Dear sir,
allow me to stick to my principles,
the most important one being that
I treat everyone
with basic human decency,
and thus I will not insult you
or belittle you,
even though I couldn't loathe you more.
Ironically,
this is a thing you helped me learn,
even while you had so much trouble doing so youself.
You met me as a teenager, and as a teacher,
it was your job to teach me,
not only for your class and exams but for life,
and so you did.
Just very differently than you thought you would,
I guess.
You were one of the so thinly spread male teachers I ever had, and yet,
you tought me to be a feminist.
Not because you were one yourself,
but because you were not,
and you showed me problems in our society from your perspective
I just approach them a way
you propably never intended me to.
You taught me linguistics
that language is in constant change
that the limits of my language mean the limits of my world
and I took from it that
as long as the generic masculine
is the norm in my mother tongue
this world will be a mans world indeed.
Pardon me for writing this letter in English:
it is easier to use a language that doesn't deny my existence.
You taught me
that people become aggressive
and violent when they're about to lose something
or someone they value.
I have to thank you for that
because it prepared me for everything to come
every moment when someone really valued me.
And in the same lection
you taught me that
the best way to show
an enemy your teeth
is a smile.
So I will smile at you.
I will give you the warmest
most genuine smile
if we ever meet again.
Dear sir,
it is a shame we loathe each other so much.
The things that we could learn
together
if just we could have
a no-nonsense talk,
just once.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
15.6.18
Making a wedding: I'm a strong independent woman who... can't ask
No worries, this is not going to become a wedding blog or something, but I figured I'd really like to share my experiences along the way of planning a wedding, especially as someone who a) is a feminist and b) is a big fan of doing things differently and (hopefully) less expensive.
First of all, let me tell you: When I was a child, I was not a big fan of weddings and marriage in general. I had grown up in a family where a lot of people were divorced or didn't get married in the first place mostly because of that history of divorce. My family is pretty matriarchal due to that as well, because its the mothers (grandmothers, aunts, you name it) who usually stayed part of the family. My mum never married and always told me that she thinks that love doesn't need a wedding. And you know what? I still think she is right.
However, the older I got, the more I started dreaming of having this huge party. I like to celebrate love, and I like to break standards. So why not throw this huge party with someone you love? Sure, you could do it without the ceremony and all that fuss and without the comitment that comes with marriage. But that'd be only half the deal, right?
So generally, I'd like to get married for the experience which might be a pretty millenial approach, but here we go. The biggest problem about this is - I am also not big at long-term relationships. The half-life for my relationships is usually around 4 months. Not exactly a great basis for getting married.
Then I met my fiance. To be honest, this relationship started out like an experiment, I was by then pretty sure that I was more of a polyamorous person, he knew that he wanted monogamy - so basically the deal was "We try the monogamy thing, and see if it works for me and if not, we have a calm, mature talk about it and see what we can do about it or if we break up because it doesn't fit (which would be perfectly fine too)". So basically we did what should be the standard: Commiting to communicate. What can I say - so far, we didn't have any talk like this yet, mostly because this guy trusts me a lot and there is zero jealousy because of that. He trusts me that if I have urges I want to follow I will be honest with him, and he believes that if that happens, it just doesn't work and that would be ok too. So basically we are both very calm, not stressing out about the future too much and enjoying our time together. We are not the type for "forever" but more for "for now as long as it makes us happy" and thats great. And "for now" has lasted for 3 years already.
We had talked about our mutual wish to get married for pretty long already before there was an actual proposal, so we both knew that as long as we stayed together we'd both be in - not necessarily at any given time, but just in general.
After two and a half years, in October 2017, we moved in together for the first time and to me, it really felt like this was a huge milestone and at the same time a test to our relationship. Living with someone else is something I am not very good at either - I get easily annoyed by people when I need time on my own and past shared living situations showed that my idea of tidiness and others ideas of tidiness usually differ a lot. However, after a month, we still were absolutely chill with each other and when there were problems we managed to (boom, here it goes again) talk them out peacefully.
Now at the end of the month, something happened that made me really angry of my fiance (for the sake of the privacy of everyone involved we agreed not to disclose that any further on here - don't worry, while it was a pretty big deal to me, it wasn't something inherently toxic or even dangerous). Of course he apologized, but I still had a hard time swallowing what happened that evening.
The next day, I was in town for an appointment, and after that was done, I started to wander around a bit. I really like to do that from time to time, just walking through different shops not really buying anything, no music on my ears, just walking and thinking. And I thought about the last evening and how angry I had been... and somehow I started to randomly look at rings. Not expensive ones, actually really cheap rings. The idea to propose formed and finally I bought a set of rings for 24€ combined, asked the shop assistants for a box to put them into and to wish me luck. Because if after being so angry at him I still didn't spare even a thought to maybe ending the relationship, this was something.
So I had two rings in a box and went home, my heart beating very fast. At home, I didn't really manage to do the thing at first, but at some point, I sat on the couch and he somehow sat on a stool right in front of me which was pretty ideal, so I put the box in front of him and told him I brought something. He opened it, got all teary-eyed and started to grin like an idiot and kissed me and finally I asked "So, what do you say?" and he replied "Well, you haven't asked anything yet." It dawned on me that he was right, I hadn't. I propably blushed and went "I... I can't say it!" because it felt so weird to even think about saying those words out loud: Do you want to marry me?
So even while it was pretty awkward he did say yes, and I still like to end this story with the notion that it could all be a huge misunderstanding - because no one ever actually asked the question.
(By the way, he planned on proposing as well, wanted to do it on my birthday two weeks later.)
30.11.17
Missing retail - A Love Story
Due to christmas shopping I went to a tiny little bookstore this week. I found it right in the middle of our city, it has always been there, but since it technically isn't on one of the big High Streets, I never noticed it before.
I tend to buy a lot of books as christmas presents, I guess it's a habit very typical for people of my profession. So we went in there and went out half an hour later with 5 books in my fiances backpack and one more being ordered for us for two days later. It was a lovely shop, two floors, one with German books and one with English ones, all decorated with a lot of love and care. The employees were typical booksellers, you could just sense their love for their goods, they were authentic and with burning passion for their work, and of course helpful and polite as they should be.
When I left the shop I bursted into tears. Being in such a lovely little bookshop hurt.
Why? Because I miss this. I miss being one of those passionate booksellers instead of one of those indifferent office job workers. I miss caring for my work. I miss burning for my work.
I always did burn for selling books. I burned for every bit of it, from unpacking the boxes full of new books in the morning to handling even the most tedious customer with a smile to counting the cash in the evening, hell, I even burned for dusting the shelves for hours. All the boring, unnerving, exhausting tasks I thought I'd be happy to leave behind when I started at my current job, I even miss those. I miss all of this a lot.
Sure, my current job is not too bad. It does pay more than I'd get in a bookshop, I don't have to do physically demanding works like carrying several kilos of books up and down stairs, I don't have to deal with customers too often and if I don't feel like smiling I don't have to, my colleagues are lovely, my superiors take pretty good care of me, I can work flexible times and I have a lot of chances to learn and grow as a person work-wise. This job does have a lot of perks. But it is not what I burn for. I don't really care for what I am doing here. If it wasn't for paying my bills, I propably would not go here everyday, 40 hours a week. It's a bearable job, it's pretty ok, but it isn't great. It doesn't make me happy.
Now this would be a lot different if I would have actively decided to do this instead of working in a bookshop. Then it would be a) my fault and b) changable. However, the reason it hurts even more is that it was never my decision to make. There are simply too few jobs in book selling, especially if you want them to pay you a living (there are mostly part time jobs that would hardly cover my rent and food) and limit yourself to one city. Thus, I never stood a real chance to decide if I wanted to stay in bookselling or do something else. I was kicked out of my personal paradise and took my current job only for the sake of having a job at all.
For the first time in my life I feel truly betrayed by capitalism, personally offended. In Germany, several hundreds of booksellers are trained, but there are not even closely enough jobs for them after they finished their apprenticeship. There are a few lucky ones who can stay in the shops where they did their apprenticeship, there are some who find work in other shops and some who don't want to be a bookseller anymore, and then there's people like me who would die to keep doing this job but don't find a job in their field. A lot of booksellers are basically bread for unemployment and it is frustrating. It is frustrating having worked so hard for years below minimum wage for nothing. It's even more frustrating wanting to highly recommend this work field because it makes you so happy just to realise you couldn't possibly bear to see someone becoming that disappointed as well.
In the end, it feels a bit like being in love with someone who doesn't reciprocate your feelings. It hurts a lot but you can't change it, they can't change it either, it just is what it is: Not meant to be. Their feelings might change at some point, but you have no guarantee for it, so it is the best for everyone to move on for now.
I tend to buy a lot of books as christmas presents, I guess it's a habit very typical for people of my profession. So we went in there and went out half an hour later with 5 books in my fiances backpack and one more being ordered for us for two days later. It was a lovely shop, two floors, one with German books and one with English ones, all decorated with a lot of love and care. The employees were typical booksellers, you could just sense their love for their goods, they were authentic and with burning passion for their work, and of course helpful and polite as they should be.
When I left the shop I bursted into tears. Being in such a lovely little bookshop hurt.
Why? Because I miss this. I miss being one of those passionate booksellers instead of one of those indifferent office job workers. I miss caring for my work. I miss burning for my work.
I always did burn for selling books. I burned for every bit of it, from unpacking the boxes full of new books in the morning to handling even the most tedious customer with a smile to counting the cash in the evening, hell, I even burned for dusting the shelves for hours. All the boring, unnerving, exhausting tasks I thought I'd be happy to leave behind when I started at my current job, I even miss those. I miss all of this a lot.
Sure, my current job is not too bad. It does pay more than I'd get in a bookshop, I don't have to do physically demanding works like carrying several kilos of books up and down stairs, I don't have to deal with customers too often and if I don't feel like smiling I don't have to, my colleagues are lovely, my superiors take pretty good care of me, I can work flexible times and I have a lot of chances to learn and grow as a person work-wise. This job does have a lot of perks. But it is not what I burn for. I don't really care for what I am doing here. If it wasn't for paying my bills, I propably would not go here everyday, 40 hours a week. It's a bearable job, it's pretty ok, but it isn't great. It doesn't make me happy.
Now this would be a lot different if I would have actively decided to do this instead of working in a bookshop. Then it would be a) my fault and b) changable. However, the reason it hurts even more is that it was never my decision to make. There are simply too few jobs in book selling, especially if you want them to pay you a living (there are mostly part time jobs that would hardly cover my rent and food) and limit yourself to one city. Thus, I never stood a real chance to decide if I wanted to stay in bookselling or do something else. I was kicked out of my personal paradise and took my current job only for the sake of having a job at all.
For the first time in my life I feel truly betrayed by capitalism, personally offended. In Germany, several hundreds of booksellers are trained, but there are not even closely enough jobs for them after they finished their apprenticeship. There are a few lucky ones who can stay in the shops where they did their apprenticeship, there are some who find work in other shops and some who don't want to be a bookseller anymore, and then there's people like me who would die to keep doing this job but don't find a job in their field. A lot of booksellers are basically bread for unemployment and it is frustrating. It is frustrating having worked so hard for years below minimum wage for nothing. It's even more frustrating wanting to highly recommend this work field because it makes you so happy just to realise you couldn't possibly bear to see someone becoming that disappointed as well.
In the end, it feels a bit like being in love with someone who doesn't reciprocate your feelings. It hurts a lot but you can't change it, they can't change it either, it just is what it is: Not meant to be. Their feelings might change at some point, but you have no guarantee for it, so it is the best for everyone to move on for now.
4.12.16
Fourteen years
TW SEXUAL VIOLENCE
This is a text that is not easy to write down, but simultaneously too important to not do it. It is personal, very personal. That is why I have to write it down, both because it explains a lot about me as a person and because, more importantly, it is something that concerns so many people everywhere.
When I was 7 years old, I was sexually abused. I'll spare you the details and graphic descriptions. The things important about it are that a) it happened in the first place, b) it was not someone I knew, and c) I was lucky enough to survive. I also had the luck to be raised by a mother that made me feel safe enough with her that I told her rightaway, and we went to report it to the police the next day.
And then, a long time, nothing happened, and eventually, the case got closed.
I learned to live with what had happened to me. I never kept it a secret, but I didn't tell it without a reason either. I told it to everyone I dated a bit longer, and to close friends, because I always felt like that might be important to understand me better as a person, to understand why I was quite pessimistic when it came to police and reporting crimes, to understand why I had problems mentally and so on. With every time I told my story again, it became easier. I am now at a point where I can tell it without crying, just like the fact that it is. I also came to terms with that man not being caught. I had to.
Fourteen years later, when I was away in Exeter for my internship abroad, I got a call from the police in my home town, and first I thought I was in trouble - the most criminal thing I might have done in my life would be underage drinking by the way.
The officer told me an eight-years-old girl had been sexually abused, and apparently the cases were so similar that they dug out mine again. I was asked to tell my story once again and answer a few questions, and while the police officer handled me with great care on the phone and while another child had to experience what I experienced for this to happen, I was weirdly happy. After all this time, I had an actual chance to get justice.
I went to testify and answer the questions they had. While after fourteen years I had forgotten details, or remembered them wrong, I still was able to find better words for things and apparently that helped. A few months later, I got a call again.
They got him. For days, I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. They got him. Yet, I was sceptical until I read in the newspaper that he testified to be my abuser as well. And they got him.
And now I got a letter informing me about my rights as a victim. The letter included his name. I know his name. To be honest, I don't really know why this is so important to me, but it is, even if I can't really explain it. Maybe because it makes it more real. It's hard to believe that this is not a dream, having your case solved after such a long time.
My family and friends keep asking me if I was okay. They think all of this might reopen old wounds. Weirdly, it doesn't. At least nothing more than a scratch. Mostly, I am happy and relieved. Of course, there's no way to undo what has been done to me and that poor other girl. But at least, he won't be able to hurt anyone else. And that's all I could ask for.
This is my story, and it's important to me to write it down for the world to see. First of all because silence doesn't help anyone. Secondly, because I hope that it might give hope to others who experience sexual abuse. Hope that they may get justice, and hope that they can heal.
People often claim that children who experienced sexual violence will never be able to live a normal life with that horrible memory. Now of course I can't speak for everyone, but for me, that's wrong.
I do live a normal life - and a good one. I have a job that I love, a wonderful family, my amazing boyfriend, awesome friends, and I am happy. Sure, I will never be able to forget what happened, but I rarely think about it. Not even once a week. Almost never. I have so many other things to think about. I live a good life. He did not destroy it. And that might be the best thing about all of this.
This is a text that is not easy to write down, but simultaneously too important to not do it. It is personal, very personal. That is why I have to write it down, both because it explains a lot about me as a person and because, more importantly, it is something that concerns so many people everywhere.
When I was 7 years old, I was sexually abused. I'll spare you the details and graphic descriptions. The things important about it are that a) it happened in the first place, b) it was not someone I knew, and c) I was lucky enough to survive. I also had the luck to be raised by a mother that made me feel safe enough with her that I told her rightaway, and we went to report it to the police the next day.
And then, a long time, nothing happened, and eventually, the case got closed.
I learned to live with what had happened to me. I never kept it a secret, but I didn't tell it without a reason either. I told it to everyone I dated a bit longer, and to close friends, because I always felt like that might be important to understand me better as a person, to understand why I was quite pessimistic when it came to police and reporting crimes, to understand why I had problems mentally and so on. With every time I told my story again, it became easier. I am now at a point where I can tell it without crying, just like the fact that it is. I also came to terms with that man not being caught. I had to.
Fourteen years later, when I was away in Exeter for my internship abroad, I got a call from the police in my home town, and first I thought I was in trouble - the most criminal thing I might have done in my life would be underage drinking by the way.
The officer told me an eight-years-old girl had been sexually abused, and apparently the cases were so similar that they dug out mine again. I was asked to tell my story once again and answer a few questions, and while the police officer handled me with great care on the phone and while another child had to experience what I experienced for this to happen, I was weirdly happy. After all this time, I had an actual chance to get justice.
I went to testify and answer the questions they had. While after fourteen years I had forgotten details, or remembered them wrong, I still was able to find better words for things and apparently that helped. A few months later, I got a call again.
They got him. For days, I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. They got him. Yet, I was sceptical until I read in the newspaper that he testified to be my abuser as well. And they got him.
And now I got a letter informing me about my rights as a victim. The letter included his name. I know his name. To be honest, I don't really know why this is so important to me, but it is, even if I can't really explain it. Maybe because it makes it more real. It's hard to believe that this is not a dream, having your case solved after such a long time.
My family and friends keep asking me if I was okay. They think all of this might reopen old wounds. Weirdly, it doesn't. At least nothing more than a scratch. Mostly, I am happy and relieved. Of course, there's no way to undo what has been done to me and that poor other girl. But at least, he won't be able to hurt anyone else. And that's all I could ask for.
This is my story, and it's important to me to write it down for the world to see. First of all because silence doesn't help anyone. Secondly, because I hope that it might give hope to others who experience sexual abuse. Hope that they may get justice, and hope that they can heal.
People often claim that children who experienced sexual violence will never be able to live a normal life with that horrible memory. Now of course I can't speak for everyone, but for me, that's wrong.
I do live a normal life - and a good one. I have a job that I love, a wonderful family, my amazing boyfriend, awesome friends, and I am happy. Sure, I will never be able to forget what happened, but I rarely think about it. Not even once a week. Almost never. I have so many other things to think about. I live a good life. He did not destroy it. And that might be the best thing about all of this.
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