My Armour is Sass

Yesterday was mourning. But today I put on my armour. My armour is sass.

Thank you Maya Angelou

I am determined to be fabulous, kind and feisty.

It’s a long road back to decency and compassion, but we will make it.

I write about film and I am fascinated by the shift in tone of films from the early thirties through to the fifties. The pre-code era (from the late 1920s until the enforcement of the Production Code in 1934) portrayed women in all their complexities, telling stories of poverty, determination, friendships, treading a line between surviving and thriving. They got to make choices, both good and bad.

And then their bodies became all that mattered. Their stories became censored and moralised, while their breasts and legs became fetishised. During the 40s and 50s a peculiar brand of puritanism bought forward by Joseph Breen and Will Hays took over the controls of how women’s lives could be portrayed. The code attempted to shrink women. With the argument being that it was necessary for the nation’s morality. Morality, it appeared, meant keeping women’s stories simple and to the side, but looking pretty. Misogyny, racism, homophobia and the fear of working class solidarity looked like it was going to win.

But it didn’t because women had sass.

Bette Davis glared. Joan Crawford grew shoulders. Barbara Stanwyck sashayed. Marlene Dietrich arched.

Stories seemed simple, but women looked beyond the surface and bided their time.

Last month I went to see Emelia Perez. Four diverse, glorious women sharing a best actress award for a tale that centres their complexities and heartaches. I watched Kate Winslet as Lee Miller, directed by a woman who understood the role of a woman moving from sidelines to centre and being shoved back to the sidelines.

Feminist history is often told as waves. The first wave concerned with voting. The second with employment and educational opportunities. The third with inclusion and diversity. The fourth with technology in a digital age. But it is only told this way to suggest that the movement makes progress and then retreats. Between each surge we fall out of fashion. Imagine that? A whole gender falls out of focus. It becomes old-hat to consider their needs and to curate their stories.

We are not waves. We are tidal, shifting sands and the ground beneath your feet. We are constant. We are not moments. We are not only #metoo #sayhername #blacklivesmatter #bekind. We are always all those things.

If all you have is force your dam will fail. (I’m looking at you Mr Taliban).

And depending on the climate, we choose different armour.

We can choose legal discourse, demonstrations, silence, welfare, wellness, body positivity, sexual freedom, chastity, friendship, magic. Be bold. Be creative Be fabulous.

And today I choose sass.

Your army is dull with thudding, thuggery steps. Ours is magnificent, undisciplined, sparkling, multi-coloured. You will never stop us dancing.

Women’s rights are an ongoing moral panic. So, I’m just going to put on a dress, dye my hair, don a pair of earrings, and smile. I will look you in the eye as your mouth froths at my audacity and say “Oh honey, you know that is nonsense, right? I’m a human just like you.”

And this idea, that I am equal, which has been around for all time, will shock you like it’s the first time you’ve heard it.

Maya Angelou asks, “Does my sassiness offend you?”

And with her looking down, waving her conductor’s baton, we flick our hair and respond in unison:

“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem”

Thank you Maya Angelou.