Nethui, Trolls and the time I swore at a judge.

I missed Nethui's second day because Real Life intervened (I regret nothing) but today I was back with a hiss and a roar and WHAT a day to be roaring.

There's a lot I could discuss about the various workshops I attended and the wonderful people I met (and the reuben sandwich I ate at Federal Deli- I could talk that up for a long time) but instead I'll skip right to the meat. Enter the trolls.

Seriously. You owe it to yourself.

I wasn't even going to go to the session on Trolling. I wanted to keep this as professional development, so after an excellent session on gender issues I found myself in a session on education that somehow managed to be talking about everything other than what I was interested in, and after twenty minutes of reading the twitterfeed from the troll room I made my excuses and left.

#nethuitrolls is ANY trolling ok in spaces where people w/o privilege are discussing how privilege affects them? Classic e.g: #notallmen
— Zoe Deans (@zoedeans) July 11, 2014

You know when you walk into something late and you can hear pretty much every word that's already been said, just from the atmosphere in the room? NZ4 at Skycity had that. It was an oppressive heaviness in the air that felt like walking into a wall. I took a seat at the back and got listening, a huge double screen showing the twitterfeed in real time.

The conversation was fast-moving and had a snark-factor that made it clear that the people in the room who didn't take trolling seriously were being louder than the ones who do. 

#NetHuiTrolls the privilege thing was a bait joke. nice to see you misunderstand.
— gtx5 (@gtx_five) July 11, 2014

The feed and the spoken words were not matching up, much to the obvious discomfort of the facilitator who was battling hard against a weirdly hostile group. 

@djhdcj in my experience humour rarely disrupts. It enhances. A temporary diversion is different to a route change #nethuitrolls
— David Farrar (@dpfdpf) July 11, 2014

Not at #nethui but damn if it doesn't sound like the #nethuitrolls discussion is avoiding the actual harm caused to marginalized groups
— Stephanie Rodgers (@stephanierodgrs) July 11, 2014

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a safe space. I gave up on being nice and took the mic after a couple of comfy-looking white guys agreed with each other on the joys of playing "Devil's advocate". It was time to stand up.

I'm not going to repeat myself verbatim, because too adrenalined, too fast-speaking, but my point was this, once I'd told them to stick their "Devil's advocacy up your arse"

If you are in a position of privilege, you are arguing purely from an intellectual standpoint. You can be as difficult and contrary as you like because at the end of the discussion, you have not been directly affected. But the person you're arguing against? It's not just an intellectual discussion. It is a judgement on who they are. It goes to the core of their being. These discussions are triggering. They are emotional. They are draining. And for you to joke about the joys of devilish advocacy shows your lack of empathy and understanding of the issues that you are advocating against. That's what trolling is to us. It's an attack on our selfhood, our experiences. And you should knock it the hell off.

'Devils advocate may be intellectual curiosity for those privileged, but for the marginalised it is our lives' #nethuitrolls #nethui
— Jevon Wright (@soundasleep) July 11, 2014

 

Consider: for many of us, your “troll” behaviour model mirrors our experience with abuse. No boundary respect #NetHuiTrolls
— Nat ☔️ (@NatDudley) July 11, 2014

 There was a bit more to it. I got personal. I talked about me. I  got a round of applause though, and there seemed to be a shift in mood. A swing away from the self-congratulatory types and not before time. I thought I was done, and started thinking about how I was going to write this down.

Then THIS GUY happened. Old white man, a few rows in front, who trotted out....

"Maybe it's just my generation, but in my opinion "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me"...."

If I'd stood up harder I'd have literally hit the roof instead of just figuratively. Mic in hand, already switched on.....

"With all due respect I think your opinion is horseshit."

I COULD HAVE MIC DROPPED RIGHT THERE AND IT WOULD HAVE BEEN AWESOME YOU GUYS. But instead I went all-out. Again, not verbatim, but....

Saying that words have no power to damage is to disregard the experiences of marginalised, oppressed and abused people of every age, gender and colour. It disregards the huge emotional, mental and social damage done by verbal abuse in relationships, the classroom, the street. Ask many victims of domestic violence and they will tell you that the bruises will heal but the put-downs, the erosion of self-esteem, the insults take years, a lifetime even, to recover from. Some never do. Children attempt suicide over "just words". To sit there and tell this room that words have no power shows the casualness and disregard with which you clearly use yours.

I sat down, heart going like I'd collapsed over the finish line to some race I didn't know I was running. Mercifully, the time bell went and we were done.

That whole sticks & stones thing is bollocks. Words cut like knives. #nethuitrolls
— nickcarman (@nicholascarman) July 11, 2014

"that's just my generation", old white guy? You betcha! #NetHuiTrolls
— Hadyn Green (@hadyngreen) July 11, 2014

Sticks and stones analogy was distressing on it's own. But it came from a judge. That's terrifying. #nethui #nethuitrolls
— Capital K (@Styla73) July 11, 2014

 I felt like I'd shrunk. Like I'd yelled into space and I was waiting for space to yell back, to tell me to shut the hell up. I was waiting for violence, I now realise. Curled up against the punishment for arguing with my societal "betters". It's hard to shrug off that feeling you shouldn't argue in public, even when you're sure you're right. It's still hard.

"....and you didn't even say "Your honour""

What I got was more shoulder-pats, thank yous and affirmations of my words than I had ever thought I deserved. My phone went bananas as people messaged me with thumbs-ups and likes and positivity. The twitterfeed petered out, a few critical of my language (yeah, I could have been more polite, but it's hard being the one always having to take the high ground in order to be heard),  lots of support from others. I decamped to a nearby cafe for a sandwich and a debrief with a couple of wonderful, engaging people from my many nights on twitter talking about these things. It was there that I found out that Mr. Sticks and Stones was in fact Judge David Harvey, international expert on online legal issues. And I called him out in front of a packed room with an international live stream. There's something you don't get to do every day.

Interesting that so many women felt uncomfortable commenting out loud -our experience was diminished #NetHuiTrolls
— Nat ☔️ (@NatDudley) July 11, 2014

 I'm still processing how I feel about all this. Recently, I have felt safe enough and found the courage to speak out about issues of violence against women, politics and abuse both online and in real life platforms and it has been one of the most rewarding, though challenging, things I have ever done. I have had to come out as a victim of abuse, of assault, to people who see arguing the personal experience of others as a fun thing to do of an evening. I have laid myself bare in public in an attempt to make people see the culture we really live in, as opposed to the one we kid ourselves we inhabit. I speak out because I have met too many people who are never heard, never believed, never given any chance to talk without interruption and if through throwing myself out like this I can force out some space for other people to speak freely and tell their stories then the trolling, the insults and the dismissal will have been worth it.

So Matt Bellamy is me, and the hole is Twitter. Every. Damn. Day.

As ever, I like to do more than just reflect but move things forward. If you were there, if you were following, if you're just reading this for whatever reason, then please, please bear in mind the following. It'd be great.

• The person talking about their personal experience, especially if it is unpleasant, is doing so for a reason. It is not easy to relate these experiences, especially in public. Please listen with respect and without interruption. Do not press for more details, interject or object. 
• Like playing "Devil's Advocate"? Think about the position you are arguing for. Who are you arguing against? Why do you feel the need to do that? If you are DAing with someone who's clearly uncomfortable with your line of argument, knock it the hell off. One man who read and commented extremely negatively on my article on rape culture admitted he wasn't interested in the issue of partner violence at all, he just wanted "to make a point". Not interested in the topic? Then listen or bugger off. 
• Just because a topic is being discussed does not mean another issues does not exist. Talking about violence against women DOES NOT mean that those discussing it are saying partner violence against men does not exist, or that partner violence does not exist in GLBT relationships. It just means that violence against women is being discussed. Don't want to discuss it? Go away. Want to talk about the violence men suffer? THAT'S A DIFFERENT (if related) CONVERSATION. 
• When you interject a conversation about minority issues with "what about the men/white people/straight people" then you actually just need to go away as you are trolling and you know it
• It is NOT the job of the people having the conversation to educate you. Don't understand something? Google it for goodness' sake. In the time it takes for you to derail the conversation with your questions, you'd have found it out yourself already. 

I'm a white person so I have that privilege. I confess that there have been times when a person of colour has made a statement about white people and I have felt that rush of "But I'm not like that!" I've had to work to keep my damn mouth shut. It's hard to confront the negativity with which the group(s) you belong to are viewed by others who don't have your privilege, but if you want to be a decent person you have to deal with that discomfort and learn from it. Compared to living in fear of ridicule, hate and violence I'd say you/me get off extremely lightly. It's the least we can do to shut the hell up and listen instead of just listening to ourselves tell everyone else there is no problem.

If we're ever going to fix the ills we live with, we first have to acknowledge they exist.

Thanks to everyone who supported me to speak out today, and every day. You're all pretty amazing.

Not All Men (but enough of them)

On Friday night there erupted a political twitterstorm that raged through New Zealand's various bloggers, twitter users and media types like a self-righteous fire. David Cunliffe, leader of the Labour party, made a comment that in the context of his speech on domestic violence and violence against women (DV/VAW) was profound and moving but when reduced to five words (thanks, New Zealand Herald!) it made him sound like an idiot.

The storm erupted after our glorious leader and sometime beer-pong-playing friend of the minorities John Key said that he thought the speech was "silly" and then trotted out the three words guaranteed to raise the hatred levels of DV/VAW campaigners everywhere, "Not all men..." and thus the firestorm was sparked.

I'm not going to report on the firestorm, we're still dousing the last few embers and surveying the wreckage but instead explain why I personally felt it worth my Friday evening to argue, be insulted and end up an emotional wreck when what I should have been doing is drinking lemon lime and bitters at a party up in town.

As someone who has experienced both abuse as a child and partner violence as an adult, this matters to me on a very deep level. It matters to have a man who is in power recognise the part all men play in making a hostile environment for women. I am around 90kg, I lift weights for fun and I can outrun most people but I still have to tell myself to keep calm, fists bunched in pockets, when I walk to my car late at night through underlit streets. I am a 31 year old jeans-wearing scruff but I still have to put up with strange men assessing my fuckability, rapeability, molestability if I dare to go out on my own in some places. Online, my appearance is picked apart and insulted when discussing topics lightyears away from how I wear my hair. I have the most beautiful, wonderful men in my life as friends but I have listened to them talk about women in the most derogatory terms and it creates a knot of fear and distrust in my stomach because how do I speak out to my friends and tell them how they hurt me? Do they use that language to describe me when I'm not there?

Just sayin' John.

Key's rebuff that "Not all men" ignores the innate climate of distrust that we women live with every day. We live in a society that considers the only "real" rape to be one committed by a hooded stranger lurking in a bush, and condemns us for any perceived lack of constant vigilance against these extremely rare monsters, whilst ignoring the actions of loving husbands, partners, fathers and sons who rape us and beat us and make us feel worthless whilst telling us we should be grateful they're in our lives at all. We're expected to be fearful of strange men when we leave our homes, because should we be attacked our every action in defence or ourselves will be judged, yet we also know to be wary of the ones we allow over our threshold. We hear you say to your mates about how you raped that test you sat or how you'd fuck the air out of that waitress and we sit with averted gaze and ask ourselves through what lens are you looking at us?

Every man who wants to defend the stance of "Not all men" needs to first reflect on the part he plays in this culture. When your mates down the pub are loudly making jokes about rape, are you silent? Do you join in with the laughing? Unless you are actively calling them out on their behaviour, then you're part of the problem. Be mindful of yourself and how you are viewed by women. Be the one to cross the road, press for your floor in the lift first, take up less space on the bus. Until every man makes the effort to make this country a place where women can walk to the shops after dark without fear, then we will continue to see you all as a potential threat until proven otherwise.

That is why so many women on Friday stood up and applauded that speech. That is why so many women argued to the point of exhaustion against men who assume that just because they don't actively beat up their partner that this issue does not concern them. We argued and we shared despite the pain and the frustration because tomorrow, the men playing devil's advocate and arguing that they never hurt anyone will wake up as normal, whereas we women will wake up in a world where we still feel the need to walk to our cars with our keys gripped between our fingers.

If you truly are one of those good men, then you should not have found Cunliffe's words a threat to your selfdom. The fact so many of you did spoke volumes to those of us who were listening.You want us to believe that #notallmen? Here is your chance to prove it to us.

Want to help? Almost all assistance for women in violent relationships and support for victims of sexual assault is reliant on public support. Please consider donating your money, time or much-needed items. This is just a small selection of the many organisations working tirelessly in NZ to make life safer for all women. 

Women's refuge

Shine

Sexual Abuse Survivors Trust, Christchurch

Rape Crisis Dunedin

Boys will be boys and politicians will be idiots

Following on from my previous post I'd like to extend a massive thank you to the MP from Mangere Su'a William Sio for explaining the issue of knife violence in south Auckland by saying that boys will be boys. Really.

Thank you Mr. Sio for starting the conversation that we need to have about our young men (there's a conversation that needs to be had about our young women as well, and one about our fa'afafine and trans* youth, but one boundary at a time). Through your comments, the media are now asking experts about what it means to be a boy (who, we are assured, will continue to be a boy). They are now discussing machismo in a way that never would have happened if you'd kept your damaging, shortsighted opinion to yourself.

He's done some good stuff. Really. Just.....not today.

Here's what "boys will be boys" means, Mr. Sio. Boys will be boys says men can't help themselves and it's a woman's fault when she's raped. Boys will be boys apologises for the harassment that almost all women and girls face every time they step out of their front door (see @everydaysexism if you still have a shred of belief in humanity left, you won't for long). Boys will be boys means that bullying is tolerated to the point of complicity in our schools and workplaces. Boys will be boys makes freaks and victims of our queer, trans* and otherwise "unmanly" young men who may be boys but just not the right sort for this swaggering statement that drips with contempt and braggadocio. Boys will be boys smothers the right of our young men to be honest and open about any feeling that can't be displayed with a raised voice or a fist.

We have created a culture that excuses the worst excesses of testosterone whilst demanding that our young men abide by the constraints of those excesses. We pillory and mock those young men who seek to live in a way that doesn't fit this straitjacket, and then wonder why they lash out when things are tough.

Stop pigeonholing. Stop stifling. Stop marginalising.

Boys will be boys Mr. Sio, but until we as a society address and change what it means to be a boy then your tautology will be nothing more than an excuse for violence. Of all the things you could have said to the community about these dreadful incidents, I can't think of anything less helpful. I hope you use this as an opportunity to open up the discussion about the young men you represent.

Your electorate will be watching.

We need to talk about weapons

Today has been an upsetting one for education and south Auckland.

This morning two pre-teens at a private school got in a fight that left one of them in intensive care with stab wounds from a pair of scissors. The afternoon, two teenagers at a large south Auckland campus were also treated for stab wounds in an incident police say is unrelated to this morning's violence.

I come from a culture where knife crime is endemic. Social workers used to come into classes I taught to talk to 14 year olds about the consequences of carrying knives. In my home town, nearly all of my male peers have been at least threatened with a blade, some on multiple occasions. The penalties for carrying knives in public without good reason are severe. In the classroom, knives for practical use were unheard of, and any dissection required hawk-like vigilance.

Weapons amnesty, Glasgow.

So when I came to New Zealand to find sharp knives delivered with science practical orders, scissors left out in classrooms, and kids allowed to bring their own little retractable blades for cutting paper, I didn't know where to put myself. It seemed a recipe for disaster and led to some amusing-in-retrospect showdowns between myself and bemused kids. Over time I've come to appreciate the higher trust we have in our children and the behaviour with which our young people repay that trust.
Today's incidents have therefore left me rather shaken, my cosy antipodean worldview turned, in more ways than one, upside down. We teachers strive to make our schools safe havens for our young people, in some cases the only safe haven they have. Schools in NZ lack the security fencing, weapons-amnesty bins and police officers that I've seen in some schools in London and elsewhere, because we trust that our schools are free from weapons and provide an environment where young people feel safe enough not to need one.

Ad campaigns you never want to see.

There is a huge discussion that needs to happen now in schools and communities about whether this idyll is real or if there's been something fundamental that we've missed. We need to think and talk and discuss with our communities and whanau why these young people decided to settle their arguments with weapons rather than words. We need to ask where this need to arm themselves came from, why their anger has become such that it needs a sharp edge. It needs to be a discussion that is sensitive to the needs of the cultures of those communities, whilst not becoming another lazy "That's just south Auckland for you" hard pass. We can't afford to pass it off as isolated coincidence, and we can't afford to turn our noses up because of the postcode these schools find themselves in.

Am I overreacting? Possibly, but I'd rather schools and communities took today as a chance to have some real talk and thought about how they can support their young men and women, than end up with our own version of the London fortress schools.

John Key and the Ordinary Kiwi Bloke

It occurred to me today, listening to Radio New Zealand's Checkpoint and yet another vile National cabinet member ejaculate smugness over whatever pointless bullshit has been deemed Important by the media this hour, that John Key makes me genuinely concerned for the emotional wellbeing of "ordinary" New Zealanders. You know, the only ones politicians care about.

The "ordinary" New Zealander, from what I can gather, is straight, white, male, aged between 25 and 50, follows the All Blacks and the America's Cup, drinks domestic beer and likes his meat to be quality cuts and barbecued. He might even let the missus man the grill, because he's a modern Kiwi Bloke.

He also, if I understand Big John correctly, suffers from dreadful self-esteem and has some horrible toxic relationships that should by rights result in therapy or at the very least an intervention.

John Key's popularity would appear to hinge on his "ordinariness", his "blokeyness". He's like a mate, isn't he? He doesn't waste time talking to those leftie eggheads on RadioNZ, he's talking to the Morning Rumble about how pleased he is that Dan Carter's coming off sabbatical! He pulls derpface in selfies with young voters! He plays beer pong with acceptable homos at their annual funfair! He even bought a samosa at the Diwali festival! Man of the people!

If his popularity stems from the notion that he's a mate you could have a beer with, then you can extrapolate the friendships the Ordinary Kiwi Bloke has. And they are horrible.

Apparently, it's fine to put stuff your mate owns already up for sale, sell it back to your mates, then pocket the profits (what DID happen to all that money from asset sales, anyway? It must have been important if you had to FIRE SALE AIR NEW ZEALAND), if you also appear on Coast FM mid-morning to talk about how well our boys played against Australia.

If my mate decided to take away my access to adult education classes, it'd take a bit more than joking about gay red shirts to make me invite them over to my house again.

The "Regular Kiwi Bloke" seems to have friends who think it's OK to shit all over their front gardens, or sell those front gardens off as parking space to the global equivalent of a biker gang and then pocket the money, and they'll forgive them as long as those friends can sympathise when a yacht (paid for with the profits from all those oil-leaking Harleys tearing up your cuttygrass, incidentally), loses out to a yacht paid for by a different millionaire who is evil because he DOESN'T watch Outrageous Fortune.

If your friends talk to you with the same level of contempt that's shown to the electorate by Key, English et al, then I have some bad news for you. THEY ARE NOT YOUR FRIENDS. They are just hanging out with you to see what they can mooch off you.

I don't want my politicians to be my friends. I don't want to know their opinions of Game of Thrones, roller derby or where they are going for their summer holidays (especially if it's their fucking holiday home in Hawaii). I want to know their opinions on child poverty, education and healthcare. I can live with them not wanting to play beer pong with me if they will actively engage on issues a bit more pressing than Richie McCaw.

We need to stop being placated with trivial mateyness and start holding these people to account.

Your Snark is Problematic: NZ Politics and Voter Apathy

This is not a blog about David Cunliffe. It's not about Chinese businessmen, immigration letters or phone calls to police.

It's not about German multimillionaires flying MPs on amnesiac flights to mansions. It's not about Team New Zealand. It's not about the "Nasty Party", expensive jackets and powdered milk sitting on docks.

It's about apathy.

The only excuse you have for not remembering flying in one of these is if you are unconscious and being flown to hospital

It's about the white, middle-class and middle-aged complaint that "the youth" aren't interested in voting. It's the bewildered look in the eyes of politicians and journalists as they list poor voter turnout stats and wring hands about why aren't brown people, poor people, young people going to the polls. It's that faux-anger about "Well, why don't YOU run for office then?" when those who fail to vote point out that they have no voice and what is democracy without representation?

The handwringers are missing the point.

We watch the politicians as they tear phantasmic strips of trustworthiness off each other over letters that most of us would regard as junk mail. We listen to them sit dewy-eyed in the witness stands as they fail to recollect taking methods of transport most of us will never see up close, unless we become a traffic statistic somewhere picturesque. We grit our teeth as they talk about how there's "no money" to fund breakfast clubs in our poorest areas, while shrugging their shoulders as yet another thousand manufacturing jobs go to the wall. We facepalm as they talk about the economic benefits of funding a bunch of rich white guys to race a FUCKING YACHT against another group of rich white guys, whilst quibbling over the cost of making healthcare accessible to all, in a country with the highest rates of rheumatic fever in the developed world.

Cost to taxpayer: $26million

We see all this, and wonder why the hell we should bother with any of you.

You want to improve voter turnout? Be someone worth voting for.

Government grant to KidsCan for free breakfasts in D1-4 schools: $150,000

I dare you.

Stop with the grubby snarking in the House. TURN UP TO PARLIAMENT AND DO YOUR JOB. some of you have an attendance rate that would get us fired from our places of work, if we're lucky enough to have one. Look at the issues that actually matter. Do I care about some dinner some woman with a tinplate haircut attended with some chairman? Not really. I do care that every column inch dedicated to her hors-d'oeuvres is a column inch that's not asking you how you're going to ensure that every Maori boy gets an equal shot at education as the snottiest Takapuna Grammar girl. I want to see you pull your tongue out from between the cheeks of the investors who give no regard for either our tangata or our whenua (and definitely not for our tangata whenua) and instead get your hands dirty actually trying to make life better for everyone in your electorate, not just the ones who give anonymous cheques.


You can be a rich old white man and still have something worthwhile to say, if for once you stopped talking exclusively to other rich old white men.

There's fewer of them out there than you think.

Tantric Misogyny: or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the yoni

You know you’ve done some damage when you’re the person in the room who all eyes turn to when the speaker says “I’m probably going to get a lot of anger on Facebook for this”. Nah bro, facebook’s far too restrictive a medium for that.

The redoubtable @rabblearouser of Crevice Canyon, Filthy Queer and Filthy Gorgeousness fame alerted me to a seminar called “Expanding Women’s Sexuality”, hosted by the Australian “Tantric sex, relationship and orgasm coach” Andrew Barnes. The four hour (!) class promised such wonders as “Identifying blocks to orgasm”, “Understanding full body orgasm” and “Learning about the suppression of female sexuality”. She was going, and was looking for a wingman. Four hours of being told about my body by some straight cis dude? Challenge accepted.

Now, despite appearances I have on occasion had a high tolerance for esoteric thinking. I’ve been on yogic retreats, meditation courses and even went vegan for a month (well, two weeks). However, I’ve found that I can put up a certain amount of discussion about expanded thinking and higher consciousness only so far, before my “Show me the science!” klaxon starts going and I become That audience member. Yeah, THAT one. And so it proved.

Actual t-shirt that I own.

The seminar was held in a place that had more incense than chairs (for $40 they could have at least given us some seats, but then that’s just me), and had an audience that was exactly who you’d expect at something like this. The first 45 minutes or so were, I grant you, quite interesting. Anatomy’s an interesting subject and learning about the history of the G-Spot, the true size and location of the clitoris and the role of the female prostate was definitely note-worthy (though I found myself sneakily fact-checking a few times)

G spot: doing it wrong

The first signs that the cosmic wavelengths weren’t fully aligned came right before the intermission, when Barnes ascertained that women can’t/won’t have orgasms unless they’re willing to do so. This struck me as problematic in the way that all statements about what women’s bodies can and can’t do that are made by men tend to be. One hesitates to chuck around phrases like “rape apology” in such instances but it’s certainly on the spectrum that includes “legitimate rape” and women being magically able to prevent pregnancy. Possibly through prayer.

After a frankly depressing half-time spread of a couple of squares of chocolate and some pineapple (guys, for $40 a ticket and FOUR HOURS I would like a chair, decent snacks and a hot drink minimum), we got stuck into emotional and energetic stuff. Clearly I am not this type of thing’s target audience as I was frequently lost amongst mentions of higher vibrational frequencies (nothing to do with Hitachi Magic Wands oddly enough) and my cervix harbouring not only my past painful memories but those of my parents and grandparents as well (the actual fuck, people). My SCIENCE, BITCHES radar was getting ever more urgent (“cancer is caused by emotional blockage! I can make women orgasm with my brain!”) when finally the alarms got tripped and it all went to hell.

You ready for this?

“WOMEN NEED TO LOSE THEIR THOUSAND YEAR OLD RESENTMENT OF MEN TO BE HAPPY SEXUALLY”

What the fuck.

Like, what just happened.

I’d already got the hard looks when I asked for a citation on the idea that living in an adopted family that has a history of a genetic condition will cause that to manifest in the adopted child, but this was The Moment. It not so much ripped through my (not-quite) willing suspension of disbelief as shredded it, set it on fire and flung it over a fucking rainbow.

I was polite. I pointed out that yes, things were better for women now (I appreciate the generalisation here but this was not the audience) but, as a cisgendered male, he was talking from a position of male privilege and was in no way qualified to tell women about their experiences of sexism or describe it to us. I was respectful. I didn’t call him names. His response?

“What’s a cis…….”

Oh my. A sex expert who had to have the term cisgendered explained to him. Who had clearly never butted up against the term “privilege” in his career. However, it was the audience comments that really made me despair for humanity. One woman said that she didn’t know what I was talking about, that she’d never experienced any sexism in her everyday and didn’t see any examples of sexism or misogyny (not that she used that word) in the media. The old man (also a tantric massage dudebro) who suggested some esoteric rubbish that seemed to boil down to sexism being a construct of people too shallow to rise above it and not let it affect them.

Victim blaming just got taken to a whole new plane (literally). I’ve got into some vicious bunfights with misogynists before but this was breathtaking. Then came the suggestion that women in violent relationships, sufferers of rape, domestic violence and the other evils that stalk our world are the result of women not being allowed to wank more as kids and that if we were all vibrating at a higher frequency then these things could be avoided. Quite a few people in the audience seemed uncomfortable with this (no, really?), prompting his little Facebook nod to the women with the enthusiastic hair. That it was all done with that mansplaining, there-thereness of someone who truly seemed to believe that the heavy-lifting towards a more equal society just needed us all to be a little more masturbatory made me want to throw a brick through the window of every bro who asked me to suck his dick in public, at every shop selling me my own body packaged up and distorted to the point of unrecognisability, at the face of every man who said “who me” when a young girl’s trembling finger pointed them out of a line up. I was shaking.
                              
Then it was over, bar a few more plugs for his book about genitals (that compares them to flowers. Unless you are Georgia O’Keefe you’re not allowed to do that. Ever.), a massively off-putting discussion about his tantric sex workshop this weekend (which reminds me, I never did ask if performing “yoni massage” for money made him a sex worker and if so, how did that square with Australian law?) and an attempt to garner email addresses for future seminar alerts.

I listened to Black Sabbath all the way home and narrowly avoided rage-buying cigarettes.

You can dress up your misogyny in as many colourful pashminas and yonis and reverberations as you like. It’s still misogyny, and it’s rotten.

Lady Gaga and the Missing Vulva

The internetwebs (or at least the bits that aren’t swooning over/getting annoyed by royal babies or the X Factor) have been getting excited by the latest photoshoot from the Diet Coke of queerness herself, Lady Gaga. “Is this Lady Gaga’s Most Shocking Shoot?" asks the august organ of news and opinion that is Stuff.co.nz (good god, I live in a country where one of the major news websites sounds like it was named by a terminally bored 14 year old), their clickthrough photo showing Ms Gaga naked on a stool, hands covering breasts and vulva. Apparently, the photo “shows the slender singer without any makeup” which suggests the author thinks make-up only comes in primary colours and glitter, suggesting they are either a drag queen or desperately naive. 

In a career marked by exciting/plagiarising-Leigh-Bowery-and-most-of-the-80s photoshoots, at first glance it’s easy to see why this one may be a little controversial. She’s nekkid! She’s only wearing three layers of makeup (which to our journalist is equal to “no” makeup)! Her legs are open! 

Source: http://inezandvinoodh.tumblr.com/

However, on closer inspection owners of vulvas may grow concerned for the woman, beyond her fatal lack of blue eyeshadow. Upon reflection I now have nothing but sympathy for her. 

She has no external sexual organs. Her slender paw is placed in such a way where a peek of clitoris of labia minora would surely be visible, or at the very least a suggestion of labia majora. And yet, between finger and thumb there is nothing but smooth, airbrushed flesh. No hair, or even suggestion of follicle, can be seen.

This is where I get annoyed. Clearly this is meant to show a “natural” “real” side to an artist built on artifice, probably preceding some major personal revelation or power ballad about just being free to be her. And yet the image is built on the same lies that lead to teenagers saving up for labial plastic surgery and women not letting their partners see them naked with the lights on. An artist who’s major hit was about being born this way has photoshopped out the fundamental human structures that allow most people to be born at all. 

What message does this send? I appreciate that it may sound like I'm finding things to be annoyed about, won't someone think of the children but this isn't about "ERMAGHERD NUDIE LADY!" Regardless of my personal feelings for the woman she is looked up to by many and to have this image touted as what a natural body looks like continues to reinforce the horrendous problems women and girls have with their own bodies. If she truly wishes to be a role model and be "empowering" then she can start by not airbrushing out a part of the body that most people seem to wish did not exist at all. 

No Justice for Trayvon

I'm sitting here shaking and it's not from the cold. I'm shaking with disbelief, with rage. You don't need to hear from me about the acquittal of George Zimmerman. You don't need me to tell you details of how a young black man was stalked and shot by a man who was only arrested six weeks after the killing, and only after protests. You don't need me to tell you how utterly, utterly fucked all this is.

Or do you? I've talked about white privilege on here before, but today we see what white privilege really is. White privilege is not fearing for your family members whenever they leave the house, in case they are shot dead just for the colour of their skin. It's not watching in horror as the killer of your unarmed child walks free, as in the eyes of the law his right to defend himself is enshrined in law, as your son's right to defend himself ended with him lying dying in the road as your killer calls you a fucking punk. White privilege is having a legal system that defends your rights above those of others.

I have this privilege and tonight it makes me sick to my stomach. It sickens me to hear people talk about how this "isn't a race issue". That Zimmerman, being a POC himself (just fucking google it if POC is too complex for you), couldn't possibly have been racially motivated when he decided a young black man armed with a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea was enough of a threat to stalk him, confront him and shoot him dead shows a level of wilful ignorance that you can only have if you're white enough to think this does not affect you.

It should.

You shouldn't have to be black to see immediately, clearly, that this was about Trayvon's blackness. You can be white and be absolutely horrified at this verdict. In fact, you can't be human and see this as anything other than the absolute proof, if any were needed, that we live in a deeply racist, unequal society.

If you read this story and don't feel that desperate, clutching urge to do something, anything to change this verdict and the world we live in, to offer some shred of comfort to Trayvon's family, to move the immovable objects, then you are as much a part of the problem as Zimmerman, the jury, and the lawyers who stood there and argued that Zimmerman's right to kill an unarmed teenager was much greater than Trayvon Martin's right to live, breathe and have a future.

There is no excuse. Educate yourself. Read. Don't sit there and shake your head about how this can't be about race, or that it couldn't happen here, or any of the other excuses that mean this can happen in our society. If you're not furious then go and learn until you are furious.

Justice for some of us means there is no justice at all.

Why liking the Pakeha Party makes you a douche.

Warning: The following post contains buzzwords like "privilege" "racism" and "arsehole". Read with caution. 

I am a white person. Always have been, always will be. I can't help that any more than I can help being an opinionated know-all or liking boobs. Having this skin colour has brought with it several benefits.

• I can approach a police officer in the safe knowledge that they will listen to what I have to say and take care to ensure that my problem is taken seriously! (unless I get drunk and end up raped that is. But burglary? Mugging? I got 111 on my side!)
• Petrol stations will unlock the petrol pump for me before I prepay if I ask nicely, because I'm not perceived as a criminal purely because of my skin!
• I can talk about racism without people telling me I'm overreacting!

Of course, with the perks of being seen as having earned my degree fair and square and being a useful member of society, comes some downsides. The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away. 

He's British you know. We're practically cousins

• I can't use the word "nigga" without people maybe thinking that's a bit racist, despite having watched The Wire twice through and owning several Public Enemy songs
• I'll never get stopped and searched by a police officer for no reason other than walking down the road
• I feel a bit uncomfortable when confronted with the terrible legacy of centuries of oppression and violence committed by people with my skin colour. 

That last one. How dare I be made to feel slightly awkward when I read a tumblr post titled "Fuck white people"? How dare I, a homeowner with the money for an overpriced haircut to go with my latte, even have to conceive of the idea of institutionalised racism and my own white privilege?

BECAUSE I AM ATTEMPTING TO BE LESS OF AN ARSEHOLE.

I live in a world that is almost entirely geared towards my kind. My ancestors were never treated like animals, worked till they died, or shot for sport purely on the basis of skin colour. Sure, as a woman I can expect to earn less than a man. But as a white woman I can expect to earn more than a woman of colour.  As a queer woman I experience intersectionality of orientation and gender, but I'm still of the race that has ruled been a fucking disaster to most of the rest of the planet since before that dude got nailed to that thing. That carries a lot of cachet, you know. 

T-shirt design by Mr Vintage. 

So when I see massive injustices and examples of bigotry that don't affect me directly, it'd be easy to go back to my knitting or listening to whimsical guitar music. However, I am learning not to be an arsehole. Just because I am aware of the fact that being white gives me an automatic cheat code in the computer game of life doesn't mean anything unless I am willing to do something about the fact others aren't given the same cheat code. So if you find yourself nodding as you read the examples of Maori "privilege" on The Facebook, or furrowing your pale brow to some frothing bigot on Seven Sharp...

STOP!

THINK!

"AM I BEING AN ARSEHOLE?"

Usually, when a group is being given more, it's because they started with less. Well actually, they had plenty but then some bugger with a flag and a lot of soldiers nicked it. Which is actually worse when you think about it. Political organisations like the Maori and Mana parties may not get it right all the time but they exist because we are a society build on injustice and until that is righted there is a need for those who have less to be given a louder voice. 

Thank you Wendy Davis

You already know who she is right now. The senator who spoke for a monumental 10 hours and 45 minutes to prevent a law that would severely restrict women's access to abortion in Texas. The liberal press (and wikipedia) are calling her "The LeBron James of filibustering" and, whilst the war to keep nasty misogynistic little bastards out of women's rights to their own bodies isn't won, a battle has been hard (and publicly) won. Thank you Wendy, and the women around the world on social media who stood with her.

Rejoicing as the vote is blocked. Photo: the guardian

There's not a lot of searing social commentary I can add to this that isn't all over the internet, but I felt it needed mentioned. Like a lot of people, I've needed to access family planning services. Usually, that access is casual, friendly and in the form of a three-month prescription pick-up (and don't I thank medical science that that's an option). Sometimes, though, it's been more frantic, more tearstained. Each time I've walked through the doors of a family planning centre, I've been greeted by the most sympathetic, caring women who've listened to my tale of woe with no raised eyebrows, no judgement, no hate. They've checked me out and given me tissues. They've held my hand and given me hope at times when it felt like life would never be the same again.

Speaking truth to power for nearly half a goddamn day

Until you've been in the middle of that sheer, gut-twisting panic (and I can only imagine how few white, middle-aged and middle-class male Republican senators have) you can't really understand how it feels to know that help is there. Not just any help, but safe, clean, knowledgeable and non-judgemental help. Help that won't shun you or phone your parents. Help that won't call you a whore. Help that will actually move you forward, whether that's in the short-term glow of the test result you were hoping for, or the longer-term help of whatever treatment, prescription or further action that might be needed to move you past that terrifying intersection you find yourself at.

Family planning, and the right for access to legal, medical procedures, is a fundamental part of a civilized society and one that I am eternally grateful that I have. That we still have to fight like this to hang on to this basic right sickens me, but I'm given hope that there are strong men and women across the governments and clinics of the world taking on the struggle.

New Zealand family planning: http://www.familyplanning.org.nz/
UK Family Planning Association: http://www.fpa.org.uk/

Faggotry and footy

Sorry for the radio silence, in the last few weeks I moved house, had a big thing on at work and was lucky enough to have my mum come for a visit from overseas so blogging took not so much a back seat as relegated to the boot with a tartan rug over the top. 

My whole family are rugby fans and one of the perks of moving to New Zealand is that I can now experience the thrill of supporting a team that wins things other than wooden spoons and certificates saying they tried hard. With this in mind what better way to spend last Saturday than at Eden Park, watching the might of the All Blacks (TM) take on Les Bleus, for the first time since that hold-your-breath-for-twenty-minutes exercise in terror that was the 2011 World Cup Final. I was looking forward to seeing the ABs on home turf for the first time (North Harbour doesn't count, sorry), and mama Glitter was keen to experience the atmosphere of a sold-out international test between two old rivals, and we chattered excitedly about how it would measure up to matches she'd been to at the Millenium Stadium and the Stade de France. She even wore her French supporters hat in the shape of a wonderfully fluffy tricolored chicken. 

photo: Paul Estcourt/The New Zealand Herald

The rugby itself had little to commend it. The French played rugby for about an hour, the All Blacks gave just enough of a performance to justify the next round of MasterCard adverts. The crowd, however, were another matter. French supporters got abused and stared down every time they opened their mouths, the AB fans around us screamed that the referee was a motherfucking cunt when a penalty went the other way, and the inebriated good old boys in front of us decided that as Scottish people we should be supporting New Zealand and had no place chanting "Allez les Bleus" (in language that was slightly less polysyllabic)  Our celebrating the French try was given short shrift indeed. 

I appreciate the strength of feeling that surrounds rugby, but to tell a complete stranger they're not allowed to support a team? To yell and scream abuse at the opposition's #10 when he's about to take a penalty? Mama Glitter and I left with a nasty taste in the mouth at the level of bitterness and aggro on display by the local supporters. We felt grateful that the worst they had on us was the wearing of a comedy hat.

So I was not in the least bit surprised when I read Hannah Spyksma's open letter to the "fans" at the same match, who, when she called them out on their repeated use of homophobic slurs, replied with "If you don't like us using the word faggot then don't come to the footy - because it's just part of the game".   The NZ Herald published the letter, and an article on the response it had received. The venerable Radio New Zealand's afternoon panel show also had a discussion about it, where Finlay Macdonald and Karl du Fresne agreed that while nasty language can get excessive, rugby fans "...shouldn't have to change their language just to mollify someone who might be offended". 

This opinion does not seem limited to middle-aged white male columnists who like to think they can be edgy whilst simultaneously appealing to the kind of rugby fan who thinks abusing a young woman in public is acceptable. A spokeswoman for Eden Park said that it's not the job of the stadium to "be the PC Police"

And here is where the wheels come off the bullshit bus. Finlay, Karl and all the small-minded bigots that night miss the point that it's not about someone being offended. It's about someone feeling unwelcome. Threatened. To sit surrounded by people using a word that describes a fundamental part of who you are as an aggressive slur doesn't make you feel a bit peeved- it makes you feel unsafe. At risk. And to have hundreds of people sit around while you are made to feel threatened and unsafe makes you feel that should that threat be realised then nobody will step in. How are you supposed to enjoy the match when you're fearing for your own safety?

Standing up to homophobia, racism or any other kind of bigotry isn't just mindless busybodying. It's saying that making people feel threatened is not acceptable. The sooner the "PC gone mad" brigade understand that the safer I and many others will feel to be who we are, wherever we are.

Defining Violence

Meet James Robertson Parker.

James was a deputy principal at Pamapuria School near the Northland town of Kaitaia. He ran the kapa haka group.  He'd have been a role model, a hard-working member of the education machine.

He's also a convicted paedophile, pleading guilty on 74 charges of indecent assault, 25 of which he pled guilty to today. The charges included indecent assault, performing indecent acts and sexual violation on young boys (source).

During the trial details about how he had got away with it for so long seeped out, including his close relationship with the principal, how sharing a bed with the boys in his care was passed off as "sleeping marae style", and his having an adult girlfriend which was seen as putting him above suspicion. In his fifteen year tenure at the school concerns were raised several times, but allegations were retracted or never taken further than a "strongly-worded letter" sent by Kaiaia police to Parker telling him to stop the sleepovers (source)

If you're a sane, decent human being you'll be reading the details of this case with the bile rising at the back of the throat and a feeling of horrified familiarity. The position of trust. The close links with the families of the abused. The casual attitude of the police. One would assume that, now his brutality and deception had been uncovered, a long jail term would be a certainty, where he could sit and consider all the lives he had destroyed at his leisure. Surely no-one, not even a defence lawyer, could argue otherwise?

I was sitting getting some work done and watching the news when I heard one of the most despicable utterances ever said on TV (and the bar is pretty damn high, let's face it). Parker's counsel, Alex Witten-Hannah, stood on the court steps after the verdict today and made this pronouncement:

"It has to be borne in mind that the charges James Parker has pleaded guilty to are not charges that involve violence or brutality. He is not a Beast of Blenheim. He breached the trust of the boys, but it didn't involve intimidation or violence," (source)

Uh, what? Sexual violation is not brutal or violent? The legal definition of sexual violation in New Zealand is:

“Person A has unlawful sexual connection with person B if person A has sexual connection with person B –(a) without person B’s consent to the connection ;and(b) without believing on reasonable grounds that person B consents to the connection.”This means that unlawful sexual connection covers any sexual contact that happens without consent: ie. Male to female, female to male, male to male, and female to female.  Sexual connection includes anal and genital penetration of one person by any part of another or by an object held or manipulated.  It also includes oral sex, which is the touching of the lips to the genitals (either giving or receiving). (source)

I'm not reading anything in that definition that is neither brutal nor violent. Penetration without consent is never, will never, be anything other than a brutal, violent act. Breaching the trust between an adult and a child in there care is an act of deep emotional brutality, let alone the violence of the act itself. 

One expects very little in terms of empathy from defence lawyers, but this deeply disturbed me. Could he truly, really believe this? And if he does, do others? Just how widespread is this notion that sexual violence is somehow "less bad" than causing non-sexual physical harm? 

Judge Greg Davis obviously doesn't agree, having passed sentencing from the District to the High Court as they have the ability to pass a sentence of preventative detention, which could keep him locked up indefinitely. Whilst I am not of the Sensible Sentencing Trust in their "Jail for everyone!" campaign, but for someone who had orchestrated a horrendous, prolonged campaign of violence and brutality against vulnerable young people whose stories were unheard because he was seen as beyond reproach, it seems only right that he spends a long time away from society. It won't make everything better, but some closure if better than no closure at all. 

I'm optimistic that the High Court will do the right thing on May 2nd and locks him up, with one would hope the chance at counselling and the opportunity to understand just how deeply his crimes will have affected his victims and their families. However, that a member of the bar is willing to espouse this view of sexual assault leaves me with less to feel optimistic about. I just hope he's the only one.

Speaking Ill of the Dead

“For 3 million you could give everyone in Scotland a shovel, and we could dig a hole so deep we could hand her over to Satan in person” 
― Frankie Boyle

Unless you were hiding under the duvet in case of missiles from Pyongyang today you'll have caught the news that infamous Tory and hater of all humanity (at least, all humanity that lacked a vast fortune and a standing army) Margaret Thatcher has regrettably died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 87. I found out when I turned facebook on this morning to find a newsfeed of popped champagne corks, photos of street parties in Brixton and Glasgow, and various quotes like the ones above. It was the first Good Thing to happen on a day of Many Good Things (the others being personal victories, and worthy of a street party of one).

I confess to feeling slightly uneasy about the celebrations, despite joining in online and in person. There's a deep cultural idea of not speaking "ill of the dead", as though we've historically been terrified of a zombie attack where walking corpses are not out for brains but a desire to give you a ticking off for making some joke about the miner's strike.

One fantastic little response to the merriment popped up on an online dating website of all places, which crystallised this argument perfectly for me. After chucking up a really quite neutral status update there ("Margaret Thatcher is dead! What a way to start the day!") came this tremendous response from a young lady who shall remain nameless.

You know her family more so her grandchildren will be more affected over people rejoicing her death. Hate her sure rejoice a death she was not a monster

It was then that my internal moral-o-meter ticked into "Nah, fuck it". Glenn Greenwald in this brilliant piece for the Guardian makes the case that public figures are exempt from the traditional respect that would be awarded to friends and family members, and makes it better than me. But it got me thinking about the very idea of "speaking ill".

If you had come through abuse by a family member, famous or no, why should you hang back on fist-pumping the air when news of their demise reached your ears? If there was an individual who had caused you hurt, treated you without humanity, then why should you afford them any kind of respect once they'd died? I can think of one person (happily only one) who, upon discovering they have passed away, I intend on buying a bottle of something delicious and toasting him on his way to whatever hell my atheistic sensibilities will allow him. And I won't feel any shame about that. Why should I? My feelings of relief and joy will be just as valid as the feelings of grief others may feel. 

As for "Oh noes, the children", surely in that case there should be absolutely no opinion when someone famous dies? Say a famous man who secretly committed domestic violence, who terrorised his children and made their life hell, dies peacefully. The plaudits about what a wonderful man he is are plastered all over the media. Nothing but love for the man who caused them hurt. Sounds pretty horrendous for those who knew him personally, no? 

The woman committed abuses both at home and abroad. Almost everyone I know in Scotland was affected negatively by her actions and policies. She came to power before I was born but I grew up in a landscape shaped by her notions of fucking over the poor, greed being the only thing that mattered, and that community wasn't worth a damn. I'm still living in that landscape as those ideas are hard to shift.

So I'm going to feel good about the fact she's gone, and I'll do it without guilt. I'm going to sit around a table with friends and eat home-made food and raise a glass with a smile on my face that someone who stood for everything I don't is no longer with us.