Where did I come from?

Nowadays, whenever I visit my parents at the family home, mum will show me the progress they’ve made in “decluttering”, which is the term we're all using for getting the house ready to sell. A few months ago she gave me a box of books from my childhood collection. I simply added it to the pile of boxes at my place that I hadn’t sorted through yet after a particularly rushed move. When I came back to it, sure enough, there was that 80’s classic in soft cover: “Where did I come from?” This book was how we all learnt about “the facts of life”, and it boasted that this was achieved “without any nonsense and with illustrations”

No nonsense sex education from the 80s

As we each play our part in the process of determining which items from 45 years of a household should be kept and which ones should be passed on, there have been a couple of trips down memory lane. One particular day Dad asked me, over a well-earned tea break, whether I’d ever lived in this house. “Yes, I grew up here, actually," I replied, as matter-of-fact as I could manage, reflecting briefly on the two or so decades that had shaped my current life; the many arguments about his loud television blaring while I tried to get to sleep and the moments lying in that bed, looking out that window contemplating my place in this life. “In fact, the room that you sleep in was once my room” I offered. Dad was somewhat intrigued by this new information, and what followed was a casual discussion about where I used to have the bed, and how he was now utilising the space. 

Although I’d occupied all 3 “kids” bedrooms at different times, it is now generally understood that the upstairs room was mine, the one closest to the bathroom was my brother’s and the front room, which had a window onto the front porch, was my sister’s. When they were babies, the twins had their matching cots in the front room, and I can remember them talking to one another across the room in their unique dialect of baby babble. They ended up chewing the white paint off their cot rails to reveal a pale, mid century green below. At that time, I was in the room nearest the bathroom, and the busy floral carpet that my brother later pulled up in favour of floorboards offered an opportunity to skip and dance from one orangey-brown flower to the next on the short trip to the toilet.

The other day mum handed me several copies of the ultrasound images from when she was pregnant, dated May 1976. Scientific proof, as it were, that I wasn’t adopted. The facts of life, without any nonsense and with illustrations. Mum’s sister, who had also harboured a belief that she’d been adopted, recently did a DNA test, and had to confront the reality that, like me, any feelings of being misunderstood or on the edges of belonging could not be put down to genetics. 

Proof of life

Another time, mum pulled out her journal from when I was 18 months old. In amongst carefully documented details about meal times, delight in nature, visits to grandparents, nappy changing antics and surprising greeting rituals we learn of some troubling behaviour. Our young heroine had developed a tendency, of late, to pull the next door neighbour’s hair and hit children at playgroup. Unprovoked, mind you. With these snippets I am gifted an intimate insight into the wonder and frustrations of a new mother. 

As I tried to adopt an attitude of curiosity about why an 18 month old was pulling other children’s hair, a rage well known to women in the Autumn of their lives begins to take hold, and I have empathy for that little girl. Rage or aggression can appear unprovoked, but usually there's a reason, or a thousand tiny reasons that build up. Almost fifty years later, there is still a disapproval of "strong emotions" in little girls, and an expectation that women, and perhaps particularly eldest daughters, don't have needs of our own. But rage isn't necessarily a bad thing. When channelled with care and purpose, it is the mother of powerful social change. I recently learnt that my grandmother, a little older than I am now and having realised that she couldn't stay silent any longer, had a quiet (but firm) word with Fred Nile about his stance on abortion. 

On another visit, while making space for a few of my clothes in my brother's wardrobe, I found a photo of my siblings and me in a 3-way embrace. They say that the sibling relationship is the most important and longstanding, because they have known us throughout all our phases of life. When mum’s uncle died a few years ago, his sister, the last remaining sibling, grieved particularly because he’d “left her all alone”. 

Siblings

On yet another occasion, mum presented me with a written exchange with the tooth fairy, from some 40 years ago. They say “Give me the child at 7 and I'll show you the adult”. In a suitably miniature font, the human protagonist has a couple of questions for her winged correspondents. She was concerned that the tooth fairies hadn't taken the tooth, which was their rightful reward in exchange for a gold coin. Furthermore, she wanted to get to know where these little creatures lived and what their names were. Integrity in business affairs and building meaningful relationships were as important back then as they are now. 

Miniature correspondence

As the trip down memory lane inevitably comes to a close, and the house mum and dad called home for almost half a century is gradually emptied of its “clutter”, the place is beginning to feel more and more spacious. And with spaciousness, it's possible to see things more clearly. I can embrace the aggressive toddler, the inquisitive child, the frustrated teen and the loving big sister as all true parts of a whole person. So, where did I come from? I believe we all come from ourselves. We are shaped by genetics and our environment but the essence of who we uniquely are is always there within us.

The Way It Is

There is a thread you follow. 

It goes among things that change. 

But it doesn't change.

People wonder about what things you are pursuing. 

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see. 

While you hold it you can't get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and grow old.

Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding. 

You don't ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford

I'm a big girl

Yesterday I was asked to spend time with Dad and his 96 year old neighbour while her home of 60 years was being auctioned. Dad doesn't have many visitors, so after a few emails back and forth in relation to this event, I brought ginger biscuits and dad made a cake. Together we filled up the kettle in advance, and swept the front porch. 

From the moment the taxi door opened, and two sensible shoes were placed on our driveway amid raised voices and a kafuffle about the walker, it was clear that this wasn't going to be quite the pleasant kind of tea and cakes situation we'd imagined. And not one Dad could have easily handled on his own. 

Greetings were overshadowed by the continued conversation. "He was very rude to me" and "no, he wasn't mum", hung in the air alongside an awkward smile in our direction as Ula made her way to our front door, pushing aside the nearest son and his suggestions about where to put the walker. It seemed that something had been said over lunch, and she was still quite upset. 

Inside our dining room, Ula chose the window bench, where she could see people congregating near her side door below us. Not wanting to sit, she kind of kneeled against the seat, focussed on the goings on next door. Recognising one of the agents, she started tapping on the window to attract his attention, fiddling with the mechanism until it opened. "It'll probably be a Chinese buyer" she commented loudly and with disdain, "and they'll probably fill in the pool. That's what they did across the road". I glanced at dad and he almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes, ever the diplomat. Both sons seemed keen for the window to remain shut. 

A painting of me looking through a window, as a girl

After the sons had left, one of them cheerily kissing Ula goodbye as if she was a child being left with unpopular babysitters, the three of us weren't quite sure what to do. I offered Ula cake and tea again, but she repeated her polite but firm refusal, having only just had lunch. 

A few moments passed before Ula decided that she'd rather go next door and be there at the auction. I made futile attempts to stall or distract, but Ula was now certain. "I'm a big girl, you know" she told me, and I thought of her 60+ years of adulting (as we jokingly call it now); raising three boys, keeping the garden looking lovely, maintaining a marriage for the many decades until her husband's death, managing household finances, driving to fitness classes and the supermarket up until a year ago, reversing her car down the drive effortlessly and navigating the COVID years without a blink. She always struck me as fiercely independant, a clever influencer (she somehow convinced dad to dress up as Santa when her grandchildren were little), and generally cheerful, generous and personable. Yesterday my admiration for her grew. 

How is it, I thought, that a woman who has navigated so much of life's stormy waters with grace and stoicism, was now denied the right to observe the final, momentous, step in her journey away from independence? And so as it began to rain, she and I made our way next door, ignoring the horrified and disapproving glances from the sons who dad had frantically been trying to warn over the phone.

There was a pause in auction proceedings as Ula and her walker squeezed into the very crowded lounge room. The real estate agent took a moment to respectfully "greet the vendor" and an older woman guided Ula to a spot on the couch where she was very much amongst the action. The auctioneer recommenced his enthusiastic description of her decades long home, and the bidding gained momentum. Ula was silent throughout, her legs crossed and wearing a pair of checkered pants that I hadn't noticed before.

After the hammer came down and the unsuccessful bidders dispersed, Dad reappeared with his umbrella, despite the rain having eased off, keen to meet his new neighbours. And there was Ula, over in the kitchen, signing away her life and graciously engaging in light conversation with the new owners. I heard her mention that her boys had gone to Barker College. Thankfully, nothing was said about the pool, but Ula did comment later on that she hopes they maintain the garden. 

Worth your weight

"I propose we read books by amazing authors who are reframing the idea of living in bodies that do not confirm to the mainstream acceptable shape and beauty standard." And so it was that our summertime book club decided to focus on books written by larger women this year - a personally relevant topic for many of us after a year of sedentary lockdowns.

After a few emails about the topic (which everyone was keen about) and which specific books or poetry or podcasts to select (trickier to agree about with so many options), we decided to start with Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman by Lindy West. I cheated and just refreshed myself on the TV series. Shrill is a bit of a hero's journey. A young, plus-sized journalist is insulted by a personal trainer in her local coffee shop, humiliated by her boyfriend who expects her to leave by crawling awkwardly over the back fence so that he doesn't have to introduce her to his flatmates, and belittled by her boss. After a life changing circumstance and the encouragement of her flatmate and work spouse, she finds her voice and power. In standing up to her boss and setting clear boundaries with the boy she’s dating, she finally earns the respect she is due.

My online copy of Hunger

Next we read Hunger by Roxane Gay, whose life changed immeasurably when she was gang raped as a 12 year old by boys she knew. Gaining weight as a protective mechanism, she offers insights into the experience of living life defined as a super morbidly obese person. Roxane doesn't allow the reader a reprieve from the daily humiliations of her lived experience; from chairs cracking, to gym bullies, and the challenges of air travel we gain some understanding of the ways in which fat people are denied a dignity, and how one incident can change a person's life trajectory so significantly. Decades after the event, she searches online for the boy who, with his friends, raped her all those years ago; the boy whose face she sees in her minds eye every single day. She learns that he is successful in the business world and has used his privilege to build a good life for himself.

Both of these talented and brave and ultimately powerful women feature on an episode of This American Life podcast entitled “Tell me I’m fat” where they share about their journeys. Also on the podcast is Elna Baker who, with the assistance of drugs and surgery, transitioned almost overnight from being Fat Elna during the first 20 years of her life, to become Thin Elna thereafter. Fat Elna had wondered whether her unlucky-in-love status and lack of success in her career were attributable to her size. “Don’t be paranoid” she had told herself, “of course it’s more complicated than that”. Sadly, Thin Elna had to admit that it had been 100% due to her weight. Recently married, and with her career moving forward in leaps and bounds, she had achieved the success she yearned for, yet found herself missing “Fat Elna” who she describes as happier, less inhibited on the dance floor, and a generally nicer person than Thin Elna. I, too, felt incredibly sad about the loss of Fat Elna. 

Just the other day, an aunt shared a photo of two young women at the beach, circa 1960. The dark haired one on the left, stunning in her white two piece swimsuit and polka dot head band and smiling broadly, turns out to be my mother aged around 16. Never having seen photos of her younger than about 23, I peered inquisitively at the young lass in the beach scene, taking in the details and finding the points of likeness to the petite, now grey haired woman I have called mum for more than 4 decades. Those were the tail end of her “fat years”, apparently, and so she didn't ever show us photos of that time. I'm glad to see that “Fat Lyn” is happy and carefree.

Two sisters, circa 1960

In contrast, my teenage years were inhabited by Thin Aletia, and there’s a photo somewhere of me, also carefree in a black and white two piece, all limbs and hardly any curves. In those days I moved through the world confident that I was valued and my contributions worthwhile. I believed the narratives expressed indirectly - "those" people are lazy, they just don’t have any self control, and they are so unattractive. I’d never end up like that. As the kilos gradually piled on, seemingly unbidden, I had to examine my own prejudices, and those of folks around me. I began to move through the world with less of the entitlement and confidence of Thin Aletia. Lived experience has me reluctantly agreeing with some of Thin Elna's conclusions.

When I was about 10, we all had "autograph books" where the people in our lives wrote messages to us. Some people wrote silly poems, some shared affirmations or declarations of love, some offered advice, and some just drew pictures. Mum's message to me was a bit of all the above: "A caterpillar's heart still beats in every butterfly, Inside you are always you. Inside you are always you". Staring at a moth in the bathroom at a campsite the other day, the fluff of the caterpillar head still visible beside the adult wings, I thought again of mum's words. Yet, if we are inherently the same, regardless of any physical change, why does it feel as if our worth is inversely related to our size?

As opposed to Elna and me, Lindy and Roxane don’t go through any chrysalis-like transformation. Although Lindy considers surgery, she eventually decides against it. Both women have only dwelt in the fat camp, with Lindy becoming a trailblazer for the fat acceptance movement and Roxanne an advocate for fat friendly clothing and accessible spaces. While I’m here in this camp, I’m enjoying supporting Australian-based clothing designers who make attractive, colourful, garments for women of a wide size range and helping otherwise tentative women to find clothing that makes them feel great. 

But with some size-related health issues rearing their ugly heads, I'm seriously considering making an attempt to work off those COVID kilos. There's a part of me that, like Roxane, is afraid of being thin again. What if doors are opened that were previously shut? What if I am faced with evidence that society really is that shallow? What if I turn into one of those women who tut tuts when fat people reach for another piece of cake? But whatever my size, I'll still be me, and I'll always have the richness of my wider life experience. I hope I also have Fat Elna's uninhibited approach to dancing and Fat Lyn's broad, unapologetic smile. 

Point of view

Point of view

The other night, after returning from a week of travel for work, I found myself watching "The Shawshank Redemption". Snuggled in to the corner of my horsehair stuffed, genuine retro sofa, covered with blankets and surrounded by cushions, I was swept away yet again by the emotion that wells up when Andy’s library books arrive after a mere two years of sending letters every week, when he gives those beers to his team while they’re working on the roof, and when he eventually wades through shit to freedom. 

Back in the day, that film was my favourite, alongside "Dead Poets Society". As a young adult I was drawn to literature and film that explored aspects of our common humanity - how we respond to suffering, what makes us feel truly alive and free, and the triumph of the oppressed over their oppressors. As a drama student myself, I saw my own struggles in Neil’s experience, and had mandatory tissues on hand for the moment when Todd steps onto his desk as an act of resistance and in acknowledgement of his betrayed teacher. In many ways, these iconic films have shaped the way I look at life as an adult. It just never occurred to me to wonder why so many of the heroes in my favourite films were men. 

Now, fast forward two decades, and there I was in the age of #metoo, and the next wave of feminism. I suddenly realised, with a splutter of wine all over the couch, that neither of my favourite ‘90s films would come close to passing the Bechtel test, which asks three simple questions - 1) are there any women in the film?, 2) do they speak to each other? 3) about anything other than men? While not a single woman appears in Shawshank Redemption, given that it is set in a male prison, the women in Dead Poet’s Society exist mainly as objects of the boys' affections, and consent is not a major consideration. 

But there’s something else that I realised about the films of my youth. It’s not just that the heroes were predominantly white men. The producers, directors and creative teams of most films in the ‘90s would almost certainly have all been white men as well. On the website of “Women in Hollywood”, a group that advocates for greater gender diversity in Hollywood and the film industry more generally, it is revealed that more than 95% of films made in the past 10 years were directed by men, and 80% of the creative teams were men. Twenty years ago that proportion would have almost certainly been even higher.

This means that the perspective of most films from that time, even the ones with women in lead roles, would have been that of a white male. So, why is this necessarily a problem? Because we are socialised to see the male experience as the norm, and representative of the rest of us. As Simone de Beauvior wrote almost 40 years earlier:

Representation of the world,

 like the world itself, 

 is the work of men; 

they describe it from their own point of view, 

 which they confuse with absolute truth.

- Simone de Beauvior

With lead actors, directors, and producers all being men, it’s pretty clear who they imagined would be sitting in the cinema. The concept of the “male gaze” refers to films whose intended audience is a heterosexual man. The male gaze is also characterised by a tendency to objectify or sexualise women. In the 1990s most of the female leads were the sexy sidekick or love interest of the male protagonist. And according to recent research, not much has changed. Women still say less, appear less, and are more sexualised than their male counterparts.

There’s also a sense that strong female leads, such as in Wonder Woman or Tomb Raider, are simply scripted as men in a sexy woman’s body. Brit Marling, an actress who moved into sci-fi script writing because she wasn’t seeing female characters that inspired her, complained that strong female leads tend to be written into action films as “give me a man, but in the body of a woman I’d still like to see naked”. She also noted that these strong female leads typically adopt the attributes of a strong man - physical strength, ambition, and rationality. On the other hand, she argues, women in film who are unfettered, spirited and display feminine bravery like Thelma and Louise face brutal consequences.

All of this has led women of my generation to experience an identity crisis. On the one hand, we're told that those male heroes we resonated with do represent us, and that we women can absolutely do anything men can do. On the other hand, the limited diversity of faces we see and the limited complexity of female characters reinforce for us a different message - that women are weak, simple, objects of desire, and above all - not the hero of the story. 

Around the time that I became aware of the gender bias in film, I also began to explore race and white privilege as another lens from which to consider the messages fed to me through pop culture. When I examine The Shawshank Redemption from this perspective, I realise that Red, the character played by Morgan Freeman, exists within a system that has marginalised, discriminated against and enslaved black people, and yet his history and character are given very little development. Instead, he essentially just narrates the story of Andy, a white man who is innocent of the crime that put him in jail for 20 years. Andy ultimately acts as white saviour, and hero of the story, enabling Red to be redeemed, released and to begin his life again in Mexico. I hadn’t noticed any of this previously. My own white perspective had its biases and limitations.

But things are changing. We now know how important it is for young people to see their own faces reflected in the faces of role models, rather than all of us having to see the world as experienced by white men. It’s encouraging that more complex and diverse leads are appearing in films, tv and books these days. Squishy Taylor is a series of Australian children’s books (written by a totally awesome friend of mine) with a great female protagonist of Fijian-Indian descent. Outlander, whose protagonist is a woman whose pleasure and needs are in the foreground, has been described as deliberately adopting a “female gaze”. Chimamanda Adichie’s book “Americana” and her ted talk about the danger of a single story shed light on the impact on others when we don’t question our particular, privileged view of the world. And "Orange is the new black" provides similar insights into the nature of humanity, and suffering, and injustice as Shawshank Redemption, but this time through the experiences of a diverse collection of women in prison.

So, when I curl up on my mid century couch the next time, I’ll be reading “The Parable of the Sower”, a near future science fiction novel written in the ‘90s about a young African-American woman who becomes the local hero in the year 2026 where society that has all but collapsed due to climate change, corporate greed and wealth inequality. Her strength is in her empathy, intellect, and resourcefulness, and I can’t wait to find out how the story unfolds. Also, I’ve sent my nephew a copy of “Spirited Away”, an award winning children’s anime film who’s central character happens to be a brave girl who must rescue her parents from a haunted island. These might seem like small gestures, but they are steps in the right direction. I yearn for the day when the most powerful heroes and role models of the stories that shape the next generation are just as likely to be women as they are to be men, and just as likely to display strength of character and emotional intelligence as they are to exhibit physical strength and ambition. 

Great Aunt Gert

I’m seated at the dining table adjacent to Dad, typing away on my tablet as he dutifully answers my questions. Occasionally he gazes out the window as if looking beyond the loungeroom for inspiration. I’m interviewing Dad about his life, and in preparation for this occasion he has pulled out a pile of family history volumes about our ancestors. They sit unopened beside him. I’m more interested in the memories, feelings and ‘his’ story than the historical detail.

But Dad practically knows the content of these books by heart anyway, and takes every opportunity to discuss his forebears, some of whom had arrived in Sydney in the 1830s and dispersed to various farming communities in New South Wales. One particular character captures my attention. Dad’s Great Aunt Gert hailed from the small town of Newrybar, in northern NSW, where she was most likely born a bit before the turn of the century. She was still living there in the 1950s when my dad used to visit his grandmother as a boy.

Gert was a ‘spinster’, and 'a very unattractive woman’, I was told, as if one explained the other. Both she and her sister (my great grandmother) were apparently formidible women, who might have been called 'feisty' these days. Gert was also missing a finger, an attribute that only added to her frightening demeaner. That she had become her elderly mother’s main carer by the time Dad knew her was the only neutral fact I could glean. Nothing is known of her interests, leisure activities, sexual orientation, line of work apart from familial responsibilities, aspirations, or whether she ever left the small town of Newrybar.

When I was visiting a family friend, who also had family ties to Newrybar, and just as many family history volumes, I was able to grasp snippets of life in Gert's day. One community notice in 1928 describes a school concert. My grandfather, who would have been in his teens at the time, joined the other senior boys to perform an act entitled "The Dwarfs" which was accompanied by Miss Woods who played 'lightly on her violin'. Thank goodness Miss Woods didn't dominate the no doubt thought-provoking performance of the senior boys. Other acts were entitled "10 little niggers", "Ching Chong", and "Golliwog", providing a deeply depressing insight into attitudes towards diversity and multiculturalism in those days. The concert was declared a roaring success to the extent that some theatre goers had to satisfy themselves with a view through the window. And the women did a splendid job with the refreshments.

Newspaper clippings from our friend's family history book

Meanwhile, on my mother’s side of the family was another intriguing character. Great Uncle Ces was an artist, creating insightful sketches of life in the 1930s. In the early 40s he was in France sketching aspects of the second world war, and sending his cartoons back to the Sydney Morning Herald for publication. Many of us in the family have one or two of his limited edition works on our walls, and enjoy the minor celebrity involved. One of my favourites is “Sea legs", a lino print of five women sunbathing on the deck of a boat, legs outstretched in all directions. I also have one of his calendar sketches of a man awkwardly holding a baby, while a woman changes a flat tyre. It is entitled “the weaker sex”. I love the insights into humanity that we take away from these drawings. Like Gert, Ces never married, and didn’t have any children, yet his art survives him.

The weaker Sex, by Ces Percival

Sea legs by Ces Percival

So, while Ces is busy with his art and travel, Gert gets on with the daily drudgery of providing refreshments, entertaining weekend visitors, and dealing with bed pans. I wonder if she dreams of a different life. I’d love to sit down with her, and hear “her story”, and the issues that got her riled up, but sadly she’s now long gone. With nothing surviving her apart from a death certificate which Dad tells me would likely have been marked "Spinster of Newrybar" and a few community notices that list her as an attendee, I’m left to piece together the possibilities of her life from the impression she made on her great nephew.

Between the sheets

* He's had a crush on her for years. She needs a place to crash after a big night. He just assumes she's fine with it.

* Eventually, after much begging and pleading, she reluctantly agrees to let him kiss her.

* Sharing a bed, she asks that there be no kissing or sex. But he gets a bit carried away.

* He knows she's slept with other guys, so why not him? They're dating, after all.

When the open letter from the victim of the Stanford rapist came into our consciousness, almost every woman I know was reminded of a story of her own, buried away in the depths of her memory, or perhaps from not so long ago, where consent was not enthusiastically given, or boundaries were crossed, or trust was abused. In many cases, shame or a wish to "just move on" prevented any further action being taken. 

Reading the story of what this particular woman went through, both immediately following the rape and then in the re-living of it during the court case, has led me to reflect deeply on the meaning of consent, and the prevalence of slut shaming and victim blaming in our society still to this day. So often we women doubt ourselves and each other because society wants to couch us as "promiscuous" or "drinking too much" and men as "nice guys" with "a promising career ahead" who "made a bit of an error in judgement".

Brock Turner's lawyer and his father made outrageous attempts to minimise the impact of the incident on the victim and highlight the impact on the perpetrator. This behaviour shows just how warped our society has become when considering matters of consent, gender based violence and sexual abuse. 

Possibly the only positive coming out of this horrific incident is that people are starting to talk, to share stories, to realise that they're not alone. Because of this one woman's courage, and the actions of those who found her and called the police, more people around the world might feel just a little more confident about holding others to account for their actions and demanding respect. 

When I shared the woman's open letter on facebook a few weeks ago, a male friend contacted me quite distraught. After reading it, he had conducted a brief survey of his female friends, and discovered that a high proportion had experienced some kind of related incident at one time or another. He was horrified. With a very young daughter of his own, he could not believe what his sex was doing to hers. He wanted to know what he could do about it.

So I think I talked about shifting the burden of responsibility from women to men. I might have said how we need to educate men about consent, and about respecting boundaries, and how to extricate themselves from the rape culture that makes these so-called "minor indiscretions" permissible and justifiable. We can teach women about saying no, or the skills of self defense or assertiveness, but ultimately it's men who need to make the biggest changes.

But actually, I just felt kindof numb. I was glad to have an ally, and grateful for the numerous male friends who have "got it" over the years, or who have at least been willing to listen and try to understand. But when women choose to speak out about these matters, they are putting themselves in a place of great vulnerability. I wonder how we can make this journey easier, so that difficult experiences are genuinely listened to and everyone involved can reach a place of greater understanding?

Female, maddened and mute

At the writers festival I heard Alexis West read some of her poetry. It spoke of the frustration she has with having to explain repeatedly why golliwogs are offensive, and the way her patience was tried by white people wanting recognition and gratitude for “having black friends”. It was raw and real and I loved it.

Then she apologised if her poetry was too angry or offensive in any way to our paler sensibilities. She told us she hated being "that person" - the angry black woman. I wished she hadn’t apologised. There's not enough anger expressed about this kind of thing, in my opinion. 

Also, in a small, hesitant way, I could relate. I sometimes feel as if I'm continually an angry feminist. Like black women, but obviously to a lesser extent, women in general are constantly assessing whether to express our anger in response to sexist behaviour and be “that person” or just swallow our offendedness, smile and move on.

This dilemma was highlighted to me the other day when I posted a feminist cartoon on facebook which seemed to spark reactions from various folks in my social media network. The conversation seemed to take on a life of its own, going in directions I hadn’t envisaged, and raising sub-issues that I hadn’t previously considered. 

Then some people started getting quite angry, reacting to other people's comments. And I began to feel a little bit uneasy. But a voice inside told me not to moderate...just yet. And sure enough, somebody else felt it was their job to moderate. A male friend. “I think we all need to calm down now” was the sentiment. 

It seemed to me that women were angry, and men couldn’t handle it. One man had already left the discussion, in fact. I began to wonder why the anger of the oppressed is so confronting. Sure, it's raw and uncomfortable and not "nice". Yet, that anger is a direct result of violent and discriminatory systems that are not nice either. And certain groups have benefited from this structural violence for centuries.

So, why should Aboriginal people be expected to consider the feelings of those of us who have benefited from their dispossession and discrimination for the past two centuries? Why should the LGBTIQ community be expected to consider the bigots who have bullied them their whole lives as equally entitled to voice their toxic views? And why should women constantly accommodate the discomfort of men? No! I think those of us who are oppressors and benefit from oppressive structures have no right to tell the oppressed when to be silent.

This whole outpouring of frustration reminded me of a book called “Women who dance with wolves”. This book, which draws from Indigenous fables and stories, explores a number of archetypal women who are expressed in their rawest form. One character is a skeleton woman who follows a fisherman back to his cave. Another is a woman who makes more animal sounds than human ones and collects bones in the desert. A young girl dances like crazy in her new red shoes until she becomes a cripple. These women are angry, sad, ecstatic...the full gamet of emotions. I wonder why our so-called modern society tries to suppress this rawness and realness and "not nice-ness" in the expression of emotion?

So, as I process my own anger, and choose which battles to fight and which ones to let go, I will seek out poetry and literature and art where those raw expressions of emotion are evident. I hope people like Alexis West don't stop writing their poetry. Because it's through expressing the anger and pain that we not only move through it, but open up the possibility for the "other" to reach an understanding about their own privilege and power.

When green eggs and ham just aren't your cup of tea

"Would you like to go for coffee?" He corners me after class. I mumble something about having plans and make attempts to skuttle out the door. "What about dinner tomorrow?" The hopeful follow up wafts in my direction. "Or brunch on the weekend? What about a drink sometime?" A seemingly harmless enough request has become a familiar refrain that leaves me with a feeling of mild angst.

I guess most of us, at one time or another, have been in what I refer to as the "green eggs and ham" scenario. Some people call it "humbugging". It's the situation where somebody repeatedly asks for or offers something, doesn't get a favourable response, and yet continues undeterred. It's prevalent amongst socialists, evangelical christians, and of course in the land of dating. When it doesn't feel like my boundaries are respected I tend to squirm. It actually takes me a lot of mental energy to work out how to say no tactfully, firmly and kindly.

While it was probably not Dr Seuss's intention to explore themes of consent in his famous children's book Green Eggs and Ham, his work does seem relevant to that subject. The principle seems to be that 'no' doesn't always mean 'no', and that persistence pays off. There are so many examples in literature and film of this mentality when it comes to dating. The classic case is the dogged pursuit of a lady friend by a slightly nerdy guy, which succeeds when he ultimately proves himself to be worthy of her affections.

Normally we find these movies romantic, and delight in the experience of the underdog finally 'winning' in the end. But as a male friend of mine says, there is a fine line between romantic and creepy and the distinction is whether the behaviour is wanted or unwanted. I realise that it's tricky for many of us to tread that line at times. We might find ourselves getting so caught up in our own desires or notions of romance that we somehow 'forget' to consider whether our suggested activities or requests are of any interest at all to the other party.

I find the tea analogy quite helpful when it comes to explaining consent to people. Basically, the principle is that if the person has said they don't want tea, or is unconscious, or only partially conscious, or was unsure about tea, but now that you've made it they show no interest in drinking it - DON'T FORCE THEM TO DRINK THE TEA!! It also points out that just because somebody enjoyed a pot of tea with you last Thursday, or with somebody else - doesn't mean they want tea today, or with you.

So, whether it's tea or oddly coloured eggs with pig meat that I'm just not that into, I realise I need to get better at trusting my gut instincts and being confident enough to clearly say no. I know this is a challenge for me, as I have been socialised to accommodate others' needs and consider their perspective above my own. But, more importantly, like SAM I AM, lots of us need to get better at reading body language, genuinely seeking consent, and accepting with grace if the answer is no.  

Retreat, not surrender

The other weekend, against my mother's better judgement, I spent the night alone in the bush. Through a complicated set of circumstances, partly of my own making, I found myself with four tickets to a play in Kangaroo Valley and no "bums on seats" other than my own. The story of how this came to be is very long and convaluted, so I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that things hadn't quite gone according to plan.

My friend Selena and I took HSC drama together back in the day. We had bonded over incompetent teachers, encouragement of one another's "work", and the stress of writing and performing our own monologues. So, when Selena sent around an email announcing that she was getting back into acting, and would anyone like to see her latest show, I was, like, um, Yes! The other reason I wanted to go was that my favourite place in the whole wide world is in Kangaroo Valley. A beautiful secluded property that cascades from the road to the river, Werona is filled with happy memories, and gives me a sense of serenity and calm whenever I'm there. But I had never been to Werona on my own before. With a steep road that is in desperate need of repair, limited phone reception, and not a soul for miles around, it was a slightly frightening prospect for a woman on her own.

Werona in the afternoon light

Sometimes life feels like a battleground. You just deal with one disappointment, and another presents itself. It had been a rough couple of weeks for me, and I was very ready to give up on the whole trip, cut my losses and try to get as much money back as I could. But, as the saying goes, "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade". I realised that to not go would be surrender. To go, was merely retreat. Excuse the pun. The most appropriate thing to do, I reasoned, was to take time out to gain some perspective, and re-group, so to speak. And Werona is the perfect place to go for a personal retreat. So, I packed a bag, told people what I was doing, and set off via the scenic coast road. With Missy Higgins and Imogen Clark to keep me company, I started to feel brave and strong and, well, marginally less bitter.

As soon as I arrived at Werona, I knew I had made the right decision. I sense of peace swept over me as I walked the track from the car to the hut. The birds were churping, and I could hear the creek gushing by, full after recent flooding. On closer inspection I noticed certain paths were extremely well-swept. At first I thought "oh, how nice that the last visitors swept so thoroughly". Then I realised it was floodwater that had paved the way. On a trip down to the river I saw with horror the extent of the flood-damage. The area that used to be beach in my childhood, was beach again, with a mini-avalanche having dragged the entire grassy bank into the river. I stepped tentatively across the muddy track, feeling my way back from a brisk swim when all of a sudden one boot began slowly but surely to sink into the fluid ground. "Well," I thought, with a sense of resignation, "this is how I am going to die - sinking boot-first into the swamp of despair". Clutching on to the nearest tree branch, I pulled, and slowly the boot emerged. Disaster had been averted. I hurriedly scrambled to higher ground.

Boots after an incident by the river

There was a brief moment when, back at the hut, I thought "what shall I do now?" I didn't know whether to write, draw, go for a walk or just read. But then it occurred to me. Tea. I should start by making a cup of tea. So, armed with a mug of comforting brew, I got out my watercolours and began to paint. And, as the sun gently set and the possums began to gather, I sipped my peppermint tea, and those earlier feelings of bitterness and anger were swept away as thoroughly as the riverbank of my childhood. This really wasn't so bad after all. 

The next challenge to greet me was getting the hire car back up the hill in order to set out for an evening on the town. The road had gotten progressively more difficult to maneuvour in the past few years, as rocks mixed with broken up bitumen. I put the car into first gear, took a deep breath, and floored it, spinning the wheel back and forth in an urgent attempt to avoid the worst of the potholes without losing momentum and sliding backwards into dense scrub. When I reached the top, breathing a sigh of relief, I promised myself I would not tempt fate again. The car would sleep at the top of the hill tonight. On the open road, I couldn't help but notice an incredibly full moon straight ahead of me. I had to stop and photograph it. Apparently that was the first of three consecutive supermoons.

Moonlight in the valley

The show was brilliant. Selena had organised for a friend of hers to meet me, which was lucky, because it was a very audience participatory kind of show, and the sort of thing where it's awkward if you're there alone. We were simultaneously guests at a cocktail party and audience in a cabaret performance. Interspersed between hilarious and food-related skits was a finger food degustation meal. Perched on cushions with our avocado au d'oeuvres and spicy ginger beer, we immersed ourselves in an awkward date, a meeting between wife and mistress, gossip with the girls, and repeated attempts to steal a bottle of wine. Just like the moon, it was a very full evening. 

As I returned to my hut in the dark, head torch on and scrambling over the indiscernable track, I began to worry about intruders and boogy men. All the ghost stories we told when we were younger came flooding back, and I wondered, again, if it was such a smart idea to come to the valley alone. Each step felt as if it could be my last, as every shadow held potential danger. But, I returned unscathed, and everything was as I had left it. Not even the possums had ventured to mess with my food or bedding, and I was able to light the stove, make another cuppa, and read into the night. 

A room of one's own, or failing that a table outdoors

Virginia Wolf said that if a woman is to write, she needs to have a room of her own. As I prepared for some serious blogging the next morning, a room of my own just didn't seem adequate. So, after various attempts at getting the sunlight and shadows just right, I took my writing table and tea outside and assumed the whole valley as my own. Aided by more tea, and the confidence that comes from having slept alone in the wild, I wrote and read and began to feel at peace with the world. So, as I made my entry in the visitors book, turned off all the appliances (at least, pretty sure I did) and generally made ready to go, I reflected on a wonderful weekend. While things didn't turn out exactly how I had originally imagined, it was in many ways better. And now I can say "oh, yeah, I've spent a night alone in the bush." 

Toy story

Just as I'm wondering what gift to get my nephew for Christmas, a major debate erupts on social media about the gendered marketing of children's toys. If you didn't catch it, basically Greens Senator Larissa Waters backed the No Gender December campaign, which encourages people to think critically and carefully about the types of toys they buy children. Then the Daily Telegraph published a rather alarmist article about how that means the Greens hate Barbie or Christmas or something (interestingly enough, I can no longer find that article online). Then lots of people got annoyed, having read the Daily Telegraph article, saying "I played with trucks, and I turned out okay", thinking that the campaign was a critique of dolls and trucks. The next thing we know, politicians are jumping on the bandwagon, saying boys will be boys etc. And, I have to admit, lots of the progressive journalists went crazy too, writing immature articles about the Murdoch press.

I have felt for a while that the gendered marketing of children's toys is problematic, and always try to think carefully about what to buy the children in my life. They seem to respond best to toys that are educational and that allow imagination. So I was surprised that there was such a ferocious reaction, and wondered how to respond. Then, I came across what is actually the best article I have found on the subject. I agree with the author's opinion that people have misunderstood the campaign. You see, I know girls who have Barbies and boys who have train sets. They're all great and "well adjusted" little people and their parents are lovely too. This campaign isn't about banning Barbie or trucks or trains as far as I can tell. Nor is it about blaming parents and relatives for their children's preferences. I am an avid supporter of my nephew's train collection and bought him the first set of tracks when he was a one-year-old. But I also bought him a vacuum cleaner, which, incidentally, he also loves. So there.

For me, this is more about being aware of how biased and problematic the marketing of the toy industry currently is, and what that says about society more generally. Regarding the marketing of toys, I reckon this little girl sums it up when she chucks a very controlled hissy fit in the toy shop because all the girls stuff is pink and all the boys stuff is to do with superheroes. As she articulates so beautifully, the marketing of toys is manipulative. Why have they branded all the toys along such traditional gender lines? Why shouldn't boys be allowed to buy pink princessy stuff if that's what they want? And why shouldn't girls be allowed to play with superheroes? More importantly, why arent there more female role models in the superhero range and more everyday male role models in the domestic doll range? There should be toys available to suit all children, not just those who fit into the stereotypical gender roles, and nobody should be made to feel that their choice of toy is somehow wrong. Life is pretty tough for children who are different. We shouldn't make it harder still by ONLY giving them toys that adhere to those narrow gender norms. We should buy toys that relate to the individual interests of the child, and ideally that are educational too.

Regarding society more generally, I think there is a problem in the way we "buy into" (excuse the pun) certain stereotypes and expectations to do with gender that are actually harmful. And the toys we buy are part of that culture. If boys are always given guns and other violent toys while girls are continually given submissive, domestic toys, what does that say about how we expect them to behave and the career aspirations they are allowed to have? Domestic violence is a major problem in Australia, the leading cause of death for Australian women under 45, says the article I mentioned above. And it doesn't just happen in "other" families. It is rife across the 'pretend it's not happening' families on the north shore, in upper middle bogan communities in the Shire and amongst the greenies of the inner west. And, whether we like it or not, research does indicate a link between traditional gender roles and domestic violence.

So, I bought No-no (my nephew) an elephant family puzzle this year. It's not pink or princessy and it's not to do with guns or superheroes either. You might call it gender-neutral. And it is meaningful because he loves to play with the elephant family at mum and dad's. Now he'll have a puzzle elephant family of his own. But more importantly, I will make it clear to him that he is a valuable human being regardless of the interests he chooses to pursue. And as we play together this Christmas, I will try to model for him the type of behaviour that is acceptable and respectful and establish firm boundaries around behaviour that isn't. He will know that real men can wheel prams, teach, nurse, be train drivers, work in early childhood, advocate for vulnerable people, build stuff, whatever! But that domestic violence is never okay.

Remembering the days of the old school yard

"You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anyone" ~ Maya Angelou

At my 21st birthday party, I dressed as Romy from "Romy and Michelle's high school reunion". While the movie itself was not exactly cutting edge cinema, it explored a theme that resonates with most of us - mixed feelings about the prospect of facing one's high school peers a factor of ten years after graduation. In the film, Romy and Michelle go to great lengths in an attempt to prove to their former classmates just how successful and happy they now are.

A couple of decades later and I find myself dressing again for a reunion - this time my own. While I wasn't intending to pretend that I had invented post-it notes, it's only natural to worry about being put in a room full of the people one went through adolescence with. They remind us of old insecurities, habits, grievances and labels that we'd rather forget. When thinking of those years, some of the more negative memories have lingered - the emphasis on grades and all that stuff about looks and money that seems to be a focus for people on the north shore, or maybe teenagers generally. It was easy to feel stupid, ugly and poor when surrounded by an above average cohort. So at the reunion I pictured all that stuff re-surfacing and wondered how I would stack up now against a group of highly intelligent and now probably extremely successful women.

Part of our group on Yr 11 "lawn"

But then I decided that reunions don't have to be traumatic events where we re-live old insecurities. They also offer a marker of time against which to reflect on the direction our life has taken thus far. Are we where we thought we'd be? Are we happy with the person we have become? What is our own measure of success? With these questions in mind, I laid out the outfit options on the bed. As I selected an ensemble that seemed to fit the occasion, a small voice inside told me "Just be yourself and it will be fine". And it was.

As we entered the room, our year advisor, who had always been great with names, greeted me. "Aletia, you haven't changed a bit", she declared, which was a very promising start to the evening. As I sought out the people I most wanted to connect with, there were hugs and smiles, and a real sense of comraderie. Everyone, most likely, was just as apprehensive as I was, and we all began by laughing awkwardly about forgetting one another's names. It was incredible to think that we were at high school before facebook, mobile phones and email and yet all these advances had been integral to organising the evening. Basically in our day we wrote assignments by hand, and communicated via note passing by day and the telephone by night. We also seemed to have a preference for large pink lunch boxes, according to one photo that I found.

20 years on and we haven't aged a bit!!!

Apart from being really excited to catch up with members of my friendship group again after so long, it was also lovely to see old classmates and reminisce about particularly odd teachers, memorable conversations on the bus ride from St Leonards station, going to Christian camp just to meet guys and those 1980s French songs whose lyrics are still imprinted into our brains. Discovering that I have a blog fan amongst my former peers (hi Ada) was another highlight. It occurred to me that it was really the competitive system and some teachers that had dampened my memory of high school, not my fellow students. Nobody was there to judge and we were all delighted to see each other...just as we are.

I have to confess that I was intrigued by the news that Madame Pickering, who eventually succeeded in getting two of us out of her class so that her precious average didn't suffer, now serves chips on a beach somewhere up north. I picture her giving those surfies a few lessons in pronunciation! I began to wonder what became of the Latin teacher who enjoyed the pleasure of my company during many a lunchtime detention while I repeatedly re-conjugated the verb to do/make with correct spelling or came to grips with the past imperfect tense as pertaining to the life and times of Caecilius and his family.

My only regret was probably not getting around to talk to some of the girls from Drama. This was one class that crossed all the friendship boundaries and where we had to put those petty differences aside and build a sense of community for a higher cause - love of the theatre (oh, and the other motivator - fear of humiliation on stage in front of family, friends and the rest of the school). I fondly remember playing Nora in "A woman of no importance" and Envy in Dr Faustus' Seven Deadly Sins, and being regularly reminded of the benefits of
Alexander technique by one of the Ms Fitzgeralds. Drama class was what made the rest of high school bearable for me, as well as, oddly enough, Maths. For some reason I loved Algebra...

As our hostess (the girl who two decades ago was deemed most likely to organise the reunion) reminded us, we hadn't really changed all that much. Those from the debating team were now lawyers or appearing on Insight discussing our country's budget. Those who wanted to be Prime Minister were now active in politics. One girl from the nerd group (her term, not mine) was telling me that too many of her friends are predictably in actuarial work, and the party animals were getting rowdy when the night was still young.  The talkative people possibly hadn't drawn breath in twenty years and the comedians still have us rolling on the floor laughing (yep, we spelt it out in full in our day). And of course none of us have aged a bit. :)

Themed cup cakes from Vanilla Whisk

So, another decade over, and what have we done? Our motto means "toward higher things" and I think that's what we've done, in our own individual ways. People have pursued careers, started families, moved state, moved country, gotten in and out of relationships, but mostly just continued on with the business of being ourselves, which is all we can ever do. I reckon I'll go to the next reunion as well, because I want to have the opportunity in another ten years time to mark where I am at, and reflect on how my high school days shaped me into who I became. In the meantime - Ad Altiora!

#YesAllWomen

Like many others, I was horrified to hear that Elliot Rodger, a 22 year old California man killed 6 people, apparently in an act of revenge towards the women he was attracted that wouldn't sleep with him and the men who succeeded where he failed. This incident seemed to touch many of us in a painful place and has led to heated discussions on misogyny, male entitlement, and sexual harassment. Two twitter hashtags gained popularity as a result of this incident - #notallmen for men who say that not all men do these things, and in response to that - #yesallwomen for women to explain how misogyny affects all of us on a daily basis. What follows is my story, and thoughts.

I was about 8 or 9 when I was first experienced discomfort around the opposite sex. It was an incident that was innocent enough. A boy in my class had a crush on me. He had made this clear a couple of times, and I guess I hadn't responded positively enough for him, so he decided to change tactic. I was walking home from school when suddenly I hear somebody calling out my name. It was his brother warning me "Aletia, look out, [boy's name] is coming to kiss you". The two of them were racing towards me at an alarming rate. I ran the rest of the way home with those two boys tearing after me, and left it to my father to explain why I didn't want to come out of my room and be his girlfriend.

In his article entitled "Your Princess is in Another Castle: Misogyny, Entitlement and Nerds", blogger and self confessed nerd Arthur Chu describes how video games like Mario and movies like "Revenge of the Nerds" contribute to a belief amongst nerds that if you are persistent enough, try a different tactic, or pretend to be somebody you are not, you will eventually "get the girl". This sense of entitlement (to a beautiful girlfriend) is a strong theme in Elliot Rodger's manifesto and his video. (Yes, I watched and read). The problem with this thinking is that it ignores the right of a woman as a human being to have a say in who she dates, and when.

A few years later, as a young teenager, also on the walk home, an older man followed me and when he got close enough, asked me out. I didn't know what to say, because I didn't know him, and thought I was maybe too old for getting kidnapped, but too young for dating. In the end, I declined and nothing else happened, but it was odd, and left me a bit warier than I had previously been of strange men. Since then there have been the usual wolf whistles, persistent asker-outer-ers, and other awkward moments that I won't go into. In my late twenties, I was accused of having an affair with a much older man, and this really shook me. One rumour was that the man had fantasised about having a relationship with me, based on what I had thought was a positive, platonic, mentoring relationship.

These encounters have left me very hesitant about friendships with older men. They also tap into another emerging theme: that, yes, all women have experienced incidents that make them wary of men. Some of the stories on the #yesallwomen hash tag are far more disturbing than mine, but the point is that overwhelmingly it is men who rape and sexually harass, and it is mainly women (although young men too) who are the victims. Society tells women how to avoid rape, placing a sense of blame incorrectly onto women, while very rarely telling men to take responsibility for their actions. The idea that we need to be raising young men who respect women and understand what they go through is hardly on anyone's radar.

In the article "Lessons from #Notallmen / #Yesallwomen", by Devin McHutchin, the idea of male privilege is explored. The reality is that, while not all men will rape or murder, all men do benefit from being male and the privileged position men hold in society. Centuries of positive reinforcement mean that men on average are more confident than women, earn more, and are treated with more respect for the simple reason that they were born male. I remember feeling a strong sense of injustice because my father let my boyfriend  drive his car but not me, despite the fact I am still the only one out of the three of us with a completely clean driving record. My boyfriend at the time had no qualms about benefiting from this priveleged, boys club mentality. And, just as I benefit from being white, and know that I can be unintentionally racist from time to time, I am wary of men who claim not to be sexist. Even my gentlest, most gender-aware male friends have been known to make occasional assumptions or comments that perpetuate patriarchal norms, and cause offence.

So, I do feel that #yesallwomen have stories of harassment, discrimination and worse. Our past experience does influence how we respond to new men that we meet. And yes all men benefit from society's bias towards them. What we as men and women need to do is to change the way we all view the coupling process. The only sense of entitlement anybody should feel is entitled to say no. Also, we should be brave enough to stand up and question the most harmful beliefs that lead to violence against women, and encourage the men in our lives to listen, openly and humbly, to our stories, as that is always the first step to healing.

Power and lightbulb moments

With it being International Women's Day the other day, I have been thinking about the power some have over others. I was struck by the message that in NSW, domestic violence is still the most common case that police respond to, and that half of all cases go unreported. It was suggested that there are more than 700 instances of domestic violence occuring in NSW every day. It's clear to me that there is still so much to be done in Australia to close the gap in opportunity, power and safety between men and women, yet many people in Australia believe that all the battles have already been fought, and that there is nothing a woman can't do, if she would just stop complaining and get on with it.

Then, across the Pacific ocean, I find myself on the opposite end of the power spectrum. As a white woman I am constantly aware of my own power and privilege. In Solomon Islands I represent those who have greater access to money, safety and decision making ability. This was made even more startlingly clear to me this past week when my Solomon Islands colleagues were invited to share about some of the power inequalities that they experience in a cross-cultural group. For the first time in five years, the "elephant in the room" was being discussed. They explained how it felt that decisions were already made before the meeting had started, how they felt inferior and unable to contribute anything worthwhile, and how some more powerful people would interrupt, talk over and generally not seem to value the "Solomon voice".

Suddenly, I saw that lightbulb moment happen for the most powerful people in the room. Instead of insistently denying any suggestion that interactions within our cross-cultural group were not 100% rosy, as had been the reaction in the past, there was genuine listening, and they began to understand. We agreed upon some ways to change the power dynamic a little - discussing more complex issues in smaller groups before sharing with the wider group, allowing a moment of silent reflection before rushing in with our thoughts, and taking a secret ballot to find out how people actually feel about the level of power that they hold in the group. As a result, the mood in the group really improved for the better.

In the taxi later on my Solomon colleagues and I were discussing this turn of events. We couldn't believe how much things had changed. Then one of my colleagues summed it up: "I just realised that she didn't realise what she was doing". What we had assumed was deliberate we began to realise was not. Some just hadn't realised the extent of their power. It was our own lightbulb moment.

So, as I think about the men in my life, I realise that some of them probably just don't realise either. Of course, my friends range from those men who would describe themselves as feminists and "get it", to those who can't understand why you'd need a women's only space, and all those in between who benefit in many little ways from the position of power that they hold.

As I listened to my Sols colleagues share their discomfort, I could relate. I sometimes feel that my views are unimportant and that decisions are already made by others with more power. And I wonder how I can learn from my Solomon Islands colleagues about how can I share my experience with those in more powerful positions than me in a way that allows that realisation, and enables them to be part of the solution rather than feeling like the problem?