The Shame and the Praise

Language is mankind's greatest creation, a tool that is powerful and diverse, that unites and divides and allows us to lead an infinite inner life to which we give meaning and feeling with words.

I believe language is periodical mirror. It is ever-changing and a reflection of our culture and the society we inhabit. In language, we can identify prejudice and passions, values and ideology through the vocabulary of a language. Language is a form of documentation that historians, linguists and literary scholars use as a vital tool in their academic work. 

As a feminist scholar of language, I am in heaven. Words are all around me and opportunities to practice my scholarly art on every corner. Films are one such opportunity, although more often than not popular entertainment material disappoints the feminist scholar in me, a scholar I should add who would like to live in a world where men and women are free to be the person they are, dress the way they please and lead the life of their choosing.

This past Friday night, such an opportunity arrived as I watched a film, a romantic comedy intended to pass the time as I waited for my partner to return home.

It was an ordinary late Friday night. I didn't quite feel like watching a film that required serious attention, so I went for a non-brainer with what I hoped carried some entertainment value.

I selected That Awkward Moment. I figured something light-hearted with a dash of silly would do the trick. I expected the usual stereotyping as a feminist in the real world does on most occasions, but the constant perpetuation of misogynistic notions really got to me this time.

Every time one of the characters, in particular the female characters, used the word "pussy" as an insult, I wanted to cry. How could women degrade their own body without a thought of this blatant abuse of the word?

Why is it that in our beautiful language that is English, we metaphorically express cowardice and bravery with the same words we have for the female and male organs that continue life?

Why is it socially acceptable to call someone a "pussy" and with it imply cowardice? Why is it a compliment to say to someone "you got balls" and with it imply bravery? 

Why is it necessary at all to implicate our procreational organs, our private parts, in concepts such as cowardice and bravery, linguistic concepts that in reality are vague and subject to interpretation, and should therefore be void of attachment to bodily organs or other physical material. 

This use of language is tainted with the story of Adam and Eve, in which Eve shames mankind by falling into temptation, and then offering Adam to share her sin. And who's to blame? Well, Eve obviously. Not Satan despite him being the one to offer her the apple and encouraging her shamelessly to accept his gift. From this myth alone, we have slut shaming, a fallacious and one-sided misplacement of guilt. 

A woman who is raped wearing a short skirt and high boots is surely to blame as she offered her body to the world the moment she got dressed. The culprit  is never the individual who forced himself upon her. Cities around the world are hosts to the slut walk to remind the world of the perpetuation. 

But it seems that even though the world now understands how problematic slut shaming is and that we do our best to turn things around, we see shaming in language as something of less societal significance, something that is not so severe in comparison to other plights of womanhood that are unfortunately still in existence in this day and age. 

But it is part of the problem. It's invisible because it floats on the surface and drifts in and out of our lives. Its touch is light, so light that it's barely there. But when we listen with our heart and think about the words and the degrading significance denoted to the female organ, organ that is truly extraordinary in its making and function, it is a sharp and immediate stab in the flesh.

We are reminded of how powerful words are when a straight-forward rape charge, in a case where the evidence point in the direction of a clean conviction, is thrown out or the system turns against a victim brave enough to press charges. The system seemingly sees rape as a minor invasion by using her "questionable" past, drunken state or the fact that she dared to kiss the perpetrator back earlier in the evening.

In these cases, words are used agains the victim. A questionable repetition of phrases such as, "I'm telling the truth", or "forgetting" to say "no" as the perpetrator forces himself upon her, some court systems find a way place the blame on the victim's shoulders. They question her attempts to convince the officer taking her statement that she is telling the truth and disregard entirely that fact that she may have been too petrified to utter a word of protest. Even the lack of visible bruises are a sign of consensual intercourse in some cases, and the emotional scars a mere consequence of the woman's own regret of sleeping with the man whom she charges with the crime.

It truly amazes me sometimes that in the 21st century, a victim of a crime has reasonable fear to not press charges in such a crime, knowing all too well how "sympathetic" the system can be towards those who dare to seek punishment for the crime committed against them.

For as long as we turn our language against members of our society, whether it's sexist, racist, xenophobic or anti-gay, we are indirectly (and presumably unintentionally) accepting the ideology that lies there behind.

The human body is an astounding machine and it seems plain strange to implicate a human organ, any human organ, to cowardice. The human body is simply too perfect in its design to be implied with anything but greatness. Engineers strive to create equipment as perfect as the human body and often, if not always, fail. 

So, I ask again, what does cowardice have to do with "pussy"? 

This is a body part that participates in the conception and birth of a new life and there is nothing cowardly about that. 

The male organ too is no less perfect. It preserves the key to creating a new life.

As I watched the film,  the word for cowardice rang in my ears over and over, escaping the lips of both male and female characters. They voiced it in a cool nonchalant manner, utterly without flinching at the thought of the female degradation implied.

With all the problems we have in this world, it may seem unnecessary to worry about language, the innocent but vital tool we use to communicate with one another. A word alone is not capable of striking a blow.  

When we use words to degrade another human being, language becomes a sharp weapon. Words of cruelty and humiliation when  It takes but a few repetitions of a foul word for its intended effect to be felt; it takes compliments in multitudes to overcome its effect.

When generations of women are made to associate cowardice with their gender, the effect is quick to sink in. When I was younger, I was guilty of saying things like, "I am not like other girls", implying that all girls were a certain way, and I wasn't. 
  
In fact, still today, it is the myth of motherhood-for-all that almost repels me from signing onto a role so full of social expectations, despite actually wanting to have a child with my partner when the time is right for us both. I used to say with pride, "I never played with dolls as a kid, I preferred cars". What I was really saying is that playing with a doll is of a lower class than playing with cars, when in reality, neither is a shameful act. It is mere child play and says little about who we will become as adults.

Therefore, we have an obligation to consider our choice of words. The words we use are a reflection of our character and the values we hold dear; they say more about us than we realize and when we use them carelessly and thoughtlessly, we misrepresent ourselves.

Words change as times change, and in my mind, it is time for a change.

It may not change the world as we know it, but it's s small step toward a better world, a world where one gender is not a subject to degradation. 

A shift in symbolism will occur when the very speakers of the English language change the meaning of those two words, words that are still used and taken for granted by generations of speaker. 

It is then that the media will see no reason to perpetuate their use in the entertainment industry, and films such as That Awkward Moment will be better for it. 

After reading this, you may wonder how I've come to associate so much of societal illness to words. I have often been asked why I care so much about the linguistic associations of words when in fact there are greater problems facing womanhood. The pay gap is unresolved and women in other parts of the world are faced with genital mutilation and forced marriages.

So, why is it that I care so much about words?

My answer to the question is quite simple. I believe that to change the world for the better, we need to reshape the bricks that hold the current ideology together. We need to replace the glue holding together the bricks. When we have no words in our language to hold together the bricks of female shaming, it will be a thing of the past.

When the words "pussy" and "balls" have an equal footing in our language, change has occurred. 


        

The Good Addict

Is addiction a bad thing? 

It probably is, at least most of the time… But then it's the good kind of addiction, well, the addiction that isn't illegal or capable of destroying a life. It's the kind of addiction that brings happiness to a miserable day and starts the day with bursting flavours full of love.

For me, the craving lust for my addiction always gets the better of me. It takes a bad cold or stomach cramps of the worst kind to willingly dismiss a satisfying taste of greatest drink on earth.

This great drink, my elixir in life, is no other than coffee. 

I've spent years working on perfecting the making of the perfect cup of coffee. And not just my idea of the perfect cup, also my husband's idea of the perfect cup. I've tried every type of milk and worked out which milk is best to make a good cappuccino froth or a thick and creamy hot milk for the perfect latte, and of late, the perfect Italian Macchiato.

Since returning from my fourth trip to Italy, and this time to see my younger sister and get to know the region she calls home, I've been savouring my small supplies of luxurious coffee brands, while fearing the all-too-fast approach towards the final spoon of my sweet sensation.

My grand discoveries in Italy include Fine Cafe from Caffe Milani and the Lavazza Super Espresso. The prior is a host to a sensational experience, like the finest Bordeaux, it is a taste that leaves behind a memory of an exquisite moment. The perfect Arabica beans, so perfectly grounded for my mature Solis espresso machine, are utterly divine.   

My special macchiato cup.

And it's all gone.

The Lavazza Super Espresso is not quite in league with Fine Cafe but it certainly comes close. I never get enough of it. The strong slightly bitter taste is a luxury rapidly slipping away from me. 

And now,  I am at a loss as I approach the end of Italy's finest. My fine Fine Cafe di Milani is in very short supplies and I am at my wit's end. It's bad enough that my Lavazza Super Espresso is impossible to find in Iceland. Thankfully, it's not impossible to find Lavazza brands in Iceland, that only goes for the Super Espresso.

But the Fine Cafe from Caffe Milani is just not on the market and it's driving me mad. I am but a few cups away from losing the perfection that brings me wellbeing and nourishes my soul, and I don't know what to do about it.

So, how this coffee girl will ever find her high rise to the most divine heights with Italy's finest once the supplies run dry remains unanswered… well, at least until my sister returns from Italy.

Thought of the day

So, today on my way home from work in the pissing pouring afternoon rain, I had a thought...

It was a sudden realisation of my fragile existence, one I probably could have thought of before turning into a lane with two large and lengthy Grayline coaches on each end.

 

After turning into a traffic lane on my way home, it just so happens that these two Graylines were on the same route in the direction of the Reykjavík city centre. 

As usual, I drove into my usual lane right behind the white Grayline, the other equally white Grayline caught up with me and sat at my rear. So positioned, we all waited for the red light to be replaced by the green light.

Right then and there, it occurred to me that say, if an orange city bus in a hurry to keep schedule ran into the coach parked behind me, would my Lady in Red (and the Lady driving her) be crushed between the two Graylines? Perhaps beyond a point of recognition? 

I gotta say, I felt a bit like the little yellow cutie between the two blue buses on the photo byArne Hückelheim on this wikipedia site.

It wasn't the most comfortable of thoughts, but I might try not to get stuck between two large vehicles...

 

Viva les Femmes!

99 years ago, Icelandic women aged 40 and older were given the right to vote.

It was on this day almost a century ago, that women's rights movements around the world began to see the award to a very long battle for the basic right of casting a vote, a right we take for granted in most parts of the world in the 21st century.

We celebrate this day despite the conditions placed on this right when first given. It was the day when Icelandic women got a piece of the cake and it is worth celebrating regardless how small the piece may seem to the modern women.

On this day, I like to remember our foremothers, the women who paved the way for my generation to be free to make our own lifestyle choices and not be a property of men as if we were petulant children.

Our battle is not over. We have more obstacles to cross but we must take a moment to celebrate this great victory for womenkind. We continue to be more likely to be objected to sexual harassment and assault, and more likely to blamed for the incident because what we provoked with our choice of clothing or friendly-in-excess demeanor.  

The women's movement today must also be vigilant to fight the conservative forces that try to take away our right to abortion (and several states in the United States have succeeded to do so already), and our right to prevent pregnancy in with contraception in an affordable way.

Equally important is our solidarity, that we stand together and do not judge each other for the clothes we wear or do not wear, our choice of profession and most of all, look out for each other.

Men are not the enemy. They, as a gender, are not the foe. The foe is not gender-specific and tt comes in many shapes and forms; extreme forms of religion, whatever that religion may be, is a force to be reckoned with and we must not surrender to the demands of extremists; women who wrongfully abuse the system to remove fathers from their children; men who are petulant in their gender-stereotyping and objectification women; women that are petulant in gender-stereotyping men unfairly should they fail to meet the demands of masculinity; media that favours men's sports over women's; a society that does not give new fathers equal rights to parental leave, and businesses and organisations that expect fathers to put their work before their family.

As I've already mentioned, some states in the United States of America are placing legal and financial restrictions on women's accessibility to contraception and right to abortion should they choose to have one. In Ireland, abortion is still banned if memory serves me right.

In Iceland, most women are active in the work force, so much that it is a cultural norm for women to be employed. Women are guaranteed their professional position during the three months marked to their maternal leave (as are men), and parents can arrange the additional shared three months however they please.

However, due to the pay gap, an unexplained pay gap of approximately ten percent, many women opt to take their three months in addition to the three shared months and spread them over a longer period of time. Fathers, generally receiving higher remuneration for their professional contribution to society, are therefore less likely to take advantage of the three months let alone the additional shared time.

A professor at the university of Iceland, a professor of political science, claimed in a recent controversial lecture that women have won the fight for equal rights and more so.
He used old school arguments to explain issues such as the gender-based pay gap. Apparently, women are more likely to choose a profession that suits their role as mothers since nature did give them a gift greater than was given to men.

This gift is the ability to carry a life in their womb (which by the way is not given to all women) and that strong bond women share with their children because of that biological link.

Women, due to this physical capacity, have an incentive in life to take more time off from work to nurture their family, whereas men are less inclined to do so and I suppose, more likely to focus on their career.
Therefore the unexplained pay gap is explained by women's lack of enthusiasm to put in the professional efforts men are willing and able to do.

What load of nonsense, I say!

But alas, this is not a day to curse the anti-feminists. This is only one example of an attitude that seems immortal in the minds of its promoters.

Thus on this day, I celebrate the victory of my foremothers while contemplating the path uncrossed that lies ahead of the non gender-biased feminist movement in the 21st century.

We have our work cut out for us, people of all genders, nationalities, age, and race, and our compass is the knowledge that one day we will be liberated from the last mortal restraints of inequality. 

The Italian Spring Night

I had the great fortune of spending a couple of weeks by the enchanting Lake Como in the region of Lombardy, a region that I never expected to visit, yet upon my first visit landed itself on the top of my list of beautiful destinations in Europe.

On a warm night in the steep hills of Molina, a village that belongs to the community of Faggeto Lario, same as the nearby villages of Lemna and Palanzo, I learnt something new and unexpected. 

My sister's boyfriend, Andrea, told me to my great surprise that most of June belongs to spring, not summer, as I had previously thought, and my holiday to Italy was in fact a gentle spring break.   

The truth is that the Italian spring's rendezvous with the Italian summer is not until June 2, and

seeing that he is local to the area, I take his word for it. 

This cultural interpretation of the seasons speaks volume of the Italian way of life. In Italy, life runs on a pace of its own, not too slow and not too fast. Everything has its time and place and the moment is not only seized but lived and loved to the fullest.

In the bursting flavors of Italian cuisine, the consumer is simply invited to consume with care. I bathed in the succulent sweetness of the grilled bell pepper on my vegetarian pizza; I almost cried from joy as the juicy t-bone steak watered my veins with love and affection; the flawless rage of the angry pasta lingered in my memory long after consumption; the perfect mix of sweet and creamy homemade Amarena sorbet was the perfect finish to a lush lunch on a hot day.  

…and the coffee… the coffee is full-flavoured, rich and creamy. Coffee is forever ruined even to the most devoted addict after a visit to Italy.

The patience to enjoy and seize the pleasure in the moment it arrives is an art form perfected by the Italians. 

Everything about my time in Italy this June had an air of spring about it. I discovered Italy through the eyes of the traveler and understood why my sister radiates happiness in her new life.

For me, the simple visit to my sister was an awakening as powerful as the bursting spring itself.  

This spring became a time of discovery and an awakening of gentle beauty that all of a sudden bursts to life. 

An evening walk with my partner rendered me helpless to the magic of Italy's finest region.

The wild scent of ravishing plantation seemed to invade the dense night after a sizzling summer day, and the night sky was lit up by the glow of the waning moon and never-ending stars glittered in the sky from joy.

A quiet descent down a narrow and uneven pathway - as old as the departing ages of the past – was carefully treaded to seek a nocturnal view of a chapel hidden by tall trees, tall trees exquisitely green and tender in the late spring night.

Two gates separated the curious travelers from a world where the dead are honored by an array of candles from which a red glow lights up the night. A dim but magical world that is hidden behind the black gate that is neatly tucked away from sight in the darkness by an impressive doorway to the chapel’s mysterious interior decor.

On the journey down to the chapel, fire flies flew in the air, sometimes moving swiftly from one side to another. Every now and then, they stopped in the air to ever-so-gently explore the curious strangers coming down the dark pathway lit up with a bright, bright moonlight.

The pathway was rough and cobbled so long ago, the very hands who lay them in these steep hills, passed into the veiled world a long time ago.

Upon return to the concealed tulip villa, it the strong scent of an incense that is a  mosquito repellent, a scent that awakens the senses to memories of a distant home on the tip of the African continent and the thick and dry bushland of the infamous state of Goiás, that pulls me out of the deep spring night.

All that I needed on this perfect night, a night when the crickets sang to me as in previous destinations, was my Emma. How much her hound senses and vivacious spirit would have enjoyed the music of the night; how she would have tried to run down to the gate off our pathway just to run free alongside the shepherding donkey with his herd of sheep and goats, and play with the equally vivacious lambs and the young and curious goat kids.

She would have jumped up as she'd discover the bells around their neck in an attempt to understand from where rang the soothing sound of the Italian spring. 

The Italian spring night is truly bursting from life's elixir!       

The mysterious black gate. Photo by JB.

The old chapel and the cemetery during the day. Photo by JB.

The Tulip Villa. Photo by JB.

In the hills of Molina. Photo by JB.

Donkey on care duty. Photo by JB.

Casa of a donkey, goats and sheep. Photo by JB.

Life's beautiful ways...

Life is a series of days, weeks, months and years.

With each year, the bubble of life experience expands in all directions and with it comes maturity. Maturity is a bewildering concept and our society has a tendency to complicate the natural order of life. 

We make expectations for ourselves that we feel obliged to live up to, social expectations that are decided by someone other than us, the very people who are supposed to live in accordance to these so-called rules. 

Career-building, finding a mate, deciding whether to have children or pets or both, and deciding whether to rent or buy a place a of your own; these are all decisions we are supposed to make by a certain age.

I turned 34 this past week and I feel no different than I did when I turned 30 or when I turned 27. I am the same person I was ten years ago. What has changed is that I have learnt to embrace who I am and I feel no need to live up to anyone's standards.

There is no doubt about it that with age comes the freedom to just be and live by one's own set of rules. It's a liberating sensation to discover that all that is expected of us is to find happiness in whatever form makes each and every one of us happy.

If I have learnt anything on my travels, then it is that the only person I need to please is myself. If I fail to make myself happy then how can I expect to be happy in the company of others? I need to embrace who I am and follow my heart where it comes making decisions that affect my future. 

In Icelandic society expectations are sky-high. As a woman, I am expected to be educated, partnered-up, fit and healthy, and preferably use my uterus in the name of preserving the myth of motherhood-for-all.

To defy this way of life is an untraditional approach to life in a small society where procreation is the only way to populate this little island with the next generation of inhabitants. But some of us do anyway.

We all have a passion that we want to pursue and dreams that we long to see come true; age and these so-called obligations should not stand in our way of following them through. In my case, my passion and dreams are emerged in the curious worlds of travel, writing and literature. 

And I take pride in my life choices.

My philosophy in life is feminism and I have strong beliefs in the importance of individual freedom for us all, a freedom to be the person we are in our heart of hearts. 

Therefore, turning 34 without having fulfilled all the aspects of my societal duties was not a sharp stab of cold steel reminding me I am now a year older and still not a dutiful mother. It was a beautiful day that I spent with my husband and my darling dog Emma, and I loved every minute of it.

I have come far in life. I am not the shy little girl who lacked confidence in her childhood and youth to shamelessly embrace her quirks and wits. 

There were many moments during my childhood that I sat in-front of the television screen – uninterrupted by iPads, iPhones and Macs – gazing at the long list of names scrolling up the screen after watching a film or a television show from places far away from my humble small town on the western shores of Iceland.

At the mere age of eight I discovered English and from that moment on my life was forever changed. Something in the narrative vocabulary, accents of different descent and carefree creativity captured my attention and to this very day, I remain captivated by its energy.

A couple of nights ago, as the long list of crew and cast in Forrest Gump scrolled up the screen, the surname Nye caught my attention. Instinctively, with a native intuition I knew how to pronounce the name, a skill that I desired greatly at the age of 14 when I saw the film for the very first time.

At the time, I was blown away by the enchanting landscape of Greenbow, Alabama, a scene so distant from the cool streets of New York or the hip Californian coastline.

There was and still is a bohemian element in my perception, a connection with nature that is cut off from the madness of cities that never rest. I have never visited the southern states of the North American United States, but my enthusiastic interest in the fluidity of city life was changed by the soothing serenity of the wholesome green bubble that is the beautiful scenery in the sweet-natured temperature of eternal spring and summer.

The illusion of the idyllic is a beautiful illusion. People are always at fault where it comes to bursting the bubble but there is nonetheless a peaceful comfort to life inside the bubble.

We live in a world that is rapidly changing and with each year something changes, something new comes along and we bid farewell to the old. Life has a way to make sense of everything in time, although most of the time - especially when times are hard - we curse its unpredictability. Then one day everything just makes sense and the pain and hardships of the past are validated by the existence of this better place.

I learnt at a young age that life is precious. My grandfather had a stroke and from that day onwards, he was bound to a wheelchair. He was in his early seventies at the time and spent the last fourteen years of his life in the chair. 

My grandmother looked after him with love and compassion and toward the end of her life, some years after he passed away, she was tired in body and soul after a long and often a difficult life.

They never got to enjoy their retirement years. They had a happy life together and I doubt they regretted their choices in life. But I wish the last decade and half they spent together had been a happier time.

They got to see their descendants mature into adulthood, had grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and to me, always looked like theirs was a beautiful partnership.

But how I wish they'd had the chance to explore the world and finally embrace the beauty of a peaceful life in their retirement years. 

And so, for that reason, I am dedicated to embrace each year on my own terms, to make decisions and take risks that are rewarding to me personally and that I can share with my partner.

I hope my partner and I will be in good health when we enter our retirement years, that we will have lived a full life and have the opportunity to continue our travels together until we can do no more.

For some a box of fine handmade Swiss chocolate pieces is the ultimate dream while for me the combination of licorice and creamy chocolate is a delicate treat for the finer moments in life. 

Life is a box of chocolate and assorted sweets… and it can be enjoyed at any age.

Feb Fun

Winter is a spellbinding time of year in Iceland. 

It's the time when the forces of nature strike a blow at one another, leaving the local population and visitors bound to the comforts of their home. 

This past January was dim and dreadful. Streets and grassy fields were clad in nature's very ice rink and human paws fell prey to its slippery ways.

Waking up in the pitch black morning was a torturous exercise with the light of day only appearing as noon approached. Then, as professionals and students finished their day of dutiful diligence, they walked into the dimly lit afternoon that is already blackened well before the early evening settles in its place.

We lived in the shadow of daylight, treading carefully across the ice rink as the cold wind blew us in all direction.

But then, all of a sudden, the enchanting month of February came and swept away the shivering creeps of January blues with its orange companion by its side, sending rays of sunlight to our pale faces and giving us hope for a brighter and better season after our time in the darkness.

In February, the world is truly veiled with magical and wondrous beauty.

The grim navy blue skies transform to an exquisite shade of animated royal blue. The air is still in the crisp night, and the stars spark like glitter drifted in no particular order across the already animated canvas. 

When the moon is out in all its glory, the night is a wonderland where nature's magic thrive and just about anything can happen. A slow walk in the night is a journey through an enchanted highland and a mysterious city where the hopeful fall in love and aspirations for a beautiful life are born.    

The hard cemented city rues are nearly deserted of life, and the crisp air of the distant highlands gives reason to indulge in an intimate cuddle to make this magical moment in time last a little longer, or until the cold has finally settled in our very bones and the inevitable escape to the warm comfort of bed is upon us.

February is truly the time to take late night walks, travel to Iceland's secret destinations that are beautiful beyond belief in the company of seasoned guides whose knowledge and enthusiasm for the land they inhabit give a deeper understanding of this strange terrain.

The Northern Lights seem never more alive than on those exquisite nights when all the elements come together and a rare moment in time is temporarily upon us. The Aurora bathes in the glory of this real-life animation and dances from joy across the canvas far above the sleepy sea, a sea that is already gleaming with joy on this perfect night. 

It is the parisian spring, a glorious African dawn to a flawless summer day and the kaleidoscopic New England autumn. No time of year brings out Iceland's true magic as the month of February.

It is the month of hope and glory for locals, and an adventure to an animated world on the very edge of the inhabitable world for the visitors who come for an out-of-this-world experience.

It is the time of year when the magic of animation comes to life and life is simply beautiful.

February is truly fabulous.