The Embodiment of Child-free

It's not often that the absence of activity makes you stand out, but to be child-free is to occupy some controversial ground. No matter what I do after my fertility disappears, I'm going to be a child-free woman whilst doing it. While I'm enjoying the results of decisions well-made, and surround myself with people who affirm my values, I'm aware that the future Epiphanie can expect to face discrimination from those who resent her freedom. 

I’m aware that while ‘childfree’ resonates with me, other women my age think of themselves as ‘childless’. There have been reluctant considerations of single motherhood, mollification over perceived dwindling options, and outside Five Eyes Oceania, dismay at the pandemic disrupting dating and medical services (like IVF). 

I believe I will navigate life well despite any stigma. I have a proud history of eccentricity to draw upon. My grandmother doesn’t know this. In our last conversation she advised me to “think up what you really, really want in your life - and ask God for it.” Turning to mum, she implored her when I might have some kind of announcement. I assume she means marriage and/or a baby. 

Can I muster up enough broken Bulgarian to explain that my first marriage was such a disaster that I have no desire to enter another? Do I situate myself as a part of a generational shift away from marriage? I am careful with my words, but there is no guarantee that my orientation towards women won’t become patently obvious to family members who elect to wonder ‘why’. 

Perhaps I should say ‘I like being single’. It may not be the whole truth, but it’s truthful enough. 

It continues to interest me that a hypothetical climate change fuelled apocalypse has seen women reconsidering children also. As distressing as it is to think about future generations locked out of the natural stability and abundance once enjoyed, with possibilities for grim realities of war and scarcity emerging, engaging with reality means being aware of it all.

A friend of mine once demonstrated passive sadism in watching the human race exploit its way out of existence, and I can’t help but feel some of the same, sometimes. Then I look at the reality of innocent people suffering, and mostly snap out of it. I want future generations to have peace of mind. I just don’t think it’s very likely to be the case. And that’s another reason why I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet by avoiding pregnancy.

Progress Made

Let's start with a tale of personal progress: I've now reached the point where I'm waking up at 8:30am every day - no exceptions. Even if I don't get enough sleep the night before, I am grateful for the opportunity to start my day at this time. It maximises my exposure to the life-affirming hours of sunshine our sweet earth provides. 

If you work during the night (or spend winters in Nordic countries) you might not have access to much sunshine. I am aware how privileged I am to be able to organise my circadian rhythm to coincide with the brightest time of day, and I am seizing this opportunity. I hope this will be the beginning of a new lease on health.  

And, moving to some sort of bigger picture: I finished reading 'Notes from a Small Island' yesterday, a much-celebrated book from the 1990s, which is indeed witty, charming, entertaining and even inventive, but is scattered throughout with sexism that I remember as depressingly regular for that decade. The fact that Bill Bryson gives himself a license to be 'daringly sexist' (his words, not mine), shows how much verbal abuse towards women was normalised and anticipated at the time. 

To give you an idea of the kind of sexism in this book, Bryson seemingly has cutting insults for every single member of the royal family who is a woman (even Princess Diana, in a round-about, passive-aggressive kind of way), refers to women as 'crones', and frequently resorts to gendered stereotypes. Homophobia, that old friend of sexism, can also be found here. 

It can be a sad or even kind of maddening exercise for a modern feminist to make their way through this book, savouring certain turns of eloquence, but repelled by the aforementioned prejudice. The only good thing that can be said about the latter is that at least it's not nearly as popular anymore. 2021 brings a feminist (and racial) consciousness to its publishing projects, and when I read books written in the last ten years I can negotiate a greater level of comfort with them. 

When I first started my journey of tertiary education, and continued as an independent intellectual, I was overwhelmingly fixated on texts from the 1960s onwards, preferably as close to the present moment as possible. Some of my friends would attempt to interest me in older works, but I was stubborn in my thirst for narratives in which I could find the most hospitable attitudes towards GLBTI people, multiculturalism and women's rights. 

It's now from this base of understanding of postmodern realities that I look to past texts with a spirit of curiosity and enthusiasm. There is, indeed, much to be learnt from historical precedent. But I think it's important to note that people who weren't part of the same minorities as me (e.g. white, heterosexual men) would have had access to the emotional reality of the past - in which they were seen as the rightful heirs of logic, wisdom, authority and power - much more than I, and I approach this 'shared' history with a disadvantage. These traditional custodians of 'evolving wisdoms' move through 2021 with rather more ease as well, but I really feel the difference when I delve into a time before the coining of the terms 'compulsory heterosexuality' and 'people of colour'. 

Today I am happy to note the fictional trio of the film 'Futur Drei' (literal translation: We are the future), whose combination of PoC and queer identities make a welcome addition to the German filmic landscape. These youths of Iranian descent assert their right to feel at home in Europe, and assume their place in its communities - communities in which they find a deep and abiding sense of home. The future is indeed theirs/ours!

So then I might find Edward Said's 'Orientalism' relevant to my sense of multiculturalism, or I might read one of Zadie Smith's books for a queer black woman's perspective on being European. Alternatively, I might read something by Jacques Derrida, himself an Algerian immigrant to France, or 'The Second Sex' by Simone de Beauvoir (I'm still 18% through this one). Then there's Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day' snug in my virtual library, or... the list goes on. 

I look forward to integrating all kinds of texts into my reading practice in the future, as I enjoy learning about how historic texts have paved the way for modern innovation. Histories of innovation can sometimes emerge in my mind. And, of course, I look forward to expanding my mental parameters through pioneers who look and sound different to me, and who can offer the comfort of new ideas to approach 2021 with. 

Immigration, Tall Poppy Syndrome and Exceptionality

Once, when I was small, I looked for an opportunity to show off to my Australian friends. I imagined them co-conspiring with my narrative of success, so that, for a brief moment, I would have my time in the sun. I was accustomed to the elation of these socially sanctioned tributes to greatness amongst Bulgarian communities, and, despite what I knew about Tall Poppy Syndrome, thought I could magically evade its censure if I willed it so. 

You can guess what happened next: social disapproval and being 'taken down' - the opposite of the self esteem boost I had been after. I would go on to have a conflicted relationship with the philosophy of social levelling, until the moment when I secretly embraced it. Much later, I would probably over-empathise with my sense of mediocrity, because a psychologist tried to nudge me in the direction of acknowledging my greatness. 

Let's backtrack a bit... it was 2001 and I had just received my Universities Admission Index of 88.2. You would think that I would have been happy with a very high mark which allowed me to enter any university of my choosing. Instead I was relieved that I received notice of it in Vancouver, which meant that fewer people from high school would ask about it directly. If I am honest, I am still ashamed of not having broken through the 90 threshold, even as I remember the tedium of exam training and my psychological problems at the time. 

Perhaps now is the time to reframe my achievements: Being in a school of exceptional students made me no less exceptional. Again: I was exceptional. And: I am still exceptional. 

I can derive value from acknowledging my exceptionality, even though I wouldn't say I was exceptional out loud. For me, exceptional means: producing brilliance where none was expected or required. Exceptional means: Knowing my strengths, reinforcing that knowledge, and making that reinforcement habitual. Exceptional means: Trusting myself to have my own and other people's interests at heart. Exceptional means: Returning to my sense of resonance and lyricism. 

If you're reading this, I have a feeling you would do well to tell yourself you are exceptional too. 

The Conundrum

 'It's been a while since I watched CNN,' I thought to myself. Tuning into a live speech of Biden, the following thought process commenced: "This is mostly a throwback to Obama times... except that we're stuck with an old, white, heterosexual man... I bet GLBTIs will have their own section in the White House website soon... but Biden has been accused of rape... oh good, more aggressive on China... wait, am I endorsing American foreign policy aggression?"

Fast forward to an hour ago, I was ready to make a statement on facebook about withdrawing from political activism. I even proposed everyone join me in celebrating calm, promoting peace, and imbibing tranquility. But while I'm ready for a more harmonious headspace, it's hard to tell the people you know, the majority of whom you befriended explicitly for their politics, that you are no longer in the mood. 

But I have to be honest: I want to be more like Zadie Smith, breathing in beauty whenever possible, not entering yet another toxic online discussion. My conflict avoidant ways are having a comeback. But more than that, I've been through more than my fair share of hardship in this life, and, having reaching a semi-stable environment, I just want to let down my guard, relax, and connect over art and stuff. 

So sue me. *sticks out tongue*

Saying Goodbye to Online Dating

I deactivated my OkCupid account a few days ago, and am already thinking about how to create the conditions to make both friends and potential partners offline. This is an almost 180 degree turn from how I’ve approached socialising and dating in the last six years, so I thought you might like to know how I got here.

The waning of my enthusiasm for the online dating experience started a year or two ago, with an article that revealed that it was not in the companies’ interests to matchmake successfully. Rather, the longer you were a customer on their service, the more money they could make off you, should you stop browsing long enough to click on their advertising.

The article went on: The impression that there was ‘always someone better’ around the corner, especially on sites like OkC that almost never run out of potential profiles for you to consume, can make you pass by matches with whom you are compatible, because they don’t correspond to some pre-conceived concept of perfection.

The seeds of doubt were set. 

Along came Jon Birger, who spoke and wrote of the significantly longer period of time relationships begun in real life lasted, as opposed to online ones. 

Crucially, he articulated the intangible aspects of compatibility which were impossible to tell from text alone, like how you respond physically to a person, whether their level of dynamism is a good energetic match, and if you enter a natural flow of conversation.

The final blow came when I realised that while my three relationships since 2015 had all lasted a year or two, my longest relationship by far was with OkCupid itself - here I was in 2021, still believing it was serving me. I had become that gullible repeat customer.

And so, I quit!

Poem (Untitled)

Trudging after alternating renditions of the blues

Hoping to nail down an impressive collection

Anticipating moments when I can fly into the blue

Soar, to be amongst the fruits of contemplation 

I lurk outside in daylight hours

Basking in the Sydney vibe

I search their fleeting gazes

For the tell-tale remains

Of a person asking 

'Why?'

On finding safety

I don't feel that I live in a world that can be described as safe. All my adult life I have classed myself as non-conforming, but it must be said there are limits to the resistant strategies I can deploy in terms of self-actualisation. Certain forms of rebellion, such as embodying radical sexual agency as a woman, or claiming uncommon amounts of dignity and certitude for my bisexuality, or negating white supremacy, can land me in hot water. If I get 'too angry', I will be discredited. If I indulge my eccentricities, I may be thought of as too mad. It doesn't take much for me to envision a space where I am outcast, abused or even confined to a psychiatric ward. 

It's true I have privilege in Australia that, say, an atheist living in Nigeria would not. But while expressing atheist views to deeply religious people isn't going to land me in an institution (unlike this poor person), I can still expect to feel shunned by them. To have my voice muted, or text written out of the bigger narrative.

And then there are those that question the inner workings of the Washington DC elite. Julian Assange, Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden, to name a few. Heck, I can't even question American exceptionalism without killing someone's sacred cow. 

For a long time I have been against American exceptionalism, imperialist and patriarchal white supremacist foreign policy, but it's rare the person I divulge it all to. Too much of it is 'the air we breathe' in Australia and abroad. Europeans are more understanding than Australians, but I still feel quite disinclined to share my inner expressions. Sometimes I even mute those expressions to avoid the anger or discordance they would necessitate. 

Things are not alright, in too many ways which remain hidden to the majority. My safety is dependent on being vigilant - a vigilance which is at best not encouraged, and at worst threatened by right wingers. I sometimes feel I must, too, smile, pretend all is alright. I long to return to the private sphere where I can be in the company of my unrestricted thoughts. Perhaps, in my own company, I can finally uncover the safety that informs me and gives me the platform I need to keep up the non-conformity.