I've been wondering a lot lately about how influenced we are by where we are and the things that happen to us throughout our lives.
It's the old Nature or Nurture debate. I know people who are crazy smart, really intelligent people and it's a curveball for the family. Their cleverness is out of the ordinary, unusual; but they've had a good education. One point for team Nurture. There are also people whose parents are highly intelligent and they, well, aren't. They struggled, and have never reached the bar their family set high. Point two for team Nurture.
Whenever the Nature/Nurture debate is discussed, the idea of adoption is always brought up. What if a genetically intelligent child was raised in an environment with less opportunities? What if a child with a poor genetic disposition were to be given a fantastic upbringing and allowed to thrive? What if, indeed?
Well, I have a personal example. I have always been fairly bright and when time came to go to Secondary School (at age 11 to non-Brits) I managed to do well enough in my exams to be put into the top class for everything except maths, my one weak point (excluding P.E... Let's not talk about P.E.) There wasn't a huge difference between my marks, until it came to the first year of our GCSES (age 14) when we got a maths teacher who had no control over a class that included a couple of particularly unruly troublemakers.
By the end of the year my marks were hovering around a D (shocking for me, I wasn't a straight-A student, but I got a few, smattered around the Bs and Cs) as I had barely learnt anything in a year; except how to make paper aeroplanes while the teacher shouted at the popular kids who laughed in his face. He took a long leave of absence and we finished the year with supply teachers.
Then, luckily, we got a new teacher for our last year. I pulled my socks up and took advantage of the after school catch up sessions she ran and by putting in two hours each week, I slowly dragged my marks up. My parents saw how hard I was trying and managed to find a private tutor who didn't charge too much to give me one hour a week. My problem was that whilst I could get my head around the method, as soon as I left the class it would all trickle away like water through a sieve. I just could not retain it. But thanks to all the hard work I put in, I improved so much that my school teacher thought I had cheated on my coursework.
My dad is an incredibly intelligent man but not academic. His brain constantly amazes me with his grasp of science and mechanics and maths. But despite all his help, despite the private tutor and the after-school catch-up lessons, I am still not good at maths. It is simply not in my nature and no matter how much I tried, no matter how much help I had, no matter how much maths was nurtured, my brain is simply not built that way. Point one for Team Nature.
Another point for Team Nature is my sister. My grandfather, who died before I was born, was very gifted with art and with animals. My mother inherited his artistic ability and my sister and I are both very creative, although whether this is nature or nurture is arguable as we were definitely raised with art and creativity.
We weren't raised with animals, my parents had had pets and now they had children and didn't need anything else making mess that they would have to clean up. So no matter how much we begged, the most pets we were allowed was a pair of gerbils. My mum turned the garden into a haven for wild animals and she is still fascinated with watching the birds that visit our feeders but she watches from afar, she doesn't need to get up close and personal.
So now, I'm not much of an animal-person. I think they are adorable and wonderful but also a lot of work. At uni a friend was writing a dissertation on something genetic and kept fish that were occasionally sacrificed to science as humanely as possible. When we graduated, she offered me the remaining fish (knowing how much I adored them) and I gave them a loving new home. I went off the fish after they started eating each other. Nature is kind of a bitch.
My sister is animal-mad. She discovered horse-riding in her teens and you could barely pry her away from the stables where she volunteered, mucking out the horses for hours on end, grooming them and exercising them. Now she has her own house, it is a veritable managerie. She has a dog, two cats, a rabbit, a mouse, two gerbils, three hamsters and an enormous fish tank. She would have chickens if she were allowed and the only reason she hasn't got anymore animals is that she literally has nowhere else to put any.
According to family members who actually knew him, she is very like our grandfather. She is an animal-whisperer, she has a way with them and they just respond to her in a way they never have to me. So that's point two to Team Nature. Even skipping a generation, being raised without any familial influence or encouragment, without many animals and even fewer pets, she still inherited his gift with animals.
I think nature and nurture are so inextricably linked that there are only a few circumstances that we can view them like this, weighing up their influences and imagining what difference they have made or haven't made. But it is only imagining. We can never know what would have happened otherwise.
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Patience... It's a virtue.
Whenever my impatient boyfriend is being particularly impatient, I like to remind him that patience is indeed a virtue and one that he might like to work on a bit. Generally, this does not receive a response that is what you would call open to the suggestion. But it doesn't tend to lead to an argument either as he knows me well enough to know that it is a virtue I wish I had.
I am not, shall we say, overly blessed with patience.
And judging by the people I know who are also in their twenties, and some in their thirties, I suspect it may be a generational issue.
There was Generation X, followed by Generation Y, there has also been the MTV generation which I'll come back to but now we have what I call the iGeneration. A play on the prevalence of apple's branding style whilst also highlighting the self-centred aspect of young citizens.
Perhaps I am being a little harsh on my generation. After all, I gained my current job through volunteering, as did my teenage coworker. I care about other people and global issues; so if I do, surely there are others who do too?
So, the MTV generation (as I understand the theory anway) are so called because having watched MTV videos, people became used to flashing lights and absorbing information that was up on the screen in shorter and shorter times. Add in video games and subliminal messaging through embedding split-seconds of images within movies or adverts so that we aren't even aware we've seen the image but somehow our brains register it; our brains are working faster than we ever imagined.
We live in a society that has grown up with this, with broadband internet and fastfood restaurants. We have power tools to take the work out of DIY and cars to speed from home to work, from meeting to meeting, from work to home without losing time on travelling. We can pay someone to fix those cars or clean our houses or tend our gardens, or maybe just once in a while deliver our dinner to our doors.
We try to fit so many things into our modern lives; we can have it all, career, family, friends, hobbies, studying, holidays. And there's no reason at all why we shouldn't do it all, there are endless possibilities for us to make the most of. So where's the problem? In a world where everything is built for convenience and speed, time has become a luxury.
Time, for me at least, is the reason I can't do all the things I want to do, read all the books I want to read or do all the hobbies I want to; the reason I can't work on all the skills I want to improve or learn.
So is it any wonder that young people seem to be more and more impatient the younger they get? Sure, it takes time to learn to be patient; it's a skill children often have difficulty mastering, but I'm not so sure that we really try to learn patience anymore.
Before I even turned 18, I had several banks sending me offers for credit cards and loans. The attitude of 'buy it now, pay later' is incredibly prevalent in our society and with relaxing morals surrounding borrowing because let's face it, there are things normal (read: working/middle class) people simply cannot do without borrowing such as going to university or buying a house, there isn't much of a case for why you should wait to buy that pair of shoes/car/computer/expensive outfit.
So, as we become more and more used to everything pandering to our convenience, pausing live TV, websites making things available 24 hours a day, getting things when we want them whether we can afford them or not; how can we expect this not to have a knock-on effect on the rest of our lives?
For me, this is a particular problem as I am in a long-distance relationship. After five years together, the last two of which we have lived in different towns, I am getting rather impatient. I don't want to have to wait to see him, I don't want to have to save all the tiny things that I want to tell him until both of us have dealt with the day-to-day bits of our lives and can actually talk to each other.
Half the time we do speak, we don't have a proper conversation, just a flying 'hello, how are you doing, what have you been up to, love you' as we rush from errand to chore or work to home. We have to make the time to have a real chat and bond; which is, I imagine how it works for everyone around the world in any relationship.
But I know for a fact it is much easier to have discussions about touchy subjects or to find five minutes here for a chat, half an hour there to chill out on the sofa together, to just be together, when living near each other. When you love someone you just want to be with them and conducting a long-distance relationship flies directly in the face of this. Does the fact that we have maintained our relationship mean that I have learned patience? Or does it mean that we care about each other and have therefore put in the work to make time and be understanding of each other? I don't think I'm more patient, just that I've accepted that you can't always have everything in life, let alone when you want it. Which, of course, I always knew; I just have yet more experience of living with it.
So when my boyfriend is being impatient, I shall continue to remind him that patience is a virtue. And I'll remind myself every now and again too...
I am not, shall we say, overly blessed with patience.
And judging by the people I know who are also in their twenties, and some in their thirties, I suspect it may be a generational issue.
There was Generation X, followed by Generation Y, there has also been the MTV generation which I'll come back to but now we have what I call the iGeneration. A play on the prevalence of apple's branding style whilst also highlighting the self-centred aspect of young citizens.
Perhaps I am being a little harsh on my generation. After all, I gained my current job through volunteering, as did my teenage coworker. I care about other people and global issues; so if I do, surely there are others who do too?
So, the MTV generation (as I understand the theory anway) are so called because having watched MTV videos, people became used to flashing lights and absorbing information that was up on the screen in shorter and shorter times. Add in video games and subliminal messaging through embedding split-seconds of images within movies or adverts so that we aren't even aware we've seen the image but somehow our brains register it; our brains are working faster than we ever imagined.
We live in a society that has grown up with this, with broadband internet and fastfood restaurants. We have power tools to take the work out of DIY and cars to speed from home to work, from meeting to meeting, from work to home without losing time on travelling. We can pay someone to fix those cars or clean our houses or tend our gardens, or maybe just once in a while deliver our dinner to our doors.
We try to fit so many things into our modern lives; we can have it all, career, family, friends, hobbies, studying, holidays. And there's no reason at all why we shouldn't do it all, there are endless possibilities for us to make the most of. So where's the problem? In a world where everything is built for convenience and speed, time has become a luxury.
Time, for me at least, is the reason I can't do all the things I want to do, read all the books I want to read or do all the hobbies I want to; the reason I can't work on all the skills I want to improve or learn.
So is it any wonder that young people seem to be more and more impatient the younger they get? Sure, it takes time to learn to be patient; it's a skill children often have difficulty mastering, but I'm not so sure that we really try to learn patience anymore.
Before I even turned 18, I had several banks sending me offers for credit cards and loans. The attitude of 'buy it now, pay later' is incredibly prevalent in our society and with relaxing morals surrounding borrowing because let's face it, there are things normal (read: working/middle class) people simply cannot do without borrowing such as going to university or buying a house, there isn't much of a case for why you should wait to buy that pair of shoes/car/computer/expensive outfit.
So, as we become more and more used to everything pandering to our convenience, pausing live TV, websites making things available 24 hours a day, getting things when we want them whether we can afford them or not; how can we expect this not to have a knock-on effect on the rest of our lives?
For me, this is a particular problem as I am in a long-distance relationship. After five years together, the last two of which we have lived in different towns, I am getting rather impatient. I don't want to have to wait to see him, I don't want to have to save all the tiny things that I want to tell him until both of us have dealt with the day-to-day bits of our lives and can actually talk to each other.
Half the time we do speak, we don't have a proper conversation, just a flying 'hello, how are you doing, what have you been up to, love you' as we rush from errand to chore or work to home. We have to make the time to have a real chat and bond; which is, I imagine how it works for everyone around the world in any relationship.
But I know for a fact it is much easier to have discussions about touchy subjects or to find five minutes here for a chat, half an hour there to chill out on the sofa together, to just be together, when living near each other. When you love someone you just want to be with them and conducting a long-distance relationship flies directly in the face of this. Does the fact that we have maintained our relationship mean that I have learned patience? Or does it mean that we care about each other and have therefore put in the work to make time and be understanding of each other? I don't think I'm more patient, just that I've accepted that you can't always have everything in life, let alone when you want it. Which, of course, I always knew; I just have yet more experience of living with it.
So when my boyfriend is being impatient, I shall continue to remind him that patience is a virtue. And I'll remind myself every now and again too...
Thursday, 5 May 2011
The vote and why it matters
The Fifth of May 2011, for anyone not actually in England, is voting day for local politics and for the referendum on whether we adopt the Alternative Voting system.
Now, I warn you that I'm not going to get into the nitty gritty of Politics here. Notice the capital P, that makes it official politics, not just office politics or family politics. No, I'm talking about NOT talking about full-on, how-the-country-should-be-run, I'm-a-better-liar-than-you, give-me-a-big-fat-pay-cheque-please, kissing-babies and attending-charity-balls Politics.
But it is closely related, because at one time, it was Politics. It has not even been one hundred years since the first trickling of some women being allowed a vote. In 1918, which is still 7 years away from its centenary, women over the age of 30 were finally allowed a vote after women died for their cause, including the famous case of Emily Davison but also other Suffragettes who probably died as a result of the force-feeding measures employed in prisons against those utilising hunger strikes as peaceful protests. I'm not claiming that all their methods were peaceful, far from it, but from a 21st Century standpoint, I admire their strength and feel that everyone deserves the right to a peaceful protest about something they feel strongly about. Key word here being 'peaceful'; if you aren't hurting anyone else then I don't think anyone else should have the right to impinge on your freedom to do so.
Universal Suffrage, when women were granted the vote at 21, the same age as men, didn't come in until 1928. Out of all the history, the hundreds of years that we have democracy and law in this country, women have only been able to vote on the same terms as men for 83 years.
Less than 100 years of attitude shifting later, I am thrilled to find that there is no gender gap in UK voter turnout (according to European Social Survey 2002, source here, on page 21). I can still bemoan the need to vote, despite a slight upturn in voter turnout in the last General Election but I cannot express how happy I am on finding out that women are using their votes just as much as men are.
I may have seven years to wait, but when 2018 comes around I am damn well throwing a party to celebrate the centenary of the first British women getting to vote.
Now, I warn you that I'm not going to get into the nitty gritty of Politics here. Notice the capital P, that makes it official politics, not just office politics or family politics. No, I'm talking about NOT talking about full-on, how-the-country-should-be-run, I'm-a-better-liar-than-you, give-me-a-big-fat-pay-cheque-please, kissing-babies and attending-charity-balls Politics.
But it is closely related, because at one time, it was Politics. It has not even been one hundred years since the first trickling of some women being allowed a vote. In 1918, which is still 7 years away from its centenary, women over the age of 30 were finally allowed a vote after women died for their cause, including the famous case of Emily Davison but also other Suffragettes who probably died as a result of the force-feeding measures employed in prisons against those utilising hunger strikes as peaceful protests. I'm not claiming that all their methods were peaceful, far from it, but from a 21st Century standpoint, I admire their strength and feel that everyone deserves the right to a peaceful protest about something they feel strongly about. Key word here being 'peaceful'; if you aren't hurting anyone else then I don't think anyone else should have the right to impinge on your freedom to do so.
Universal Suffrage, when women were granted the vote at 21, the same age as men, didn't come in until 1928. Out of all the history, the hundreds of years that we have democracy and law in this country, women have only been able to vote on the same terms as men for 83 years.
Less than 100 years of attitude shifting later, I am thrilled to find that there is no gender gap in UK voter turnout (according to European Social Survey 2002, source here, on page 21). I can still bemoan the need to vote, despite a slight upturn in voter turnout in the last General Election but I cannot express how happy I am on finding out that women are using their votes just as much as men are.
I may have seven years to wait, but when 2018 comes around I am damn well throwing a party to celebrate the centenary of the first British women getting to vote.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Happily Ever After...?
The Royal Wedding took place and both BBC1 and ITV spent pretty much all day covering it. People from all over the world submitted photos of their celebrations, lookalikes were interviewed and presenters picked people out of the crowd with the most creative and/or ostentatious themed hats. It was a media FRENZY.
Okay, an awful lot of it was as tacky as sellotape (like some of the homemade hats with photos stuck on... urgh!) but there were definitely parts that made me proud to be British. Seeing our Prince marry the love of his life and watching so many hundreds of people turn out to welcome our new Princess gave me a warm fuzzy glow of belonging, of a community spirit and a connection with the people who live on this little Island with me.
I patriotically bellowed out our National Anthem and oohed and aahed over the outfits and posh hats with my mum then we cooed as the public were treated to not one but TWO Royal Kisses. The blushing groom had never looked so adorable and the smiling bride's happiness was infectious.
It was more than patriotism that took place that day. It was hope for the future and and the entire world's best wishes for the lad we've seen grow up in the papers, the young boy who lost his mum so tragically and so publicly now has his own shot at happiness and a family of his own. The torch of most-fantasised-about eligible passed to the gorgeous and cheeky Harry; who is possibly the hottest Ginger I've ever seen and I love redheads. Karen Gillan, my girl-crush, and Harry would make the most beautiful children with the brightest hair imaginable.
Prince Charles and Princess Diana's Wedding took place years before I was born so I'd never witnessed anything on the scale of this Royal Wedding and I have to say I loved it. The anticipation, the mystery of the dress, the big reveal, the pageantry and tradition, the history dripping from every corner, the balcony kiss, the men look so very dashing in those fabulous uniforms; the entire event was just wonderful.
I was entirely bowled over by the elegance and glamour of it all but it also affected me deeper than that, in a way I wasn't expecting. I took ownership of my share of it, to me they became not just the Prince and Princess, but our Prince and our new Princess. The depth of emotion I felt took me entirely by surprise.
And seeing those dashing and handsome princes in those uniforms definitely made me rethink my position on whether I would approve if my male wanted to join the Forces...
Okay, an awful lot of it was as tacky as sellotape (like some of the homemade hats with photos stuck on... urgh!) but there were definitely parts that made me proud to be British. Seeing our Prince marry the love of his life and watching so many hundreds of people turn out to welcome our new Princess gave me a warm fuzzy glow of belonging, of a community spirit and a connection with the people who live on this little Island with me.
I patriotically bellowed out our National Anthem and oohed and aahed over the outfits and posh hats with my mum then we cooed as the public were treated to not one but TWO Royal Kisses. The blushing groom had never looked so adorable and the smiling bride's happiness was infectious.
It was more than patriotism that took place that day. It was hope for the future and and the entire world's best wishes for the lad we've seen grow up in the papers, the young boy who lost his mum so tragically and so publicly now has his own shot at happiness and a family of his own. The torch of most-fantasised-about eligible passed to the gorgeous and cheeky Harry; who is possibly the hottest Ginger I've ever seen and I love redheads. Karen Gillan, my girl-crush, and Harry would make the most beautiful children with the brightest hair imaginable.
Prince Charles and Princess Diana's Wedding took place years before I was born so I'd never witnessed anything on the scale of this Royal Wedding and I have to say I loved it. The anticipation, the mystery of the dress, the big reveal, the pageantry and tradition, the history dripping from every corner, the balcony kiss, the men look so very dashing in those fabulous uniforms; the entire event was just wonderful.
I was entirely bowled over by the elegance and glamour of it all but it also affected me deeper than that, in a way I wasn't expecting. I took ownership of my share of it, to me they became not just the Prince and Princess, but our Prince and our new Princess. The depth of emotion I felt took me entirely by surprise.
And seeing those dashing and handsome princes in those uniforms definitely made me rethink my position on whether I would approve if my male wanted to join the Forces...
Saturday, 30 April 2011
A Right Royal Wedding...
So yesterday it was the Royal Wedding. The day before there were a few, er, discussions at work. Quite a few people expressed their opinion that I found to be rather... ungrateful.
The majority of Britain scores a day off work and then people turn around and bitch about the reason? Mental!
I count myself as a modern girl. Sure, I'm a Romantic and a bit old fashioned but the thing is, I don't revere tradition purely for tradition's sake. It has to mean something, it has to be relevant in the modern world or it won't survive in this day and age.
I happen to think that our monarchy is a fantastic tradition and brings something to a world that would otherwise be a little less special.
We could get rid of our monarchy but then what? We'd be a little more secular and little more of an American mini-me. We'd lose out on the FORTUNE tourists spend on our Royal attractions, lose quite a few dedicated ambassadors and committed representatives for our lovely wee nation, cut off a direct line to history, stab patriotism in the back and on top of that, we'd have to get a new national anthem.
(I heard someone opine that our national anthem resembles a funeral dirge... I disagree, I LOVE our national anthem. That said, I would like some to do a nice, Amazing-Grace-style version of it. Maybe I could belt it out on YouTube and become famous. Or I could just lob a packet of bacon across the room.)
One of the most fantastic things about Britain is the rich tapestry of history that not everyone else has. America has a few things that are seriously old but I have a friend who was flabbergasted that when living out there someone told him that they had just moved to a different church and it was great because it was really old. He asked how old, genuinely curious, and was told that it was fifty years old. Fifty. I graduated in Canterbury Cathedral which goes back to 597AD. The sixth Century, that's fifteen hundred years. The small church in my village was built in the twelfth Century. Tell me that that isn't an amazing piece of history right there, but I can promise, I won't believe you. I'm not saying that America doesn't have any history, I'm just saying, not every other nation's ideas of 'old' aren't the same as British 'old'. New Zealand has the same deal, they were invaded by the white man comparatively recently in the history of the world and so they don't have the same kind of historical architecture etc. We're all different and we should acknowledge those differences and rejoice in the awesome bits.
We should appreciate what we have, that's one of the best ways to be happy in my opinion. And to me, appreciating what we have includes our Royal Family.
People can whine that they have a charmed life living off our tax money but you know what, I wouldn't swap my freedom for their lives at all. I'd rather choose the career I want and pay tax on that than be raised with Duty to my country and have to spend my life smiling and nodding and shaking hands through countless opening ceremonies and meetings that must become dull with repetition, no matter how glamorous. As the heads of the Church of England, do you think they have the freedom to choose their own religion? The freedom to fall in love with whoever they want? Look at King Edward and Wallis Simpson, they had to put up with so much crap just to be with the person they loved. Do you think they can fall in love without wondering if the person they love truly loves them or just their title? Let's face it, what girl wouldn't want to be a Princess? I know I just said I wouldn't swap lives with any of them, but if I honestly had the opportunity, I don't know if I could actually say no to that. It's not what I'd choose for myself out of everything in the world but given a genuine chance... I don't know. I flatter myself that I wouldn't drop my life, my principles and individuality for it but if I loved the guy? I so would. This hypothetical situation is of course based on the premise of my bloke not being in the picture; I know I couldn't drop the man I love for some stranger with a title.
Somebody told me that the Royal Family have it easy because even if they get divorced it's no big deal because they don't have to worry about selling the house, educating the kids, affording to live on a single income. Instead they have to worry about whether they will still be protected from a media frenzy that will eventually kill them.
It's true they don't have the same problems as normal people, but the things they must worry about are both smaller and larger. They don't have to worry about money but they do have to worry about paparazzi and they can't just ignore what the press says about them; they have to cultivate a positive public image. Any bride will worry about stuttering her words or stumbling down the aisle, but Catherine Middleton had to do it in front of millions of people and worry if anyone was going to try to kill her that day. They have great security sure, but if someone really wanted to, I'm sure they could manage it. Look at JFK, Martin Luther King (Jr), Alexander Litvinenko, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Lennon, Robert F Kennedy, Malcolm X, Lincoln, Caesar or Franz Ferdinand.
Never mind people talking crap about your family. Most of us can handle what other people say about us, but insulting the people you love is a sure fire way to strike a nerve. Imagine not being able to say anything back. You have to bite your tongue and let the PR people defend you, or not. Every single thing you do is documented and studied and Royal heirs have to grow up through their childhoods and teenage years and twenties - the times when we are meant to make mistakes and learn from them. Having your mistakes and problems splashed all over the headlines can't be fun. Nor can making true friends be, or falling in love.
No, for all their money and status and glitzy glamorous lives, I don't envy them. I think waking up when the shine has worn off would be too harsh a come down from that Royal cloud.
The majority of Britain scores a day off work and then people turn around and bitch about the reason? Mental!
I count myself as a modern girl. Sure, I'm a Romantic and a bit old fashioned but the thing is, I don't revere tradition purely for tradition's sake. It has to mean something, it has to be relevant in the modern world or it won't survive in this day and age.
I happen to think that our monarchy is a fantastic tradition and brings something to a world that would otherwise be a little less special.
We could get rid of our monarchy but then what? We'd be a little more secular and little more of an American mini-me. We'd lose out on the FORTUNE tourists spend on our Royal attractions, lose quite a few dedicated ambassadors and committed representatives for our lovely wee nation, cut off a direct line to history, stab patriotism in the back and on top of that, we'd have to get a new national anthem.
(I heard someone opine that our national anthem resembles a funeral dirge... I disagree, I LOVE our national anthem. That said, I would like some to do a nice, Amazing-Grace-style version of it. Maybe I could belt it out on YouTube and become famous. Or I could just lob a packet of bacon across the room.)
One of the most fantastic things about Britain is the rich tapestry of history that not everyone else has. America has a few things that are seriously old but I have a friend who was flabbergasted that when living out there someone told him that they had just moved to a different church and it was great because it was really old. He asked how old, genuinely curious, and was told that it was fifty years old. Fifty. I graduated in Canterbury Cathedral which goes back to 597AD. The sixth Century, that's fifteen hundred years. The small church in my village was built in the twelfth Century. Tell me that that isn't an amazing piece of history right there, but I can promise, I won't believe you. I'm not saying that America doesn't have any history, I'm just saying, not every other nation's ideas of 'old' aren't the same as British 'old'. New Zealand has the same deal, they were invaded by the white man comparatively recently in the history of the world and so they don't have the same kind of historical architecture etc. We're all different and we should acknowledge those differences and rejoice in the awesome bits.
We should appreciate what we have, that's one of the best ways to be happy in my opinion. And to me, appreciating what we have includes our Royal Family.
People can whine that they have a charmed life living off our tax money but you know what, I wouldn't swap my freedom for their lives at all. I'd rather choose the career I want and pay tax on that than be raised with Duty to my country and have to spend my life smiling and nodding and shaking hands through countless opening ceremonies and meetings that must become dull with repetition, no matter how glamorous. As the heads of the Church of England, do you think they have the freedom to choose their own religion? The freedom to fall in love with whoever they want? Look at King Edward and Wallis Simpson, they had to put up with so much crap just to be with the person they loved. Do you think they can fall in love without wondering if the person they love truly loves them or just their title? Let's face it, what girl wouldn't want to be a Princess? I know I just said I wouldn't swap lives with any of them, but if I honestly had the opportunity, I don't know if I could actually say no to that. It's not what I'd choose for myself out of everything in the world but given a genuine chance... I don't know. I flatter myself that I wouldn't drop my life, my principles and individuality for it but if I loved the guy? I so would. This hypothetical situation is of course based on the premise of my bloke not being in the picture; I know I couldn't drop the man I love for some stranger with a title.
Somebody told me that the Royal Family have it easy because even if they get divorced it's no big deal because they don't have to worry about selling the house, educating the kids, affording to live on a single income. Instead they have to worry about whether they will still be protected from a media frenzy that will eventually kill them.
It's true they don't have the same problems as normal people, but the things they must worry about are both smaller and larger. They don't have to worry about money but they do have to worry about paparazzi and they can't just ignore what the press says about them; they have to cultivate a positive public image. Any bride will worry about stuttering her words or stumbling down the aisle, but Catherine Middleton had to do it in front of millions of people and worry if anyone was going to try to kill her that day. They have great security sure, but if someone really wanted to, I'm sure they could manage it. Look at JFK, Martin Luther King (Jr), Alexander Litvinenko, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Lennon, Robert F Kennedy, Malcolm X, Lincoln, Caesar or Franz Ferdinand.
Never mind people talking crap about your family. Most of us can handle what other people say about us, but insulting the people you love is a sure fire way to strike a nerve. Imagine not being able to say anything back. You have to bite your tongue and let the PR people defend you, or not. Every single thing you do is documented and studied and Royal heirs have to grow up through their childhoods and teenage years and twenties - the times when we are meant to make mistakes and learn from them. Having your mistakes and problems splashed all over the headlines can't be fun. Nor can making true friends be, or falling in love.
No, for all their money and status and glitzy glamorous lives, I don't envy them. I think waking up when the shine has worn off would be too harsh a come down from that Royal cloud.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Home is where the heart is?
Last week, whilst visiting family in Edinburgh, I found myself musing on the defining characteristics of Scottishness, on what it means to be Scottish and where the line is drawn on what is or isn't Scottish; especially after my uncle revealed that haggis was originally an English dish way back when.
As the daughter of English parents with a Welsh grandmother, a Scottish grandfather and an Irish great-grandfather, this is a subject that has recurred throughout my life. Proud of my Celtic heritage, I collected pieces of our tartan and guarded them from lil sis who couldn't have cared less. Despite ridicule from my friends, I knew it was important to me.
This all opens up a much larger question on nationality. Does it matter more where you were born or where you were raised, or even who you were raised by? I know I have a much stronger connection to place I grew up in from the age of 6 than to were I was born and can't remember.
Is your true father your genetic ancestor, your 'sperm donor' as a friend calls hers, or the man who raised you? Mine are the same man but I still feel that parenthood is defined not by genetics but by sleepless nights and holding tiny hands, by drying tears and kissing bumps and bruises better. Love, in essence, is what defines that relationship; being there for you and experiencing your life. By that merit, my hometown is definitely where I grew up.
And just like the relationship in families, no one sees the very best qualities of your home as well as you do, but no one else sees its flaws as clearly either. The protective streak that flares should anyone else mention these flaws proves just how close to our hearts these connections are, whether we profess to loathe these places or not. It smacks of that sibling relationship; I am allowed to pick on lil sis but no one else can or they'll have me to answer to.
Having had such an overt interest in my Celtic heritage, I took England for granted. Other than pride in Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Princess Diana, I barely noticed that I was English until I left. When I set off to backpack around New Zealand at the grand old age of 18, I was a confirmed coffee lover. A Starbucks fan with a hotmail address that confirmed my coffee addiction to all, I had no time for tea, that quaint beverage that old people drink. I was young, part of the iGeneration and I found tea dull in comparison with strong, sultry coffee and all the sugar-laced offerings of Starbucks and co. Until I arrived in New Zealand, began missing home, bonding instantly with any other English people I met no matter how diverse our background and started drinking tea. I embraced the English stereotype because it reminded me of my mum and dad and their many many cups of tea a day. It wasn't even until I returned and I was staggered by English trees that I realised just how much I had missed English trees.
Likewise, when I later attended university and befriended an adorable and minute young Pakistani girl, she developed a taste for spices far beyond the level she had cared for back home. She might as well have included lighter fuel in her cooking so inedible it was to me. And as if poisoning me wasn't enough, she didn't lay off the potency of spices until she'd given herself gastroenteritis.
I rediscovered my love for coffee but even to this day, I drink hot, sweet tea after a particularly hard day or whenever I need a little comforting. And if I miss my best friend? Out come the spices; minus the lighter fuel though...
As the daughter of English parents with a Welsh grandmother, a Scottish grandfather and an Irish great-grandfather, this is a subject that has recurred throughout my life. Proud of my Celtic heritage, I collected pieces of our tartan and guarded them from lil sis who couldn't have cared less. Despite ridicule from my friends, I knew it was important to me.
This all opens up a much larger question on nationality. Does it matter more where you were born or where you were raised, or even who you were raised by? I know I have a much stronger connection to place I grew up in from the age of 6 than to were I was born and can't remember.
Is your true father your genetic ancestor, your 'sperm donor' as a friend calls hers, or the man who raised you? Mine are the same man but I still feel that parenthood is defined not by genetics but by sleepless nights and holding tiny hands, by drying tears and kissing bumps and bruises better. Love, in essence, is what defines that relationship; being there for you and experiencing your life. By that merit, my hometown is definitely where I grew up.
And just like the relationship in families, no one sees the very best qualities of your home as well as you do, but no one else sees its flaws as clearly either. The protective streak that flares should anyone else mention these flaws proves just how close to our hearts these connections are, whether we profess to loathe these places or not. It smacks of that sibling relationship; I am allowed to pick on lil sis but no one else can or they'll have me to answer to.
Having had such an overt interest in my Celtic heritage, I took England for granted. Other than pride in Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Princess Diana, I barely noticed that I was English until I left. When I set off to backpack around New Zealand at the grand old age of 18, I was a confirmed coffee lover. A Starbucks fan with a hotmail address that confirmed my coffee addiction to all, I had no time for tea, that quaint beverage that old people drink. I was young, part of the iGeneration and I found tea dull in comparison with strong, sultry coffee and all the sugar-laced offerings of Starbucks and co. Until I arrived in New Zealand, began missing home, bonding instantly with any other English people I met no matter how diverse our background and started drinking tea. I embraced the English stereotype because it reminded me of my mum and dad and their many many cups of tea a day. It wasn't even until I returned and I was staggered by English trees that I realised just how much I had missed English trees.
Likewise, when I later attended university and befriended an adorable and minute young Pakistani girl, she developed a taste for spices far beyond the level she had cared for back home. She might as well have included lighter fuel in her cooking so inedible it was to me. And as if poisoning me wasn't enough, she didn't lay off the potency of spices until she'd given herself gastroenteritis.
I rediscovered my love for coffee but even to this day, I drink hot, sweet tea after a particularly hard day or whenever I need a little comforting. And if I miss my best friend? Out come the spices; minus the lighter fuel though...
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Blog virginity status: popped!
I've been trying to think of a good way to kickstart this blog. To cut a long waffling story of nothingness that will waste precious minutes of my time and bore you senseless, I came up empty. So I decided to just go ahead and write.
So, this is me. Writing.
I suppose I should introduce myself but to be honest, I think you can figure it out as we go. Let's face it, most readers of a blog in such infancy as this are going to be people who know you, right?
But hey, just in case I ever reach dizzy heights of followers, what do you need to know?
Well, I'm a geeky girl who likes science fiction, fantasy and role-playing games with a big love for books, especially Shakespeare and Austen. Yes, I know my conversational style is more than a bit 'American' but a lot of colloquialisms are and you know what, I grew up watching Buffy so this is who I am and anyone who doesn't like it probably shouldn't be reading this. Sorry, but that's the way it is and I am nothing if not honest.
I'm a bit of a grammar-nazi and a feminist. Disclaimer: feminism does not mean men-bashing or female superiority, it's about equality. Which women do not have. Granted, we have it an awful lot better in the western world than in other countries but it's still not perfect and why on earth would you give up on something so important before it's perfect? If you need more convincing, I will probably do a blog dedicated to the issue of feminism but in the meantime, watch this. As a feminist, I do not eschew all things feminine. In fact, I revel in a lot of them. Some traditionally 'female' attributes are outdated but giving up all things for fear of being girly is just oppressing yourself. I love romcoms and my favourite colour is pink. Reasons? Well written romcoms explore characters and emotions and I love watching, reading and writing about human behaviour. The colour pink just makes me happy. No one has ever told me to like these things or expected that I should, (being a perverse creature if someone had told me to like something, I probably would have done the opposite) I just do and I am not about to change because of what other people think.
Perhaps this is a little heavy for a first blog but hey, things surprise you when you go with the flow.
So, this is me. Writing.
I suppose I should introduce myself but to be honest, I think you can figure it out as we go. Let's face it, most readers of a blog in such infancy as this are going to be people who know you, right?
But hey, just in case I ever reach dizzy heights of followers, what do you need to know?
Well, I'm a geeky girl who likes science fiction, fantasy and role-playing games with a big love for books, especially Shakespeare and Austen. Yes, I know my conversational style is more than a bit 'American' but a lot of colloquialisms are and you know what, I grew up watching Buffy so this is who I am and anyone who doesn't like it probably shouldn't be reading this. Sorry, but that's the way it is and I am nothing if not honest.
I'm a bit of a grammar-nazi and a feminist. Disclaimer: feminism does not mean men-bashing or female superiority, it's about equality. Which women do not have. Granted, we have it an awful lot better in the western world than in other countries but it's still not perfect and why on earth would you give up on something so important before it's perfect? If you need more convincing, I will probably do a blog dedicated to the issue of feminism but in the meantime, watch this. As a feminist, I do not eschew all things feminine. In fact, I revel in a lot of them. Some traditionally 'female' attributes are outdated but giving up all things for fear of being girly is just oppressing yourself. I love romcoms and my favourite colour is pink. Reasons? Well written romcoms explore characters and emotions and I love watching, reading and writing about human behaviour. The colour pink just makes me happy. No one has ever told me to like these things or expected that I should, (being a perverse creature if someone had told me to like something, I probably would have done the opposite) I just do and I am not about to change because of what other people think.
Perhaps this is a little heavy for a first blog but hey, things surprise you when you go with the flow.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)