My Name

My name? Please, I have identity issues.

If you were looking for AA, it’s down the hall to your right. This is a member’s only club.

So secret, so exclusive in fact that it’s just you, alone. Screaming at the voices in your head that plague you at night.

Maybe you’re crazy. You’ve considered this a lot. At least it would provide some kind of diagnosable, explainable explanation for what you’re going through.

What are you going through? You haven’t even been able to put it into words until now. Besides, who would believe you? You’d only become another attention seeking whore that instagrams her new ‘stay strong’ tattoo.

Staying strong. I write about strength a lot- #BlackLivesMatter, fuck your body standards, I’m the poster girl for I don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think. But I do. I care who you think I am, because me, myself and I have no idea.

I haven’t the faintest clue how to be black or to be white, I remain in the dark. Neither side can see me but I’m sure they talk in a language I cannot understand. So I’m allowed to have braids but I’m not allowed to talk about black people being gunned down in the street? Is that what you’re saying?

But there I am. In the middle of nightclub, in the peak of 12am vodka flavoured sweat. I am the lightskin girl from the hip hop music video. I your black girl without any of the trouble. I am sexy and exotic, and I don’t have a mind of my own because all the body mass has gone to my butt, which I use to twerk with. Maybe I am the girl of your dreams but you don’t want a relationship with me. I’m far too dangerous.

So I cry. I eat chocolate. I watch rom coms even though I don’t understand them because I’m frantically searching for a woman I can associate with. So I eat more until I feel disgusted with myself. I look in the mirror and I can no longer see the light between my eyes but the gap between my thighs and I’m in love with it. So I run for miles until I think I might throw up. And then I do throw up later, the chocolate cake that I ate in a moment of weakness.

In my weakness I become lazy, and solve this by scrolling through Instagram. I am swamped by the same images of skinny white girls dancing like they’re twenty two that they have now become transparent. I no longer care. I watch Formation and see Beyonce and Serena Williams, and they don’t have thigh gaps and they seem happy. Free. Woke. For a minute, I think that I can be happy too. And then I remind myself that I am the lightskin girl in the hip hop music video with the coke bottle figure, and I cannot break from character. I’d be out of a job.

So I run further, and then I see Alicia Keys preaching natural beauty and I stop. I see a black guy leering at my ass in the club and I start running again. Then I see two black men getting gunned down by police officers in the space of one week and I can take it no more I cannot breathe and I collapse.

Look what you’ve done to me.

What are you going to say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me?

Here lies the body of the love of my life whose heart I broke without a gun to my head.

Here lies the mother of my children, both living and dead.

Rest in peace my true love, who I took for granted, most bomb pussy;

Who because of me, sleep evaded;

Her shroud is loneliness, her God was listening

Her heaven will be a love without betrayal

Ashes to ashes; dust to side chicks. 

Best Vegan Hair Conditioners for Natural Hair

Since making my own hair conditioners, I’ve noticed the lack of vegan ingredients that are promoted on websites to repair dry and damaged natural hair. I’m not personally a fully-fledged vegan, but I do try and use as few animal products as possible, and many people forget that the vegan lifestyle still translates into things like clothes, make-up and hair products (yes, even some wines are a no-no.)

The majority of DIY hair conditioners contain honey, yoghurt, or egg, which; whilst great as a source of protein, are not so great for vegans.

So, I’ve done some experimenting and found some of the best vegan ingredients to use for DIY hair conditioners that will still leave your hair strong, shiny and egg free.

1.    Coconut Oil

This was single handedly the biggest trend last year, falling shortly behind the sacred avocado, and people were slathering it on everything. My hair is in love with coconut oil, and I buy it by the bucketload. Rich in vitamins and minerals, coconut oil moisturises dry hair and stimulates hair growth by penetrating deep into the hair follicles. It can also prevent hair breakage, which is a massive problem if you’re a fellow transitioner

2. Shea Butter

Shea is produced from the Shea-Karite tree nut, a native tree found in the tropics of East and West Africa. It’s known for its healing qualities, and can be used to sooth irritated scalps, act as a shield against UV rays and protect against heat. Use it alone or add it to your favourite (vegan) conditioner to give you extra moisture.

3. Olive Oil 

Sure you’re more used to cooking your Friday night fajitas with it, but save a little for the TLC of your tresses. It can help with split ends and dry hair. It’s found in a lot of conditioners, such as Organic Root Stimulator brands, but these tend to come with a lot of added chemicals that your hair just doesn’t need, so I usually add it to my coconut oil mixture to give my hair that added shine.

  4. Avocados 

There really is no getting away from this wonder fruit. As well as being rich in oils that help moisturise the hair, it is also full of amino acids, essential for promoting strong, healthy hair growth. Just make sure you whizz it in a blender first to avoid sticking chunks of avocado on your head.

5. LUSH LUSH LUSH

I cannot stress the wonders of lush products enough, and their hair conditioners and masks are all vegetarian, although only around 80% of their products are vegan. My favourite product for curly and afro hair is their (vegan) R & B hair conditioner. Scrunch a little in your hair after washing for added moisture and defined curls. This product is rather pricy though at £10 for a tiny pot, and Lush seem to really underestimate how much product curly haired girls get through! Use sparingly. 

A Polite Notice to My Seminar Leader

I am a student. I am one of many students, but I am a student in your seminar group. As a student I am generally meant to complete the work required and engage in discussion. As a teacher, you are meant to respond to such hard work with either points for improvement or encouraging gold stars.

I have been in the education system for a long time. I know how it works, even if I am quite disappointed they don’t give out stickers for hard work anymore.

In order for this relationship to be successful, we have to fulfil both of our roles. After that, I can go out on a bender and you can complain about me to your wife in front of Coronation Street, whatever, who cares.

But this relationship is crumbling like my much thumbed Dickens, who I don’t even like, by the way. 

Recently, I’ve noticed certain behaviours and body language, subtle things that are perhaps less noticeable than a pin dropping. It may just be an eye roll, or a shaking of the head, it is by no means obvious. But then again, I suppose institutional racism never is.

Yes, I said the R word; which I know we don’t talk about in our seminars unless in discussion of slavery obviously because that’s the only thing black people are worth going down in history for.

Institutional racism is not a criticism of you as an individual or anyone else for that matter, it is purely a collective societal issue, so I’d like to clear that up before the university union jumps on me about playing the “race card.”  I try and avoid using the terms “racism” or “prejudice” in my everyday life where their usage is not warranted. I genuinely believe that the society in which we share is overall a liberal and accepting one, so it’s taking an awful lot for me to say this.

For a long while, I thought I was the problem; maybe the points I made in seminars were redundant, or perhaps I didn’t articulate them very well. I had started writing down my points before I said them aloud them, so they were word perfect when I did. At best, you always challenge or ridicule my points. I am used to this as a lot of people disagree with me. In fact, I’d prefer it if you did disagree with me. Better that than the usual, when what I say is not even deserving of a response from you. I’m sure you can understand how discouraging this is for someone who is just trying to learn.

This would be fine if this was your general attitude to teaching. I know a lot of teachers who go into the profession because they had nothing better to do, and their parents would no longer support their “writing” career. But you talk about teaching passionately, and most of my fellow students get a “that’s a really well articulated point,” or even a “I’m not sure I agree, but I’d love you to explain further,” even if that point is as blatantly obvious as the sky being blue (which is a really deep and meaningful metaphor, by the way.)

With all due respect, one student spends the entire seminar duration on her phone, and every other word that comes out of another student’s mouth is “like.” I’m starting to believe less and less that it is my academic abilities are the problem here.

I understand I don’t look like your stereotypical English Literature student. I have an unruly afro. I don’t have an affinity for A-line dresses. I probably have more to say about Kanye West than I do about Robert Browning. The demographics in my English Literature course are startlingly disproportionate- most of them are white females. This is what you think of when you think of a “good” English Literature student.

But I regret to inform you that I refuse to sit at the back of the class and take prejudice anymore. I am sick of the mixed looks of surprise and speechlessness when I actually made a half-arsed point; and then disgust because I went against your expectations. I am exhausted of frankly, having to work harder than most simply to break through the barrier of prejudice that seems to keep erecting itself just when you think it has been knocked down. I am bored of my opinion only mattering when it comes to issues of race, because yeah, I was there, I must know all about the slave experience.

But I will thank you, and every other figure in a position of authority that has treated me with such prejudicial discontent. In an ideal world, we shouldn’t judge people by their appearance, or what we think we know about them. We shouldn’t assume that Asians are only built to study maths or economics, and we shouldn’t, even in our darkest prejudices, think that black students; and other students of ethnic minorities, only got their place to fill a diversity quota.

And I confess that I am writing this more quickly than I wrote my essay for your module, but this is something that needs to be said- for every student that has felt, and still feels, like old and tired stereotypes are what’s stopping them from being themselves and achieving everything they have potential to achieve and beyond. This is for every student who refuses to let their societal identity define who they are and what they are capable of.

I am not a tickbox on a form. I am not your expectations. But I truly hope that one day I’ll be able to prove you wrong.  

So, I know I've been quieter than Lindsay Lohan's career, but I am back by popular demand. I've got a couple of exciting projects lined up for this old thing, so keep your eyes peeled. I'd like to say they are very carefully planned projects, but recently, I've realised planning in advance never works out. Thank you for reading and for keeping on reading, you guys are the best. x 

How To #25: How To Love Yourself

Justin Bieber is perhaps smarter than we give him credit for- and it's high time we took his advice to LOVE YOURSELF. Don't pretend you didn't sing that out loud.

Stepping away from the comfort of my keyboard, the smart arses among you will notice that this blog post is in video format. Two points for you, you go Glen Coco.

I'm about as natural in front of the camera as Donald Trump is in front of Muslims, but I thought I'd try something new.

Please excuse my exaggerated hand gestures and general appearance. Also the editing is really lame; I used a free editing programme and the background music sounds like the opening titles of a Pixar film, but if all goes well, I promise I'll do better next time. If it doesn't- well, that's four minutes of your life you'll never get back.

The idea is that alongside my blog, I'll have a snapchat you can follow and watch my weekly topical videos and daily antics.

So without further ado, roll the titles.

Let's Talk About...Feminism: Confessions of a Bad Feminist

To define a ‘bad feminist,’ I guess we’d have to know the definition of a good one- but I’m not entirely sure what that is.

I’ve never questioned what kind of feminist I am; I just know that I am one, whatever that entailed. That was until, when procrastinating mid-way through an essay that was never going to happen; I came across a Ted Talk by writer Roxane Gay, talking about what it meant to be a ‘bad feminist.’

Dubbing herself a ‘bad feminist,’ she was making a joke, acknowledging that she couldn’t possibly live up to the demands for perfection of the feminist movement.

"I am a bad feminist. I am a good woman-" Roxane Gay. Photograph: TedTalks 

This was a refreshing take on a much resuscitated topic. From all the feminist speeches I’ve watched, forced to by my all too liberal English teacher or otherwise, I’m pretty sure I could cram ‘feminism’ into a vagina shaped nutshell, because feminism is provocative like that. It hasn’t always sat well with me how seriously feminism can be taken. The only time you can laugh as a feminist is at men, and occasionally, at other women, as if to reaffirm one’s feminist status.

Gay was a breath of fresh air into a room that had been hot and stuffy for way too long. She gave zero fucks about confessing her love for rap music, despite the often less than poetic lyrics, and her hatred of what she called ‘man’s work,’ including ‘bug killing, trash removal, lawn centre, and vehicle maintenance.’ ‘I want no part of that,’ she declared proudly. Had I not been in a public library at the time, I would have jumped out of my seat with a sassy ‘YOU GO GIRL!’

Her confessions about being a ‘bad feminist,’ made me confident enough to share a little something-something about myself. So, last call, does anyone have anything they’d like to confess? Because I do:

Feminism will not stop me loving Hip Hop, despite the eye rolls from my friends accompanied with ‘how can you listen to this trash?’ I will be singing ‘baby girl you’re so damn fine though, I’d like to know if I can hit it from behind though’ * ALL DAY.

Feminism will not stop me from wearing my tightest skirt and cutest bralet on a night out, or liking compliments from men and women when I do.

Feminism will not stop me from kissing, sexting, sleeping with, canoodle-doodling with whoever I please, without the fear of being labelled a ‘slut’ by women who preach about their female solidarity and ‘squad goals.’

But, feminism will stop me from judging other women for their life choices; it will stop me from writing for publications which, although would further my career, continually degrade women, and it will stop me valuing myself according to how I am viewed by men.

And if that makes me a bad feminist, I couldn’t be prouder.

*Alas, not my own lyrical genius, but taken from Fetty Wap's '679,' for the lesser gangsters among us.

Watch Roxane Gay's TedTalk here

A final word...

This is part of a new series where I talk about stuff that no one likes to talk about, so I will. The first topic is feminism, and next week I'll be investigating the problems with modern day feminism. Hopefully I'll think of a catchier name by then, but in that unlikely event, I hope you stay tuned anyway. 

Love Georgia 

  

How It Feels to Always Fall for the Bad Guy

You know the type. If you don’t, you either are one, or you’re hopelessly in love with one and are just on a downward spiral of denial.

I’m not one to put people in boxes, but the guys I’m referring to practically stick themselves in their own box, complete with a bow that they’ll tell you they got from Clinton’s, but was actually the first thing they picked up in poundland.

This is not a guy hating rampage; there are good guys out there, I just avoid them because it’s not what I’m attracted to. I’m a sucker for the guy that I know is going to break my heart, but I do it anyway because of the sick rush I get from chasing something that’s ultimately unattainable. Some people go on roller coasters or rob banks to get their kicks, I chase the bad guys. And not in the superman save-the-world-and-get-the-girl kind of way.

These guys have no one ‘look’ or ‘type.’ It is a common misconception that these guys come in the shape of ‘lads,’ who typically wear super-skinny-I-can-see-your-crotch jeans and bang on about cheeky Nandos and you know, banging. Alas, jeans and your choice of restaurant chain does not entirely determine your personality (although if you favour Nandos over Wagamamas, get out.) Even the guy who is an environmentalist vegan and reads you poetry could be a serial heartbreaker.

In an effort to remain gender neutral, I should also mention that the same goes for girls; the bad egg could be anyone. If you want to know what a “good girl” looks like, ask Drake, he seems to know a lot.

Anyway, I’m a girl who has only ever been with guys; of the bad kind. And if you’ve ever wanted to know if it’s all it’s cracked up to be, or want to relive the painful experience(s) again, this is how it feels.

At first, it’s exhilarating. The guy that is at the top of everyone’s secret wish list is interested in you. You. The girl that talks to her cat in her spare time and takes “Netflix and chill” literally. In the *old days,* he would have asked for your number at the school disco, but in the age where romance appears to be dead (R.I.P the 00’s,) he will register his interest in you by strategically liking your Instagram photos. What you subconsciously know but deny is that he probably likes other girl’s instagram photos because you know, a guy’s got to keep his options open.

"It's like winning the lottery and then realising that everything you thought you wanted doesn't actually buy you happiness."

If he’s an idiot, chances are he has a well-known reputation. If he’s clever enough to cover it up, it will be a delightful surprise later down the line. By this point, your best friend, your mother, even the postman will be telling you to stay away- and this will probably be the best advice you’ve ever been given, but never took. You convince yourself that this time will be different; that he’s not as bad as everyone says; and however cliché it sounds, you try but fail to “change him.”

You keep going along with it because it’s exciting, and you tell yourself that no other guy will like you again if you let him go. It’s like winning the lottery and then realising that everything you thought you wanted doesn’t actually buy you happiness. When it’s good, it’s really good. When it’s bad, it’s really bad. You become insecure and try your hardest not to piss him off, but arguments are inevitable. You feel you can relate to pretty much every Taylor Swift song by now, and before long you go all Blank Space psycho-bitch crazy over the girl in his snapchat story (who he tells you is his second cousin twice removed.)

You’ll hang on for dear life, for as long as possible. If you’re lucky, things will run their course and fizzle out. If you’re not so lucky (which, let’s face it, if you’ve made it this far, misfortune catches up to you like the plague), things will end with a bang when you prayed for a whimper. He’ll cheat, you’ll end it out of psychological torment, or pray to God, you’ll find someone better.

It’ll hurt like hell. You’ll want to get fat, watch Netflix and hide out in your bed until the end of days. You’ll think of calling him (or sending him a strategic totally accidental snapchat,) but think better of it; until you finish a bottle of wine, that is.

Everyone is thinking I told you so, but no one will say that to your face out of fear you might overdose on malteasers and pringles.

But one day you’ll find clarity. One day, you’ll wake up and realise how beautiful the day that awaits you is. You’ll appreciate your family and friends and realise that you have been loved all this time. You’ll realise how much time you wasted on someone who didn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. You’ll realise how great it is to be single because you can get fat and not shave and no one will care.

Everything will turn out okay, and you’ll come to realise that you’re happier on your own than you ever were with them…until the next one comes along. 

Reading Between the Likes

I reedited my Instagram posts with honest captions; but it didn't make me feel any better. 

The world went into hysteria and started to question everything this week when Instagram star, Essena O’Neill (nope, no idea either) decided to quit social media.

I’m not going to narrate the entire 17 minute video she posted explaining why she did it, but the general gist was because “none of it is real.” Groundbreaking stuff.

She started to edit her carefully constructed Instagram pictures with honest captions. One of her lying on a sunbed (as we all do of a Thursday morning) reads: …”Stomach sucked in, strategic pose, pushed up boobs.”

In the mood to try an experiment, but also because it was far more enticing than the degree I’m paying £9,000 a year for, I edited the captions of some of my Instagram posts, explaining what was really going on there.

Here are some of the results, but if you want to see more, you’ll have to follow me on Instagram (SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION)

"Pretty in Pink, whitewashing my instagram pictures."

"I took longer trying to take this picture than I spent at the entire Holi festival." 

I posted this picture because my legs looked skinny from this angle." 

It was liberating…for all of five minutes. After the eight caption edit, I’d already felt I’d revealed too much about myself to a world I didn’t even really know.

And I guess that’s the point of social media. It’s not real. It’s an imaginary place where we can display our best selves. In a counter culture society that’s always complaining that we give too much of ourselves on social media, I don’t think this could be further from the truth; we’re actually holding back; and the pictures and tweets etc. that we post on social media are never entirely public and unexposed, because there’s no way of knowing the thoughts, motivations and emotions of the individual doing the posting.

Perhaps social media is more private than we think, after all. 

Seriously though, hit me up on Instagram: @georgiaecha