One of my fondest imaginings of my mother, Susanna, is of her marching down the high street in a pair of clunky Dr. Martin boots and a whimsy floral dress, with her yellow hair wild down her back. Another story I’ve been told is how she once dyed her hair one-half red, one-half green when she was around fifteen. As I discovered my independent sense of style during my teenage years, I was inspired on a foundation level by my mother’s don’t-give-a-damn attitude. I chose not to give a damn either, and despite the natural self-consciousness of being a young person, especially having crushes and relationships, I wore things that made me feel the happiest I could be in my own body and communicated exactly who I felt I was. I didn’t listen to pressure and actually looked like the odd one out a lot of the time.
Yes, yes, I know – floods, Nazis, everything is terrible right now. But you’d be forgiven for not being entirely in the loop; as I’m sure you all know, there’s been a recent major international event that’s been permeating our consciousness.
Congrats! Your 24 year old self just graduated medical school and is about to start work. As a doctor. A real one in a hospital and everything. You’ll make it. Pretty soon, you’ll figure out that it’s just beginning, and that there’s a whole minefield of a world outside medical school, but that’s future us problem.
If I recall correctly, little baby 19-year-old Sarah in her lame band t shirts and lack of lipstick (that’ll change SOON) was spending the summer of 2012 panicking; what if you don’t get the grades to get into med school *again? What if you get in and immediately flunk out? You’ll read a blog called “The Secrets of Peninsula,” and freak the fuck out – what kind of medical school makes first years sit 5th year exams four times a year?
You’re sitting at your desk, doing paperwork; you’ve spent the entire morning editing the margins, perfecting the font – none of that Arial size 10 bullshit for you, you’ve gone for deluxe fonts. Instead of a plain black font, you’ve one upped yourself and gone for dark, dark, dark, dark grey. The difference is barely noticeable but you know. Oh, boy do you know. You’ve decided to print it on the fancy paper that’s normally reserved for special events. Sure, the finance department will probably yell at you again for wasting resources and money, and apparently, the company is nearly ~broke,~ but you don’t care – this report is worth it. You are worth it.
(The report in question is the weekly update for Linda in HR but it doesn’t matter. This report is too dang valuable for stupid Linda and her stupid bangs that she won’t shut up about. Shut up Linda)
We’re officially in June, and even though we’ve been busy with Boshemia magazine (available soon online and at select retailers), it’s time to talk about the elephant in the room.
I’ve started using new hair products, and nobody has noticed my impeccable curl.
JK we’re going to talk about the election. I’d rather talk about my hair too. Here we go.
Honestly I’ve been putting off election talk because it’s always so exhausting! We’ve just had to deal with the disappointment of Brexit, only for our collective eyes to turn to the State’s shocking election fuck ups. The recent French results were a relief, but good god I’m tired! But no, we’re back at it. The busses are at full swing, we’re getting campaign letters through the mail and every single UK reader of this blog (and every blog) has registered to vote. Right? Right?
Boshemia are proud to present a new periodical series titled “Raising a Feminist”, from regular guest writer and US Boshemia babe Elisha. We’ll hand over and let her introduce herself and her gorgeous daughter.
When I first started on my path of motherhood I was clueless.
Real talk: I was under the personal fable that even though I had no idea what I was doing with my life, somehow the love that I had for the life growing within me would be enough. Though I knew that, scientifically, what was growing inside of me was little more than a bundle of cells, Ryenne was already a person to me in mind and spirit, a life which needed to be intertwined with mine. All my confusion was veiled with the endearing, rose-coloured tint that my pregnancy and the hopeful anticipation of this amazing human had cast upon my life. Realistically, I knew very little about myself or who I wanted to be, but I ardently felt (and still feel) that I could wield a metaphorical scythe which would clear away the brambles of our difficult world for this little being; forging a path which could make Ryenne a better person than I could ever have dreamed to be. In this new age of parenting, we are finding this often: parents whose aim is to create a generation free of the binds that have previously tied us. These binds which cause discrimination against us for race, gender, sexuality, religion or lack thereof, unconventional physical and mental abilities: all the demarcations which make misguided minds very uncomfortable, but over which we have no control. We are parents whose goal is to raise a generation of trauma-free individuals with the capability to surpass the pitfalls of the society in which we were raised. We are Feminist parents, Progressive Parents, Modern Families.