"That's not very ladylike"

Here I argue that we should abandon the term 'ladylike' as a sexist anachronism. My argument rests on the idea that 'ladylike' traits involve submissiveness, ineptitude and vanity, none of which are anything to aspire towards, nor are they traits which belong to all and only women.

The word 'ladylike' conjures up archaic ideas of what a lady should be like. 'Ladylike' traits seem to take two forms:

a) Appearance-related traits such as wearing beautiful dresses; looking immaculate; being thin and pretty with big boobs; wearing lots of makeup

b) Behavioural or personality-related traits such as being coy, submissive, dumb, weak and inept at any traditionally 'male' pursuits

Why, in present day, are these traits considered to be essential or desirable features of being a lady? 'Ladylike' seems reducible to 'bimbo'; this does not seem to be something to aspire towards.

What about women who are described as 'unladylike'? Such women might be butch, scruffy, uncouth, dominant, opinionated, they enjoy 'masculine' activities (whatever they are), or they are - dare I say it - intelligent. As far as I can tell, at least some of these 'unladylike' features are as desirable or more desirable than the 'ladylike' ones; being intelligent and having opinions seem particularly desirable. And yet, when someone says a woman is 'not very ladylike' this is rarely meant as a compliment.  'Ladylike' does not seem to mean 'like a lady', since ladies (qua women) all look different, act different, and think differently from one another, so if 'ladylike' meant 'like a woman' then the term would be so broad so as to be meaningless. It would include being tall, short, fat, thin, brown, white, clever, stupid, beautiful, ugly - all the collective traits of all women - and so 'ladylike' cannot mean 'like a woman'. Rather, 'ladylike' seems to mean what an ideal lady is (supposedly) like, viz. demure, sexy, submissive, inept and brainless. She is beautiful, vacuous and needs big strong man to look after her and to tell her what to do. I simply cannot fathom why these are supposedly the features of an ideal woman, but these do seem to be the features which people are referring to when they say that a woman is ladylike (or features which a woman lacks if she is "not very ladylike").

Recall Always' "Like a Girl" advert. The advert is in all likelihood scripted and choreographed, but it is close enough to reality to be plausible. "You run like a girl" is not a compliment; it is a put-down - it is dismissive to tell a girl she runs like a girl, and real insult to tell a man that he runs like a girl. Thus there is a tension between the idea that a female should be like a female - but that being like a female is not as good as being a male. As a general rule, men are taller, faster and stronger than women, so might my critic object that "run like a girl" just means run slightly slower than a man? Such a claim seems indefensible. "Like a girl" is used to mean that something is being done in a ditsy, brainless, flamboyant and incompetent way; it is not used to mean "brilliant, but just slightly slower than a man". Being 'like a girl' or 'ladylike' is simultaneously an expectation and a failing.

"Just been to the salon dahling, must dash home to get dinner
on the table before His Lordship gets in! Mwah! Mwah!"

Running fast in trainers is not very ladylike, whereas the straight-legged short-strided jog is ladylike - viz. the way in which one has to run if one is wearing high heels and a tight skirt - 'ladylike' clothes. Telling a woman that she "runs like a man" can perhaps be delivered as a compliment ("Wow, you're as good as a man, which is unusual for a woman!") or as a put-down ("You're too butch and manly; you're not very ladylike.") There is the ever-present implication that if you are female, you should be ladylike - but that being ladylike involves some of the most inert and vacuous features a person can possess. 

Buzzfeed ran an article listing 21 signs [that] being ladylike is not your forte. The list includes having messy hair, poor make-up, you can't walk in heels, you're not afraid to say how you feel, you swear, you don't like spa days or shopping, and you think the most important part of eating is the eating. Now I concede that Buzzfeed is not the perfect guide to word usage, but its popularity and ubiquity does give us some sense that the above traits are indeed features of ladylikeness. The implication is that if you are a woman who is not ladylike, this is bad - even though ladylike traits do not seem to be useful or aspirational: in other words, if you are a woman you should know your place and not get ideas above your station. Your function as a woman qua woman is to be eye candy for the lads, and not to have a brain or an opinion.

So it seems that 'ladylike' is used to refer to the way women "ought" to be - the ideal - but that the supposedly ideal (ladylike) woman is someone who should be seen but not heard. A ladylike woman is one who looks immaculate, but has limited assertiveness, independence or intelligence. I submit that this is not in fact the ideal woman, and it is not something which women and girls should aspire towards. 'Ladylike' is little more than a sexist, offensive anachronism, used to keep women in their place, as subordinate to men; being ladylike is both an expectation and a failing of women. As we try to move forwards into an age of sexual equality, terms such as 'ladylike' serve no useful purpose; the only purpose of the term is to subordinate women, and such subordinating terms should not be used in the 21st century.

Weirdest seminar ever

Last week, I got sick with food poisoning (from my own cooking it think. After four days of sickness I went to the chemist and got some anti-nausea tablets. The following day, after 5 days of barely eating, I was starting to feel spaced out and weird, like this was not really reality, nothing matters, I wasn't controlling my own actions, and I couldn't concentrate on what people were saying. It felt like I was in a TV programme, or living in a memory or my own imagination: it didn't seem real.

I remember sitting in my living room looking at my hands and moving them around and thinking I know these are my hands, and they are moving in the ways I'm wanting them to, but it just doesn't feel like I'm the one who's moving them. It feels like someone else is controlling them, and it's just luck that they're doing what I want them to. I found myself looking at my son and thinking I know I love him, but I just don't feel the love. I know it in the same way I know that my colleague loves her kids; I have the objective, propositional knowledge, but I don't feel it myself. 

Feeling this way worried me: what if I hurt him? What if I decided that I just didn't care about anything, because nothing felt real, and went on a killing rampage, like a video game where it just doesn't matter whether you kill the characters are not, because they aren't real. I decided to drive to the walk-in centre to get help: driving felt as if my car was staying still, and the road was moving around me, like a simulator. Even though it didn't feel real, I sort of knew it was real, and I had to be careful not to crash. With hindsight, there is no way I should have been driving, but I hadn't realised that at the time. At the walk-in centre I struggled to articulate why I was there, and why it was urgent. She said there'd be a wait of around 4 hours. Four hours of unreality in a medical centre waiting room with a young child was not appealing. I decided to return home and call my mum for help. She lives a couple of hours away, but came over and looked after my son, while I stared into space and contemplated unreality.

I didn't take any more of the nausea tablets, and the next day I started to feel a bit better, so dragged myself into the seminar at uni (mum drove). It was Epistemology. What better subject to be discussing when you are having doubts about the reality of, um, reality, right? Well, Cartesian scepticism and thought experiments about reality not being real are fine, but living it is a lot less palatable. It was traumatic, actually, and genuinely scary. Why didn't I just stay at home? I don't know. I should have, but my judgment was compromised such that I didn't realise my judgment was compromised. I felt like I was losing myself, and I had to grab on to anything which I objectively knew to be reality (even though it didn't feel real) for fear that if I didn't, then it would genuinely cease to be real. So I went to the seminar in the hope that the professor - let's call him J - would talk to the other 3 students, and I could stare into space and try to absorb some of it and not have to construct sentences. That was my hope. It did not pan out.

I arrived at the room first, and started to unpack my stuff, and it took so much mental effort to work out what I needed to put on the table and what to leave in the bag. J arrived and asked if I was better (I'd emailed the day before that I wasn't well) and I said no, I wasn't better. He said he was unwell too, and it felt like there was a fog in front of him. I said I hoped he and the others would talk and I could just listen; he said he hoped he didn't have to do too much talking either as he was also struggling!

That much I remember clearly, but the rest of the 2 hours was a blur, like yesterday's dream; a drunken evening; a vague memory; a poorly imagined conversation; a half-watched TV programme. No one else showed up to the seminar, so he said it was up to me if I felt I wanted to proceed. I foolishly said I did. The next thing I recall is J talking about the article, while I had my hands over my face, then me crying and saying I couldn't do it as I just didn't know what he was saying. I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to construct a meaningful sentence, to pick the right word, put it in the right place: I think I sounded something like this: "I think the... um... writing... um... writer... author... is wrong that... um... well maybe... sort of... the thing is that... the examples doesn't... they don't really... um..." and I had my hands over my face or my eyes closed for most of the time. He said we didn't need to carry on but I said I thought I'd be ok, and kept insisting we should continue.

I remember the feelings clearly; how it felt like he wasn't really talking to me, like I was just remembering or imagining the conversation as it unfolded in front of me, like watching a video of myself having a conversation I'd forgotten about. It felt like I wasn't really there and my mind wasn't my own; like there was a blocker between me and my own actions and what I said. I remember having to cover up my eyes just to block out my visual perceptions which was so distracting, just so I could listen to what he said.

Anyway, I said I thought I couldn't continue with the seminar - but then changed my mind, and somehow did, although now, my memories of the content of what we talked about is something like this: something about a sweaty American politician... something about jelly babies... something about my sister's spending habits... something about a child waking up at 6am... something about eating someone else's lunch as they always bring too much. I reckon that's the sum total of memories of the content of what we discussed. Not exactly useful stuff. Hopefully my memory will return, or maybe that it's stored in my subconscious.

So it must have been pretty hellish for J, trying to do a seminar with only one student, who is a blithering idiot in a state of temporary psychosis, sitting with her face in her hands for most of the time, all while he was unwell himself. Poor guy! But he performed admirably.

A day later I realised that the tablets I'd got from the chemist were not supposed to be taken alongside another medication which I also take - and now I know why they say don't take them together! My mind is gradually returning to normal now (2 days later), and I'm trying to see the funny side of it all.

So that was the weirdest seminar ever. And I was the source of the weirdness. I'm glad that only J saw me in that state and not the other three in the class. It was a pretty horrible experience to feel that reality isn't really real. Cartesian scepticism will never be the same again.

Going to teach Year 4 philosophy

I’ve just been given the go-ahead by my son’s headteacher to go into the school and teach some philosophy to a year 4 group. I’m offering my services for free, partly for my own gain – to have the enjoyment of stimulating discussion with young minds and introducing them to big ideas – and partly for the gain of the kids / school – so that they can have the opportunity to learn something out of the ordinary, where ‘right answers’ aren’t always easy to come by. The headteacher is going to choose some of the highest achievers to be stretched and challenged by yours truly, so hopefully they'll be enthusiastic and attentive - we shall see!

Hands up if you couldn't be bothered
wearing school uniform today.

I took the headteacher through some possible topics we could cover – ethical, epistemological, metaphysical – and he seemed very enthusiastic. He said he’s willing to give me free rein with regard to topics, so that nothing should be shied away from, which is music to my ears. Religion, gender, reality, existence; it's all up for grabs. He did say that for the first few weeks, steer away from death until we’ve got the kids and parents on board with the whole thing, then by all means I can talk about death. Only then did I realise just how many thought experiments seem to involve death, violence or threats thereof!

Anyway, he asked me to begin with punishment (as a topic for discussion, not as something I inflict on the kids), so it’ll be interesting to see whether I can teach the philosophy of punishment without any reference to murder or capital punishment. I might go with a free will / determinism angle and discuss whether we should punish people before they commit crimes.

Anyway, I’m starting at the start of the summer term, and I’m pretty excited about it. I’ve not taught in nearly a year, and it’ll be great to get back to corrupting inspiring youngsters again.

Labouring under a delusion? The post-PhD job market

I would love to be a philosophy professor at a university – but then, it seems, so would every other philosophy PhD student! Many areas of academia – physics, social policy, musical composition, psychology, archaeology – have corresponding industries which one could enter upon completion of a PhD. I would imagine that this attrition clears significant space in universities for those who wish to pursue careers as professors, but it occurs to me that, given the lack of philosophical industry, we philosophy postgraduates are forced through a bottleneck whereby a career in academia is perhaps the only career choice in which we’d be able to continue to practice our subject. This is in stark contrast to someone who has a PhD in, say, chemistry or psychiatry; I can only assume that this is at least part of the reason that the nature of the job market for philosophy professorships is so horrendously competitive.

Just add another 300-600 androgynous
plasticine figures, and that'd be about right. 

How many of us undertake a philosophy PhD hoping and believing that we will be able to secure academic careers afterwards? Quite a few, I suspect. From what I have gathered from talking to a few people in the know (um, I mean “networking”), it is not uncommon for a university to receive 300-600 applications for one job opening. All things being equal, that means each person will have to apply for 300-600 jobs before being offered a position. I don’t know how many years it would take to apply for that many jobs, but I think it would take a fair few.

“Don’t be choosy” and “Take any job you can get” are direct quotations from professors at UoN when they were talking about the job market to a group of us grad students hoping for academic careers. It’s all too easy to see these successful professors and think to ourselves “They’ve all managed to secure academic careers, so it’s obviously doable” but this would be like attending a party for people who’ve won Lotto, looking around and thinking “They’ve managed to win the lottery, so it’s obviously doable”. Looking around the department, we are looking at the winning tickets; the success stories. The people with PhDs and a less than illustrious non-philosophical careers tell a different story. We must do whatever we can to tip the scales in our favour, but it would be naïve and ignorant to be immune to the statistical likelihood of not securing the job we would like. Like I say, I would love to be a university professor, but the statistics are not in my favour – nor indeed in anyone’s favour. So am I labouring under a delusion in undertaking a philosophy PhD?

My friends and I never did this at our undergrad graduation and I
feel suitably cheated. When I complete the MA and PhD, I'll
be throwing my cap into the air at the drop of a... hmm...well... hat.

Well, no. I really enjoyed my undergrad degree; I’m really, really enjoying my MA, and no doubt I will really, really, really enjoy my PhD (how could I not – getting to spend 3 years writing about something I love; for me that’s heaven!), and so whether or not an illustrious career awaits me upon completion is in some sense irrelevant. I have always felt that education is an end in itself, and whilst I would hope that it is also a means to an end for me, that is not a necessity in order for me to be able to look back on my years as a philosophy student and feel they have been worthwhile.

Why one can't apologise for a mystery something

I know I have heard it plenty of times: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry!” It typically seems to be said when one person is annoyed with another, but won’t disclose the reason why they are annoyed. But does it actually make any sense to be sorry for something when one does not know what one is being sorry for? I suggest that it does not. Here I’ll argue two claims:

1. It’s not possible to be sorry for a mystery something
2. It’s undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery something

Here I’m using the term ‘mystery something’ to refer to whatever act, omission, speech (etc) which a person is claiming to be sorry for. Let us assume that the hearer of the ‘apology’ (if it can be called that) is aware of what the mystery something is. Let us consider this example:

Yesterday, S implied that his wife, T, had put on weight: when T couldn’t fit into her jeans, S said “I’m sure those jeans used to be loose on you.” This annoyed T. Today, it is evident that T is annoyed with S, but she will not tell him why. So S says the words: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry!”

In this case, the ‘mystery something’ is that S implied his wife had put on weight: it is a mystery to S, but not to his wife, T. Now I ‘ll consider why it’s not possible for S to be sorry when he doesn’t know what he is sorry for.

1. It is not possible to be sorry for a mystery something

First, let us set aside the way in which people these days use “I’m sorry” to offer condolences, such as “I’m sorry to hear that your mum’s died.” This is not a case of one being repentant: “I’m sorry your mum has died” is quite different from “I’m sorry that I killed your mum.” The former is a statement of condolences or sympathy, while the latter is an apology: I focus on the ‘apology’ use of ‘sorry’, where the speaker is or claims to be remorseful, repentant and regretful.

Being sorry seems to involve a feeling of guilt, and a recognition that one has done something wrong. But when one is sorry for a mystery something, one does not know what one has done wrong, and it does not seem possible to feel guilty about a mystery something. Being sorry also carries with it an implication that one will not do the said act again (or at least try not to). When one says “I’m sorry for scratching your car” or “I’m sorry for being late” one is implicitly stating that one will try not to do these things again. Whether or not one upholds such an implicit promise is beside the point, but what we can say is that when one is sorry, one is suggesting that:

a)    One is repentant

b)    One will try not to do the act again in future

In the case of being sorry for a mystery something, (b) certainly cannot be possible, and I suggest that (a) is also exceptionally difficult, if not impossible. The reason is that, suppose that after one has repeatedly said: “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry,” one learns what the mystery something was. Suppose that at some later date, S asks T what was the matter with her on that particular date, and she tells him that she was annoyed that he implied she’d put on weight. Now suppose that S, being insensitive, then says: “Oh… right… that. Yeah, I’m not sorry I said that – because it’s true; you have put on weight.” In such a case, it is clear that S was never sorry for saying what he originally said (that her jeans used to be loose). I would argue that S’s ‘apology’ for the mystery something was never a genuine apology, because at no point was he sorry for what he said about his wife’s weight. Further, whenever someone apologises for a mystery something, there is always the possibility that if or when one discovers one’s ‘transgression’, one will respond much as S did – that one is not sorry at all. So if whenever someone says sorry for a mystery something, there is always the chance that one is not in fact sorry for what one is apologising for, and because it is not possible to be both sorry and not sorry about the same event, we should conclude that any apology for a mystery something is not a genuine apology; one may not in fact be sorry. Thus, one cannot be sorry for a mystery something.

2. It’s undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery something

This claim follows neatly from the first claim: it is undesirable for one to say he is sorry for something when he knows not what he is supposed to be sorry for. This is because it may turn out that the thing someone is seemingly apologising for is dear to him. Suppose that A finds it really irritating that B is a devout Catholic, and shows this annoyance to the extent that B, in exasperation, says “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.” It should be clear that had B known what he was apologising for (viz. being a Catholic), he would not have apologised for it, and in apologising for a mystery something, he has actually apologised for a thing which is fundamentally important to him. I suggest that whenever one apologises for a mystery something, one might in fact be apologising for something he would staunchly defend if he only knew what the mystery something was. For this reason, it is undesirable to say one is sorry for a mystery event.

HOWEVER...
In real life when your other half is giving you the silent treatment, philosophical reasoning might not do you any favours. The above argument may not be sound relationship advice. View my Disclaimer if in doubt.

Here goes...

I'm feeling a huge amount of pressure to create an amazing, inspiring and poignant first blog post. The source of that pressure is, of course, myself. What follows will almost certainly fail to live up to expectations - both yours and mine. This blog will be my unfettered and uncensored philosophical thoughts, which may decline in to rants and ramblings, but I can live with that. It's not like anyone is ever going to read this, right?

I am and will always be a student of Philosophy with a capital P. Yes, I've been a teacher of (A-Level) Philosophy for a number of years, but I'm primarily a student, and barely a day goes by where I'm not dumbfounded by how little I know.

Some students standing around UoN whilst talking and laughing and
reading and writing, which is exactly what we all do, all the time.

I'm currently a postgrad student at the University of Nottingham, and the experience is quite something. I am constantly surrounded by people who are far more astute, far more well-read, and often far younger than me. It's humbling, but not (always) humiliating to be struggling to appear adequate in such a place. As for whether I am genuinely out of my depth, or whether I'm suffering from an acute case of impostor syndrome, I'll leave that up to you to decide
based on my forthcoming posts.

No pressure at all then...