Women Can Be is a brand new feminist zine, “exploring the things that women can be in a world filled with sexist expectations”. It features five female artists from three different countries (who joined together to form an Instagram art collective last year) and it looks mad gorgeous when it shows up on your doorstep.
I’ve had moments in my life where I have basically been Lily Evans from Harry Potter (let me have this). Not only am I ginger (okay, it’s dyed, I’m desperate here), but I’ve also had two people who are very different ‘types’ want to date me, and like a classic millennial, I drew comparisons to James and Severus.
So another year is over and 2016 has been plucked, shiny and new (or bloody and screaming, depending on your outlook), from the beautiful vagina of 2015. Whether you had a traumatic 72 hour labour of a year or a wondrous water birth of a year, we come to the same end point together – a fresh, new year. Ready for us to try again.
Here is a question most feminists have been asked before: what is it that you want, exactly?
There is usually a follow-up question: do you want women to be superior to men? Men, in particular, seem terrified at the idea of having to endure what women have had to bear with for centuries – irony is a cruel thing. The feminist response to these questions currently seems to be: feminists want men and women to be equals. Gender equality: a reasonable and simple goal, and one that can hardly be contested publicly (and yet).
Knowing a British theatre-goer fears nothing more than a show promising audience participation and nudity (“Please let those be separate things”), Hannah Ballou opens ‘hoo:ha’ with a run-through of her impressive academic and professional credentials. You can almost hear the sound of bum muscles relaxing. Worries safely set aside, the audience is ready for entertainment, and Ballou serves up entertainment by the bucket load.
My womb hasn’t done much in its (relatively) young life. It has shed its walls at random times and with great abandon, causing me to either consume sickening amounts of Dairy Milk or to collapse on the Tube, depending on how violent it’s feeling. Apart from this, it’s done basically nothing. However, the older I get the more and more often I’m feverishly asked about the future plans of my womb, as if it’s Jennifer Lawrence and an exciting new film project is on the horizon.