In San José del Palmar, Mariana told me she could see children practising for the marching band parade. The girls had roses. Whatever holiday it is, she said, in San José del Palmar there is always a marching band parade to celebrate it - even when its oddly military character seems to clash with the idea of the holiday.
In Belfast tonight my brother attended the Women's Poetry night at the Intercontinental, coordinated by Daryl with her bright purple hair and a cup with a bike bell on the handle that she puts the names of the readers in. I stayed home to do my maths exercises. Titus cooked dinner for us before leaving and turned up just in time for the last poem.
Last night we were in the Intercontinental too, then for the vegan night; at some point I was stood in the back where the Feminist Living Library is. There are thirty odd books on feminism there, and readers are invited to leaf through and if they feel anything is outdated, to write their updates in the margins. I think it's a great idea, if quite work-intensive on a night out; but it's participative and creative. Helen stood there with a book called Cunt: A Declaration of Independence (by Inga Muscio) and said that she had read most of it and it really challenged her preconceptions. There were two men sitting at the little round table beneath her, clutching the flowery tablecloth and looking petrified. Maybe I am just projecting, but I thought they looked petrified.
It's part of growing up as a woman these days that you have to find your own definition of what feminism means to you. In fact I think it should be part of growing up as a man, too. Feminism is a pretty outdated name by now. I would like to write in its margin: the breaking down of gender roles, stereotypes and expectations, and allowing everyone to figure out what they like for themselves.
