The problem with me being contemptuous of situations such as the one related below, could, in part, be because of my education. (Too many commas Tatya). The Arts (not Fine Arts) do not equip you with skills to earn a living.
Of course we do it for the love of the thing. There is no denying that, nor would I change my education.
But while the Commerce kids learn to add up columns, and the engineers learn to fill out application forms for US universities, we learn Aristotle’s theory of universals. And about the chairness of a chair.
Don’t ask me what that means; I didn’t say I paid attention.
When we graduate, to make up for giving us any skills that will get us a job, they give us a salty chip to place on our shoulders (and you can NEVER have just one). And a poster of Betty Friedan to put in our poetry-walled rooms.
While we sat around parsing and practising phonetics, we were talking about a revolution. Dissecting media for subliminal messages. Hating the pretty girls who baby-talk others into painting their nails pink.
And then we enter the real world and find out that no one fucking cares about how much we love cummings and Hughes, and just adore Toni Morrison. Then we go do a postgraduate in PR and deny ever knowing Plath.
Some of us hold on a little longer, changing every Widow text to Orphan text. Patiently cutting out Mrs/Miss on forms and almost never keeping the original last name post-marriage to start a defiant tirade about our Socialist Feminist Values (That’s Ms Bitch to you, fucker).
But the kranti? It is not coming. We feel like we’ve become our mothers, tsking tsking as the girl hitches up her thong. Saying our anatomy is not our destiny when we eat a bowl of ice cream. We have no feminine mystique.
We are all sciolists. And as we stroke our double chin, we realise that Leonard Cohen’s never going to bring the groceries in.