May 2014

May 2014

Writings by the Say It Right Writers Circle themed around CENSORSHIP POETRY – Language, by Alan Marshall FICTION - How it goes, by Phil Chokeword NON-FICTION – I’d rather be slapped than pitied, by Ben Smith POETRY – Shhhhh, by Ali H

Orzak Bule is taking a break this month to ride freight trains around the mid-west.

Find out more about the Say It Right Writers Circle: sayitrightwriterscircle.blogspot.com Get in contact: tensongspodcast@googlemail.com All work licensed under Creative Commons: Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs CC BY-NC-ND

Language

By Alan Marshall You daren't utter cunt in Scunthorpe or talk about Blue Tit's tits.

It's rude to say fuck it in Phuket or point out a Shi-tzu that shits But to be offended by words you have to know what they all mean, and if you can use them in context how can they still be obscene?

You can't mention cocks in Cockfosters or arse without Arsenal at that.

Fanny by gaslight gets kept in the dark, and you'll land in hot water with twat.

Censorship's something that happens when you think you know better than us, by removing the words that we've already heard and you understand too, what's the fuss?

So thanks, but I'll say what I want to using all of my linguistic skills, including the words that you'd rather weren't heard, if I want to say bollocks I will!

Bollocks! - there!

How It Goes

By Phil Chokeword I first start writing to her about a month after I first go to the cafe, right after the end of the winter break. I start with my phone number then realise that I need to put something with it – a “call me” or “text me” or “let’s do coffee”. So I jot down “what time do you finish your shift?” which I immediately figure sounds creepy, so I scribble it out, then lose my nerve and scrunch up the napkin before anyone can see. I leave the coins on the table as I go, not making eye contact with anyone on the way out, my palms sweating through fingerless mittens. I don’t go back for a week.

When I come back, she’s not working, which is a relief because I’ve got butterflies so bad I might throw up. I’ve tried not to come back at all - but a week of weak food hall coffee has persuaded me it’s a good idea. And it’s not like I’ve actually given her the note. I’m the only one who knows I’d even thought about it.

Besides, the other option is the place a few minutes closer to the campus that has great coffee but is hard to stomach in other ways. It’s one of those places where someone has taken the ingredients of a great, beatific cafe and replicated them, complete with weathered tables and paint- chipped bar. Only, it all feels contrived. The tables haven’t been sat there soaking up a decade of spilt coffee and the paint work looks more like someone has taken sandpaper to it than the end result of years of wear and tear. It’s inauthentic, self conscious and safe and as a result, makes a fortune off people who are themselves inauthentic and safe and therefore can’t tell the difference. I can’t stand it.

The Italian place however is the real deal. The decor is similar, but I can tell that it has probably looked like this for years. The owner speaks with a thick accent and moves slowly like it’s 35 degrees and he’s on Mediterranean time. Everyone genuinely ignores me rather than pretending to ignore me whilst secretly judging me on my stick and poke tattoos and cuffed jeans. I sit in the booth and sip my long black, and stare out at the rain and listen to jazz being played on the tinny radio and feel like a minor character in a Kerouac novel. The pastry is pretty good too.

The next day, I can’t see her through the glass. As I order my coffee, she steps out of the kitchen smiling. I feel my stomach flip, the way it always does when I see someone I like. I smile back then immediately look down at the floor. She says something in Italian to the old man, who laughs back, then tells me that she’ll bring my drink over to my booth. Was I sitting where I usually sit? I nod, not sure that I’d even noticed I had a usual seat until then. Blushing, I shuffle off.

I’ve never found it easy to talk to my crushes, particularly ones who are little more than strangers. I sit for what feels like hours rehearsing lines in my head - something perfect to break the ice. When the coffee comes, we just smile without eye contact and I go blank and she hurries off again, the old man shouting to her in Italian. I pick up the cup. Underneath, in the hollow between the concave bottom of the cup and the saucer is a scrap of paper. I unfold it and in blue biro is a note. It’s a phone number. * I avoid her on the way out. Back in the library, I sit there with the phone in my hand, the note on the table. I write then delete a text message – “Hey it’s me from the cafe.

How was your shift?” I get as far as putting in the number but I can’t press the send button. I go back to the books for a while but I can’t focus. I try again but the same thing happens. My heart is pounding. My stomach butterflies. I get up and walk around

and kick a book case. I write another text – and delete it again. In my head, there is a mental list of unsent messages, each one redacted and self censored, falling short of the prefect wording.

I throw the note in the bin and go home.

“I’d rather be slapped than pitied”*

By Ben Smith I'm going to confess I picked this months topic and did so with a thought in mind. I think when most people see the word censorship they think of a man in a suit putting black marks across a document or banning a film. However personally I was thinking of a much more pervasive form of censorship - that of self-censorship, an act we do every day and which bothers me constantly.

My first thought for a topic wasn't censorship it was sex but I felt I couldn't put it forward. The reason being that I elected to not write these pieces anonymously and sex is still a taboo subject in our society. Maybe it's discussed more in public in modern times but it is still stigmatised and loaded with negative connotations. I essentially censored myself because I was worried about being judged on my writing about that subject.

Sex isn't the only topic I know I have shied away from writing about in the past for fear of how people would then react to my thoughts on the subject and this is incredibly dangerous. Yes there are topics which are abhorrent but would it not be better for those to be discussed openly so that people are educated as to why they are wrong? Instead as a society we bury things so that thoughts, feelings and actions which are perfectly natural and which would benefit from being freely discussed are stigmatised. Whilst those which are abhorrent and damaging are not fully understood and hidden away until they inevitably rear their ugly heads.

Do the foundations of self censorship start in childhood as we grow up and learn? How many times have you heard a child ask a question about a subject which is taboo and then be told that they shouldn't be asking that question? Instead would it not be better to answer the question or discuss the topic and it's context in society rather than a knee jerk reaction to scold and stigmatise. In my (I am, I hasten to add, uneducated in the field of child psychology) opinion those suppressed thoughts and feelings are probably what lead to at best our inability to express ourselves fully. At worst does that suppression lead to the continuation of negative elements of our society such as discrimination, violence and sexual dysfunction.

State level censorship is an unacceptable evil and does feed into self censorship by publicly defining a set of 'agreed' taboos. However once a state has to censor something the cat is already out of the bag and the horse has bolted. Censored works are in the public domain and often spread illegally depending on the effectiveness of the state policies in trying to eradicate that work. Even in countries with incredibly oppressive regimes banned works can still be found despite extensive penalties for those found in possession of them. With the internet the ability for states to halt this flow of information and censor expression is increasingly difficult.

However if we self censor, what then? The idea, the thought, that feeling is never expressed to begin with. I understand that yes that expression may be negative and there is a discussion to be had regarding whether the expression of negative thoughts can normalise people to those negative ideas so they become more acceptable. However often that can be due to how that negative idea is represented. I'm talking very abstractly here but as an example I'm thinking of things like rape scenes in literature/film which are often sexualised rather than focusing on the exertion of power by one person over another. Rape sadly is a part of our society and people should be allowed to express their thoughts and feelings about it. This enables and facilitates the conversation regarding this exertion of power being unacceptable rather than suppressing it.

I read a tweet the other day that said something like “those who express the desire for brutal honesty, tend to enjoy the brutality more than the honesty”. Brutality is not what I am espousing and I don't agree with the use of 'shock' to illicit a response.

Consideration for others is different to self censorship and this is why in my example

above the representation of the negative is very important. However from this point forward I promise to have more courage to express my thoughts and ideas in my writing both positive and negative. We should feel free to write what we want to write as long as we consider the impact of that writing on those who read it and whether we are providing a 'true' representation of those ideas. *Lemuria - 'Buzz'

Shhhhh

By Ali H It’s the 253 on the top near the back, The windows are misted and water-flecked, There’s a clump of boys at the back, They watch as I get on and mutter among themselves.

Me with my book, they’re shouting and laughing hard, Suddenly a note in my lap In capitals sideways on lined paper: WHEN YOU GET OFF THIS BUS WE WILL RAPE YOU. You’re so over-emotional, You must have done something to encourage him, You’re making a fuss about nothing, I wish you’d wear high heels.

Pilgrimage.

It’s hot and the air is thick, Me in a long-sleeved T-shirt and trousers, A group of topless men approach with camera phones, Pull my top out and Stick their phones down and Take photos of my breasts.

More laughing, more unafraid.

An older man approaches with a cloth, Shakes his head at me: Cover yourself up. This is a holy place.

You must be frigid, You must be an angel, You’re making a fuss about nothing, I wish you’d dye your hair.