Next on the list of things that really annoy me

Hey, progressive types. Do you ever say anything like this?

‘Sexism in advertising is so lame.’
‘Denying people equal rights because you don’t like them reeks of insanity.’
‘This is going to cripple our progress.’

Can you perhaps see something wrong there?

My extra special favourite is when such turns of phrase are uttered during reflections on the speaker’s own bigotry.

‘I was blind to my privilege!’
‘I turned a deaf ear to those calling me out!’
‘It makes me crazy to see how ignorant I was.’

It’s especially spectacular when they’re talking about their ableism.

If you do not have the disability referenced, don’t use the word. I do not care if you think you are being thrillingly retro and ironic, because that is not how irony works. Irony requires that your audience understand that you are saying one thing and drawing on another meaning. If you are using an ableist term, you are basing your usage on disability=bad. You are not being ironic. You’re just being full of shit at the expense of people who cop a lot of it.

If you have a friend with the disability referenced in an insult who says it’s okay, you still shouldn’t use it generally, because your friend doesn’t speak for everyone with hir disability. For instance, a lot of people with mental illnesses are fine with ‘insane’ being used in a derogatory fashion, but it hurts a lot of other people. As a progressive, your language should be a reflection of your respect for people with disabilities, who are not a monolith. I would like to say that whether it’s okay to use a particular word should rely on consensus, but there are a few problems with this.

• PWD are not the consensus-makers in this society, and so any work we do is on the fringes.
• The feelings of those outside of whatever the hypothetical consensus matter, and I’m not about to set quotas or prescriptions.
• Standards and convictions change.

So if you really care, don’t use these words, because you cannot guarantee you aren’t hurting anyone.

If you’re one of those who likes to argue that meanings have changed and lame or whatever doesn’t have an ableist connotation anymore – well, that’s clearly not true, as should probably be evidenced by the entirety of ableist society. Even if it actually had moved far from its origins, that doesn’t negate the associations, the knowledge of its history that still cuts deep. And you should take a PWD telling you that a word is hurtful at hir say so, because it’s hir experience that matters here, not yours. You try telling me it’s not after living my life for just a day, feeling that sting, knowing how it is. You can only say there’s no ableist connotation because you choose to ignore the ableism; I never can.

Hearing lame used as an insult – lame especially because that seems to be the most in vogue right now – makes me feel sick in my stomach, and panicky, and afraid, because it is evidence that the speaker finds people with disabilities to be low. Low enough to be a source of synonyms for bad. Low enough so that the real people needn’t bother to think through their words. I feel scared and sick because I have been through no small amount of shit in my life as a result of the attitudes that kind of language betrays. Hearing those words from someone means that I’m not safe with them. I know that this is one more person who doesn’t consider me as one.

If you think you should use a word because no other has the same impact, well, you’re right about the impact. Your usage has such an impact because it draws its power from disability=bad. You are forming a powerful sentence from disablism, our deep-set pain.

It’s so much easier and better to just change your words. If you still insist on such usage, that’s lazy and cruel. If you’re not sure if your use of a word is offensive, err on the side of caution.

Another message to take away is this.

1. If you are calling yourself progressive
2. and you are harming people with disabilities
3. you are not, in fact, progressive.

Previously in this thought process: In which homework is assigned and This is what an activist looks like.

This is what an activist looks like

I’m disappointed when I hear activists prescribing what other activists ought to do. I’m surprised it doesn’t all come from rich, white, etc, etc, men, and here’s why.

Traditional forms of activism are often not possible or difficult for a given individual. Is a single mother going to go to a rally for paid maternity leave when she can’t find someone to look after her kids? Is someone with chronic pain and/or fatigue going to take kindly to being told they ought to attend a protest? Is it reasonable to expect that everyone has the time, energy, resources and know-how to do research or a survey? Is someone struggling to get by going to have the money to pay to get into your event? Is your crowded, loud meeting held in a room up a flight of steps going to be accessible to everyone?

You see, if you’re claiming to be progressive, but your organising unthinkingly excludes chunks of vulnerable and oppressed people? You are not a progressive. And if you are nevertheless insisting that some other form of activism is not a proper one? You are a douche. If you’re low on resources, and really trying to include folks, that’s one thing. But if you think you have the one true way to save the world, that is quite another.

What I am suggesting is that there are a lot of forms of activism in the world, and looking down one’s nose at some of them is detrimental as well as being offensive to those of us working hard to make valuable contributions in any way we can. It goes beyond ‘well, everyone should do what they can’. It’s not even a case of ‘if you can only contribute a little, that’s fine’. It’s not even just about the privileging of particular modes of contribution. It’s this: I do not know where anyone gets off saying that what another person does to heal the world is less than proper.

Now, I sign petitions and write letters all that sort of thing. I buy badges and do bakesales, too. Right now I’m volunteering with the local government on a DVD aimed at crime prevention. (These forms of activism have various levels of “proper activism” quotient attached to them. Discussion questions: How much do they tie in with what you do? How traditional do they seem to you?) I do traditional activism – sometimes. I am disabled, and it is not always physically possible to do so. Here is a short list of some forms of activism in which I engage that traditional thinking doesn’t call activism:

• I call out people when they use “ism”-based language.
• I attempt to be an ethical consumer (and frequently fail, but I’m getting better! And it’s a feature of economic privilege that this form of activism is even possible for me).
• I try to centre marginal people/experiences/voices in any given situation.
• I engage with the world, and learn as much as I can about what I can do to make it better.
• I look into myself and work at unravelling oppressive ideas I have taken on as my own.
• I assist those around me with their activism where I can and should.

We should be rethinking traditional methods of activism, because progress means rethinking the traditional to make sure we have the very best for ourselves and the world. Even where we’ve assured ourselves we’re progressive. We need to keep thinking, keep examining, not only the world but ourselves.

Because it’s not just pressuring governments that’s important, as important as it is. Central to my activism is what I do right here, right now, in my life and my communities. When it comes down to it, progress is not only in the big sweeping changes. It’s in our souls. It’s in relating to each other with kindness.

I just don’t get it when people say that blogging isn’t real activism, because it is a big deal to this activist. I’ve reached and been reached by so many people, sharing lives that would never otherwise touch! Because the Internet is not composed of individuals shouting into the void. The Internet is composed of people, and we use it to direct attention to issues and petitions and all sorts. And we take what we learn with us to the offline world. Even if this wasn’t so, there is important work to do inside our minds. We have to tease out the oppression we’ve stored in ourselves. We have to understand and learn. Blogs have given me tools to put language and frames to my experience. For instance, amandaw’s work at Three Rivers Fog and Lauredhel’s at Hoyden About Town gave me what I needed to talk about my experiences as a disabled woman. You know. Writing isn’t useless. Writing is a good part of humanity’s process and progress, how we connect, how we relate to ourselves. Whether you’re writer or reader – and how often those roles intertwine in a sphere such as blogging! – writing is not just valid, but vital.

Previously in this thought process: In which homework is assigned.

The name’s the thing

My mother changed her name back to her pre-marital name a few years back now.

She’s the most darling person I know.  She seems to have gotten on many charities’ phone lists over the years. When we’re hanging out together and the phone rings, this is what I all too often hear as her side of the conversation:

‘Hi, yes, that’s not my name though… It used to be Mrs Oldname, now it’s Ms Name… I mean you’ve got my details wrong… Actually, I donated some money when you called me before and the operator promised me they’d changed my record then. And this has happened before… My name has changed, can you remove my old name from your system?… I think you do really good work, it’s not that… I just want you to have my name right because this is getting- … I know charities aren’t a part of the do not call scheme, I’m asking-’

You’re asking the woman for money. Don’t deny her identity while doing so.

One organisation with which I was registered required me to yearly fill out a form listing my personal details, including my parents’ names. This was primarily aimed at correcting any out of date information they might have on file. When my mother changed her name and title, I submitted these changes. I did it again and again. In letters, in forms, in everything, the organisation ignored these changes. I made a fuss every time. For years. Eventually I ended up yelling, tearful, in public. Someone nipped off to the registration office and got the records to reflect my mother’s actual name. But she was still listed as a Mrs, not her preferred Ms. She probably still is.

None of this shit happened when she changed her name upon marriage.

How dare this amazing, wonderful being claim her own identity?

Note: I got her to read this through before publishing. An objection: ‘Can a lady say “shit”?’ My response to this sort of thing is always ‘well, I’m a lady, and I [whatever], so yes.’ It’s one of our running jokes.
Note II: Regarding the title, yes, I know it’s a mishmash of quotes. I went to drama school, I can do what I like.

In which homework is assigned

I’m going to talk about accessibility. I want you to have a think. Then I want you to pause, reflect and keep thinking.

Before I start, think about what disability access means to you. What sort of things does accessibility require? Make a note of what comes to your head.

While you’re working on that, I’m going to tell you what I often do when I arrive somewhere new. I scan my surroundings to determine how accessible the particular space is. Is the furniture too high or too low or too small? Is there enough space for a wheelchair/scooter to pass through comfortably (with space left over for a companion)? Are there windows? Is there any mold? fresh paint? air freshener? Is there enough space to breathe or get away from other people? Is the lift/ramp in good order and close by? Are there railings? Are there (solid, multiple) chairs? Are there any sharp edges or prominent features that could make movement unsafe? These are just a few of the things that may go through my mind. And I do it all as quickly and discreetly as I can, because I don’t want to stand out to any abled folk who may be observing me. And you know what? Most of these things, most of the time, aren’t relevant to my disability. I’m looking out for my fellow PWD. Which is to say that these things are not that hard to pick up.

Now, when you were thinking about disability access, you probably thought of transcripts and ramps and disabled bathrooms. And those things are important. But did you think about invisible access for invisible disabilities? Where well-known accessibility measures like those transcripts, ramps and bathrooms are often not available (or not properly) the measures that don’t immediately spring to an abled person’s mind don’t have a hope in hell.* And, speaking as someone with an invisible chronic illness, having to out myself in order to perhaps be granted access, with the very real possibility of not being believed, is one of the most unpleasant parts of my life.** I doubt you thought about access to services for people who aren’t accessing them in person. I doubt you’ve ever thought about how to give directions without visual reference. In fact, I bet most of the things you thought of were those that were in your face.

Which brings me to my next point. Accessibility is not just about alternatives and gadgets and adaptations. It’s about you.*** It’s about all the abled people who are in charge of accessibility measures. And that’s not just those of you in a position of authority, that’s you making your way down the street. Remember, you often don’t know who is and who isn’t a PWD, and you don’t know the kind of impact you’re having on them. The world is designed to suit the abled, and it’s every last one of you impacting us. It’s about your attitudes making our lives harder. (Did you ever consider how awful it is to have a loud, public discussion of one’s needs? Did you ever consider that forcing your idea of help on us might be detrimental? Did you consider the kind of devastation you privileging your perceptions over our experiences can lead to?****) It’s about whether you decide our enjoyment, our livelihoods, our life experiences and our humanity are worth your attention.

I am asking for your attention.

Now, I want you to think radically. Accessibility should not be framed as making adaptations to suit those others, those deviant disabled bodies and minds. If there is a space, text, service, mechanism, happening, situation, tradition, something that people are going to engage with, everyone needs to be accommodated.***** My point being. Don’t think of us as others, even deserving others, you must reach out to and adapt to. We’re not brave, broken little souls. We’re human beings. Think of every single person having different needs and circumstances, and centring those people who are having a tougher time of it. Think of providing everyone with what they need. If someone needs more than most, they ought to be given it. Not because they are other, but because they are a person. We’re no more other, or tiresome, or disgusting than you with your various troubles, quirks and loves. The only difference between you and me is that the world has dictated that I am low and you are whole. That’s all.

Think of privileging those bodies and minds that are marginalised in so many spaces. If you think that it’s too daunting, too much, consider what it means for PWD and consider that you’d be happy to do it if it was you. You adapt to circumstances all the time, and you may want to examine your motivations if you’re reluctant to accommodate PWD. Do whatever you can do with the resources you have. Access for my kind of people should not be an afterthought, it should be right there, in your plan, in your consciousness, because it is at the very least as vital as the kind of attention you give everybody else.

I want you to rethink access. Mostly, I want you to THINK.

I have some related links for you to help you with the thinking:
Alena of Perspectives from a Blind Point of View – fabulous blog, by the way – asks What Does Accessibility Mean to Me?
You may have heard of feminist science fiction convention Wiscon. I haven’t attended myself, but they seem pretty accessible from their website. This is an example of doing it right.
WildlyParenthetical delves into invisible disabilities and how they get that way.
I picked up the phrase ‘invisible access for invisible disabilities’ from Lauredhel. She has some suggestions on the subject here.
If you want to learn more about what kind of thing can constitute privileging your perceptions over our lived experience, specific to invisible illness, see annaham’s Invisible Illness Bingo and Invisible Illness Bingo 2: Back for Revenge.
See Jo Tamar’s Accessibility, choice, accomodation and equality. Because alternatives aren’t always good enough, and they’re frequently a tool for demeaning us further.
Cripchick and commenters have lots of suggestions.
Also, this.

Remember that all this, this post, these links, are background. There is no prescriptive means of dealing with PWD; we are not a monolith. Consider the person you’re dealing with as an individual with individual needs. I can barely believe I actually had to type that.

—

*Actually, hell’s probably more accessible than some of the places I’ve been to.

**And you would just laugh at how utterly bizarre that is if you knew the nature of my illness.

*** For me personally, it’s mostly about you. Other people have a different ratio with regard to these things.

**** ‘You look much better today.’ ‘Maybe you should try losing weight.’ ‘Maybe you’re just tired.’ ‘Are you sure that’s what happened?’ ‘My cousin’s boss’ sister’s friend’s tried this thing you should try.’ Just don’t. How dare you presume that we don’t know how to handle ourselves? If we want help, we will most likely ask. These suggestions act to obscure problems, meaning that we’re not given the help we want/need because everyone else has moved on, ’cause you’ve already solved it, right? You do not know better than us.

***** Were you thinking in terms of access to buildings? Open your mind. Think about daily experience.

Note: The possible disclaimer applies to this post.

They are mine, they are mine, they are mine

I was checking out a commenter’s blog, as I usually do, when I came across a post called “A Respectful Breast-Man”. (Snipped version with comments here, full version without comments here). It’s writer Thomas’ meditations on staring at women’s breasts. In the course of the post, he asks ‘I was wondering what women thought about this. What’s it like for them growing up with this, and do they have an appreciation for the male perspective (so to speak)?’ Here’s the answer I gave him.

I’m a woman with two of those! Perhaps I can answer.

The short answer is, it’s not at all pleasant.

Imagine being a girl, maybe about twelve. One day, these things start growing on your chest. You’re pretty happy, because that’s what TV and the magazines and your peers tell you to want, right? The bigger the better. (Or maybe you’re uncomfortable, because you don’t want all your school friends to make fun of you if they get too big, and anyway, you’ve got a 16-year-old sister. You see how all those boys and men see her. They almost let the saliva drip down her shirt. How can she let them do that to her? (Oh, sweetheart, you do not yet know.))

So, your developing sexuality is getting interfered with because all these weird men, much older than you, are suddenly seeing you as sexually available. And now it’s boys your age, too. At school, on the bus, the kid across the street. Because those older men, the media, the whole of patriarchal society is whispering to those boys that women are not as good, not like us, and you can stare at their breasts all you like. But you’re just trying to head to the movies with your friends, or pick up some bread and milk. Just going about your life. It doesn’t make much of a difference if you cover up, because they’re still there, like flashing lights drawing people to your chest. You begin to feel a bit dehumanised.

Later, you’ve grown up a bit. You’re at a party in high school, and it’s all very exciting. There’s this guy you kind of like. So eventually your paths collide and you say, ‘hi, how’re you?’ And he glances briefly at your face, then his eyes are drawn, seemingly inexorably, to your breasts. Well, at least he thinks I’m hot, you think. And you try asking him about a mutual friend, and a class you share, but he’s giving you monosyllabic answers. And at first you think, all right, teenage hormones. It’s just biology. But surely this dude could tear his eyes away… but no. Eventually you scurry off, humiliated. But shouldn’t you like the attention? And what did you expect for going out in public, especially in a low-cut top? You come to realize: no matter what you wear, or how you behave – all the things we’re told good girls can do to protect themselves – some dude will always think it’s okay. And it’s not just biology, you can’t separate that from social conditioning. (And over the years, you see guys justifying their behaviour as a biological imperative, but you know it’s just an excuse. They could stop if they wanted to. But they don’t respect you enough to stop.)

And in your twenties, you’re in a meeting. You’ve got some financial matters to discuss, but you’re not getting far because the man you need to help you is instead trying to get an angle down your shirt. So are you going to object and make this hard for yourself? Or do you let yourself be this man’s sex object for a while in the hopes of getting a successful outcome for your meeting? Another day. Another chip off your pride and self-esteem and sense of personhood.

And in your thirties, you have a kid. You decide to breastfeed. You get a bunch of new men who like to look at your breasts, sometimes a little slack-jawed, because they’ve gotten bigger with milk. You just can’t win. Sometimes, when your baby starts crying and your breasts are just aching with all the milk, you’ve got to feed your baby right then and there. So you sit and take your breast out and your baby latches on. But now – ewwwwww. People tell you that’s disgusting. You’re not a cow, you’re a woman. Can’t you hide that under a blanket? Because people are startled to see a breast fulfill its biological function. People are used to thinking of breasts as sexy. But yours work hard to feed your baby, and you’re proud of them, and why can’t people just shut up and let you feed your kid? At least everyone is turning away from your breasts, for once.

And in your forties, the kid has been weaned, and now your breasts are saggy. The world is bombarding you with the message that your saggy breasts are disgusting. Kind of an object of fascination. But that doesn’t stop men, men, yet more men, trying to look down your shirt.

You can never win. And the years go on…

All these men, ogling your poor breasts over the years. They just sort of glaze over while looking at your breasts. It’s clear that if they were thinking about you as a person in that moment, just like them, with regular wants and worries, they would not look at your breasts like that. You grow intimately acquainted with their perspective. These guys think that staring at your breasts is their due. They’re nice guys, they think to themselves, where’s the harm in looking? Someone who thinks that? Is not a nice guy.

In this scenario, I’ve given you the life of a white, heterosexual, middle-class, able, thin, cis woman. You probably didn’t pick up on most of those things, but you may if you go back and have another read. (Nobody was saying that you, as a disabled woman, shouldn’t have children or saw you as unsexual or took advantage of your disability and tried to assault you. Nobody said that your breasts were the only good thing about your fat body. Just a couple of examples.) So imagine how complicated having one’s breasts stared at can get when you’re dealing with multiple oppressions. And on top of all that, imagine constantly factoring the possibility of men staring at your breasts when you’re planning what to wear today, or when you sit down in a low-cut top, or when you’re in a situation in which you want to be taken seriously. You might look at a woman’s breasts for a few seconds. She’s got to put up with the same thing for decades.

I suppose you’re wondering why a lot of women don’t generally speak up. Women are taught to be submissive, subsume our own needs to get others’ met. Yes, even in this day and age. That kind of training lingers on. We’re taught not to rock the boat, because people will think we’re nasty bitches. So we put up with it – maybe he’ll stop soon, maybe he’ll look at my face, how can he do that while he’s talking to me? And it feels awful. To this day, I’ve never told a man to move his eyes to my face, because I’m frozen with shock, after all this time, that someone out there really thinks it’s acceptable to ogle my breasts; also because I do not want to make the situation awkward.

Because when women do speak up about ogling? Sometimes the dude looks embarrassed, apologises and turns away. But often, the situation just gets awkward. So maybe the guy goes away – if he doesn’t snatch a few more seconds to look (oh wow, does he think I can’t see what he’s doing?). But then your friend might say, ‘gee, that was a bit harsh. Him looking wasn’t doing any harm.’ And you’re just that bitch who had to go make things all weird. But this gaze does do harm. You cannot separate the breasts from the person who has them. (I would refer you to Karen Healey’s poem More About Them.)

So, what is a woman to do? There’ll always be some other guy who thinks it’s okay.

Breasts are wonderful things. There’s something more important than that though. At the end of the day, they are a part of a living person. Your respect for the women around you ought to govern your next move.

An observation

To recap: I identify as non-white (the language I use to refer to myself changes though; I’ve yet to find anything I’m really comfortable with). I have blue eyes and pale skin. (I have a bittersweet joke that I’m whiter than most white people.) I often take advantage of this and keep quiet about my ethnicity around people I don’t know. Because it’s just another thing to talk about, another thing through which a dominant group constructs me as less than, because it’s just too much.

This leads to some interesting patterns.

Not knowing my background, white people tend to claim me as one of their own. I have sat through so many racist “jokes” cracked by people who thought I was in on them. I think this is a reflection of what I like to call the default human mentality. If you’re a member of a dominant group, and representations of how normal you are are just everywhere, you’re likely to think that everyone else is of that group unless they’re obviously not. I know that’s something I’ve been struggling with as a heterosexual person.

Not knowing my background, non-white people are far less likely to make assumptions. This can be reassuring and comforting, but it can be disconcerting when I’ve decided I’m going to let people think I’m white in a particular situation, especially when I’m outed among white people.

Being able to pass – or, more, being passed – as white is a privilege, it really is. This is never more apparent then when I start to talk about my ethnicity. I watch the faces of the white people I am in conversation with. All too often, there’s a quick series of emotions that run over their faces.

It goes like this. First, there’s surprise. Then, there’s a sheepish look (did I say anything that could have offended her? I should have realised…). Then a bit of internal searching, going through the back catalogue of experiences with me to see if there were any clues. After that comes indignance: hey, wait a minute, it’s not my fault and how could I have known and anyway race is a sensitive thing so I’d best keep myself out of it. It’s then that most of them realise that I can see what’s going on in their heads. I take a moment to chuckle inside. Finally, it goes one of four ways. They continue to treat me as a person, with little deferences to my particular circumstances where required (which is, you know, very nice and exactly the sort of thing you ought to do, white people). They act exactly as they did before (which is also nice, but kind of missing the point). They totally change the way they interact with me, from the way they angle their bodies to their tone of voice. Or, they shut down. With regard to this last, sometimes I wonder, is it because they feel betrayed? Are they embarrassed? Do they just not like non-white people?

So, I am no longer coded as a white person, or there is no longer any ambiguity. And there are mixed emotions there. On the one hand, it’s another piece of oppression I’ve got to wade my way through with this particular person. On the other, it’s so sweet to be identified as what I really am, to no longer modify my speech and mannerisms and what have you to conform to whiteness.

But how do non-white people react, you ask? Sometimes a ‘really?’ but more often a look of non-surprise or a ‘yeah, I thought so’ and, more often than that, happily, thankfully, we just continue with our business.

Being invisible, playing white, has only the illusion of freedom. I’m still racism’s perpetual puppet, waiting until I don’t have to be scared.

The Twelfth Down Under Feminists Carnival

Welcome to the twelfth edition of the Down Under Feminists Carnival. This is a special one as it marks a full year of DUFC goodness, served up to you from around New Zealand and Australia. We’ve had a fabulous lot of blogging over the last year – have you seen QoT’s list of contributors? Wow – as continued with this edition. The carnival has become something of an institution for all of us. I’m honoured to be hosting this first anniversary celebration.

Before we begin, congratulations are in order! Blue Milk just had her baby! On behalf of the Down Under feminist blogging community, Blue Milk, warmest wishes to you and your whole family. We are absolutely delighted for you. All the best for the years ahead.

Perhaps now would be a good time to serve the cake, eh?

(A pink feminist cake! Confusing, isn’t it?)

General Feminism

From Hellonhairylegs we have One Day, a post on what we’re told as children will make us happy as adults.
Andra of Andragy says a lot in a little space with CyberBullying, Feminism, Mean Girls, Queen Bees and Boys. ‘Just for today, I believe that feminism cannot succeed without unpacking the violence of group dynamics and stereotypes both masculine and feminine.’ She shares her experiences as a parent and some reading she’s been doing.
Schroedinger’s Tabby shares some false comparisons between women and men: ‘it’s always about using emotive language to put someone down’.
Caitlin writes about trying to find a label for herself and a place in feminism. You’re not alone in that, Caitlin.
Audrey of Audrey and the Bad Apples blogs a speech she gave on the value of contemporary feminism the world over. A quote: ‘One of the best tools you can give anyone is a sense of belonging and purpose. It’s the hope for a better future – not one which has been handed to you and to which you must resign yourself, but one in which you have had a hand forging.’

Violence Against Women

Ludditejourno posts a list of women and children dead as a result of domestic violence. It’ll stop you in your tracks.
Over at Ideologically Impure, Queen of Thorns tells us why there are no second chances for Tony Veitch.
At I Am Not Cake, Jet writes the powerful Rape Culture: Still Not Funny. You’ll be wanting to bookmark this one.
More from Caitlin, this time at The Dawn Chorus, in Misogyny in Football? Never! At least not according to North Melbourne….
Let’s all say it together, everyone… it’s not sex, it’s rape! Hoyden About Town’s Lauredhel has something to say about strategic remorse.
No doesn’t mean no?! Anna of The Hand Mirror reports on an outrageous defence by the lawyer of a taxi driver convicted in a case of abduction and indecent assault of a passenger.

Class and Economics

AnneE at Elsewoman writes a brief and pointed post about race, gender and unemployment in New Zealand.
Here’s a thoughtful post from Helen from Blogger on the Cast Iron Balcony. It’s called The Home ATM is out of order #2: Thinking about schools and is on home equity, education and the economy in Australia.
At The Radical Radish, rayedish talks about Australia’s wage gap and an opportunity for discussion that just shouldn’t have been missed. Presenting Can we talk about this (wage gap) civilly, please?.

Race

More from QoT, writing about the Eskimo lollies issue and New Zealand pride in ”Iconic” might not be the word you’re looking for.
Then there’s the excellent Andrew Bolt, Wajin-looking Koori, Aboriginality, and comments full of lies over at Hexpletive (now cross-posted at HAT). Jo Tamar from Wallaby adds her thoughts on identity and the majority narrative in There’s a reason I don’t read Andrew Bolt. Give them both a read.

Writing and Literature

Mel Campbell at The Dawn Chorus shares some thoughts on the late JG Ballard’s partner and invisible muse, Claire Walsh. It’s an unusual piece for feminist blogging and a good read.
In a thought-provoking reminder of universal sisterhood, Allecto of Gorgon Poisons shares two similar pieces of writing on women’s experience.

Subversion!

Blogging at Musings of an inappropriate woman, Rachel Hills documents an intriguing look into wedding culture by artist Lee Gainer in Why would anyone spend two months’ salary on a ring, anyway?
In an action of momumental win, sajbrfem of Fifty Two Acts made actual feminist cookies. I can’t even pick my favourite.

Parenthood…

Thinking about pre- and post-pregnancy bodies and lives, Spilt Milk writes The new me is the old me is the new me. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to forge my identity as a mother that I’ve let many other parts of my identity slip into obscurity.’ She adds Body and soul, a beautiful piece on reconnecting with her body during and following pregnancy.
aztec-rose of WoLFi TaLEs reminds us of a very important issue that may be pushed aside given the economy. The post’s called Paid maternity leave at risk… of being dumped.

… and Reproductive Justice

Emma at Emervents writes a letter to her MP and Nicola Roxon regarding the Maternity Services Review and improving healthcare in Australia. Over at narrating kayoz, Kirsten also writes to Federal Health Minister Nicola Roxon. It’s an open letter and includes Kirsten’s personal story. Meanwhile, Lauredhel is trying to move the conversation from stat-wrangling towards a reproductive choice perspective.
Western Australian breastfeeding mothers are having a time of it. For Colin Barnett’s assertions regarding breastfeeding, I for one have no words. Lauredhel found some in Mothers Not Human: In The Words Of Our Premier. Emma in Oz has some lovely snark on the same subject. To finish, Georgie of Surprisingly Domestic centres babies in the discussion with the wonderful Why I breastfeed in public.

Trans

At A.E.Brain, Zoe writes a lovely piece called Appearance on valuing appearance and the experiences of late-transitioning trans women. In Another Piece of the Puzzle, she takes a look at a study called “Regional gray matter variation in male-to-female transsexualism”.
Chally (hey, that’s me!) writes Say, we haven’t filled our daily quota of dehumanisation! Let’s go do that then. It’s on a Ninemsn article about Aussie Ladette to Lady, so you know how that’s gonna end.

Media

Could it be feminism in the MSM? Jo Tamar reports.
Oh, Sam de Brito. This time, he’s kindly telling us how to do feminism. Fuck Politeness informs us as to Sargeant Major de Brito’s Great Feminist Battle Plan. In a continution of the ‘guerilla style Media Watch’ we’ve all come to expect from FP, she writes a response to a Miranda Devine piece on Bettina Arndt in What’s good for the gander….
At Larvatus Prodeo, Kim writes “the conclusions are only as good as the original assumptions”. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t spoil your reading!

The Stupid. It Burns.

Mimbles, blogging at Mim’s Muddle, was not alone in being astounded at one Clementine Ford. She writes about it in Quick Hit: Pot, meet kettle.
Meanwhile, Anne serves up some snark to a misguided scientist in Oh, those wonderful males.
In a Strange Land blogger Deborah has been blogging on atheist parenthood. What really raised my blood pressure was when her daughters, having opted out of participating in a school Easter activity, were sent to pick up rubbish. ‘I’m finding it hard not to see that as a punishment for not being Christian,’ says Deborah. The Strange Lands had words with the school. Post here, background here, update here.
The American Academy of Pediatrics, formula feeding, April Fools, and a lesson to be learned in public relations. Here’s Tigtog at Larvatus Prodeo and Lauredhel at Hoyden.

Relationships

Regarding Mel Gibson’s divorce, Deborah says Enough already with calling it “his” fortune. Because nothing Robyn Gibson contributed matters, according to the media.
Richie has a post for us on a webcomic called, wait for it, The Nice Guy. The title pretty much says it all: Do you have that female friend that you’re hopelessly in love with that unloads all her problems on you, only to end up back in the sack with that loser ex that cheated on her with her own sister, leaving you high and dry?

Disability

As usual, Lauredhel has some excellent writing on the subject. Firstly, a quiz on representations of disabled bodies in logos. Hmm, can you tell what’s missing there? She also offers us 101: A note to able-bodied readers, which had me thinking how glad I was that somebody finally said it! It’s about inappropriate centring of abled people in PWD spaces. Lastly, we have Psychiatrists see reasonable adaptations to CFS, label it “cause” and “maladaptation” – as amandaw says in comments, ‘Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’
Jo Tamar blogs about Dan Savage’s willingness to miss the point regarding the use of the word “retard”. Jo takes this disingenuous behaviour down very well.
I, Chally, opened up about being chronically ill in a series called Not Staying Silent. It consists of Introduction, I hope you know what you’ve done, Claiming the Label, or, conceptualising myself as disabled, Real Problems, Deference, Response and Recovery.
And if you’re looking for more resources on disability activism, the good people at Hoyden About Town did your homework for you.

That concludes the Twelfth Down Under Feminists Carnival.

I had a fabulous time putting it together. Thanks for reading and take care of your lovely selves. See you next time at Demelza’s place (submissions to demelzagf at yahoo dot com where the submissions page is inaccessible), and do consider volunteering to host a future carnival.

For more information, have a look at the carnival homepage.

Enjoy your cake!

April feminist blogging #3

We’ll be back to normal next month, once DUFC’s over. Don’t forget to send in your pieces! I’ve recieved a lot of excellent nominations already.

Just the headlines. They speak for themselves.

TR Xands: You don’t have to mean it to hate
Anonymous Shaker Couple: Separate and Not Equal
Liss: This is What a Feminist Secretary of State Sounds Like,
Feel the Homomentum, Why Use a Teaspoon When You’ve Got a Tablespoon? and
We’re So Winning
Pilgrim Soul: On Thinking of Human Beings as Trash, And Other Tragedies of Resources
Jo Tamar: Blogging Against Disablism Day – and generally blogging in support of other groups
Sarah MC: Pain-Free is a Privilege

Not Staying Silent: Response

This is the sixth part in a series in which I open up about living with chronic illness. Here are part one, part two, part three, part four and part five.

I avoid telling people about my condition until the last minute I can (and sometimes after). After a long time of facing faces
politely frozen
disbelieving
assured of their competent allyhood
withdrawn and contemptuous
even from people whose job it is to assist me – and it’s not practical, I know, but it’s a (non)coping tactic of mine – I don’t want to entrust people with this bit of information. This is the first part of a communication breakdown I can’t quite articulate
through the mild but constant mortification
through the unspoken understanding I should be demure if I’m expecting to get any help at all.

Hi there, darling. You’re looking well. Some of them are trying to suss me out: maybe she was faking all along; maybe I don’t have to bother with something out of my experience anymore? Maybe some of them are trying to cheer me, but I have trouble telling the difference at this stage. (It’s like compliments: all the compliments are nice but insults cut deepest.) And why am I darling all of a sudden? I am not your baby girl, your sweetheart. I’m not your daughter, not your lover, not your plaything, you don’t get to mollify me smooth me over neutralise my threat with sickening sweet words. Sometimes I look well, the blood may pool away from my face tomorrow. And you can’t see my physical pain, my memory loss so that I’ve forgotten your partner’s name while I’m here talking to you (like my multiplications tables next week, or, last night, three times over, where I put my phone).

I know something you should try. You have a cure for me, something to ease it? Do you think I haven’t thought of it? I don’t want your suggestions (you’re insulting me). If I did, I would ask. But I can’t complain because you were being nice and I do want to get better, don’t I? Well?

How are you feeling? with your faux-sympathy. Maybe you think you’re being genuine, but you’re like the middle-class Westerner giving charity for the cred with their peers. If you really meant it, there wouldn’t be the head tilt, the pursing of your mouth, the drawing back (that’s the worst).

‘Are you feeling any better?’ you say, every time I see you (as some of them do). Repeating yourself repeating yourself repeating yourself repeating yourself. These are often the people to repeat whole conversations, cover ground we’ve covered periodically for years. Oh dear. How did it start? That’s unfortunate. Yeah, my life is a misfortune in your eyes, you’re wondering why I don’t just disappear already? They continue: And you’re sure there’s nothing you could do? My cousin had something kind of similar. Poor thing, totally isolated from the family for years. Keep your chin up!

What concept is it you’ve built of my life in your head? It doesn’t resemble my life. And worse yet:

Are you going to get better?

Shit, you know. I don’t know. I thought I would, I was getting better, then WHAM four years ago (it can’t have been that long, this is not me, this is for other people). I don’t tell you these things. It’s none of your business. How fucking insensitive to ask me that? If I felt like opening up seconds ago, I won’t now. Because it is obvious to me that you don’t really care. Or – rather, better – you care, but like a passing driver gawking at a traffic accident.

I hate watching your eyes glaze over now that you’ve seen who I really am, the other. There are people who, every time I meet them, my condition is what they jump to.

I am not an object of fascination. I am mine, I am mine, I am mine.

This is where
I.
Shut.
Down.

But then but then:

It’s not real, is it?

You want me to apologise for my body, my presence, my existence blighting yours, the insult to your comfortable life. You want me to
Just.
Shut.
Down.
I will shut up with shock for a minute – ‘yes, of course it’s real,’ I’ll say, with increasing emphasis over the years as I grow strength in my self – then my eyes will grow glittering and false like yours. I will shut down, but I will shut down my respect for you, my investment in this conversation. Get out of my life.

I will not speak to you. My responses will be to my needs, my way through the world. I will not be silenced.

Not Staying Silent: I hope you know what you’ve done

This is the second part in a series in which I open up about living with chronic illness. The introduction can be found here.

It’s paradoxical to be writing this series and telling you that I can’t tell you my story. But there it is.

I can’t tell you my story because of the stigma. A full telling would necessitate a discussion of my condition. But I can’t do that and I resent this, because this account will suffer for it. It’s not that it’s a particularly obscure condition, but it’s not framed in most people’s heads as a health condition/disability and it generally doesn’t come with the severity I have it with. It must be said that I know people who have it worse, a lot worse, than I do.

But because it’s off-center from what most people conceptualise as a health condition/disability, and because it’s invisible, and mostly out of the blatant privilege of people of conventional ability, I face a huge stigma. I get outright denial: but seriously, is it real?; you’re a hypochondriac, suck it up; here, darling, I have just the solution for you. Sometimes I’ll even sit tight with a trigger because I can’t bear to tell whoever I’m with about it, not another person looking at me like I’m an alien – sometimes I’ve judged correctly that I can manage it, sometimes it makes everything worse.

All this has reached new levels of pain in the last almost four years, during which time my condition deteriorated a bit spectacularly. I never thought I’d get these effects and as such, and because they’re relatively untested, I don’t know if I’m still deteriorating. I had hoped that the severity would lift over time, and perhaps it will one day, but now not for a while. And the incident which started it off occurred under a breach of trust.

I can’t tell you my story because I haven’t always got the brainpower. Some days I don’t have the physical capacity to look at a screen and type away, but those are few. Mostly, it’s the case where I’ll be pumped, I’ll be switching on my computer and bringing up a blank page and then- I can’t do what I wanted to do. I can’t remember my thoughts from thirty seconds before or I can’t remember words – there’s little so frustrating as having meanings pouring through your head and not having the signifier – or I can’t work the logistics of handling a computer.

And I will feel disappointment and the resurgence of self-contempt. Not that it’s my fault, not that I could have worked harder and I could have done something. But still there’s that narrative running through: I should have done such and such to manage it better, I should have told so and so to stop doing that again, if only I’d taken a water bottle, if only I’d decided to stay home. If only I curled up into myself and endured, endured and never did anything.

The sad thing is, these instances are quite easy to prevent, but require the simple cooperation of those around me. There are some worsening factors I can’t avoid. Most I can. And largely, it’s the screw-ups of the people around me that land me in a sobbing heap in bed. And while I’m thinking that I do not have the energy or the fluid levels in my body to afford these tears, others happily go around their daily business with big innocent eyes.

Goodly gosh, I didn’t know. I’m normal, why would I know what to do? I can’t have done anything wrong. It’s not in my experience, so even though you told me how I could help and I didn’t, I didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m going to sit here opposite you, smile and politely laugh and tell you what a gosh darn shame it is, a bright girl like you, pity this had to happen.

I keep telling you. There’s nothing complicated or difficult or astoundingly inconvenient about helping me. Even if there was, basic human decency requires you to not set me back. Bigots, perpetuators of my struggle, I hope you feel the horror of what you’ve done. I can’t even express myself.

Readers, I can’t tell you my story because I don’t trust you not to be those people.

So, I can’t tell you my story. I can’t tell you as I’d like, anyway. But I am going to inhabit the spaces I can and not be silenced.