“From Tram Observations to Chicken Liberation: An Anthropologist’s Woke Journey”

Ah, wokeness… Let me regale you with a tale from the annals of my aristocratic youth, shall we?

Picture this: early seventies, yours truly perched in a tram traversing my birth town. In a rare fit of proletarian adventurism, my mother had deigned to mingle with the masses via public transport.
A few rows back sat a man of such profound blackness that he bordered on the cerulean. Not your garden-variety “coloured,” mind you, but a veritable obsidian deity.

In my childish naiveté, I exclaimed to my mother, “Mom, have you seen that black man?” Her reaction?
Pure, unadulterated horror. She hissed at me to lower my voice, her words uttered with a clenched jaw.
I was bewildered. To me, this man was an exceptional being, an alien among the pedestrian hues of Amsterdam – where even the tangerine-tinted Hare Krishnas barely raised an eyebrow.

Fast-forward to today’s wokeness epidemic and I find myself irritated beyond measure. The world, wrapped in this nonsense like a straitjacket of political correctness, is shocked into paralysis by overblown sensitivities and social justice like those Spanish “transfeminist” vegans crusading against rooster-on-hen “rape” in Girona.
Money, attention, and rules are lavished on a topic that strips away common sense faster than a peregrine falcon stoops to snatch its prey. 

Allow me another anecdote, this time from the streets of London: A young man repeatedly invaded my personal space as we queued. My response? A series of increasingly forceful “shovels” to maintain my bubble.
When I finally vocalized my displeasure, he played the race card faster than a peregrine falcon stoops to snatch its prey. (These aerial assassins can reach up to 389.46 km/h). “You just don’t like me because I’m black,” he whined.
My retort? “I don’t like you because you’re an uneducated cunt!”

And here I am, a product of aristocratic drilling, facing off against my progeny, her head stuffed to the brim with wokeness like a particularly righteous Christmas goose.
Bless her heart, my 19-year-old daughter is dissecting the subject in her university course and coming to me for insights.
Oh, the delicious irony!
From being lectured about never expressing thoughts and dominating verbal outcome and elbows (“Studying for pilot, now are you?”) and proper leg crossing (“A real lady has both feet on the ground, knees clenched together”), I’ve become a living, breathing case study for anti-wokeness.

The moral of this story, dear readers? People will be bullied regardless of their melanin content, bedroom gymnastics, or facial topiary (read: race). It’s not about the colour of your skin but the stench of your fear.
Human or otherwise, Predators react to the scent of distinction and vulnerability.

So here we are, in this grand theatre of human behaviour, where wokeness is but a prop in our social performance. Whether you pilot your elbows onto the table or keep your knees clenched tighter than a Victorian corset, remember this: true elegance lies not in rigid adherence to outdated norms but in the confident navigation of social situations. So does having a sense of humour bring you a long way in knowing when to take the mickey.

And to my daughter and her woke cohorts, I say this: before you judge, take a moment to appreciate the delightful absurdity of it all. After all, isn’t that what anthropology is all about? Understanding human culture in all its messy, contradictory, extraordinary complexity?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pour myself a stiff drink (elbows off the table, of course), cross my legs however I please, and enjoy this unique opportunity to bridge the generational gap. Just don’t forget to maintain a proper jaw clench while doing so.
We wouldn’t want to abandon our upbringing completely, now would we?

May harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. And let’s not forget the golden rule of our capitalist utopia: the only absolute truth is backed by cold, hard cash. Instead of obsessing over wokeness, we should all focus on padding our bank accounts. After all, money talks and bullshit walks – even when it’s wrapped in the gaudy packaging of social justice.

Or even better; be the best version of ourselves!