I'll Tell You My Sins...*

This post started with an earworm.

I'd first heard this haunting song played through the speakers at the gym a few times, and never managed to identify it through the means of Shazam or SoundHound as I usually leave my phone in the lockers and make do with my trusty iPod, listening to podcasts, and, sometimes wanting to be more individualistic, trying to do squats to Miles Davies, or in moments of angst, working out to more melancholic melodies, the likes of James Blake whose rhythm adds a certain difficulty in trying to achieve a graceful lunge and therefore an added challenge to the whole routine.

Fast forward a few weeks, and there was a viral video on Facebook, depicting at first glance a seemingly naked man in a greenhouse, writhing about on the polished wooden floors. When I clicked "play", I started to be transfixed by the graceful movements of the ballet dancer, who was actually wearing skin-tone tights. After a short while, I realised the melody he was dancing to was the same song which I'd heard a few times in the gym.

After the video ended, I headed to the pool and searched online for the original version on my phone, and discovered the video which upset me to no end, and proceeded to watch it on a loop until the anger and exhaustion of the lyrics sunk in. After that I scoured various sites to read more about the song, and while it was sunny, under the midday sun I felt cold over the comments from readers over the video. More to the point, the video itself portrayed diametric opposites of immense love, and innane hate which in this day and age, is all too real, and which for the most part I feel incredibly lucky to have not been subject to much. 

Now, I am not usually wont to write about heavy-handed topics which attract unsavory comments and debate, as I often find myself flustered when trying to simultaneously searching for facts in my mind while trying to defend my own position and argument, and ending up tongue-tied and frustrated over the ignorance of the opposition. However, like a previous post on domestic abuse which later in sobriety, left me cringing over the fact that I'd tweeted a number of celebrities asking them to spread the message, the subject matter of the video leaves me in no doubt about my position on this: homophobia.

A few days ago I side-stepped the relative comfort of punchy Twitter to post a link to a short film and a heartfelt missive directly on my Facebook page which went beyond 140 characters. This was a viral video in China that reached out to the LGBTQIA+ community, and left me in tears at the end. In the closing credits, the Chinese mothers of the LGBTQIA+ individuals call out in supportive tones to the community and others to "come home" to the family, as it was during the Lunar New Year celebrations. Their snippets of support and verbal embraces were heartwarming, but underneath their calm manner you could see the struggle for answers and explanations. The ability to provide a satisfactory answer is nigh on impossible, because what parent can accept that the child that they have so lovingly nourished and brought up, despite all the attention and love, has deviated from their well-laid plans of becoming a (successful) individual, in tow with a partner of the opposite sex, and who will give them grandchildren to bounce proudly in the faces of their own friends and to proclaim said child's filial piety and conformance to societal norm?

This is further compounded by the fact that "being gay" is seen as a relatively new trend (despite historical evidence across cultures that is constantly disputed), as LGBTQIA+ individuals born in the 80s and beyond start to throw off the shackles that have been previously attached to them. From the damning proclamation of Queen Victoria's support of the Labouchere Amendment on gross indencency (which was later adopted into the constitution of Commonwealth States, and in some cases still remains), to the atrociously named Gay Cancer plague of the 1970s (now known as HIV/AIDS), it is no wonder that homosexuals born in this period had sought to cover up their natural human instinct to be attracted to and/or love another of same sex/similar being. This is further compounded by religion taking the LGBTQIA+ movement's name in vain, further denouncing immorality in the "prescribed" natural order of things. The result is that many of our fore-bearers had, and even many of our generation have to live a lie, living in constant fear of societal expulsion, and generating more issues from unhappy family units to STD epidemics in the meantime. [On a separate note, I was humbled by an article over an article on the altruism of lesbians towards gay men in the 80s AIDS epidemic, despite the ongoing misogyny that gay men exhibit. Article can be found here]

Back to the discussion at hand: my generation by no means has it easy, but somehow we are no longer satisfied of living a lie in order to fit ourselves into outdated pigeonholes which have been crafted through years of ignorance. Therefore, our voices proclaiming individuality and independence is seen as an attack on generations of constructed coherence, divergence from societal norms, and the "shameful" fulfilling of what are essentially natural desires. Through our constant battle to throw off stereotypes that we are cast with, we learn to be stronger, and we learn to accept ourselves as well as others, and build upon the universal knowledge of love. We gradually learn that saying that we are born this way isn't enough, and struggle to cite academic articles, arguments against religious texts, and identify LGBTQIA+ role models who are accepted in mainstream media as reasons in expressing ourselves. 

However, this only further fuels the debate in having to justify ourselves in what we are. Through the years of repression, we are now finding our voices but are reduced to a construct of rational scientific argument in explaining why we are the persons we are. It's not sufficient to merely say that we are born this way, as we do not outwardly project any defining marker that automatically makes it understandable. It is laborious to draw upon the visible birthrights, but ultimately we bear a burden that sex and race cannot convey to the naked eye in being able to safely label oneself whether positively or negatively which still runs rife despite advances in time (cf:misogyny, racial issues).

While I have had it easier than most, I know that my parents still struggle to reconcile themselves with what they perceive "went wrong". This is compounded by their new-born status into the Church, and struggle internally to accept me for who I am. I could respond caustically, and hurt them and drive home more doubt about their individual ability in raising me, but what would that achieve? The only way can I deal with it is to be unflinching in knowing the acceptance of myself is key, and through dialogue in establishing that its a case of "it's not you, and it's not me". I now realise over time that their love is unconditional, but it is their Pavlovian conditioning heaped upon them for their need to fit in comfortably with their peers, reflected in so many others, which hinders them from being to see clearly that despite being different, we are still human beings with the ability to love other humans and each other unconditionally.

Homophobia exists in many forms: from snide comments at school being dished out from kids who are fed knowledge of the world by their ignorant parents; in the workplace where ostracism through lack of career progression and peer acceptance where more schoolyard bullying tactics occur; to active violence towards individuals or groups who have decided not to hide their true nature: the list is immense when it comes to examples. I have experienced some, apart from the last, and its only by sheer force of will that I have been able to play most situations to my benefit. It is routinely soul destroying that while we are brought up to believe that "Love Conquers All", the message of hate is the one that spreads like wildfire and inflicts immediate damage throughout.

At the end of the video in Coming Home, the mothers tell their kids and others in the community to return to their cradle, because the overriding message despite the turmoils, is one of love. So why is it such a difficult argument to make that an individual born into love, that has an unyielding capacity to love, is no different than another despite differences instilled by generational misunderstanding?

So, the next time you look at someone muttering in tattered garb that looks menacing, or bumping into that shrill person who calls you an idiot for ruining their day, before you glare and make a snap judgement, look into your heart to find the understanding to cast love, and disperse the prejudice which we we are prone to. 

*Title courtesy of Hozier

Beating the (so called) odds in ones life

Initially this post was going to be about bad music, and how it influences the younger, and current generation, by giving the wrong message, in all ways.

This however, is a post about something far worse. 

It is about violence at home.

Before I begin, let me preface the songs I wanted to showcase, all heard over the course of this summer on the radio, and we can all have a collective headshake in despair. This is however, no means a suggestion to ignore the enormity behind the intended message.

First up, a song about the state of the world and the generally perceived adolescent ignorance about responsibility:

There was a diatribe ready to go on the back of this ditty, but, as it turns out, the Google suggestion when I typed in "maxing out my..." (on the back of it being the only lyric I remembered), brought up "maxing out my 401k", which, as it turns out in my limited understanding of American government codes, is far worse than getting absolutely wasted on a joint composed of oregano which you'd just handed over your weeks worth of student loan for (that story may follow in another post).

Secondly, there is Social Media gone way beyond the call of merely "following" someone:

The video itself is hilarious from an anthropological viewpoint. We first heard it driving back from berry picking, and our initial reaction was, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?! After all, which of us hasn't been obsessed with the object of our (then) affections, wanting to be with them day and night, to want to be the one that the object of our affections finds the most satisfaction with? With social media, however, this pastime is now available to be done from the privacy under ones bed covers, while at the same time with the world knowing what one is doing, if indescretion is the weaker part of your valour, on said platform.

Prosteletysing warning: one generally gravitates towards the personality that complements our being, mostly without realising; that which balances us (without our knowledge), and the same one who does not indulge our neurotic behaviour, beyond necessity.

I digress, however. 

The song I wanted to preface this whole post with was a hit of the summer. Having lived in Switzerland for the last 7 years, one is used to the lag in pop culture and chart hits. When OH and I discovered Icona Pop 20 months ago, we were so excited to find we were actually ahead of the curve in our discovered 'coolness', when as we set out for our summer holiday in this summer of 2013, it was blaring across the continents. We were smug in our advanced mutual appreciation and discovery of the song that spoke to girls and women, empowering them to sing along and admit that they'd had enough of folding the socks and playing the docile pawn in the game of male/female relationships. However, while a catchy tune, we cannot vouch for the overall empowerment that the tune conveyed.

(Don't get me wrong, relationships are mirrored in every case, and in every situation.)

So, I come to the point I wanted to get to. More precisely, the song that sparked this all off:

There are a number of synopses out there on the suitability of the lyrics of this song, and the permission it deems to give young men in interacting with womenfolk: the language they use, or the message that is assumed to be conveyed in general. It also doesn't help that shortly after the song's release, it is documented that the singer himself would like to live by his lyrics, much to the the purposefully feigned ignorance of his so-called wife. Not to mention the fallout of Miley Cyrus' twerking to these lyrics, that frankly, make "One Two Buckle My Shoe" seem more instructive. 

Seriously, almost 90 years to the fight for women's liberation, and the spawn of the one having crooned "Achy Breaky Heart" is gyrating energetically to a tune that even her mother would have doubts over the positioning of where the party and business was meant to be. This, however, is not a post on the Junior Cyrus' misdemeanors. 

It is about the nuances of the lyrics to which she so energetically gyrated to.

Take one of the opening lines before the chorus, in mumbled delivery, to set the scene:

OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you're an animal, baby, it's in your nature
Just let me liberate you
Hey, hey, hey
You don't need no papers
Hey, hey, hey
That man is not your maker

I do not need to explain further.

What prompted this post, is more a dissection of the existing, and, after effects of what an approximation of the perception of popular culture should be perpetuating, and that which continues to reinforce and contribute towards the positive aspect of interaction towards the young of humankind, rather than the expected collective overall, and the immediate reaction to the supposed intention of the above said lyrics. 

It is acceptable for men to call women that they are supposed to have conquered, in the universal term of endearment known as 'sluts', and pat each other on the back in congratulatory tones amongst the other members of the same sex, however with a woman's bitchy undertones of submission that is received in far from savoury language. Conversely, from a woman's perspective, the situation would be conveyed in hushed tones of admiration for stature/penis size/general disdain/arrogance that the man would generally be exhibiting in their primal dance in establishing their Alpha status.

Glaringly, the explanation would be that the difference is that men, for the most part, only think for the moment, and women react accordingly. That often-times men think ahead, in a male-centric 'action/reaction' format, rather than a female-centric 'action/reaction/after-action' parallel. 

It is the former which is cyclical and cultivates the ongoing imbalanced accepted culture of men vs. women: where men feel they are entitled to have, and own, women, and at the same time, exhibiting or mimicking the demeaning and backward behaviour that is deemed acceptable to use towards members of the fairer (not opposite, mind you) sex, as suggested by pop culture as highlighted.

Take, for example, the ongoing videos filling the time slots on an otherwise defunct channel called MTV. I'd like to think that the images have run out now, and we are stuck solely with the aural cyclical regurgitation from the graveyard of said songs on the Singaporean radio stations.

Again, I digress. 

The point is worse still: it is because of these multiple perpetuations, that are deemed acceptable by the mainstream media editors, and therefore is perceived as suitable for society overall, and generally unquestioned by women. This, on average, translates to a twice weekly (without a fixed schedule) event. 

I hear the distinct sounds of domestic violence: glass smashing, screaming, crying, black eyes shielded from sight in the common lift.

All from the apartment below mine.

The reason for these interactions? I will quote verbatim: "You're a nothing whore that came here because I brought you in", "You are here because I brought you here". What, pray, is the independence this woman able to look forward to?

The irony? He's not even of the region. He's 6'2" and white. She's 5' nothing. And Asian. Who hears the screams of the underclass, though?

After a number of incidents, I finally took the courage to ask OH about the right course of action. After procrastinating over yet another couple of incidents, I finally asked my father for the correct legal approach, and how it would affect my ongoing standing and situation if I were to report such an event. 

The message was clear: Such behaviour cannot be ignored.

Dear readers, I was once a victim of such violence (yes, it happens in gay relationships too), and while majority of the cases are generally waved away by virtue of the influence of alcohol/stress/generalities etc., the bottom line is that it is frankly, unacceptable: a travesty, and an affront to the evolution of humankind. I, personally,  was strong enough to call an end to said relationship, (decision taken after a rescue on Waterloo Bridge by David Hasslehoff, to be told in a separate post). Overall, it is documented that around 22.1% of women, and 7.4% of men alone in the US are subject to such treatment on a regular basis. Generally, such events take place at home, and the results are carefully hidden behind suitable coverings: long sleeves, long trousers, hats, sunglasses, and other attire appropriated to shield us from the elements of weather. 

Not those inflicted by fellow humans.

Furthermore, having embarked on (and decided it was too inane, and thus stopped watching) the HBO serialisation of the novel bestseller series of A Game of Thrones, this does not do any more to give women the impression of empowerment, that being on top, sexually, and grinding down on a penis, would ultimately give one control over the overall situation in general. Fucking television.

I do not know how to carry this thread to a suitable conclusion, because, as one knows, there isn't a  suitable conclusion. I am re-opening up a Pandora's box for discussion, but ultimately, that box has been opened millenia ago, without anyone taking charge and trying to wrench the lid shut. 

Nowadays, women may think they have liberation and a platform for voicing out dissent, but at the end of the day, these women only represent a small number of a fraction of the total who are suffering in silence. 

My point is, as well as straight relationships, there are instances where gay men, women, and all under the LGBT rainbow flag have similar problems. However, these minorities are less likely to admit the suffering they face, for fear of the ongoing perpetuation of LGBT negative stereotyping.

I could go on with regards to the situation that other people are subject to, but, in the end, if one can pick up on sounds of adult discontent, what parallels can we draw, even if it were only sounds of a child crying out in anguish of an event which we could not see?

En fin du jour, this is about the general empowerment we owe to ourselves, and to have the strength in saying: enough.

Good Night.

I will go to bed tonight, however, with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is not going to be able to say "Good Night". 

Please, if you know of someone, or yourself, in a domestic situation, call someone before you, or they, get hurt. 

Forever. 

Revenge is a dish...

“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.” 
- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance

 While I am fond, and inclined to agree with a number of Mr. Wilde's quotes, I would hazard an addendum to the above: "unless one is confronted with a disagreeable countenance in the form of a dreadful service staff."

Last week I was out with a group of friends, at a dinner which had been organised for a few months. This restaurant happened to be of a newish nature, located on the top floor of the city's tallest building, although at 37 floors, the aspirations in its name alluding to its lofty position, Clouds, was somewhat laughable, and ironically Napoleonic as the views stared out towards the looming Alps. However, I may be somewhat unkind given that evening, everything was swathed in fog, essentially living up to its moniker.

I digress. 

Perhaps it was because I was jetlagged, having just stepped off a 12 hour flight, but the first irritation started when I ordered a Gin Martini, and was rebuked by the waiter. I recall his exact words to be, "Well, a martini is always gin, unless you order a vodkatini which would be vodka." The unceremonious laying down of the plates for each course also irritated me. However the crowning moment was when the coat check girl told me to Fuck Off because I'd asked her more than twice for my umbrella, which she clearly couldn't be bothered to look for. Her colleague, embarrassed for her, managed to find the offensive item and blushed as she thrust it at me. If looks could kill, I would be in prison now. 

In this building also sits a bar, The Rivington Hotel Bar, which a year ago OH and I were unceremoniously asked to leave by the, frankly, useless, barman. There is a story this which involves Old Fashioneds, and the surprise element of being served 3 totally different drinks of the same name in succession by the same barman. As the last order was slammed down in front of me, with a high soda water to bourbon ratio, and what looked like a wedge of lemon squeezed into the highball, I rolled my eyes. OH saw my reaction and burst out laughing, and shortly the barman told us to leave if we didn't like it there. I was totally gobsmacked and rendered speechless at the audacity of the barman. Moreover, being berated due to the inability of his bartending skills and the massive chip on his shoulder, left the aftertaste of bile bitters and OH and I have since not returned. 

Other notable dining outings include the meal at Scotts in London when it was newly opened, and we were rushed through our meal to make way for an additional sitting, and the dim sum waitress who practically threw our change at us.

I'm sure there will be other memorable dining events, but instead of suffering in silence, English style, I now plan to name and shame each establishment. If you dish it out, you should expect a serving in return.