Showing posts with label feminine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminine. Show all posts

13.7.15

How J.K.Rowling demoted Serena Williams


What should have been the brilliant Serena Williams' moment has transformed into a J.K.Rowling defending Serena one. The tennis star has enough calibre and celebrity to withstand stray comments, if she pays heed to them at all.

Instead, by rushing to her rescue Ms Rowling has reduced that victory to victimisation.

It started with Rowling posting her praise for Serena on Twitter: "I love her. What an athlete, what a role model, what a woman!"

A fellow called Rob responded with, "Ironic then that main reason for her success is that she is built like a man."

That's when Rowling did what she is now all over the place for. She posted two pictures of Serena in a slinky, clingy gown, her contours emphasised, and captioned it, "'she is built like a man'. Yeah, my husband looks just like this in a dress. You're an idiot."


For doing this, Rowling is now celebrated for having "decimated", "destroyed" a troll. Seriously? Can't even imagine the search words she must have used to find these photographs. Was it "Serena looking like a woman" or "Serena's hips"?

Rob has an opinion about women's bodies, and he does not think twice about commenting on a tennis player's despite the fact that she has won due to stroke play and not what she looks like. But, is J.K.Rowling any different from the guy who is denounced as a "body shamer"? One may accuse him of being wrong, or of misogyny, but has he shamed Serena?

Why would being built like a man qualify as shame? If a graceful male dancer is said to be built like a woman, would that be an insult? It ought not to.

I am surprised that the media has gone all pulp prose to commend Rowling, who should in fact be ticked off. She posts a picture of Serena looking 'feminine' and goes on to highlight it. What if she did not have those curves, would she then be less of a person of the female gender?

Not all women are built in the mould that a Rowling fancies as representative, just as not all men are uniform in build that Rob implies.

Worse, Serena is objectified not by the unknown man, but by this celebrity author. It's almost like a put-on display to justify to that Rob guy that she is all woman, all flesh. This is body shaming because it feels the need to prove that it is the desirably accepted female body and not what a guy from somewhere suggests it is.

Serena has won a title at Wimbledon. Her body has not. So, J.K. Rowling and her cheerleaders in the media and social media, bereft of nuance, can just shut up. And perhaps grow up.

10.8.11

Oh, Man!

I am male. For a while, I shall live with this gender identity. Details about the inner workings of my body are tagged ‘male’. What seems like a minor goof-up by the pathology lab has made me think about how we understand who we are.

After going through a battery of tests – I so love the phrase, it seems more important than just saying “many tests” – and letting the guy fill up three vials of blood, I have to go through this altered persona. Had he not poked the needle into what I think is feminine skin and flesh, and looked into my eyes as he took down details, eyes that I think are womanly, and then there was the rest of me, not to forget my name that would rarely conjure up a man, not even a metrosexual?

They had to send the samples for a recheck. So, hello, hello, I asked the lady over the phone, when will it be ready.

She asked, “Name?”

I told her.

“Okay…here, male?”

“Is that the report?”

Could my blood have a new gender?

“What male?” I refuted.

“It says F, male.”

“No.”

“You are not F?”

“I am, but not male.”

“Then what?”

I was given a choice. Imagine that!

“Female,” I said in my most demure voice.

“Oh, I will have to make a new printout. Reports ready tomorrow.”

These technical assistants would make good précis writers.

So, today I went, and even dabbed a reddish gloss on my lips, and my blouse did have a sort of interesting neckline, just enough. I wore slacks that clung to me. And I wore open sandals to show my feminine feet. It was probably unintentional, but the subconscious is a killer.

After paying up for the three vials of blood, the receptionist said, “Are you only F?”

“No, I am more.”

“Then is this your report?” She went out to read all the stuff that was supposed to be tested. I said yes, yes, yes.

“Okay. Male?”

“What? Look, there was a mistake and I had told them and they said they had made the changes. FEMALE.”

“Changed, changed. Must be.”

I just took the file and reached home. The pages were neatly typed, the sections demarcated – low, high, normal range. I could not figure out most of what it said. Just as I was about to close it, my eyes spotted the column that said “Sex”.

“Male.” Typed clearly. On all the pages.

It’s no big deal, but I wonder why I have started slapping my thighs and laughing at my own jokes. My aim is still pretty good, though.