Football shirts

This train of thought started with a Muse soundtrack. If you want, you can experience the same, here:

“There is no such thing as perfection”. They say. How untrue. There are plenty of things like perfection. What we should be saying is: “We want no such thing as perfection”. We don’t. Well, that’s also not true. We don’t want it for everything.

We may want a perfect suit. Or, my cup of tea, leafy Earl Grey made with my son’s Mother’s Day Present of crystal teapot, and a splash of milk, is perfect.

We can even go as far as saying, about our partner, say, he/she is perfect for me. That does make more sense, doesn’t it?

My partner, my husband, is perfect for me. He is so imperfect in many ways that drive me up the wall and therefore I have to slow down, breath out fully, and remind myself: he is perfect for me. He keeps me from saying yes to any man who shows any sexual interest in me whatsoever. Now that’s a pretty handy thing. He keeps me from melting down in desire for men I could otherwise fall desperately in lust with.

I was reminded of this last night. A man heard a friend and I talking about dating sites, he came out, was being cool and funny. He was tall, very good body, a good enough age (not too young), not a stunner, but not bad looking either. But he was wearing a football shirt, you know, a team shirt. I was very surprised when I realised that he (his friend joined him, also pretty fit, nice eyes…) he was hitting on us both. I realised because when he offered to go and play pool upstairs and I said “oh, well, I have to wait for my husband to bring me my beer” he was clearly disappointed. He was polite enough, bless him, to hang around even after my husband did arrive, make a polite finish to the conversation, then politely him and his friend took their leave. I had already noticed that my friend didn’t seem in the least interested in him, even though, as I said, he was goodlooking and nice enough and more importantly, considering my friend is pretty tall and that was one of the issues she was finding in dating men, he was tall enough for her. So I wasn’t too sorry for her when he left, but I did make a mental note that there’s no point in me going out with her with a view to perhaps meeting someone for her if my husband is there. A man kills the dating game, even if he’s not the man of the woman who wants to play it.

Anyway, this is besides the point.

The point was, I realised, had I been alone, and had I not been married, I would have played pool with them, I would have giggled and laughed, I would have forgotten that that very morning I was looking at myself and starting to see/feel the ravages of age taking place, and it would have been a fun and rowdy night. I probably would have felt very sad and empty and stupid and worthless and cheap the next morning, or I probably wouldn’t. I never had a problem with football supporters, whereas my friend was put off by that football t-shirt the moment she saw it. The man wearing it was irrelevant, that’s it. The football shirt was enough to put her off, and I can see why, fair enough: that is something she would never ever feel she could share with a potential partner, so she pre-selected, and dismissed this fit fellow in an instant. My husband also said he wasn’t good looking, but more importantly he was wearing a football shirt. I tried to argue for a bit.

Admittedly I didn’t think of people I may have slept with (there really is one for each and every category of man you can think of, so no, I am most definitely not picky), but I did think of friend’s boyfriend and girlfriends, husbands and wives, even one night stands. And I could think of many, many people that had, from my point of view, much greater defects than being a football supporter (potential, as, well, he was just wearing a shirt. He didn’t even mention the word football once).
I stopped arguing very soon, but I would have liked to carry on the conversation. How picky are we? What are we picky about? That guy, just judging from those 5 minutes of exchange, and basing it merely on observation as obvious as his football shirt, had some good things going for him in my book: he was nice looking enough, he had a very nice, fit and strong body, without being overly big which would suggest being too obsessed with it, he may well have been an amazing handyman, he seemed a playful guy, his friend looked sober and decent and more intelligent than him (denoting very real potential for him, a good choice of friends is a bonus), he was polite and well mannered, well spoken, he likes playing pool and asked me if I used to be a pool hustler (which I did, though not for money, but yes to play for hours and get free beers) denoting quick and easy powers of observation, also he showed concern for being nice despite his disappointment in not being able to take the evening to a funner level due to my husband’s presence. I don’t know, I can think of many worse people.

What does it say about me that one of my best friends and my husband completely ditched this guy whereas I saw him as a good catch? What does it say about them? It seems that the pool of people I would pick friends, one night stands, fun acquaintances, partners and mates from is far, far, far more enormously wider than many, certainly of most people I am in contact with at the moment. If I stop and think, I know that of all the people I frequent at the moment, even those I see occasionally (except perhaps my children!) there isn’t a single one that would frequent all the types of people I would. Some of them more than others, but it is pretty safe to say that each one of them has at least a few groups of people I have happily (and would happily) frequent that they wouldn’t DREAM of frequenting.

I think further and think back to the times I tried to introduce such different types of people whom I both liked and got on with to each other. What a disaster it always was and how little I would understand it. Because, I thought, if I like them, and they like me, why wouldn’t they like other people that I liked?

I remember that was, after the wanting to help other people, one of the reasons I wanted to grow up to be single and living in a huge house where a constant flow of different people came by. Some of them would be lovers, some of them best friends, some would interact with my children, some wouldn’t. Some would be misanthropists locked in their room till dusk fell, others would be extroverts helping round the house. I would like all of them to some extent, would get bored with them at different times, and if any of them got out of control they’d be asked to leave. I am starting to think it sounds a bit like a palace with a human zoo for my own pleasure. And indeed, had I been living at a different time, perhaps in a time when, way before I was born or my father was born my family was rich and even before then, when being rich and powerful meant you could indulge in sensual pleasures to your liking without the constant monitoring and judging of modern and boring middle class, had I been living then, what would my household have been like? Perhaps similar to Glenn Close’s in Dangerous Liaisons?

But now that all is much humbler, and I hope I would never be as selfish and cruel, if I could work towards my house of beautiful people (because everyone has their beauty, and everyone has their ugliness, you just have to learn to dish yourself out more of one and less of the other) would it ever come true? Considering how people don’t like to mingle as much as I do? Considering how even I have a limit, even I cannot bring myself to enjoy the presence of a few types of people, who would say yea or nay to who comes into the house? Only me? Would I then impose all these unpleasant creatures on my husband, my resident friends? Would I kick out those that are unpleasant to me but others may find riveting?

And it is so, thanks to the medium of the blog which replaces therapy sessions I cannot afford, and replaces the novel writing time I just do not have, I have an epiphany. On Easter Day, that is quite fitting.

Listen to this in the meantime

The epiphany is multilayered: I have known for a while that until I have written down every bit of story of my life, I could not hope to write fiction. I have to get my life out of my system before I can novelise. However, the book I wrote in Nanowrimo, which was meant to be (when finally edited and rewritten properly) the science-fiction of my future and therefore concealed as much of my real life in it as I could, is actually a complete work of fiction. Because it will NEVER happen, and I should have seen that when I experienced something very close to what I always wanted, oh many years ago, in the South of Spain: a vibrant and wonderful permaculture garden, an art gallery , sustainability and interesting people and beautiful places and then, what was left of it  after only a few years was an empty field, not even rubble, as though it had NEVER existed. That’s because yes, cool people came, and went, and wonderful things happened… but so did hideous things, horrible things, unpleasant things. Because that’s what we are, that’s what we’re made of. That is why we have tribes of similar people, that is why we have wars, that is why we have towns and villages and cities. Global village my ass, when my own husband thinks my business plan for a sandwich place might be in danger of attracting the wrong kind of people. I may love and find cause to love more people than most, but even I don’t love everybody, even I don’t tolerate everybody, and my standards for tolerance being so very different than people I have around me, what hope do I have? How insane it even was. Of course we need small groups, of course we need villages, cities, countries, definitions, belonging to classes, to football teams, of course we need wars and threats and sanctions and agreements and hypocrisy. Because nobody is bidimensional, we will never fit like tidy pieces and in little groups. There can be no global village, we are not the same as our neighbours, we can hardly tolerate and sympathise and find reason to love and cherish the people that share the same square mile as us, how can we possibly ever hope to love the world as one?

Once again, my friend Cindy was right. “You cannot love everybody”. She was wrong about the second part though, when she said “otherwise you will never love a single person”. I do love loads and loads of single people, and each for and only for a certain amount of very differing time. (Madness by the Muse is in loop at this point) That is why I cannot have a big house filled with people coming and going, because I never know how long I will tolerate you for, how long I will love you passionately for, or how long before I find you tedious and uninteresting, or how well I will be able to say “yes to breakfast, no to lunch, it’s too much of you now”.

That is why I know my husband is perfect for me. Some things drive me nuts about him, but asides from my children, everybody’s got something that will drive me nuts, given enough time. Considering how much time I spend with him, his things are actually menial compared to other people’s.

My husband swears a lot. Back in the day, I used to say, if a guy swears too much, that’s it, I’m put off, I don’t even take the time to get to know him, it just puts me off. A bit, I suppose, like my husband and friend felt about that guy’s football shirt. I’m glad I took the time to see what else was under his exterior coating.


Translating my dad’s memory-based book is proving to be an exhausting and also exalting experience, for more reasons than one.
I am reading bits and pieces of me, my own history, and what about him caused untold damage to his family, and what bits about him cause immense experience and richness in a moral and personal way. I am reading about me before I was even born, seeing so my much of my dad in me.
I am also enjoying his tales, some of them truly amazing, some of them painfully showing aspects of his personality that I have yet to decide whether in my final version of this book I will curtail and smooth away or describe in detail, and turn the whole recount into something that would resemble Magical Realism, for want of a better definition.
He mentions my mother, and I see and almost feel how she would have felt. I read his side of the story, and think how marvellous it is to live like that, always looking for the new adventure, but how unmarvellous for the other people in your life, those who are but one part of your life, almost devoid of their own will, of their own rights to what makes them happy or not, devoid of their own wishes.
My constant awareness of this, my strong sense of justice, whichever way you look at it, has always meant that I would always think of others twice or three times before I did what I felt was right… oddly enough, was often accused of being selfish, despite that.
Well that all ended when my first child came along, and then a second… and a third. What I wouldn’t have expected was my relationship with the man I loved, which was different from any other I had had before: with any adult, it was ME first. With this one, it was well, even if I believe what I want to do is right for the kids as well, if it’s not what he wants to do, it’s just not going to happen.
For a while, I tried to make things happen regardless. I tried to talk him into stuff. Sometimes it worked, but then he would take my drive and transform into something that was ok with him. Otherwise yes, even me, I was the woman who, in order to get him to do something that I thought was best, had to convince him it was his idea. Like a cartoonish Sicilian wife. Except I hadn’t been “trained” to do that.
The alternative, to become a blasted feminist in the worse possible way, didn’t appeal to me. I was an “we are all bloody different and that’s all ok, we all have equal rights though to try as we can to be happy”-ist. What I didn’t know, for many years, was that not only was I classless, nationless, genderless… I was societyless. What I wanted and what I didn’t want was not different from what a woman or a man would want that wasn’t the point. What I consider a good path to follow, is usually a path for which there are no words, that doesn’t fit in conventional talk. It isn’t rational, but neither is it not. It is not the product of inspiration and spiritualism, but neither is it not.
It is, very clearly and more closely than anything else I can think of, living life according to the same spirit that was described by, and then defined as, Magical Realism, which has come back into mention these past few days with the death of the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
But the West isn’t aware of that. The West thinks Magical Realism is a cute manner of seeing the world that belongs to remote areas of India, South America, Africa… it has nothing to do with them.
And indeed, it doesn’t. I feel further and further from this society, and more and more do I feel that all the good I got I got as a result of humanism, and all the bad I got I got as a result of this stupid, stupid and unfortunately successful society.
Because in the end, if Western society dominates, it is what was most successful, isn’t it? Greed, killing, violence, self-determination, selfishness, blindness to anything that isn’t something you can see, touch, or at least define with the words you know.

Upon the first of my first son, I became a mother.
Upon the birth of my second son, who risked death, my beloved mother died.
Upon the birth of my third, who also risked dying, my beloved mother in law died.
All three young, the two mothers who died, too young to die. Too young, too little in my life. They swapped their lives with the babies’, and nobody will convince me of the contrary.

Abortion and anesthesists

Yesterday I was at the hospital with my husband, who was waiting to be operated. He wasn’t, the op was cancelled and we were sent home. But this isn’t about that.

This is about laughing at the names most important consultants or surgeons have in this country. My husband and I laughed, he suggested they reach a certain level of supercoolness, and then they get to pick a name. Just a few we’ve encountered: Ms Swan, Mr Sugarman, Mr Happy, Mr Fish. The consultant came to talk to us, then he left. Then the anaesthetist came. He was very cool, with a funny tweed jacket, very reassuring and laid back. They are always different, we commented. We talked about how much respect they command. Obviously, I said, their job is so crucial, important… my mind drifted. Normally when I think of anaesthetists I think back to the medical museum we visited in Leeds, and what medicine was like before we discovered the wonderments of anaesthesia. But this time I thought about my abortion, which I had without an anaesthetist.

I remembered the 300 Euro I paid a gynaecologist to have it done, as you see, in Italy it was legal, but not something the Italian NHS would cover. It was all set, as usual it was going to take place in a maternity ward, as any other woman I sat, amongst pregnant ladies, waiting for my turn to give up my third child, which I was sure would have been a girl, to have a chance to escape my beautiful boys’ father, who was an “up and down” (meaning sometimes he would be a drunk and destroy EVERYTHING, and for days he wouldn’t, and be lovely) alcoholic who beat me and had raped me when I had started talk of leaving him if we didn’t do something radical and changed our lives to help him change.

As any other woman in that situation, I had my wonderful boys to show me what that little girl could have been like… it was torture, no different than the torture most women go through who have to go through an abortion, for one reason or another.

What I didn’t expect, was another torture I’d be subjected to. The beating I had had a few days earlier wasn’t enough, evidently, for the terrible crime I was about to commit, against myself, against the beautiful girl India would have been (that would have been her name, India). As I lay down on the operating table and some things started, I started to come back from where I was trying not to think and to hear them talk. They were increasingly agitated, debating whether to start or not: the anaesthetist hadn’t arrived yet. My ears, my head, my neck, all froze. Anaesthetist? I didn’t think it would be painful. I didn’t think I would need one. But if you were expecting one, I guess that meant, I needed one? What do you mean he hadn’t arrived yet? Does that mean one was needed and you are going to do whatever you were going to do without one?? I was frozen. I thought: maybe they don’t need one, but he is needed JUST IN CASE.

It wasn’t. They started scraping, painfully. First it was like a colposcopy, then stronger and harder and harsher and it was like scraping plaster off a brick wall, except the brick wall was my womb. Then they started hoovering. Whatever they were hoovering did NOT want to get sucked up. It didn’t, it didn’t. The noise was deafening, or so it felt. Again some voices said maybe we should wait for the anaesthetist . Again other voices said no it’s too late now anyway let’s just go on. I howled. As I howled, in pain, I pictured my babygirl, whom I knew not to be anywhere near a baby yet, I pictured her holding on for dear life. But still they hoovered and the pain was immense. I heard another person come in and them saying ah here he is, but it’s too late now, it’s almost over. Through my tears and yells I thought it’s never too late, give me some now, make this stop. They didn’t, then, after forever, it was over.

They had me get off the bed, get changed, sign a couple of forms, and I was sent on my way. I thought I saw some pity on the nurse’s face, but I didn’t register it at the time, I registered nothing. It was just pain in every conceivable way. Nobody could ever say I didn’t pay for my decision, or feel the full consequence of it.

But anaesthetists are good. They are your best friends. No matter how bloody new age you think you are (kids ask your parents what new age is), when it boils down to it, fuck natural, go drugs.


The new blog

Once again, I reinvent myself. And once again, I struggle to find me. Something only those who are doing the same can ever understand, something nobody else will understand, find interesting, accept. So, this blog now becomes real.

I am taking huge risks, I won’t even go into what risks I am taking.

Many of you follow my blog for the wrong reasons, if you do, please just stop following it. If you don’t, please don’t remember that this is the person you know. It is just a stranger.

I finished reading a book a man i know wrote, about his life. Very well written, short, concise, but very honest. I wondered, will I ever be able to be as honest about me and my life? But I have to, because, like it or not, I know I will never be satisfied until everything is out, uncensored, uncut, not polished to make ti more acceptable to others, not avoided to be more acceptable to others.

I don’t care, I am almost 43, and I can never hope to tell a made up story until I’ve told my real story.

I don’t have the time, patience, will, or discipline to write an orderly book about myself, so, once again, I try to use this blog as what blogs should be: not an easy cheap way to make a website, but diaries. I love diaries, if you don’t, please just unfollow me. This is not a diary about my present. This is a diary about my thoughts, my memories, and it will be like me, completely random, emotional, unpredictable and waaaay too intense. If you know me and you don’t like that about me, unfollow me, be respectful. If you don’t know me and don’t like the sound of that, but still are curious, I don’t mind.

Know that some things may be shocking, or controversial. Somethings may just be boooooring. Just ignore it in that case.



About the antipodes and our society over here./Sugli antipodi e la nostra società da queste parti.

I’ll keep it short.
A new girl has started working with us. Her name is J. and she is the sunshine. She hails from New Zealand. This girl stunned me into realising that she is like the human beings I grew up surrounded by, when I was little. My formative years, when you decide how the world is. No wonder I grew up completely defenceless and naive, there is no need for defences and guile with people like that. Now I watch her and hope and pray England doesn’t wear her down.
I am also translating my father’s diary. What an incredible life he’s had. We often wondered at his naivete, we thought, of following random strangers into very dangerous situations, many of them miraculously escaped alive from. But as I translate an old story from back in Australia, where he followed an Aborigine and discovered incredible sites of sacred aboriginal art, I understand him even more: if you don’t follow the random stranger nothing new and incredible will ever happen to you.

muse-thoughts of a dying atheist(MCROB) by robertjgunn

La faccio breve.
C’è una ragazza che ha iniziato a lavorare da noi, che si chiama J. E’ il sole in persona, sempre aperta, sincera, piena di entusiasmo e vita. Viene dalla Nuova Zelanda, dove io ho passato i miei anni giovanissimi e più formativi: capisco ora che è evidente che io non avessi formato tutte le difese che caratterizzano l’essere occidentale, perché non c’era bisogno di difese con gente così.
Ora spero che questa società inglese e fredda non le distrugga la gioia di vivere.
Mio padre ha fatto una vita incredibile, certo, ma ora che sto traducendo quello che ha fatto in Australia, e la scena dove parla di aver seguito un aborigeno e le cose che ha scoperto, mi trovo a non sorprendermi, ancora di meno , della sua tendenza a seguire o sconosciuto per vie oscure e in completa fiducia dell’altro, nonostante varie volte gli sia finita davvero davvero male! Quello che ha visto insieme all’aborigeno è speciale, ma non sarebbe mai successo se fosse sempre stato attento. Lui, invece, attivamente cercava e inseguiva l’avventura. E’ così che si fa, per vivere.

Di uguaglianza e della sua mancanza/Of equality and the lack thereof.

One of many subjects that I am deeply passionate about is equality among all humans, regardless of gender, sexuality or culture/nationality.

Lately, or rather, since I was very young, I have been thinking about equality between men and women. It has been an extremely long and complicated journey, which started with complete puzzlement: it was only when I arrived in Italy, at the age of 12, in 1983, after living abroad all my life, that I became aware that there were differences in how women and men were treated. It was a stunning, almost shocking revelation. I really had no idea.
I will skip ahead, and come to right now.

2014 and still society is incredibly male oriented. Modern feminists do what they can, and sometimes even push for changes that make a big difference.

I believe however, that the LITTLE changes are the really big changes that will make all the difference. Such as a campaign going around Facebook not long ago, asking for Italian registrars to always ask WHICH parental surname the parents wanted for their child. This doesn’t just help gay couples, or single parents, the most obvious people to benefit from such a very civilized arrangement. It benefits ALL WOMEN. Because it would no longer be assumed that just because my daughter’s called Paoloni* that is necessarily her father’s surname. It means I don’t have to tell you that I’ve had two husbands every time I have to tell you my childrens’ surnames. It means I don’t have to tell you I’m (or I was) a single mother!

Then, there is the change of name. In a country as apparently male-oriented as Italy, YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED to change your surname, if you are marrying and you are a woman. Not in the bank, not on your passport. You can add a page if you like, but you CANNOT change your surname. What does that mean? It means that as generations grow, nobody ever thinks “Mr and Mrs Blake”. It will ALWAYS be Mr Blake and his chosen companion, Mrs Whatever.
This means that even those who DO want to acquire their husband’s surname (as I did, at one point) for some old vestige of whatever romantic notion, couldn’t. What a subtle, and extremely powerful way to change society!
At my work, when I receive customers, I’ve been told I must always check their title: “Some women have been put down as Ms when they are in fact Mrs”. It was me. I stopped asking for their title and just put Miss if they looked ridiculously young and Ms if slightly older, say above 25. My God. Shame on me. How terrible to accuse someone of just being a Ms when she is indeed a Mrs. Ok I am being overly facetious which is unfair because a lot of our customers are quite elderly and old-fashioned. But do you realise how much information you are giving someone when you are saying whether you are a Miss, a Ms or a Mrs?? Encyclopaedias of automatic pre-judgements are dumped on you.

Having not been taken seriously for much of my life, I sometimes when I sign an email deliberately put Mrs V. S., especially when speaking of any of my children, all of them with a different surname than my own. Yes I am a terrible easy woman with children from different fathers but hey, I am a respectable woman now, so give me my due respect. THAT is what I’m saying and it’s ridiculous I should that do you know why? Because a man in my very exact situation, or in the situation of any other woman, DOES NOT provide all this information. He will merely tell you whether he is a doctor (which in England means a REAL doctor, so it can be handy), an Engineer or in the Navy. But top level consultants, higher than GP’s, go by the name Mr. so there you go. A man is not required to offer all these heaps of information to anyone, and that, I believe, is at the very basis of discrimination between genders and as long as that is the case we will never have equality, no matter how much feminists squabble over all sorts of other stuff. We should begin with forcing the use of just one equivalent to Mr., possibly not MS. because it sounds awful, really awful, but there you go that’s all we’ve got right now. Or, like in Italy, use Miss for the ridiculously young and Mrs for everyone else that starts looking more serious and grown-up.

And finally, a further thought. Yesterday I was watching Generations, the 7th Star Trek movie. In it (really, I am not going to concern myself with spoilers 20 years after it’s come out), the lovely Picard muses about how now that his brother and his nephew have died horribly in a fire, the real tragedy for him is that the “Picard line” will stop. There has always been an important Picard he says: the explorer, the Mars settler, what have you. He thought because his brother had a son he didn’t have that responsibility. Now, however, he is just sad. Then he goes into the Nexus, where he is taken to a kind of fantasy world where all his wishes come true. In here, not only is his nephew alive, but Picard has 4 children (oh and a wife who makes him tea, bless her): 2 girls and, joy of joys, 2 boys. 2 boys + 1 nephew to continue the Picard line. Because of course, the generations of women born in that Picard line he was mentioning earlier were completely irrelevant to the Picard line, not just in olden times when it was difficult for women to get much done besides housekeeping and childbearing, but even from the 20th century onwards for more than 3-4 centuries! Because even if, say, we want to concede that one of the Picards he mentions were a woman, if she had had a child, that child would be named after his or her father… not after the Picard mother.

The utter unfairness of this is tremendous. Do you see what a huge societal change it would require? For starters, I thought, what we should do is change our name, yes. I believed that all of us in my close family should change the name to my surname, at the very least. Because what they all have in common, is ME! So why shouldn’t they all change their surname to mine? My husband laughs at the idea and can’t really give me a good reason but there you go… “no way” he says “I don’t want to change my surname, don’t be ridiculous!” Really? Why was it not ridiculous for women to do that for always and always? It’s not his fault, it’s those deep deep rooted injustices and gross inequalities that we are nowhere near overcoming, which we don’t even see most of the time.

I go further. I said OK, you don’t want to change your surnames to mine, how about we ALL change our surnames. To something NEW. To something unattached to either “line”. How about we all change our surname to “Humans”. “Look, here come the Humans”. “May I introduce you to Mr and Ms (for want of a better sounding one) Human”. “Wouldn’t that be AWESOME!?” I asked the family. “No, it really wouldn’t”, they all replied. I tried to argue a bit but to no avail.

Yet I will have to do something sooner or later. What’s in a name? EVERYTHING.

*Fake name

Uno degli argomenti che mi appassiona da sempre e’ l’uguaglianza tra gli esseri umani, che sia di sesso, di sessualità o di cultura/nazionalità.
Ultimamente, o meglio, da quando ero molto giovane, ho pensato spesso all’uguaglianza tra uomo e donna. E’ stato un cammino estremamente lungo e complicato, iniziato con completa costernazione: e’ stato solo quando sono arrivata in Italia, all’età di 12 anni, nel 1983, dopo aver vissuto all’estero tutta la mia vita, che mi resi conto che c’erano delle differenze in come venivano trattati uomini e donne. E’ stata una rivelazione quasi scioccante. Davvero non avevo idea.
Faccio un salto in avanti, e arrivo ad ora.
Siamo nel 2014 e ancora la società e’ incredibile orientata verso gli uomini. Le femministe moderne fanno ciò che possono, e alle volte spingono persino per cambiamenti che fanno una grande differenza.
Credo tuttavia che i PICCOLI cambiamenti siano i cambiamenti davvero grandi che fanno davvero la differenza. Come una campagna che girava su Facebook poco tempo fa, che chiedeva che gli ufficiali di stato civile chiedessero QUALE cognome i genitori volessero per la loro prole. Questo non aiuterebbe solo le coppie gay, o i genitori singoli, i più ovvi beneficiari di questo provvedimento estremamente civilizzato. Porterebbe vantaggio a TUTTE le donne. Perché non sarebbe più scontato che solo perché mia figlia si chiama Paoloni* quello sia necessariamente il cognome di suo padre. Significa che non devo dirti che ho avuto due mariti ogni volta che devo dirti i cognomi dei mie figli. Significa che non devo dirti che io sono (o ero) una mamma singola!
Poi, c’e’ il cambio del cognome. In un paese apparentemente cosi’ orientato ai maschi come l’Italia, NON PUOI cambiare il cognome se ti stai sposando e sei una donna. Non alla banca, non sul passaporto. Puoi aggiungere una pagina se vuoi, ma NON PUOI cambiare il cognome. Che cosa significa questo? Significa che man mano che crescono le generazioni, nessuno pensa più “Il Sig. e la Sig.ra Nerazzurri”. Sara’ SEMPRE “Il Sig. e la Sig.ra Quelchel’e’”, sua compagna.
Significa che persino coloro che VOGLIONO acquisire il cognome del marito (come me, ad un certo punto) per qualche vecchia idea di romanticismo, non possono. Che modo sottile, ed estremamente potente, di cambiare una società!
Al mio lavoro, quando ricevo i clienti, mi e’ stato detto di controllare sempre il loro titolo: “Alcune donne sono state messe con Ms.** quando sono in realtà sono Mrs.***”. Ero stata io. Avevo smesso di chiedere il loro titolo ed avevo messo semplicemente Miss*** se apparivano ridicolmente giovani, o Ms se apparivano leggermente più grandi, tipo 25 anni o più. Dio mio. Cattiva me. Terribile accusare qualcuna di essere solo una Ms quando in realtà essa e’ una Mrs. Ok sto esagerando col sarcasmo, e’ ingiusto visto che molte delle nostre clienti sono donne anziane e all’antica. Ma vi rendete conto di quante informazioni state dando a qualcuno quando state loro dicendo che siete una Miss, una Ms o una Mrs?? Enciclopedie di automatici pregiudizi vi vengono buttati addosso.
Non essendo stata presa sul serio per gran parte della mia vita, ci sono delle volte che firmo un’email deliberatamente mettendo MRS V. S., soprattutto quando sto parlando dei miei figli, tutti con un cognome diverso dal mio. Si sono una donna facile con figli da diversi uomini, ma ehi, ora sono una donna rispettabile, quindi datemi il rispetto che merito. E’ QUESTO che sto dicendo ed e’ ridicolo che io debba farlo sapete perché? Perché un uomo nella mia stessa identica situazione, o nella situazione di qualsiasi altra donna, NON fornisce nessuna di queste informazioni (tranne nel caso in cui debba prenotare un appuntamento medico per uno dei nostri figli e debba spiegare perché ha il cognome diverso…). Un uomo ti dirà semplicemente se sia un dottore (che in Inghilterra indica medico, il che può venire utile)un ingegnere o nell’esercito. Ma i medici consulenti di alto livello si fanno chiamare solo Mr,, quindi… A un uomo non e’ richiesto fornire tutte queste montagne di informazioni a chicchessia, e questo, io credo, e’ alla vera base della discriminazione tra i sessi e finché durerà questo non avremo mai l’uguaglianza, per quanto le femministe si sbattano a discutere su tante altre cose. Dovremmo iniziare con l’obbligo di usare un solo equivalente a Mr, possibilmente non Ms che ha un suono orrendo, ma per il momento e’ tutto ciò che abbiamo. Oppure, come in Italia, usare Signorina per le ragazzine e Signora per chiunque sia maturata e abbia un aspetto più “serio”.

Infine, un ultimo pensiero. Ieri stavo guardando il settimo film di Star Trek, Generations. Nel film (e non mi vado a preoccupare di guastare la sorpresa dopo 20 anni che e’ uscito il film), il buon Picard riflette su come ora che suo fratello e suo nipote sono morti orribilmente in un incendio, la vera tragedia per lui e’ che la linea “Picard” sia stata interrotta. C’e’ sempre stato un Picard importante dice: l’esploratore, quello che e’ andato su Marte, eccetera. Pensava che visto che suo fratello aveva un figlio lui non avesse più quella responsabilità. Ora, pero’, e’ solo triste. Poi entra nel Nexus, una sorta di banda energetica dove tutti i suoi desideri si avverano, e li’ ritrova non solo suo nipote sano e salvo ma anche i suoi 4 figli, di cui 2 (evviva!) maschi. E una moglie che gli prepara il te’. 2 figli maschi e un nipote che continueranno la linea Picard. Perché naturalmente, le donne nate in quella linea Picard che stava menzionando prima erano completamente irrilevanti al fine della linea Picard, non solo nei tempi andati quando per le donne era difficile far altro che preoccuparsi di casa e di fare figli, ma persino dal ventesimo secolo in poi, per più di 3-4 secoli! Perché anche se, poni, volessimo concedere che uno dei Picard menzionati da Picard fosse una donna, se avesse avuto un figlio o una figlia, quel figlio o figlia avrebbe preso il nome del padre… e quindi non Picard come la madre.

La completa ingiustizia di questa cosa e’ tremenda. Vedete che incredibile cambiamento della società richiederebbe? Tanto per cominciare, pensai, quello che dovremmo fare e’ cambiare i nostri cognomi, si. Pensavo che tutti noi nella mia immediata famiglia dovremmo prendere il mio cognome, quanto meno, dal momento che la cosa che tutti abbiamo in comune sono IO! Quindi perché non dovrebbero tutti cambiare il loro cognome per il mio? Mio marito ride dell’idea e non sa darmi davvero un buon motivo… “Ma assolutamente no, non voglio cambiare il mio cognome, non scherzare!” Ah si? E perché non e’ stato ridicolo per le donne che lo fanno da sempre e sempre? Perché non era ridicolo sperare che lo facessi io? Non e’ colpa sua, sono quelle ingiustizie profondamente radicate e grossolane diseguaglianze che non stiamo superando ancora, la maggior parte delle volte non ci facciamo nemmeno caso.

Vado oltre. Ho detto Ok, se non volete prendere il mio cognome, allora perché non cambiamo TUTTI i nostri cognomi? Per qualcosa di NUOVO. Per qualcosa che non sia legato a nessuna “linea di parentela”. Perché non ci chiamiamo tutti “Umani”. “Guarda, arrivano gli Umani”. “Posso presentarti alla Sig.ra e al Sig. Umani?”.
“Non sarebbe fighissimo?” chiesi al resto della famiglia. “NO, davvero, non lo sarebbe.”, risposero tutti. Ho cercato di argomentare un poco ma senza alcun effetto.

Ma qualcosa avrò prima o poi. Cosa c’e’ in un nome? TUTTO.

*Nome falso
** Signorina
*** Donna adulta che non e’ sposata o non vuole dirti se e’ sia sposata o meno quindi probabilmente non lo e’ ma non vuole essere trattata da zitella/ragazzetta e quindi non vuole Miss e non può usare il titolo di Signora perché (chissà perché poi, io lo farei, signora e buona notte chissenefrega, ma se poi scoprono che non sei sposata torni ad essere Ms impietosamente)
*** Signora, sposata.

Picard’s “Odd” Children/ I figli “inquietanti” di Picard.


The fire of self-righteousness burns, it burns so bright. Diagrams have recently shown how very close an effect on the body anger and pride have to love. That is why we are junkies for it, I guess, you and I, my brother.
I, however, also carry the curse of knowing how un-entitled I am to them, those two fiery beacons, nay, the three!
No right to pride, no right to self-righteousness, no right to love. But the moment I stop fighting for my right to have them, I’ll be dead.

If you love somebody, try to change them./Se ami qualcuno, cerca di cambiarlo.

The things people don’t like to hear, but are true, according to me at least.

Most people will automatically frown and shake their heads when mention is made of someone trying to “change” someone else. In fact, it is proof of real love. As people, we cannot help but change as we grow. That’s why couples grow apart. Unless you’re a martyr and decide you own needs are irrelevant, being together is a constant evolution of two selves. If i didn’t try to change you, you’d know I’ve stopped caring.

When people stop disappointing me or stop making me angry, I know I don’t care about them anymore.

So let’s quit with this new age crap of letting people “be themselves”. If we love them, long term, and we see them regularly, we’ll always try to change them a little bit. Except the core, the core is what we love forever.

Le cose che la gente non vuole sentire, ma sono vere, almeno secondo me.

La maggior parte delle persone automaticamente fa il muso e scuote la testa se si menzione che qualcuno sta cercando di “cambiare” qualcun altro. In realtà, e’ prova di vero amore. In quanto persone, non possiamo fare a meno di cambiare man mano che cresciamo. E’ questo che causa l’allontanamento delle coppie. A meno che tu sia un martire e quindi decidi che i tuoi bisogni siano irrilevanti, stare insieme e’ una costante evoluzione di due individualità. Se non cercassi di cambiarti, sapresti che non ho più vero interesse.

Quando le persone smettono di deludermi o smettono di farmi arrabbiare, so che non ho più vero interesse per loro.

Quindi smettiamola con queste cavolate new age di lasciare che le persone siano “loro stesse”. Se le amiamo, a lungo termine, e le vediamo regolarmente, cercheremo sempre di cambiarle un pochino. A parte il fulcro, il fulcro e’ quello che ameremo per sempre.