How I found adventure

252793_395198697206986_361030474_n

How I Found Adventure

By Beatrice Grimshaw (1871 – 1953)

I am a Victorian.

I was born in the ‘Seventies, in a big lonely country house five miles–a whole hour’s journey–from Belfast.

I was governessed and schooled and colleged. I was taught to ride and play games. I was taught to behave. To write notes for Mamma. To do the flowers. To be polite but not too polite, to Young Gentlemen. To accept flowers, sweets and books from them, but no more. To rise swiftly with the rest of the six daughters and sons when Papa came into the breakfast-room, to kiss him ceremoniously, and rush to wait upon him. He liked it, and we liked it.

I went to dances, and waltzed to “The Blue Danube,” “Sweethearts,” and “Estudiantina.” I went to afternoon parties. I was chaperoned. My three sisters were good girls, and content.

But I was the Revolting Daughter–as they called them then. I bought a bicycle, with difficulty. I rode it unchaperoned, mile and miles beyond the limits possible to the soberly trotting horses. The world opened before me. And as soon as my twenty-first birthday dawned, I went away from home, to see what the world might to give to daughters who revolted. What it gave me first was the offer of a journalistic post.

There were maps of far-away places, maps with tantalizing blanks in them; maps of the huge Pacific, colored an entrancing blue. I swore that I would go there.

I made a London newspaper commission me; I went. Long ago, when travel was travel, and the South Sea unknown to tourists; when the charm of the island world was still unbroken. I went to all the chief island groups, and lived in most; I saw the inner New Hebrides, Solomons and New Guinea, at their rawest and fiercest; I roamed all over the East beyond the East, before anyone had begun to think of Java, or the Bali kings had prophetically committed suicide on their coral reefs.

I had so many adventures that they cease to seem adventures. In the New Hebrides, I was caught in a forest fire, and barely escaped into a valley where bones of a recent cannibal feast lay blackening in the smoke. I stood on the shores of Tanna, and watched a recruiting schooner creep cautiously in, afraid to land her boats, while the men of the mountains, fighters and cannibals all, waited with loaded guns beside me, ready to attack the blackbirding crew who had taken away their best. I was present at a dance of murderers and man-eaters, up in the Tanna hills, where no man went. There and elsewhere, I managed to make friends with the wild men of the woods.

In the Solomons, of recent years, I cam in contact with the amazing native magic of the sorcerer, and lived in a house that was haunted by ghostly birds.

I saw–still in the Solomons–men who declared they had solved the secret of a happy life; they said they knew how to project themselves into another man’s personality, provided he were agreed, and that such mutual changes often took place–wives, houses, names, habits, even faces, being transferred from one to another. They said they did this through their magic. Certainly the practice was fairly common, however it was brought about, and it seemed to please everybody.

I was given, by a chief, a charm as a safe-pass for a day and night among the wildest tribes. It was carved from a beautiful orange shell, and represented the circle of the sun caught in the curve of the crescent moon, I don’t know how much or little it had to do with the fact that I never got into any trouble, although I was told by the men of one tribe (Malaita, of course) that they might killed me or any white any day, just for fun, if they happened to feel like it.

I went to New Caledonia, famous, infamous French penal island, slept in one of a row of former convict cells, and saw the church where the celebrated mass marriages took place, a couple of hundred male convicts being married all at once to as many female convicts specially imported.

I was received by the natives of Dutch New Guinea with a curious ceremony, staged as well as Hollywood could have done it–knives and spears threateningly held up by some of the younger men, while older men raised high above them a burning brand and a branch of palms, signifying homes and hearths and peace. They did not allow women to see the interior of men’s temples; but I had bought my way in– with a gift of bread and butter!–and the ceremony that was afterward stages outside the men’s sacred house was meant to be interpreted as follows: “You have deserved death for entering the sacred house. But you have been forgiven. You may enter our homes, and it is peace between us.”

I was friends with the old Queen of the Cook Islands, the late Makea Takau, a real monarch, six feet three in height, who ruled her islands with an iron scepter. He Prince Consort, Ngamaru, was less civilized than she; it was his way to threaten people who offended him, by making the “cannibal sign” at them–rapidly drawing his clenched fist across his teeth; the significance being: “I will tear you with my teeth!” As for Makea Takau, she used most courteously to tell an enemy, “I do not expect to see you after Wednesday;” and she enemy walked away, and obediently died on Wednesday, of nothing at all.

The beautiful Princess Tuera (of whom I afterward wrote many stories entitled “Queen Vaiti”) was a friend of mine in the old days. She was Raratongan, extremely lovely, and fiery as a female dragon. She had captained her father’s recruiting schooner, often, and ran it like a bucko mate of whaling days. I never knew her to be beaten by anything or anybody, male or female, alive or dead. Thirty years later, I found that she had defeated even Time, and was beautiful still. She lives in Raratonga, today. Read more : http://www.grimshaworigin.org/WebPages/BeatGrim1.htm#VaitiOfTheIslands

This is going to take real work, which is why so many men resist it. It requires destabilizing your own identity, and giving up attitudes and behaviors from which you’re used to deriving power, likely before you learn how to derive power from other, more just and productive places. There are real risks for men who challenge toxic masculinity, from social shaming to actual “don’t’ be a fag” violence—punishments that won’t ease until many, many men take the plunge. But there are great rewards to be had, too, beyond stopping rape. Toxic masculinity is damaging to men, too, positing them as stoic sex-and-violence machines with allergies to tenderness, playfulness, and vulnerability. A reinvented masculinity will surely give men more room to express and explore themselves without shame or fear. (It will also, not incidentally, reduce rape against men as well, because many rapes of men are committed by other men with the intention of “feminizing”—that is, humiliating through dominance—their victim”

http://prospect.org/article/toxic-masculinity

What does it say about our society that when a man is “friend zoned” – it is somehow equated with him being less of a man?

A common complaint of men is that women lead them on. It’s painful when men don’t want to be friends with us because we don’t want anything sexual/physical with them; this has contributed to the difficulty in speaking our truth. My most cherished male relationships right now are those with emotional intimacy without ANY fear of advances. Those men are my heroes. I am a strong woman – if I want a physically intimate relationship, you will know it. When I sense that a man wants physical intimacy without first wanting to know and “undress” my mind and heart I close off and my defenses go up. It makes it difficult to admit the truth/be authentic in a LOVING WAY when in defense mode and this blocks women from telling the truth because in feeling our boundaries pushed we have to go into “bitch” mode to be taken seriously, be heard, and re-establish our boundaries. Some of us don’t want to “go there” to speak our truth, because this also feels inauthentic because it’s reactive. We want to tell you with kindness what we want and don’t want. And fellas … we KNOW and SENSE when you want a physical relationship even if you say you don’t -it oozes out of you. Men don’t trust women to tell the truth – this is part of the old paradigm of “the chase” – where her saying ‘no’ actually means ‘yes.’ There is mutual responsibility here. Thank you to the men that value a woman’s honesty and authenticity more than her sexuality – you are changing our world. ♥

We cannot “get men to fight for women’s rights” without first helping them realize their own oppression. Any effort outside of this is mis-informed -Mirona Constantinescu

We cannot realize another’s oppression without first realizing our own. We don’t have the motivation to “fight for” another’s liberation until we fight for our own. Context: Sexism/Racism