Greetings and welcome to The Scarred Bluestocking, a blog of
trivial factoids and writing advice.
You’re probably wondering how I came up with my title.
Bluestocking has
been a slang term for an intellectual, bookish woman since the 18th century. The word originated as a reference to someone in informal
dress – a man wearing blue worsted stockings instead of traditional black silk
stockings. Today’s equivalent would be the individual who wears jeans instead of
slacks or a skirt.
In the mid-1700s, certain women in London society grew bold enough to declare their boredom with being sent off to do embroidery
while their husbands discussed poetry and the like. They believed such topics
were not beyond their mental scope and demanded to be included.
The first “bluestocking club” was started by Elizabeth
Montagu in 1750. She and her friends invited men to gather with them –
informally – to discuss literature, art, and places of interest, among other
things. The men came wearing…you guessed it, the blue worsted stockings.
Informal gathering? Casual dress it is! The male fashion somehow fused with the
female-initiated intellectual society. Bluestocking
at that time designated both sexes. Now it exclusively refers to an intelligent
female – if it is used at all.
If we know anything about the Victorian era, we know how stifled
the women were, especially in regards to voicing their opinions. It’s not
surprising that by the mid-1800s, a satirist named Honoré Daumier found the
bluestockings laughable, and published “scathing caricatures” of them. Bluestocking became a negative slang, a
mockery.
The term fit so well, I couldn’t help but adopt it as my moniker.
And it’s so much quainter than bibliophile.
Besides, I am so much more than a lover of books. I am a lover of words, of
language, of knowledge. I hunger to learn like I hunger for food. Having
finished my official schooling and earned a Bachelor’s degree in English, I now
feel something missing from my life, which is why I started this blog. Not only
am I continuing to learn as I write my fiction, I am able to teach as well.
Which leaves the question: why am I scarred?
It is my belief that everyone is, in one way or another. In
my own life, I have been a witness to far too much death. I am in my early
twenties and I have attended more funerals than I can rightly remember. Three
grandparents I lost before I turned ten, the last grandparent before I turned
fifteen. My father self-murdered before I was a teenager. I’ve had two dogs and
two cats euthanized – only one due to old age (the others were injured or ill).
I’ve lost count of the number of elderly neighbors and friends’ grandparents
whose funerals I attended.
My rite of passage to the land of the dead came at the age
of seven, when my great-grandmother passed. The service was held in her home
state three hundred miles away, and a horrendous snowstorm made the return
drive last eleven hours.
My initial knowledge of death happened even before that. I
was five. A neighborhood boy my age who watched too many televised wrestling
matches decided he wanted to hold my head under water in my wading pool. He was
not playing. My friends tried to pull him off, but he was determined. My father
had to yank him off me.
So although my body is perfectly healthy, my soul is more
than a little damaged. But I press on, for despite my past, I am grateful for my present.
Sources and further information:
Today’s deviant ditty:
“Enter the Highlands” by LEAH
No comments:
Post a Comment