Lately, my Cixious Feminist soul has taken a beating. Rejecting the simplistic label of 'feminism' for a more specific strand of thought, I struggle with the contemporary manifestations of women's liberation. Not because I disagree with the politics, but because it is often reduced to a series of slogans, which end up being attacked by shouting men on YouTube.
I'm probably looking in the wrong place for the intellectual rigour that attracted me to the cause in the first place.
Luckily, it's the Edinburgh Fringe, and theatre is giving me some
options. It's hard not to get excited about shows with titles like these: Just let the wind untie my perfumed hair, Nizinga, Warrior Queen, The F Words. And, if I am serious about wanting Écriture féminine, how can I not give a shout out to shows that, respectively, celebrate a female Persian poet who was the first martyr for women's suffrage, an ass-kicking African queen and the experience of young women in Scotland (some of whom go to the BEST UNIVERSITY IN THE WORLD (joint with Dundee, that is)).
I'm tired, and my faith is tested by the length of the status updates by artists on Facebook. But I cling to the hope that theatre can be a place for hidden stories, different points of view, you know, the other.