Slaughter's article on having it all suggests that feminism set us up to expect that we could have it all. The problem in her thesis is that the right to pursue happiness does not equate with the right to happiness.
Feminism may be responsible for many things- women having the right to work, vote, women having the right to work in workplaces where sexual harassment is illegal, etc. Feminism may also be responsible for increased state support for child-care, for increased state recognition of maternity leave, for legislative changes including affirmative action and equal employment opportunity legislation etc. But to blame the incompatibility of modern work-places and child rearing on feminism is to assume that having it all is a right.
Critics of Slaughter's thesis are right when they contend that many work-place cultures make raising children and holding down a full-time job difficult. However, feminism has secured the freedoms that enable us to grapple with work/life balance questions. Feminism has secured the right for women to participate in these work-places and to choose to focus on a career.
To blame feminism for women not having it all is to deny the positive changes that feminism has made so women have the luxury of thinking about and/or striving for life/work balance. Feminism has given us choices- more feminist activism could continue to improve work-places and change work-place culture. The fact that we devalue child-rearing is perhaps most strongly evidenced by the wages we pay child-care workers (Mamamia waxed lyrical on this issue this week). But this is not the fault of feminism.
Feminism always demanded radical changes. We achieved some of them. The fact that we need more change is not the fault of feminism. On the contrary, we need more feminism to achieve more change. A more equitable society would increase the happiness of men and women striving in the pursuit of happiness. Feminism is not part of the problem. It is part of the solution.
Disavowing feminism because there is feminist work to be done in reforming institutions... now, there's something that's part of the problem!
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
Friday, 22 June 2012
Mixed messages- she could just leave, couldn't she?
After a week, supporting a woman, whose baby has been snatched into out of home care because a history of trauma makes it hard for her to feel and closing a few files of women, whose histories of trauma make it hard for them to trust anyone (including me), I thought I might reflect on the mixed messages our system sends to women experiencing domestic violence.
On the one hand, domestic violence costs the economy between $8 and 13 billion annually.
On the other hand, she could just leave. No one's holding a gun to her head (unless he is), but how often does that happen?
On the one hand, domestic violence is a crime. It is a criminal act to physically assault, threaten or intimidate someone.
On the other hand, 453 texts mainly just asking her to call with the occasional text stating 'If u don't call me, u know what I'll do to u.' doesn't really qualify as harassment.
On the one hand, family law legislation takes into account domestic violence.
On the other hand, just because a man is abusive to his partner does not preclude him from having a meaningful relationship with his children.
On the one hand, domestic violence is not her fault.
On the other hand, her choice to love an abusive man places her children at risk and that makes her a 'bad' mother.
On the one hand, there are several hundred thousand people turned away from homelessness services every day.
On the other hand, she could just leave, couldn't she? Even if her family has ostracised her (or he has made her think her family has ostracised her), even if her friends have rejected her (or he had made her think they have and/or caused them to)... she could just leave couldn't she? She could go to a homeless shelter, if worst came to worst...
On the one hand, domestic violence costs the economy between $8 and 13 billion annually.
On the other hand, she could just leave. No one's holding a gun to her head (unless he is), but how often does that happen?
On the one hand, domestic violence is a crime. It is a criminal act to physically assault, threaten or intimidate someone.
On the other hand, 453 texts mainly just asking her to call with the occasional text stating 'If u don't call me, u know what I'll do to u.' doesn't really qualify as harassment.
On the one hand, family law legislation takes into account domestic violence.
On the other hand, just because a man is abusive to his partner does not preclude him from having a meaningful relationship with his children.
On the one hand, domestic violence is not her fault.
On the other hand, her choice to love an abusive man places her children at risk and that makes her a 'bad' mother.
On the one hand, there are several hundred thousand people turned away from homelessness services every day.
On the other hand, she could just leave, couldn't she? Even if her family has ostracised her (or he has made her think her family has ostracised her), even if her friends have rejected her (or he had made her think they have and/or caused them to)... she could just leave couldn't she? She could go to a homeless shelter, if worst came to worst...
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Bitch-meter
After a particularly (no, scratch that, typically is more appropriate) stressful day at work, I made the comment, whilst listening to a colleague's use of contracting with a client,
'That's fabulous. You're using contracting as a therapeutic tool ... and not using it to cover your arse.' The silence was palpable. And, instinctively, I reacted, 'That was bitchy, wasn't it?'
As if the worst thing to do in a bureaucracy that is sometimes more focused on processes rather than therapy, is making a sarcastic comment... as if naming the reality of complying with policies that promote accountability, but simultaneously drain our energies from actually doing therapeutic work in an overstretched system is not okay.
My colleague (an incredibly intelligent psychologist) suggested I start a bitch meter. Not as a measurement of my bitchiness, necessarily, but as a measure of how much the systems I work with as a social worker (who works from a place of improving the fit between people and their environments)... are draining me.
We know that trauma changes people. We are wary, in the helping professions, of burnout and vicarious trauma, but how much do we think about the fit between people and their environments, as professionals... who has time for unionism or countless submissions to management about the inappropriateness of policies? It's good enough for our clients, but not that useful for ourselves...
And, reflecting back on my career (so far!), after hearing so many stories of trauma (that I eventually felt compelled to write a novel!), I can categorically say that it is not the stories that exhaust me (or send me reaching for a cigarette, far too often!)- it is the powerlessness against the systems that perpetuate client problems. And that is such a bad place to be as a social worker... because if I no longer feel empowered to effect systemic change, then can I really continue to call myself a social worker?
As a mother, I pick my battles. The bitch meter helps. A 'nine' would be dangerous- too consumed with ineffectual rage to actually be of use. A 'six' would be dangerous too. Dangerous apathy categorised by not being concerned enough by things I can change to divert energies into my work environment. Today, my bitch meter is a 'seven' and I voiced an idea about changing things about my work conditions... I still haven't given up cigarettes, but I still feel okay about calling myself a social worker in a system, where I may be able to do some good.
Check in again tomorrow...
'That's fabulous. You're using contracting as a therapeutic tool ... and not using it to cover your arse.' The silence was palpable. And, instinctively, I reacted, 'That was bitchy, wasn't it?'
As if the worst thing to do in a bureaucracy that is sometimes more focused on processes rather than therapy, is making a sarcastic comment... as if naming the reality of complying with policies that promote accountability, but simultaneously drain our energies from actually doing therapeutic work in an overstretched system is not okay.
My colleague (an incredibly intelligent psychologist) suggested I start a bitch meter. Not as a measurement of my bitchiness, necessarily, but as a measure of how much the systems I work with as a social worker (who works from a place of improving the fit between people and their environments)... are draining me.
We know that trauma changes people. We are wary, in the helping professions, of burnout and vicarious trauma, but how much do we think about the fit between people and their environments, as professionals... who has time for unionism or countless submissions to management about the inappropriateness of policies? It's good enough for our clients, but not that useful for ourselves...
And, reflecting back on my career (so far!), after hearing so many stories of trauma (that I eventually felt compelled to write a novel!), I can categorically say that it is not the stories that exhaust me (or send me reaching for a cigarette, far too often!)- it is the powerlessness against the systems that perpetuate client problems. And that is such a bad place to be as a social worker... because if I no longer feel empowered to effect systemic change, then can I really continue to call myself a social worker?
As a mother, I pick my battles. The bitch meter helps. A 'nine' would be dangerous- too consumed with ineffectual rage to actually be of use. A 'six' would be dangerous too. Dangerous apathy categorised by not being concerned enough by things I can change to divert energies into my work environment. Today, my bitch meter is a 'seven' and I voiced an idea about changing things about my work conditions... I still haven't given up cigarettes, but I still feel okay about calling myself a social worker in a system, where I may be able to do some good.
Check in again tomorrow...
Monday, 18 June 2012
A Fable about Farming- why boundaries matter in relationships
As a social worker, I rely on narrative, imagery and metaphor in my psycho-education and counselling work. I developed this story to help women understand the insidious way in which perpetrators use boundaries to destroy their victims.
Once upon a time, there were two farms side by side. They were both the same size and the same shape and a fence divided the land into two equal farms. For many generations, neighbouring farmers had yakked over that fence.
Abby bought her farm first and lived there for some time planting her crops. There were wheat and corn crops and she also planted vegetables. These things she needed to sustain herself physically.
But, after a few years of farming just to survive, she found that her farm became an extension of herself and she began to plant crops just because she liked the look, taste, smell and feel of them. For instance, the crop named 'art' absorbed her. Tending it, devoting time to it made her feel alive. Dipping her hands into the soil at its roots was, at times, spiritual. Interestingly, the crop named 'self-esteem' always seemed to flourish the same years that the art crop did.
She loved the look and the feel of sexuality. A hardy plant, its smells filled her house sometimes and she savoured them.
Other crops were smaller, but she tended them also. The crop of 'friendship' and 'family' often diverted her attentions from the 'art' crop, but these crops helped keep her farm looking balanced.
It was many years before Abby had a neighbour. For a long time, the farm next door lay fallow.
When Zachary moved into the farm next door, she found his choice of crops, unsettling at first. He planted barley and brewed his own beer, but seemed to have no other crops for food.
He planted a thick, spreading plant with thorns that was, at first glance, hideous. At the fence, she asked him its name. He called it 'hate' and told her only a select few could see its beauty. It came from a family of plants called 'adversity'; or so he claimed.
After a while, she came to see the beauty in the 'hate'; a frightening, ferocious beauty that she sometimes could not look away from. The plant spread quickly consuming much of Zachary's farm, but other crops flourished too, in more subtle patches on his farm. There was 'cruelty', 'the need to dominate' and he used a strange-smelling manure called patriarchy to help his crops grow.
One day at the fence, he told her he liked her sexuality. And, before the beaming feeling had even faded, he added, 'But it's a bit over-the-top don't you think?' And, for the first time, she found herself doubting the crop's beauty- its smells and feels.
At the fence, on another occasion, he asked to take a cutting of her 'sexuality' and planted it. It withered beside the thorny 'hate' plant that seemed to spread further and further.
Then, when the 'hate' started creeping over her fence, she asked him nicely to trim it back. He assured her he would, but the plant kept on creeping until one morning she found its limbs tangling with the edges of her 'sexuality'. She was furious, stormed to the fence, demanding he do something about it. 'No worries, babe,' he said. He always had the most endearing smile. That smile always seemed so incongruent. How could a man, who smiled like that, plant 'hate'?
He moved the fence. Took a good chunk of her acreage. She tried to protest. 'Hate' was endangered flora, apparently. It would take months for experts to analyse the data. Her farm diminishing- his fence proceeding ever closer to her vegetable patch, the 'hate' creeping closer and closer to her 'art' crop, overwhelming the 'self-esteem', she watched as the experts came, sipping beer with Zachary, leaning over the fence and sniggering at the silly farmer, who thought 'art' was a worthwhile crop.
When they declared the crop was not endangered and ordered Zachary to re-situate his fence along the original boundary line, she felt vindicated.
A suspicious fire broke out. His face was so filled with sorrow the next morning, 'I'm so sorry. I'll help you plant it all again. What a horrible accident!' The part of her that suspected him was instantly, shamefully placated. How could a face filled with that much regret be responsible for this?
She snuffed away that part that knew it was him. 'It was just an accident!' Staring at the remnants of the fire; her corn, wheat and vegetables- barely surviving the holocaust, she looked at his eyes- filled with sorrow, 'I'm so sorry, babe. But they probably weren't the most practical crops to grow, you know.'
And a part of her could see that he was right. Because 'art' was beautiful and lifted her spirits, but you couldn't eat it and what could you do with 'self esteem' or 'sexuality', but smell and feel them and savour the look and feel of them?
Zachary's 'hate' was a hardy plant. He offered her some cuttings. It filled the void and the plant grew quickly.
One day, looking at her farm- no colours, just crops that sustained her physically and plants that had been grown from his cuttings, Abby realised she could not see where his farm ended and hers' began.
Only the fence that he'd never bothered to move back to the original boundary-line, even after the court order had come through, indicated that there were two distinct farms.
When he made her an offer- a fraction of what the farm was worth- she tried to remember a time when the farm was an extension of herself and realised that she couldn't.
Once upon a time, there were two farms side by side. They were both the same size and the same shape and a fence divided the land into two equal farms. For many generations, neighbouring farmers had yakked over that fence.
Abby bought her farm first and lived there for some time planting her crops. There were wheat and corn crops and she also planted vegetables. These things she needed to sustain herself physically.
But, after a few years of farming just to survive, she found that her farm became an extension of herself and she began to plant crops just because she liked the look, taste, smell and feel of them. For instance, the crop named 'art' absorbed her. Tending it, devoting time to it made her feel alive. Dipping her hands into the soil at its roots was, at times, spiritual. Interestingly, the crop named 'self-esteem' always seemed to flourish the same years that the art crop did.
She loved the look and the feel of sexuality. A hardy plant, its smells filled her house sometimes and she savoured them.
Other crops were smaller, but she tended them also. The crop of 'friendship' and 'family' often diverted her attentions from the 'art' crop, but these crops helped keep her farm looking balanced.
It was many years before Abby had a neighbour. For a long time, the farm next door lay fallow.
When Zachary moved into the farm next door, she found his choice of crops, unsettling at first. He planted barley and brewed his own beer, but seemed to have no other crops for food.
He planted a thick, spreading plant with thorns that was, at first glance, hideous. At the fence, she asked him its name. He called it 'hate' and told her only a select few could see its beauty. It came from a family of plants called 'adversity'; or so he claimed.
After a while, she came to see the beauty in the 'hate'; a frightening, ferocious beauty that she sometimes could not look away from. The plant spread quickly consuming much of Zachary's farm, but other crops flourished too, in more subtle patches on his farm. There was 'cruelty', 'the need to dominate' and he used a strange-smelling manure called patriarchy to help his crops grow.
One day at the fence, he told her he liked her sexuality. And, before the beaming feeling had even faded, he added, 'But it's a bit over-the-top don't you think?' And, for the first time, she found herself doubting the crop's beauty- its smells and feels.
At the fence, on another occasion, he asked to take a cutting of her 'sexuality' and planted it. It withered beside the thorny 'hate' plant that seemed to spread further and further.
Then, when the 'hate' started creeping over her fence, she asked him nicely to trim it back. He assured her he would, but the plant kept on creeping until one morning she found its limbs tangling with the edges of her 'sexuality'. She was furious, stormed to the fence, demanding he do something about it. 'No worries, babe,' he said. He always had the most endearing smile. That smile always seemed so incongruent. How could a man, who smiled like that, plant 'hate'?
He moved the fence. Took a good chunk of her acreage. She tried to protest. 'Hate' was endangered flora, apparently. It would take months for experts to analyse the data. Her farm diminishing- his fence proceeding ever closer to her vegetable patch, the 'hate' creeping closer and closer to her 'art' crop, overwhelming the 'self-esteem', she watched as the experts came, sipping beer with Zachary, leaning over the fence and sniggering at the silly farmer, who thought 'art' was a worthwhile crop.
When they declared the crop was not endangered and ordered Zachary to re-situate his fence along the original boundary line, she felt vindicated.
A suspicious fire broke out. His face was so filled with sorrow the next morning, 'I'm so sorry. I'll help you plant it all again. What a horrible accident!' The part of her that suspected him was instantly, shamefully placated. How could a face filled with that much regret be responsible for this?
She snuffed away that part that knew it was him. 'It was just an accident!' Staring at the remnants of the fire; her corn, wheat and vegetables- barely surviving the holocaust, she looked at his eyes- filled with sorrow, 'I'm so sorry, babe. But they probably weren't the most practical crops to grow, you know.'
And a part of her could see that he was right. Because 'art' was beautiful and lifted her spirits, but you couldn't eat it and what could you do with 'self esteem' or 'sexuality', but smell and feel them and savour the look and feel of them?
Zachary's 'hate' was a hardy plant. He offered her some cuttings. It filled the void and the plant grew quickly.
One day, looking at her farm- no colours, just crops that sustained her physically and plants that had been grown from his cuttings, Abby realised she could not see where his farm ended and hers' began.
Only the fence that he'd never bothered to move back to the original boundary-line, even after the court order had come through, indicated that there were two distinct farms.
When he made her an offer- a fraction of what the farm was worth- she tried to remember a time when the farm was an extension of herself and realised that she couldn't.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Weekend round-up-"So you're not a feminist, huh?"
In football, the weekend round-up is a summary of the week's games. This weekend, my 'round-up' is a response to those women; many, whom I love and respect (and are engaged in doing so much good for so many women), but who insist that they are not feminists.
Many of these women (whom I love and respect) contend they are humanists. As if to admit that you are a feminist somehow precludes you from caring about racism or being concerned about the environment or poverty..
Arguably, in the light of the week that was, feminism is still necessary. That does not mean that being green or caring about poverty and other human rights abuses do not matter also. But a feminist lens does imply that women, who live in poverty will experience the oppression of poverty differently to men, who live in poverty. In my opinion, highlighting women's oppression is intrinsically a feminist act.
Sadly, many feminist acts are no longer called feminism. For some women, who work in the refuge movement, it is enough to resist domestic violence without calling it feminism.
I beg to differ. We need to admit there is a need for feminism even if we don't like the word and even if other social movements leverage our attention because to deny the need for feminists is to concede that the level of equality we have is good enough. Worse still, we are subscribing to that laid-back and dangerous philosophy of apathy that rights that were hard-won are not easily lost (Or, as countless of my more regrettable ex-boyfriends would put it, 'She'll be right, babe!').
So, here's a very abridged summary of why this week, I still need to call myself a feminist:-
Many of these women (whom I love and respect) contend they are humanists. As if to admit that you are a feminist somehow precludes you from caring about racism or being concerned about the environment or poverty..
Arguably, in the light of the week that was, feminism is still necessary. That does not mean that being green or caring about poverty and other human rights abuses do not matter also. But a feminist lens does imply that women, who live in poverty will experience the oppression of poverty differently to men, who live in poverty. In my opinion, highlighting women's oppression is intrinsically a feminist act.
Sadly, many feminist acts are no longer called feminism. For some women, who work in the refuge movement, it is enough to resist domestic violence without calling it feminism.
I beg to differ. We need to admit there is a need for feminism even if we don't like the word and even if other social movements leverage our attention because to deny the need for feminists is to concede that the level of equality we have is good enough. Worse still, we are subscribing to that laid-back and dangerous philosophy of apathy that rights that were hard-won are not easily lost (Or, as countless of my more regrettable ex-boyfriends would put it, 'She'll be right, babe!').
So, here's a very abridged summary of why this week, I still need to call myself a feminist:-
- A police officer was charged with forgery for allegedly retracting woman's harassment report without her knowledge.
- Feminist activists protesting the link between football and prostitution have been allegedly kidnapped.
- A female lawmaker was silenced for her reference to the word 'vagina' during a debate on abortion.
- A prime minister equated abortion to murder.
- A 35 year old set alight with spirits by a man she rejected.
- A 20-year-old woman has been sentenced to death by stoning for adultery.
- Only 6-12% of reported rapes end in conviction
- A woman challenging gender stereotypes in video-games received death threats.
- New family court legislation will result in women spending years in court after escaping domestic violence.
- 0.00006% of national government spending allocated to prevent forced marriages.
- 47 women murdered in gender-based violence
Note, that the geographical context of these events and statistics are not included. Arguably, these things can still happen anywhere. And, when you read one of these dot-points and think, 'But that couldn't happen here...', I challenge you to ask, 'Why not?' Is there a feminist movement resisting the retraction of rights and advocating for more gender equality?
To be fair, there is. But we need you... all you women, who fight the good fight, but do not call yourselves feminists. There's been enough time spent eschewing feminism as an 'f' word because it implies a radicalism that is incompatible with other values you hold dear.
Fuck it! My weekend round-up is the tip of the ice-berg. Doesn't that tell you that there is a need for you to identify as a feminist- not because you identify with every feminism (and there are many feminisms!), but because women are still not equal and because that is not okay.
If you can agree with me on that, my humanist (I'm not a feminist but...) friend, then you are a feminist. Please stop denying the label. There are enough people out there making it shameful.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Raising feminist boys
From the time, I was ten years old until I was eighteen, I attended all-girls' schools.
I was a geek, so I didn't date. I had no brothers or cousins. My father and uncles were of a generation and a culture, where men were strong, silent... sexist.
So, being a feminist mother to a fourteen year old boy and a just-turned eleven year old has been a struggle to find a reference point for what is normal, what perpetuates patriarchy, what battles to pick.
Feminism should not be about snuffing out all that is 'masculine'. As Cynthia Fuchs-Epstein wrote in her defence of women warriors, there are times when so-called 'masculine' qualities are the most appropriate in a situation. Her argument was that the nature/ nurture argument was somewhat moot because there were situations that called for authoritarianism, situations that called for collaboration and situations that called for gentleness and nurturing. Ascribing qualities to gender rather than agreeing that certain human qualities were more suited to certain situations can be counter-productive. Fuchs-Epstein felt that men and women could both rise to those occasions, in spite of gender stereotyping and socialisation.
So, in my house-hold, there are challenges when one of my sons calls something 'gay' or puts down his brother by calling him a 'girl', even though all the kids do it and even though I have no doubt that injunctions on words that are enforced inside my home are not translated into the playground. And I try to help my sons develop perspective about competitiveness and aggression, but...
The pissing contests persist, the wrestling and rough-housing go on... and, sometimes, the angst about how feminist (if at all) these boys will become when they are men could drive me batty. I am blessed to have feminist men in my life, who I can consult, who have weathered the tyranny of masculine socialisation and can help me put into perspective all my angst. These men have shown me that boys who wrestle and enjoy the football can still be gentle, involved fathers, who respect the women in their lives and abhor sexism just as much as me.
So, the experiment continues... I'll let you know how it went, in eight years or so...
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Why Words Matter
I love that I live in a community, where there are bright purple street signs in most of the towns that proclaim that we say 'No to Violence' (see link below). I love that, when I was working at the Women's Resource Centre, a nomadic survivor of violence in her seventies was drawn to our cottage to share her story and to make a donation to help other survivors. I love that I live in a rural community, where there are women, who I like to think of as friends, but are more like feminist mentors really. I love that I live in a small community, where we are blessed with many committed women, who, sometimes, at great cost to themselves, are willing to fight the good fight as volunteers or for pitiful wages.
http://thebegavalley.org.au/19816.html
But I hate that, in our small community, we have one of the highest rates of homelessness per capita in NSW and that a leading cause of women's homelessness is domestic violence. In a community renowned rather uncontroversially for its cheese, I hate that we have become notorious for being home to the gynaecologist, who butchered countless women, whilst employed by a local health service and that, in a remote community in our Shire, a man, who had assaulted his partner, was released on bail by police and, shortly after, killed his children and himself. And there was nothing our system could do to prevent his contact with those children overnight.
Domestic violence kills. The Remembrance Quilt was composed to remember the murders of women and children. Painstakingly sewn by sometimes amateur quilters, whose lives were affected by the domestic homicides of friends, sisters, mothers, daughters, it hung in the hallway of the Women's Resource Centre for almost a year and its vibrant colours belied the senseless tragedy that it represented. Our community's quilt panel proclaimed that we say 'No to Violence.'
And sometimes I have to admit that 'No' seems like a whisper. Because, as was recently noted in the media, an alarming number of people still find sexist jokes funny. In post-modernist times, where truth is up for grabs, we do not contextualise gender inequality as one of the conditions that allows domestic violence to thrive (because that would be to take a stand on cause and effect and as any good post-modernist knows, there is no truth).
Whilst we declare (even in UN declarations!) that violence against women is an abuse of human rights and, although we know the casualties of the war on terror are a fraction of those women murdered by their partners every year, our governments spend a fraction of their GDP on domestic violence prevention and intervention when compared to military spending. And, in my career, I have heard magistrates consider that assault was a reasonable way of calming a 'hysterical' woman down or that a woman's tolerance of domestic violence was an indication of her inability to parent her children.
It is why the stories of resistance never fail to move me. So many women, whom the system fails to protect, survive, whilst making a personal commitment to making violence in their lives (which is not their fault!) stop. If they could only be more understanding, say the right things, be better/ worse in bed, understand their partner's pain and help him heal, keep him out of gaol etc., ... It is simultaneously heart-breaking and inspiring to listen to. It is inspiring because she is alive. It is heart-breaking because, if she goes back, a part of me wants him to change almost as much as she does, but the evidence-base is brutal... and, more than anything, I don't want her to be hurt or killed- because every time he hurts her, he kills a part of her, anyway...
Occasionally, there are moments, which resonate with victory. The gorgeous Gabrielle (Women's Resource Centre Co-ordinator/ grant applicant extraordinaire) helped me apply for a grant. A small group of women talked about abuse. They explored it through art. We found ways to depict healthy relationships.
The accidental therapy that happened was incredible. As a 'so-called' facilitator, I played safe (I depicted my relationship with words- the words I have been called and how I found a way to turn those words into fuel for my advocacy-see below).
So, although the 'No' is sometimes a whisper, many whispers make a scream. And, although there are no truths any more (we are all post-modernists, after all!), it is never okay. I don't care if she's a skank, slut, whore or a cunt . I don't care if she is messy, unfaithful, bad with money or a lousy cook. It is never okay.
That's a truth. Post-modernists be damned (although I love some of your work to bits!). There are some things that are not negotiable. Saying them (even when the clamour of alternative truths is a roar) is a worthwhile project.
That's why I love the purple signs. I make a point of breathing them in and breathing them out. Every day, I drive past them and in my mind I imagine a Shire (not even a world, just a little shire), where everyone says no to violence.
http://thebegavalley.org.au/19816.html
But I hate that, in our small community, we have one of the highest rates of homelessness per capita in NSW and that a leading cause of women's homelessness is domestic violence. In a community renowned rather uncontroversially for its cheese, I hate that we have become notorious for being home to the gynaecologist, who butchered countless women, whilst employed by a local health service and that, in a remote community in our Shire, a man, who had assaulted his partner, was released on bail by police and, shortly after, killed his children and himself. And there was nothing our system could do to prevent his contact with those children overnight.
Domestic violence kills. The Remembrance Quilt was composed to remember the murders of women and children. Painstakingly sewn by sometimes amateur quilters, whose lives were affected by the domestic homicides of friends, sisters, mothers, daughters, it hung in the hallway of the Women's Resource Centre for almost a year and its vibrant colours belied the senseless tragedy that it represented. Our community's quilt panel proclaimed that we say 'No to Violence.'
And sometimes I have to admit that 'No' seems like a whisper. Because, as was recently noted in the media, an alarming number of people still find sexist jokes funny. In post-modernist times, where truth is up for grabs, we do not contextualise gender inequality as one of the conditions that allows domestic violence to thrive (because that would be to take a stand on cause and effect and as any good post-modernist knows, there is no truth).
Whilst we declare (even in UN declarations!) that violence against women is an abuse of human rights and, although we know the casualties of the war on terror are a fraction of those women murdered by their partners every year, our governments spend a fraction of their GDP on domestic violence prevention and intervention when compared to military spending. And, in my career, I have heard magistrates consider that assault was a reasonable way of calming a 'hysterical' woman down or that a woman's tolerance of domestic violence was an indication of her inability to parent her children.
It is why the stories of resistance never fail to move me. So many women, whom the system fails to protect, survive, whilst making a personal commitment to making violence in their lives (which is not their fault!) stop. If they could only be more understanding, say the right things, be better/ worse in bed, understand their partner's pain and help him heal, keep him out of gaol etc., ... It is simultaneously heart-breaking and inspiring to listen to. It is inspiring because she is alive. It is heart-breaking because, if she goes back, a part of me wants him to change almost as much as she does, but the evidence-base is brutal... and, more than anything, I don't want her to be hurt or killed- because every time he hurts her, he kills a part of her, anyway...
Occasionally, there are moments, which resonate with victory. The gorgeous Gabrielle (Women's Resource Centre Co-ordinator/ grant applicant extraordinaire) helped me apply for a grant. A small group of women talked about abuse. They explored it through art. We found ways to depict healthy relationships.
The accidental therapy that happened was incredible. As a 'so-called' facilitator, I played safe (I depicted my relationship with words- the words I have been called and how I found a way to turn those words into fuel for my advocacy-see below).
I can buy my won flowers thanks
How I made my peace with the words I am called, the words I read and the words I write.
So, although the 'No' is sometimes a whisper, many whispers make a scream. And, although there are no truths any more (we are all post-modernists, after all!), it is never okay. I don't care if she's a skank, slut, whore or a cunt . I don't care if she is messy, unfaithful, bad with money or a lousy cook. It is never okay.
That's a truth. Post-modernists be damned (although I love some of your work to bits!). There are some things that are not negotiable. Saying them (even when the clamour of alternative truths is a roar) is a worthwhile project.
That's why I love the purple signs. I make a point of breathing them in and breathing them out. Every day, I drive past them and in my mind I imagine a Shire (not even a world, just a little shire), where everyone says no to violence.
Saturday, 9 June 2012
First blog- why does it need to be said?
About eighteen months ago, I was sitting in the back of a cab, when the cab driver asked me, innocently, no doubt, 'So, what do you do?' Too tired from a typically delayed flight on one of those regional air-lines, where the pilot looks like he is twelve-years-old and the flight attendant offers you a tiny packet of shapes for breakfast, whilst smiling tightly through the turbulence, I could not be bothered pretending. I told the cab driver, off-handedly, 'I'm a domestic violence advocate.' Two second pause. Then, the standard response, 'Good onya!' Then, he uttered the words that inevitably raise the hairs on the back of my neck, 'You know, I would never hit a woman!'
That phrase- so seemingly innocuous; even a crude attempt at solidarity- never fails to make me cringe. I think it's because, here we are, in 2012, and it still needs to be stated. It is not so implicit that we take it for granted.
Several days ago, the legislative definition was widened to include derogatory taunts, damage to property (intentional) and preventing someone from having contact with family and friends and harm to pets. And I couldn't help but sigh. Because it was just one more spelling out of things that should be assumed and are not.
So, here we are, alls of us post-modernist, post-feminist, post-everything, but not post-domestic violence. This blog hopes to be a part of changing that...
That phrase- so seemingly innocuous; even a crude attempt at solidarity- never fails to make me cringe. I think it's because, here we are, in 2012, and it still needs to be stated. It is not so implicit that we take it for granted.
Several days ago, the legislative definition was widened to include derogatory taunts, damage to property (intentional) and preventing someone from having contact with family and friends and harm to pets. And I couldn't help but sigh. Because it was just one more spelling out of things that should be assumed and are not.
So, here we are, alls of us post-modernist, post-feminist, post-everything, but not post-domestic violence. This blog hopes to be a part of changing that...
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