Are our leaders born to lead? February 11, 2008

 With the world (and smoothstonesinmyhand) entirely consumed with the race for the American presidency; as a very late comer to Fergal Keane’s Letter to Daniel and as someone with a passing interest in politics: I’ve recently been faced with a pertinent question. What makes someone want to lead? What propels these men and gloriously increasingly more women to a place where they believe they can lead a nation? What separated Nelson Mandela from every other disenfranchised, apartheid challenged South African? What set apart Martin Luther King Junior from every other African American who had been told to ‘get to the back of the bus’? What makes Barak Obama and Hilary Clinton (I ignore the Republicans almost entirely) believe they can lead the most powerful nation in the world when it is in such a state of peril?

These are not easy questions.

I had wanted to write something to give credence to the death of Benazir Bhutto but struggled to find the words to give justice to a death so politically devastating that it could give rise to civil war in Pakistan; an excuse for democracy to once more be derailed. This woman was a miracle: she continued to serve the country that had executed her father, killed both her brothers and made various threats on her own life; that they recently and catastrophically fulfilled.

Her crime? The pursuit of democracy. Something I, and probably many women of the western world take for granted. She is a leading political voice in a Muslim society, a place where women are too often taught to be second class citizens. Where in the most extreme, but entirely all too often (that it happens at all is a plague on all women, all societies and on humanity itself) women can be flogged or killed as a punishment for being raped. In these same extreme societies women are taught to hide their beauty, their intelligence, their individuality: the exist only to be at the whim of their men. And we, sit back and allow it to happen: the world over, time, time and time again. Where are our Leaders when these women need them most?

Even in death Bhutto was berated for being ‘hungry for the spotlight’; she put herself at risk by standing to greet the crowds at her rally. The unproved corruption charges that seemingly haunted her life continued to follow her in the columns of her obituaries. She returned from an unwanted exile in an attempt to save a country that has been tortured throughout its short history; but for many this was not enough.

I don’t deign to understand the complexities of political Pakistan, nor the intricacies of Islam; and as a woman who has been given the opportunities of education and intellectual freedom; that I understand neither, is entirely to my great discredit.

But now her son wants to step into the spotlight, this not yet graduated young man willing to take on the mantle of his ‘family business’ willing to face his mother’s executioners in a bid for democracy. Is nation building/political leadership something we are born to do? The political dynasties of the world abound and so many of them tragic. I always felt the vocational desire to teach, wanting to inspire others with the great literature education had exposed me to; do politicians feel the same, or in fact a much greater and burning ambition to run for office?

As we  were newly embracing  the new year I hoped entirely that for the first time ever that we would find a woman in the Oval Office of the White House. I hadn’t been following the emerging Presidential campaign particularly closely (again to my discredit) but entirely believe that a matriarchal approach to governing a society has to be better than a militaristic one. A highly educated women with an insight into the inner workings of the White House (and its many pitfalls) has to be a incredible improvement upon a Daddy’s boy who seems to fail to understand the magnitude of his world presence. 

I can remember feeling that Hilary Clinton was wrong to support her husband during the ‘Monica Lewinsky’ affair; at the time, I felt she should have walked away leaving him to feed the masses hungry for more sordid scandal all by himself.Yet I realise now she would have then become ‘the woman scorned’; her (and their collective) political purpose was a much greater deal than her husband’s infidelity: that was something that belonged to their privacy of their marital relationship. She’d worked much too hard on every aspect of her political persona to give it up in a moment of avengful passion.

I think she has the potential to accomplish great things; I don’t envy the weight of the world and womankind that’s about to fall upon her shoulders; but do envy the intelligent and capable women with whom she will surround herself and hopefully inspire to greatness.

But from stage left, Enter Barak Obama. I have to admit that the idea of a multi-racial, relatively young, Muslim man in the White House is equally if not more (and oh how I feel I’m selling out the sisterhood) inspiring than the promise of Hilary. I read the newspapers, I watch the news but not for a minute do I deign to suggest I’m entirely abreast with the complexities of the American Primary system nor the subtle and not so subtle nuances of the diversity within the Democratic bid for White House power. And I fear that it may be too easy to be swayed by the great oratory: to want not only for America, but for the world it so influences: the vision of hope this highly ambitious, intelligent and seemingly compassionate man sets forth.

George Orwell proclaimed with great literary fervour that ‘Power corrupts and total power corrupts totally.’  Unfortunately we need not reach back in time to our Thirties literature to see Orwell’s words being lived out in terrifying truth. What separates the Saddam Husseins, the Adolf Hitlers, the Robert Mugabes from the men and women of vision, democracy and a compassionate humanity? Is their desire to lead simply greater than their democratic/ less fundamental counterparts? Their arrogance more mighty? Are they simply more adept at turning the handle of the political machine? And how do we protect ourselves from such tenacity? How do we rid the world of such terror without ‘Americanising’ or ‘re-colonising’ ever inch of our ailing globe?

I was part of a group of “Young Leaders” that got to experience life as Political Interns in DC in the summer of 2000 (the Washington Ireland programme takes a group of approximately 30 students to America each summer: the programme grows from strength to strength): but as much as I was enthralled by the amazing opportunities that experience gave to me; and in the shaping of my political consciousness, I knew then that political power was not something I would ever or should pursue. But within the group there were people who did and will and do pursue political leadership within the professional political arena. They have intelligence, vision, wit, humanity and a belief that they have the potential power to make their corner of society a better place.

In Northern Ireland it is easy to minimise politics to ‘pseudo-intellectual’ sectarianism. It is easier to sit back and let someone else clear up a century’s worth of mess. But I entirely believe that “decisions are made by those who show up”. I berate my family, friends, work colleagues, Year 14 pupils if they do not register to and then cast their vote. I can name you various Assembly ministers, the constituency MP and MLAs but not my local Councillors. So how involved am I really?

I am always struck by the episode in The West Wing in which President Bartlett reflects upon his presidency and can only see the things he failed to achieve. Why in a world ravaged by war, dying from AIDS and in too many places a devestating lack of clean water; at the mercy of religious terrorists and in massive environmental terror, would anyone step up to the plate? Especially when a media crazed audience awaits the first of your downfalls, the first sliver of the skeleton to be exposed in your closet, for your flawed and all too human nature to scandalously shine through.

I don’t know the answers to these too many questions. I do know that the men and women who step up to the plate need to be those people of vision, need to understand the people they serve,and need to want to make the world a better place. However I  worry that  only in hindsight can we truly judge our leaders and by then the damage is done. A movie The American President that was the forerunner of The West Wing: suggested that it was not only our duty to question our leaders but our obligation. So I’ll do my part and ask the questions.

Literary Adventures of a North Down Prude October 24, 2007

Lily Todd is my source of much knowledge and she recently recommended the Booker nominated On Chesil Beach by Ian Mc Ewan. As I already commented on Lily’s blog, I tried, in vain to purchase said volume from a local bookshop; settling instead  for Belle du Jour- ‘The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl’ . I can justify my purchase by various means: quite recently, every magazine you idly flick through (or subscribe to and wait with baited breath to arrive each month) featured Billie Piper, in an ‘in depth and intimate interview about her sexual adventures’: given that she recently portrayed ‘Belle’ in an ITV television production of the novel, also as a sexually active member of the ‘Sex in the City ‘ generation of women I consider it my duty to women (and even soon to be encountered men) to stay abreast (unfortunate term) with the ever changing sexual revolution, Pretty Woman’ remains, one of my favourite movies, Belle’s confessions began life as a blog and I therefore thought I could gain a subject for my own ponderous outpourings; and at Lily’s suggestion I was looking for a book about sexual discovery…

This confession list is an insight to my psyche when it comes to this novel: I feel I have to justify- to you- all four members of my reading public: why I, a QUB English graduate, shaper of young minds, bought and within a matter of days read, a book with a lingerie clad ‘hooker’ on the cover: whose entire reason for putting pen to paper/ or perfectly manicured red talon to keyboard, was to discuss her illegal, highly gripping  (again unfortunate term: this blog may soon  be a study in innuendo) and absolutely adventurous sexual activities. It was one of those books that made me glad I’d moved out of home and wouldn’t have to explain it to my Mother. For anyone who as a  curious teenage ever encountered ‘Ralph’ in Judy Blume’s Forever :  can hopefully share my very guilty pleasure.

I again confess, even as a box-set owning, been on the tour in NYC: Sex in the City graduate, there were certain actions, activities and what could perhaps be described as acrobatics in this novel that I found truly shocking: both in their physical dexterity and sado-masochistic endurance; but also in the honest and frankly glib way that the writer had committed her ‘adventures’ to paper.

Where was Belle’s shame at her chosen profession? Where was her realisation that every single relationship she had (both male and female); the only exception being that with her parents, was both tainted and charged with sex? Belle doesn’t seem to regard herself as the commodity but instead she creates a product for which there is much demand on the market. She only half-heartedly pursues other ‘mainstream’ means of gaining employment.

It is too easy when reading the novel to judge the ‘characters’ that lie within: the men that pay for Belle’s services (naive as I am and enjoy being; I realise that escorts/hookers/people of the night for both genders and for every facet of sexual orientation and experimentation are a feature of every society across the globe: always have been and always will be), the men she has relationships with who are willing to share their intimacy with paying strangers, the friends and family who allow her to continue to ply her trade and perhaps most pointedly  Belle herself, for not taking her degree/ her talents/ her aptitude for image and sales into the nearest, highest paying advertising agency and demanding they pay her for intellectual dexterity.

But who am I to judge? This girl is not a drain on society; she is not at the mercy of a violent pimp, she now gains money not only from her chosen career but also from writing published novels about it. She makes the decisions: ’she says who, she says when, she says how much.’

If the sexual revolution and quest for equality teaches us anything then surely it is that women should be in charge of their own physical destinies. I support a woman’s right to chose, in the broadest sense possible: to pursue a career in ANY given field including those of battle, to not only vote for but run for public office, including the American Presidency, to be a stay at home Mum, to be a Mum who juggles her family and her career, and to abort an unwanted pregnancy. How then, can I judge a financially independent career girl who happens to sell herself to make a living?

Yet I do. On a drunken night long ago I gave up the ideal of no sex before marriage; and that of sex only occurring inside a relationship in which both partners love and respect each other. Sex can entirely be a consenual physical transaction between two adults, uncompromised by emotional attachments. This liberal definition can be readily applied to all of Belle’s adventures: but yet I stand in prudish dismay. I feel that even if she is the highest paid call-girl in London, her ‘industry’  cheapens not only herself, but sexually active people everywhere and even the act of sex itself.

I applaud women who are in control of their own sex lives: inside and outside marriage, in fact inside and outside any sexual relationship totally regardless of orientation; single women with a string of emotionally uncomplicated but physically fulfilling sexual encounters and the woman who patiently wait for that right man to come along. Learning sexual respect for your self is one the most important lessons a society can teach its children (but one we don’t teach particularly well).

As I stand on my hypocritical pedestal  I remain troubled by my condemnation of Belle and my enjoyment of her ‘tale’; so much so, that I travelled to the next town over and bought On Chesil Beach this very afternoon…maybe a little sexual conservativism will help me regain my sexually liberal equilibrium. 

Can BIG be beautiful?: A response to ‘Run for your life’ by Lily Todd September 13, 2007

Knowing, as well as I do, the very beautiful girl who is Lily Todd, it would be with great ease that I could proclaim her list of attributes; physical and otherwise; superlatives would surely abound. I could play the ‘You have a gorgeous husband and have given birth twice’ card; the ‘I know for a fact you turn heads as I have been there when they turned’ card and the ‘you wanna see curves come look in my mirror’ card; the last only in desperation…

However, I realise, that no matter how great a hand I played, neither Lily, nor any other 21st century girl would give credence to the full house of opinion I placed on the table.

History tells us that women are, have been and will forever remain their own worst enemies. Never has there been a more critical judge or scathing enemy than the one you avoid in the full length mirror.

My own ‘curvaceous silhouette’ is significantly curvier than I ever (as a flat-chested thirteen year old) wanted it to be. Like Lily, and like every woman walking the planet, I have my own demonic voice inside my head: she (among many other mean-spirited accusations) equates my size with my eternal state of singledom; she makes me reach for the chocolate.

Size is inextricably equated with sexiness. That I share a dress size with Marilyn Monroe lends little retribution. My smaller, quieter voice tells me: I’m sexy enough (or have big enough breasts) to have drunken one-night stands with, I have enough ‘inner beauty’ to be male friend’s Girl Friday but I lack the ‘whole package’ (or have too whole a package) to be somebody’s someone.

I can blame my ‘curves’ on a range of variables:
1. Genetics: child bearing hips are a family heirloom- passed on from one generation of women to the next.
2. A childhood spent in farmhouse kitchens full of fresh baking and with Grandparents who equated sweets with love.
3. I eat the ‘live alone’ diet too much coffee with the obligatory biscuits; of having cereal for dinner then late night snacks of all manner of fat-filled delights or the ever easy ‘take-out for tea’.
4. I ABHOR all forms of exercise (PE was my weekly torture, at school) or to be honest, I’m too lazy to exercise- it gets in the way of my lying around time.
5. My name is ‘Carrie’ and I’m a Chocoholic.

Or to summarise I eat the wrong things, at the wrong time and never get my flabby butt off the settee to do anything about it.

I share Lily’s moral dilemma. As a teacher I (in fact we both) face the daily burden of being in a position of influence. The pupils in my classroom increasingly belong to the camps at the extreme ends of the weight balance (plunging dangerously towards size zero or aiding the ballooning of childhood obesity figures). Along with teaching spellings and apostrophes and striving to inspire a love of Shakespeare; I also use my influence to rage against the concept of feminine beauty as dictated by the mysoginistic media machine.

(My utter hatred of Lara Croft is a widely- known fact, in school circles. The cartoon- generated Lara is so “top-heavy” that her spine could not in reality support her fantastical breasts. A female action figure who suggests brawn over brains as an answer to world devastation (or whatever the hell goes on in those games) is not an role model for this generation of hormonally charged young men and women- yet I digress.)

I preach the virtues of ‘searching for the inner beauty’; of valuing the substance rather than the style. I have absolutely no qualms in realising that a person’s worth is never measured in how they look. I metaphorically pummel my cellulite covered behind with a UNICEF imprinted bat, that reminds me, I should be grateful to live in a country that can feed itself.

But much like the list of superlatives I offered Lily, my virtuous offerings fall on deaf and slightly uneven ears. This is an issue rooted deep in every female psyche. Every woman has something she physically wants to change about herself. Deep down it is not the acceptance of the could be boyfriend; the intellectually challenging and gorgeous husband or even her best friend that she is seeking. Every woman is on a journey and the final destination is the inner acceptance of the outer you.

If Lily wants to run towards that destination, who am I to get in her way?