Why I’m running 5k a day in September for Women’s Aid

Why Women’s Aid? It should be easy to explain, but somehow it’s not.

It was an easy choice – absolutely – and there’s no shortage of reasons. But maybe that’s the thing. There are so many reasons, so where do you even start? How do you ever do it justice?

This isn’t personal for me. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse and I’ve somehow been extremely fortunate with the men I have known and been close to. I can’t point to one event or experience and say: This is why.

I could say, of course, that 90% of women killed in Ireland are killed by a man they know, or that Women’s Aid recorded over 40,000 cases of domestic abuse last year – but when pointing to one clear and simple fact like that to illustrate the injustice that Women’s Aid’s work combats, I can’t help but immediately feel that I’m failing to paint the full picture.

It’s not one statistic, and it’s not one story – it’s a structural, systemic, relentless oppression that’s so deeply ingrained in so much of society that we’ve almost become blind to it. And one fact presented alone could easily be mistaken as anecdotal.

For me to attempt to explain why there was never really any question about which charity I would fundraise for, I need to paint a fuller picture.

I need to tell you to go watch the Netflix drama series Maid, which is based on a woman’s real-life experience of domestic abuse and a society that let her down – a series that made me cry with rage so much, on multiple occasions, that I was unable to talk.

I need to mention the experience of writing a blog post about the mainstream media framing of the murder of Clodagh Hawe and her sons by her husband and their father – a post that went viral and resulted in countless friends, acquaintances and strangers writing to me in recognition, thanking me for putting the spotlight on a reality they were all too familiar with (whereby I realised how many people I knew who were familiar with it, who had presumably been familiar with it for a very long time without my knowledge).

I need to tell you about subsequently being invited to speak at Women’s Aid’s launch of the Behind Closed Doors report and take part in the SAFE Ireland Summit, where powerful, knowledgeable speakers helped me begin to contextualise that inherent, low-level but constant exasperation I’ve always felt simmering away somewhere deep in my gut – the one that flares and burns with every new case, every mention of another injustice, every assault and every woman killed.

I need to tell you to look, any day at all, at any news source or social media platform, where there are reports upon reports upon reports of women being attacked, controlled, raped, killed by their partners.

Last week alone, you could read about the death of Olympic athlete Rebecca Cheptegei, whose partner doused her in petrol and set fire to her, and about Gisèle Pélicot, whose husband drugged her and invited other men to come to their house and rape her (more than 50 of them did; not one of the others reported a thing).

I’m fundraising for Women’s Aid because of the relentless, brutal, structural injustice that expresses itself not only in the statistics of male violence against women and the number of women who are killed by a partner or ex-partner, but in sexual assault, in rape used as a weapon of war, in children suffering at the hands of someone who should have been their safe space.

I’m doing it because it’s everywhere, in all classes and cultures; because no matter if we close the gender pay gap and representation quotas are filled and there’s universal, free childcare and well-paid parental leave, this painful injustice remains a fundamental, ever-present threat. And as I write that, I realise that maybe I was wrong; of course this is personal for me.

I’m doing this because frankly, I’ve been feeling quite powerless in my politics recently – and, honestly, what else can I do?

This is one thing I can do. It’s basic and maybe not a huge deal to some, but it’s putting my feet where my heart is, for the lack of a better term. I can get the runners on, put one foot in front of the other, then do it again, and again, and again. It’s a show of commitment, if nothing else. And when the tiredness kicks in, I think of those headlines and use the rage.

On International Men’s Day, won’t someone think of the fathers?

It’s been a hard year. Healthcare staff have been under immense pressure. Businesses have struggled. Many have lost loved ones, some without the chance to say goodbye. Lonely people have been lonelier and vulnerable people more vulnerable. Anxiety levels are through the roof – but worst affected by increased stress caused by the pandemic are fathers in their 30s, according to a study by Aviva Life and Pensions that was published on Tuesday.

Some will look at the survey results and worry about the plight of these poor men. Personally, I’m a little surprised that we need a survey to conclude that increased parenting responsibilities tend to add to your stress levels, and that unpaid house and caring work on top of a paid job does indeed take its toll. All over Ireland, there are mothers who could tell you that.

My husband and I struggled, too, with the home-schooling, the limitations and overall pressures of that first lockdown and six months of two primary-school age children at home. In the greater scheme of things we were luckier than many, but it was hard – probably one of the hardest things we’ve been through as a couple in years. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the research from my native Sweden, which has shown that couples are more equal and share the unpaid work more fairly after fathers spend a few months at home on parental leave. Maybe, amid all the awfulness of 2020, this would be an accidental but very welcome knock-on effect? It’s that age-old thing of not being able to unsee something once you’ve seen it. Once you’ve had a potty-training toddler on the toilet the moment you realise that you’re out of loo roll, you won’t forget to make a mental note the next time it’s close to running out.

Parents in Sweden are entitled to a total of 480 days, or 16 months, of parental leave paid at around 80% of their salary, and each parent has an exclusive right to 90 of those days. Anecdotally, friends of mine have acknowledged the difference it’s made to their relationships when their male partners have taken at least a few months of paternity leave: not only have the shared parental responsibilities become less of a burden and cause for arguments between them, but other household chores have subsequently been shared more equally as well. “It’s like he sees things now that he never saw before,” one friend told me. “I guess when I was always there, he never got a chance to really notice all these things. Now he’s got his own systems and his own ways of doing things at home.”

A report from last year, looking at all the Nordic countries, reveals as much: fathers enjoy far closer relationships with their children after extended parental leave and even feel like better fathers, and the relationship between the parents is improved and becomes more equal. But there’s more. The mothers’ careers see big benefits, including higher earnings. Their physical health improves, as does their mental wellbeing, and domestic violence becomes less prevalent. Interestingly, research has shown that the time when a couple first become parents is a good indication of how equal their relationship will be in the future; an equal share of parental leave in the first year of parenthood paves way for an equal future as partners and parents.

Things are different here in Ireland, not just in terms of policy, but culturally too. I’m not here to say that the Swedish model is perfect, nor that we should be copying it. It might be worth considering the lessons from the Nordics, though – and asking ourselves what that survey says about the reality of parenting in Ireland. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why fathers who are suddenly confined to their homes for months, along with their children, are suddenly experiencing unprecedented spikes in stress levels. Working from home while home-schooling, parenting and coping with the uncertainties of a global pandemic is stressful; it was stressful for almost everyone. But there’s a reason why it was more of a shock to the system for some than it was for others – possibly the same as the reason why our elected politicians (77.5% of whom are men) thought that it would be possible in the first place, simply assuming that parental responsibilities would magically sort themselves while we sit on Zoom meetings ignoring our children. Something tells me that they won’t rush into that kind of non-solution again. It’s that age-old thing of not being able to unsee something once you’ve seen it. There they are, in plain sight: the house chores and the responsibilities of running a home and raising a family. This International Men’s Day, I hope we can vow never to unsee them.

On how you can’t win as a feminist in a capitalist patriarchy – or, the right to choose not to play ball

I remember very clearly the first time a friend of mine, a self-professed feminist, mentioned in passing that she uses Botox. At first, I was just really surprised. Soon enough, I realised that I felt disappointed. Worse, I felt deceived. I’d thought we had an unspoken agreement, a feminist pact not to engage with the bullshit inventions of patriarchy. But she mentioned it with such poise that I quickly realised she knew something I didn’t, that I was the one being naïve. What was this slippery slope I’d missed? Were we going for labiaplasty next?

I have internal battles about shaving. I know that I’m modelling a lot of things for my sons, and if I shave my armpits, that’ll be what’s normal to them. Then I cut myself some slack, knowing that this, too, is a conversation starter. They too will face all sorts of external pressures, and talking about the things people do and why they do them is probably not a bad thing. I justify wearing make-up, if far from every day, but I’ve vowed not to discuss my weight or talk about body fat as a bad thing. I draw lines in sometimes arbitrary places, justifying them to myself as I go, knowing that perfection is a goal that would break me but that, as a feminist, I have to try.

My body, my choice. It’s a pertinent slogan, utterly non-negotiable. And yet, like I’ve argued before, choice is a funny word. I’m not alone in that shower, removing body hair; I’m enveloped by every single message I’ve ever been fed by the patriarchal capitalist world that raised me. I’m self-aware and self-critical. I know that, deep down, I wish I wouldn’t feel the need to – but I only have the energy for a certain amount of rebellion, a certain number of battles. Not all of them. Not this one. Not today.

Can you use Botox and call yourself a feminist? It’s a ridiculous question, of course. I’ve yet to meet a feminist whose every action is a feminist one, and I’d hate to live in a world where we set the bar that high for each other. We’re already scrutinised by patriarchy itself and put under immense pressure to conform to beauty norms, and then judged for trying too hard and called shallow when we care. Injecting a neurotoxic protein into your face is not a feminist thing to do – but a lot of feminists do it. Their body, their choice.

On the other hand, minimising the issue by framing it as one about choice alone is both naïve and counter-productive. We make choices about scalpels and needles because we’re forced into corners. Some are left in those corners without the means to choose. Others can afford to buy their way out but are left worse off than before, already paid less than their male equivalents before they even begin to splash out on beauty treatments to stay in the game. And those who come after us start younger and younger, playing catch-up in a culture where refusing to play ball comes at a huge cost.

The takeaway? I don’t believe in shame as a catalyst for change, but I think we need to dare to consider the connection between the individual and the structural. The question isn’t whether you can have Botox and call yourself a feminist. The question is how we can break the cycle – because if we don’t, more and more of us will feel the need to play along, inadvertently perpetuating the beauty norms that got us here in the first place.

Ultimately, it boils down to this: I don’t want the right to choose whether or not to inject Botox into my face. I don’t want to have to choose either to spend money and time on beauty rituals and treatments in order to just about scrape in as good enough, or to blatantly refuse to conform and end up an outcast. For as long as that’s the choice we’re given, we’re not all in this together.  

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***This post follows on from a Bits of Me podcast episode, in which I spoke to Gillian Roddie of @evidentiallyyou about body image, ageing and Botox. You can listen here!***

A waste of space of a man – on mammy memes and narratives of fatherhood

“Women are being edged out of the workforce,” says an article on The Lily that was doing the rounds at the beginning of the summer. In it, Aimee Rae Hannaford, a co-founder and chief executive of a Silicon Valley tech company, explains why she decided to dissolve the company and live off savings when the schools closed as a result of the pandemic, despite the fact that her son’s father was already on a career break at the time. “I can’t do it,” her husband had said. “I can’t watch him for this long.”

First, I rolled my eyes at this useless waste of space of a man. Then, I imagined the voices of Swedish feminists, asking who on earth would ever stay in a relationship with a guy like this, before going off to print T-shirts saying: DUMP YOUR BOYFRIEND. And then, I could hear Irish feminists step in: there are plenty of men like this out there, they’d argue, and they don’t exactly come with big, fat warning signs – so stop putting the blame and responsibility on the women who end up having kids with them; put the responsibility back where it belongs.

They live in different worlds, of course, the Swedish and Irish feminists. It’s not all that easy to walk away from a relationship in Ireland when you have kids, with childcare costs being what they are and most of the school system built on the assumption that there’s a parent at home on at least a part-time basis. Sweden is the country, after all, where there was talk of parents being paid 70-80% of their wages in the eventuality that the schools would be closed in response to the pandemic, which in the end they weren’t. Then again, recent research has suggested that Swedish mothers are working the equivalent of 2.5 full-time jobs – so maybe it’s not the gender equal bliss it’s painted out to be, and maybe those DUMP YOUR BOYFRIEND T-shirts aren’t selling so well.

Around the same time as the circulation of said The Lily article, Erica Djossa shared a meme on Instagram with the headline “The invisible load of motherhood: Working from home during Covid”, featuring 12 illustrations of the different kinds of challenging situations so many of us have suddenly found ourselves in.

Like added stress as a result of reduced capacity. Like constantly switching roles throughout the day. Like managing your children’s distance learning and meeting their emotional needs. And the thing went viral, as relatable memes do, and I sat there feeling… well, almost as confused as I did when reading Hannaford’s story.

I am but anecdotal evidence. I don’t expect memes to revolve around me, nor do I think that feminism works like that: that’s not my experience, so it isn’t real. I know, I KNOW. And yet, it has to be said: in the first month of lockdown, 100% of the home-schooling in this house was done by my partner, the father of my children; he does the majority of the bedtime routines at the moment, and that constant switching of roles throughout the day has been a far greater problem for him than it has for me.

And I know that there are plenty of men out there like Aimee Rae Hannaford’s husband, plenty of useless fathers who leave their partners burning the candle at both ends, spreading themselves so thin they’re only just about still there; I know this, and I get that, to their thinly spread partners, this meme is about motherhood.

Technically speaking, though, none of the 12 things listed relate specifically to motherhood. It’s called parenting. Unless we’re willing to resort to the same kind of rhetoric that calls fathers being with their children babysitting, this is parenting. Anna Whitehouse, a.k.a. Mother Pukka, summarised the same points pretty well: “The majority of men don’t just spunk and leave. Even if not living with their partner, they’re dads, parents and they aren’t ‘babysitting’, they’re raising their spaghetti hoop-encrusted child, too. It’s hard for everyone.”

So can a mother not vent anymore, is that what I’m saying? Are we not allowed to name the reality of the unfair division of emotional labour and more, which there’s plenty of research to back up? Hell, is it not our responsibility as feminists to name it, to visibilise it, to point at all this unpaid work we’re doing and the reality of what it’s doing to our mental as well as physical health, not to mention our careers and pensions?

Of course we can, and of course we should. Maybe we need more of it. And while I wish that more mothers would take this meme and stick it on the fridge and talk to their partners about it, I recognise and respect that the mother who ended up with a waste of space of a man and is now at breaking point is not going to be having that conversation with him, nor is he going to listen – and she, more than anyone, needs to be allowed to vent.

But still, I can’t get escape the feeling that the labels matter. If, when we vent, we make parenting synonymous with mothering, we’re doing everyone – not least mothers – a huge disservice. Because the thing is, if we want to change the reality of that The Lily article, we need to change the idea of what fatherhood looks like. If we want to change the fact that women are walking away from their jobs in droves because it just makes no financial sense for their higher-earning partners to quit, we need to change the notion of ‘woman’ meaning mother meaning maternity leave and sick days while ‘man’ means none of those things, ever. And if we keep labelling all the things that relate to children’s needs as motherhood, that shift just ain’t gonna happen.

And do you know what else isn’t going to happen unless we stop this stereotyping nonsense? Mothers aren’t going to stop feeling that guilt, and they’re not going to stop prioritising everyone else’s work while their own work accumulates. I’m so tired of that image of the naturally selfless, self-erasing mother in the periphery that I think I might explode – but then, sorry, that wouldn’t be very motherly of me, would it? Memes like this aren’t just relieving fathers of the duties (and joys!) of parenthood; they’re perpetuating the notion of mothers as altogether self-effacing and naturally, ceaselessly caring for everyone but themselves.

Want to see another mammy meme that made me want to scream? This one:

Just stop it. Stop telling mothers to ‘just keep going’. Stop making motherhood a competition in self-destruction. This is not what motherhood was meant to be, this relentless keeping going, putting up with stuff and burning out, and it’s certainly not what I want to teach my sons that they should expect of women.

I’m hoping that the way we are with our two sons, the conversations we’re having with them and the choices we’ve made, will make them into sensitive, caring, responsible fathers if they ever end up having kids. But I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel if they saw these memes. I wonder about the fathers-to-be who grew up with useless, absent dads and are looking to break the cycle, what’ll they take from memes like these and the many hundreds if not thousands like them.

I wonder if it would kill us, in the mammy groups, if we edited the headlines of the memes to talk about ‘the invisible load of parenthood’ instead. And in the groups that have consciously labelled themselves for ‘parents’ as opposed to ‘mothers’, if we talked about all these things we do without immediately and explicitly excluding fathers from the conversation, would the guesstimated 1.3% of members in there who are in fact dads perhaps feel a tiny bit less out of place as they try to do all these things they’ve been raised to view as women’s work? Might they even add their daddy friends to the parenting groups?

I think we can do both. I think we can name the inequalities, point to the statistics and complain about the injustice of it all and still label parenting for what it is, so that there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind: this thing is for all of us, for mothers as well as fathers. If you have a kid and you’re not trying to meet their emotional needs, you’re doing it wrong, and you’re the waste of space. That doesn’t mean that those of us who are already doing it should stop, or that we should suffer in silence – but it means that we need to leave that door wide open.

Thoughts on sharing birth stories

I’ve seen a good few comments recently about how it’s great that we can talk more openly about our birthing experiences, but how we need to make sure to also emphasise that it isn’t always like this, that some people give birth in the dreamiest of ways and ‘bounce back’ in no time.

That’s true of course, and I get why the caveat is so often added – and yet I’m uncomfortable with the way in which it’s often framed.

Why?

Because we’re not the problem. I know most of the time, that’s not what’s implied, but hear me out. The stories we share of birth trauma, obstetric violence and difficult recoveries are real, and those of us who want to talk about our experiences must be allowed to do so without being made to feel as though the expectations of every future birthing person are our responsibility.

Approximately half of all those who give birth will develop pelvic organ prolapse. About 18% of those giving birth vaginally do serious damage to the anal sphincter. Incontinence is very common. The reality is that if a person fears birth and the various things that could possibly go wrong, the way to reassure her is not to silence those who have gone before her and pretend that she’s imagining the risks and it’s all in her head. That’s gaslighting. The way to reassure her is to make sure that the necessary support and care and services are there for her, should she need them. We’re not the problem – the persistently lacking funding, research, resources and care are.

There’s a tendency in many contexts to only really be receptive to the stories of those who’ve had difficult experiences and come out the other end – stories with happy endings. We’re not all that comfortable with brokenness, and we’re not very good at holding discomfort. But if we only share our experiences once we’ve healed and figured it all out, when we can breathe a sigh of relief and aren’t forced to scrutinise the health care system in general and maternity system in particular, then nothing’s ever going to change.

We need the discomfort, because that’s what’ll trigger action. We need to listen to those willing to speak out about their experiences – not in spite of what it might do to those hoping to give birth in the future, but because of how it might help them get the care they deserve.

There’s always a caveat, of course. Mine isn’t about those who choose to share their stories, but about those who don’t. Many of those of us who were part of the campaign to repeal the eighth amendment to the Irish constitution know that speaking out can be powerful and cathartic, but that it can also come at a high price and have a retraumatising effect.

This post is not, therefore, to say that talking is better or that anyone who’s had a particularly bad experience has a responsibility to share it – not at all. It’s to say that, when someone does, we all have a responsibility not to interject with caveats but to listen. Health care practitioners and legislators, more so than the rest of us, owe us that much.

This post was first shared on the Bits of Me podcast Instagram page.

On mob rule, female rage, and the death of a Swedish star

I sang at a friend’s wedding a few years ago. The song was a Swedish classic, the main singer of which, Josefin Nilsson, died in 2016 after years of pain, anxiety, health complications and surgery following a violently abusive relationship back in the ‘90s – I just didn’t know that at the time.

Last week, to coincide with what should’ve been the singer’s 50th birthday, a documentary produced by the Swedish national broadcaster SVT was released. In it, her sister, best friend and band mate, along with a number of other illustrious Swedish musicians and actors, talk about her, her life and the fears the struggled with. The abuse she suffered is covered in detail, but the man who abused her – a famous Swedish actor – remains unnamed.

A couple of days after the documentary went online, a candle-lit vigil was held outside Dramaten, Stockholm’s Royal Dramatic Theatre, the state-funded place of work of the unnamed abuser, in memory of Josefin and in protest of her abuser’s continued employment at the theatre.

And soon enough, it was dubbed a lynch mob.

As a Swede abroad, initially without access to the documentary, I mostly followed the unravelling of all this through Instagram and the accounts of various more-or-less established feminist voices. And yes – they were angry. They were furious after watching the documentary and realising what Josefin had been through, knowing that her abuser had been convicted of assault, breach of restraining order and more – but released on probation. Their fury took many different expressions: some shared their own experiences of domestic abuse; others took it upon themselves to share, anonymously, the stories of those still too afraid to speak out; some wrote blog posts and opinion pieces, sharing statistics and calling for stricter sentencing; others complained to the theatre.

Some named the abuser – and thus came the verdict: lynch mob.

What does ‘lynch mob’ mean? ‘A lynch mob is an angry crowd of people who want to kill someone without a trial, because they believe that person has committed a crime,’ goes one definition. And sure enough, these people knew the famous actor had committed a crime – but no one was trying to kill him. ‘You can refer to a group of people as a lynch mob if they are very angry with someone because they believe that person has done something bad or wrong,’ goes another definition, and at this point, it starts to make sense.You can bet your life these people were very angry, and you can bet they thought he’d done something wrong. It’s no secret that he’d thrown Josefin into a wall with such force that the wall collapsed, and that he’d threatened to kill her, kicked her so badly that her spine started to rot and she required repeated surgery.

So that’s what a lynch mob is now: peaceful, justified anger?

Or perhaps the expression was merely used to invalidate the anger, to shut down the criticism and restore the peace?

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I’ve been thinking a lot about rage lately. I carry it around – sometimes simmering and undefined, other times clear and, to me, entirely sensible. For many women, this rage has had a natural outlet in recent years thanks to the global #metoo movement, the abortion rights movement here in Ireland, and a number of other movements and platforms for feminist mobilisation and organising – but justified though that rage may seem, we are continuously told that we should tone it down. We’re coming across as just a bit hysterical.

Mind you, no one’s telling the famous, Swedish actor to calm down. He’s served his sentence. Moreover, he’s a respected artist.

Swedish feminist author and doctor of economics Nina Åkestam spoke about anger in a podcast interview I listened to recently, where she discussed the various ‘traps’ she thinks feminists tend to keep falling into these days, as presented in her recent book Feministfällan (‘The Feminist Trap’). In looking at what she defines as ‘the emotional trap’, she argues that while it’s understandable and natural to be angry, acting out the anger won’t get us anywhere – and feminism is nothing if we can’t successfully affect change. In conversation with sceptics, she explains, acting outraged about their ignorance is not exactly going to get them to let their guard down; you need to listen to people if you want them to listen to you, and you need to ask intelligent but kind questions if you really want them to start asking some questions for themselves.

There’s very little arguing with her logic here; I’ve yet to shout someone into identifying as a feminist. And still, a part of me wonders what kind of equality we’ll end up with if the methods that take us there require us to play by the rules of a system that insists on viewing us as two-dimensional characters to be managed and controlled, as people the real feelings of whom are scary and offensive. All around us, we see womanhood defined by caring kindness and soft selflessness, while men are depicted as hard, cold and, indeed, sometimes angry.

But isn’t rage a fundamentally feminine disposition in our modern, patriarchal world? I look at my friends, women past their mid-30s, trying to contain themselves as these progressively stubborn waves of frustration and ire arise inside. For most, it seems, this is increasingly what being a woman feels like: a negotiation with fury in a world that deifies the notion of the rational man. But rage as enveloped in womanhood isn’t aggressive or dangerous: we’re naming abusers and building human walls, not breaking people’s spines. This anger is dynamic and productive – not controlling, manipulative and murderous. ‘Lynch mob’ not only gets it wrong; it fundamentally underestimates it.

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‘Why didn’t she leave him?’, we often hear in response to stories of domestic violence. ‘Why didn’t she just walk away?’

Of course, Josefin did walk away. She even dragged him through court – but she died anyway. It wasn’t his fists that became the final straw, but her pain and suffering started with him. The loss of her hair and her confidence, the morphine and confusion, the physical injuries and relentless fear – she never escaped them after his work was done. As for the actor, he was put centre stage at the country’s national theatre, celebrated as a gifted artist – complex and unpredictable, sure, but isn’t that what male artists are like?

Those who talk about a lynch mob say that we live in a democracy, and we are nothing unless we trust that democracy. By naming this abuser, they say, we cross that line into mob rule, a situation where no one is safe. He has served his sentence, they say – except of course in the end he didn’t.

I wonder what they think democracy means. I wonder how they think of the rule of law. If 20% of women are abused in their home by a partner at some point in their lifetime, and there is less than a 1% chance that the perpetrator is convicted – are we to sit and cry nicely in silence? And if public funds put abusers on stage, if we must be quiet to protect their future lives and careers, can the judicial system really claim to be just at all?

If we are serious about ending men’s violence against women, we have to stop pretending that the form of abuse he subjected her to can be brushed under the rug as a number of drunken mishaps. We have to stop getting hung up on the details of just how directly or indirectly the abuse contributed to her death, and we have to stop pretending that Josefin’s experience was one of a democratic society with a fair judicial system. It is true that his name is irrelevant. He is just one of many men, and he shouldn’t be in the spotlight here – but that’s exactly the point: he is, on Sweden’s much cherished national stage for theatre. Structuralist analysis in all its glory; if it’s so blind to individuals that you can all but murder a woman and still remain a national treasure, it is pointless.

They keep asking why she didn’t leave him. But where was she supposed to go? Into the arms of a society that cherished and protected him? Perhaps it’s time we start asking why we, as a society, don’t leave. Perhaps it’s time we start to turn our backs on abusers, kick them out of our offices, stop inviting them to our parties, tell them our theatres are not for them, and walk away.