To date as a straight woman is hell. To date as a straight woman during a pandemic is hell with a face mask on. Long before blossoming into an ascetic hermit, I was somewhat of a regular on the revolving doors of Tinder. Quarantine boredom kept me on the app and fear of the maskless masses kept me inside. So, I was left with little option but to date over Skype or Facetime – all I needed was a willing participant.
In all the kerfuffle of the last six months or so, one piece of news from November passed by without much comment: the Equality and Human Rights Commission declared that the government’s ‘hostile environment’ policies on immigration broke the law.
Post halloween this year, I was interested in better understanding the real world of witchcraft. We all know of the magic in Harry Potter and Disney films, but what does it take to be a real practitioner of magic? Women in particular have always been illustrated in a certain way when it comes to witchcraft and I couldn’t help but wonder what the real experience is like, particularly for women and how feminism fits into the picture. I had a chat with the wonderful Tara Sanchez to learn more.
The Internet Connection: How our devices have become like extended members of our families due to the pandemic…
Mother, Father, Sister
Mother, father, sister,
The ceiling is tearing.
The brown brick is cracking
Underneath the contours of our feet,
The radio doesn’t work anymore.
It plays the same tune again
And again,
Our ears know routine.
Rainwater leaks into our home
Through our eyes, down our cheeks,
But we reach for the cement
And start fixing.
We fix and we fix until-
Mother, father, sister,
The water is at our ankles now.
The cushions on the chairs at the dinner table
Are forgetting our figures
And when we eat, we do not remember who we are.
But there is food,
And Grandmother taught us how to swim.
Mother, father, sister,
Gratitude feels wrong,
When instead I can carve our initials
On the tiles in the empty kitchen
Just before the floor gives away.
Mother, father, sister,
The sky is on the ground now
And we will never see the sun again.
All the stars,
All the stars are dead.
The stove won’t light anymore
But it will never be cold in this home.
Aarti Mukhedkar
there are only a few things that make me feel at home, and you’re one of them. i know it’s surprising coming from me. it must seem like i forgot about you for the past ten years of my life when i was away from you, flirting with and getting to know other countries. but trust me when i say that you’re always in my heart. though you’re mostly corrupt, not sustainable in your habits, and there’s an extremely long way for you to go to be up to the mark with regards to your inclusivity and respect, you’re still always in my heart. here is why:
I feel a deep pain for the youth of today, who will definitely not have the same opportunities to travel and explore the world in the way I got to. They’re never going to experience what it was like to live in the middle of nowhere in Asia. No bars on your Nokia brick and the only way to contact home was on a crackling line for a penny a minute, a 45-minute walk into the nearest village or by letter, 3 weeks after sending.
So, what have you all been unlearning this month? I’ve been working on a few things, mostly regarding productivity and self-worth. There’s always going to be something you’re getting wrong, and that’s alright!
The title of this column is a reference to an oft-quoted line from a 2007 episode of Scottish sitcom Still Game. I’ve considered that this might be a slightly niche reference for the vast and varied Clitbait readership, but I thought it was funny. Anyway, this is about Scottish witches…
During my undergrad in biomedical sciences, I was let down by the lack of societal context on our courses. More than lack – at times it seemed like a deliberate absence that was incomprehensible given what I was learning outside of lectures. Things became particularly interesting and disappointing when we came to the module on global health and infectious disease, where lecturers and students alike were given free rein to voice their unqualified opinions about the health of developing countries – needless to say, both groups were mostly white and from the global North…
Ata /ˈpɛpə/
For years I thought my blackness needed to be hidden
thinking that the music my dad put on at home was forbidden
I’d ask my dad to turn down his tape in the car as
we reached the school bars
because no one else’s Dad looked like mine and
No one else’s children looked like his.
I remember turning up my nose at the
patterns my Aunties and Uncles sent,
refusing to wear them, not knowing that they meant
So much,
whether they were black and gold
or green and white
my face showed disappointment instead of delight,
embarrassed instead of embraced,
meaning shoved so far into the back of
my wardrobe it left no trace
meaning so ignored and unwanted
almost hated, that it was sent to me
No more
For years I put my hair through torture
thinking that the straighter it fell the prettier I’d get,
that if it went through hell it might forget
how to bounce and to curl and hold its weight
for years I didn’t let it get wet or out of place.
The hours I’d spend burning away
what I got from my Dad
and ignoring the comments he made
about him being so sad
at the damage I was doing to myself and my heritage
I did this day after day, not caring
about my red scalp and scarred hands
because I thought that was what beauty demands
For years I tortured my mind and my body,
Being ashamed of my thighs
because my friends’ were so thin,
Being ashamed of my wide hips
Because my friends’ were so much more slim,
Being ashamed of my arse
thinking it was why I’d always been
out of place.
For so long I thought no boy could love me because
my nipples were too big and too dark and
my pussy wasn’t fully pink
I can’t believe I used to think
that my curves needed to whittled and reduced
like fruits needing to be juiced
the straighter my hair fell and the thinner I became
the less me I was, and I lost my flame
but as I got a bit older, boys
started to change their minds
instead of feeling strange I was
now used and fetishised,
I was good enough to be desired
but not to be adored
I was good enough to be fucked
but not anything more
I was good enough to be raped
and then be called a whore,
For years I thought that this
was all I’d get and all I deserved.
White men and white boys
touched and used and abused
my skin and my body and at
the same time told it me it was wrong
and for so long I thought that this
was the closest to love that my
thick thighs and dark nipples would allow.
but now I love a boy so much and he loves me
but I’m feeling like a traitor as I’m lying next to him,
For 2 years I’ve had the worry in my head
that in 10, I’ll be filled with nothing but regret
if I stay with the one I love
because my boy is white.
It’s alright boy,
I’m still your’s boy,
I know that you’re more boy
it just feels wrong,
That my lips have never kissed a black boy’s
and my fingers might never trail a chest
covered in dark skin, so rich in melanin,
Skin that will understand the way my
soul reacts to the sound of layers and layers
of hurt and culture in a harmony so smooth
that it tastes like honey,
Skin that will understand the way food
can heal a soul,
the way pepper soup and plantain
can heal all my pain –
even on the wrong day
Skin that would meet mine and then combine
to create a child that would look like my own
a child with my power and struggles and curls
a child with the right to reclaim our slurs
but my white boy is so real and so is his skin
I know that what should matter is the
Everything he has within,
he’s so much more than a skin or a colour
he might not get honey but it’s not too different from sugar
he’s the best friend,
and to think otherwise would make me no better than them
who made me think black was anything but mighty
and made me want to be plain instead of spicy
those who wanted my body but not my skin,
my white boy wants all of me and everything inside
he loves my skin, my heart, my scars and my thighs
And while my hair recovers, I’m
starting to discover the life I missed,
the culture I hid and the meaning I buried
and the food I’ve eaten so many times before
but have only just tasted.
I regret all the years spent wasted on a
life of conforming and performing,
I’ve learned to love my hair, my spice and my mind
I’ve left my shame, self-hate and timidity behind
And the next time my dad turns down
layers of honey and drums and beats
of life and soul and family and black,
I’ll tell him no, run that shit back
Cristina Samuel
Trick or Treat
A heavy wooden door stands shut,
An eye stares back through the glass
At strangers in disguise.
I open my door for very few.
Will you treat me well, or will you
Disappoint, as so many have before?
I remember distant lore,
Of a girl who gave herself away in baskets by the door,
All the sweet parts of me on offer for a smile.
It has been a long while
Since I felt so sweet.
What if I trust you, and we decide to meet,
Only for you to change your mind,
Or leave me in a grave for the dogs to find?
My hopes burnt to the quick, left in cinders.
Just another horror story: a Tinder
Date gone terribly wrong.
But one day someone will sing me a song,
Or tell me a joke, and I’ll crack open that door.
I’ve done it before.
My eyes will go wide, heart skip a beat.
The door swings open. Trick or treat.
Robyn Barclay
Isobel Gowdie
What is a dream of the devil
in a world where he is real?
Semantic fingers are lacing a cage
to keep your eyes in.
So, you call the lighting
of a match a work of science,
can you explain to me the trick?
What is the meaning of the flame?
For there was alchemy and chemistry between us.
Electrickery – electricity – I know what I believe.
I want to burn it all to feel some warmth for once.
There was a broom in bed at home
and no one noticing.
What then is fire,
in a world where hell is real?
Iona Lee
The air is heavy with weed and sweat, mingled with the stench of Absolut Raspberry and some other cheap vodka you bought from the corner shop. Music is blasting from the TV as the four of you sit on the floor. Your back’s leaning against the sofa, your knee just lightly brushing his thigh…
Sexual assault, despite now being spoken about more, is still seen as a taboo topic, particularly within the South Asian community. To talk about assault is to first realise the behaviours encouraging and condoning this act of violation, but the conversation often ends before it can even begin…
The algorithms that decided both the SQA and A-Level results have further exposed the class divide in our education system. It is past time we re-think private education. British education is a two-tier system. There are those who can afford to pay for the education they deserve, and those who cannot…
if independence be freedom
may my scars no longer be cuffs nor chains
each mark, each line, each crease
tell stories of a life lived;
The times good, and the times bad
each one a memory carved unto my skin.
Having once been a sight for shame,
hidden beyond the gaze of judging eyes
they now represent something greater:
growth. change. liberation.
Today the girl named I
is happy. She is at peace.
Scarred yet strong, her legs lead her to new adventures.
The freedom to love herself and recognise her freedom. Her grasp upon her life. Her independence.
Kirsty Thomson
It’s been two months now since Scotland moved into Phase 3 of lockdown restrictions, and pubs, shops and workplaces are beginning to reopen. I recently started a new job, and received a long policy email about how to fight COVID-19 in the workplace as part of my starter pack. Unfortunately, not every woman has been given this privilege: experts have found that women in the workplace have been set back ‘decades’ by the effects of lockdown…
Recently, a friend of mine moved out from home. For context, she’s British Bangladeshi, from a somewhat traditional and religious household, wherein women are made to live under the tyrant…
THE SECOND MONTHLY COLUMN OF ‘LEARNING WITH LUCY!’: The maternal mortality rate for Black women in the UK is five times higher than that of their white counterparts. The Five X More campaign is fighting to change that…
too long i have spent
days in sadness,
denying myself the joys
which fill my heart.
my mind told me
my body was the problem,
and that i deserve to be
punished for its size.
it didn’t occur to me
that i only know and love
that which i know and love
because my body allows it.
i will no longer deny myself
the privilege,
the right,
that mother nature gave to me.
i will spend countless hours
drifting out to sea,
i will see my own contours
in each wave.
the space between each set
is space created for me.
my expanses don’t even touch the sides
and the ocean will always carry me.
its power is no match for me.
now i see that there was no battle.
its power is no match for me.
it is a source begging to be harnessed.
it will find its way into my pores.
each drop quenches
the parts of myself
i had starved.
it is a bottomless well,
and at the bottom she stands
and offers me
a drink.
a gift to myself.
Sophie Nankivell, Poetry Editor
A beautiful and painfully honest account of navigating sex as a brown muslim woman and the culture that surrounds it…
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