I ran over, she shouted at me for holding Michael’s hand. She told me I was brown and he was white and it wasn’t okay. I was sinning. We could never mix. I was made to sit in class with her for the rest of the day. The field was right beside the window. Michael’s life went on outside. And that’s how long our friendship lasted. A few short laps. I went home with my secret and pretended to have an ordinary weekend. It could have been a lot worse, I guess.
On Monday, it was. I entered the school gate and found Michael standing there. I took it as a sign that Friday’s debacle was over and it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t care about any of it and we would still be friends. I skipped (not really, but in my head I felt like I was skipping) towards him and smiled. But as I got closer I noticed he wasn’t smiling back. He was laughing at me. He was laughing at me with the rest of them. And by them you know whom I mean. There was, however, one addition. Michael’s mother. She had the picture and she asked me to please leave her son alone. She addressed me like I was dirty. Like I was the plague.
It later dawned on me that before she addressed me at the school gate, she had addressed the principal in his office. The message made the rounds faster than that damn photo. All the teachers watched me like a hawk. A restraining order of watchful eyes monitored my every move. I never so much as looked at Michael again.
It was a life lesson. I never dared show interest in or look at a white boy ever again. Not for the rest of primary school. Not in high school and certainly not at varsity. To them, I was still the plague. I was still dirty. They were better and I was not allowed to offend them with my interest. They would never be attracted to me, ever. Because of one plain fact: I was not white.
PART 2
A few years ago, I found myself on a park bench in Perugia, Italy during the International Journalism Festival. A student came and sat next to me. She seemed older than an undergrad and wealthier as well. I made this deduction from her clothing: a stylish coat and a pair of brown leather Oxfords. To be fair, though, everyone in Italy is such a trendy dresser, it’s hard to categorise their threads by class. I myself am a middle-class South African who often looks hobo-chic, in my opinion, without trying. No one in Italy looks hobo-chic. Not even in the Umbrian countryside where clothing stores are limited.
When I travel, one of my favourite things to do is find a public space and watch people while listening to music. Wearing a pair of cans on my ears makes my experience more relaxing. I can engage with the locals without actually having to engage. The earphones are a wonderful and subtle ‘please don’t talk to me’ sign. It’s a great way to make up tales about passers-by without ever having to listen to any of their talking. It’s cheating, really.
The student took a minute to absorb the view of the valley below us before carefully setting up her water bottle in a reachable position. She pulled a Kindle from her bag and proceeded to read. My peripheral vision wandered instinctively towards the electronic page. The layout of the book seemed academic, but not too clinical. It was neat and minimalist. Not too text-heavy, but definitely non-fiction in its aesthetic.
The font was tiny and because books on Kindle open on the page you last read, I was unable to catch the title. Since human peripheral vision is blurry, I didn’t try too hard to read any of it from my subtle side-eye glance. But when she swiped to the next page, my eyes caught the name of the new chapter: ‘Relationships’. A pull quote just below screamed ‘We need to stop letting information scare us’.
I smiled to myself. Whoever wrote this book had never met me. I was post-information-fear. I was out there, absorbing all the things about all the people. Sticks and stones could break my bones, but words definitely could not hurt me. Not like they did in a damn science garden years ago. I was invincible. I … I was on Tinder.
I penned a mental ode to the wretched school kids: keep your tadpoles and your Cobain tees to yourselves; I have in my hands the power of the swipe. Oh, how times have changed. The world works in my favour now, I thought.
Tinder opens you up to a world of dating possibilities outside of what you would usually encounter. It is especially convenient for someone who doesn’t like to go out to the clurrrrbs, and so is less likely to meet new people.
This is how Tinder works: you download the app and sign up. You upload up to six photos and a 500-word-max personal description. Descriptions can say anything from ‘I love my car’ to ‘My wife is out with the baby, wanna hit it?’ to the much more rare ‘I am lovely, charming, employed, respectful and I am looking for my soul-mate because I just want someone to love’. When you’re done with all of the above, you have a profile, which is visible to all other Tinder users in the vicinity.
This trip to Italy was the first time since a break-up that I was tempted to use the app. After careful consideration prior to departure, I figured Italy was a good place to start. I liked the idea of using Tinder as a novelty in a foreign country, and I could take it from there.
This gamified version of dating appealed to me for two reasons:
1. I had full control over the situation. I did not have to bat off annoying little flirt creatures that creepily lean in in real life. My phone. My pocket. My power.
2. I could expand my horizons. With the protection of the screen, I could test the white waters without any fear of drowning in the depths of race-based rejection.
The festival brought hundreds of people to Perugia. Statistically, my chances of matching with people were high. I could match up with either the locals or a variety of international media pr
ofessionals from all over the world who were going to be in the town for as long as I was – about a week. I didn’t want a long-term relationship. I wanted a social study in a technocratic age.
Tinder works hand in hand with Facebook. You can’t sign up unless you have a Facebook profile. And by connecting with Facebook, the back-end of Tinder can do things like throw out possible matches for you based on your shared interests on Facebook. If both of you like Pulp Fiction, for example, and it is listed on your Facebook profile, that person will show up on Tinder as a possible match and you have the option to either swipe right (yes I like you) or left (no thanks, I am not here for this).
The focus question for my study, therefore, was: could Tinder decrease the likelihood of race-based rejection because the algorithm is set up to offer potential matches based on interests instead of racial preference? I was pretty positive I would find human beings evolved past the science-garden phase – even very shallowly. You didn’t have to marry your match, but you could at least see beyond race and focus on your mutual interests.
I will add that my self-esteem when it came to white men had increased ten-fold since marrying a white man, although we divorced after six months because of our age difference. He was forty-one, I was twenty-six and he was the first white boyfriend I ever had. His interest in me occurred independent of any effort on my part. I did not have to convince him to like me in any way. I did not have to pretend I was anything I was not. I did not have to compromise the colour of my skin to feel accepted or more attractive to him. And just to be clear, I did not marry him because he was white. I married him because a lot of our interests matched. It was 2009. There was no Tinder. We had to figure the match thing out through actual face-to-face conversations.
Anyway, back to the experiment: all variables in the situation were perfect. Everything was set up for minimal emotional investment. Not receiving a match is a lot less hurtful than someone telling you you’re kak ugly because you’re brown, for example. If I didn’t get any matches, I could just continue swiping. On average, users spend about ninety minutes a day on Tinder, and log on around eleven times per day.
Sorry, Not Sorry Page 11
