Another

I heard the news the other day
Another gentle soul
Made a devastating exit

He is added to the collection
Of young men whose lives
Are consumed by the black dog

I remember those already gone;
Artists, dreamers, wanderers
Who loved with big hearts

And i try to find a way
To be there, again, be real
When all I feel is numb

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.

Those bullies

One of my favourite episodes of the IT Crowd is the one where Moss has to deal with a group of bullies on a park bench. Eventually, after some role playing of likely scenarios with his colleague (a technique that also helped him learn how to buy sandwiches), and a surprising turn of events where he finds himself in possession of a weapon, he overcomes the fear of those bullies picking on him.

I can relate to dear old Moss. There are some people in my life who, possibly due to their own insecurities, like to ever so subtly undermine my confidence. It's sometimes only after years of silently suffering and tears in the toilet that I realise it is not ok to feel this way. And what's more, it's not just happening to me. Others have noticed it too, or also been victim to the behaviour and are just better than me at responding.

I do think I need to take responsibility for enabling people to treat me badly. At this age, I have *almost* mastered surrounding myself with positive, affirming people. But we can't control who we interact with all the time. Sometimes we just have to find ways to live with somebody.

I am grateful, in a weird way, to these difficult people, as their behaviour allows me to grow. Sometimes there are hard-to-hear truths to be found amongst the put downs, even if the delivery leaves a lot to be desired. It takes courage to accept one's shortcomings with grace, and it requires a certain wisdom to differentiate between what is useful feedback and what is, well, just plain meanness. It also is a reminder for me to find more constructive ways to voice my frustrations with others, knowing that being constructive and encouraging is more effective in changing people's behaviour and getting the outcome we want than criticism or aggression.

Like Moss, I use role play, although mainly inside my head, to rehearse ways to respond to the mean stuff that show greater respect for myself and that name the behaviour as inappropriate. Some people say you have to kill the other person with kindness, others say it's best to ignore. Many are able to model assertiveness with ease. And then there's always those who are able to employ the clever use of humour to disarm or surprise the other person.

Whichever way I respond, the trick is to do so in the moment, and not a week later when the perfect comeback finally occurs to me. On the rare occasions that I do respond assertively, creatively and respectfully, I feel good - just like Moss at the end of the episode as he confidently strides past those bullies on the bench in the park. I, however, am not brandishing a gun!

Budget boo hoo

Last night Joe Hockey announced the budget. You all know what happened. There were cuts to health, education, overseas aid, and welfare, and except in some cases it really seemed to be the most vulnerable who are being robbed to subsidise the rich. The winners were big business, medical research, the military, road infrastructure and subsidies for fossil fuels. There was no mention of renewable energy, climate change or innovative transport solutions like high speed rail. The offshore detention of refugees on Manus Island alone will cost $8.3 billion while there will be $7.9 billion cuts to overseas aid. I felt very sad.

Then another thing happened. This morning I went for a walk along the Cooks River. I feel better when I am near water. On the way I passed an elderly man. We nodded and smiled. On the way back, there he was again. I nodded again, and this time he wanted to connect. He called out to me after I had passed him by and asked me my name, and I'm ashamed to say that I paused, looked at him, then kept walking. I had panicked, and decided not to engage.

After a few paces I started to feel really bad. What if his wife had recently died and he just wanted to connect with another human being? Maybe he had something really important to tell me. Would it have cost me so much to stop on my day off and talk to somebody that I didn't already know? What was I really afraid of? That he would rape me in broad daylight? Or that he might ask me a favour? I started to weep with shame as I walked.

So, what's the connection between my non-interaction with this stranger on the path by the river and the budget from hell? I think the link is that we've lost touch with our common humanity. One friend was saying that anthropologically we can only accommodate a certain number of people into our immediate circle. And sometimes I think we are more able to empathise with those who are in our immediate circles.

I wonder how many of the socio-economic groups that will lose out in this budget Tony Abbott and Joe Hockey have had meaningful interactions with? How many of their close friends are ex-soldiers who struggle daily with the psychological and emotional scars of fighting wars on our country's behalf and can't hold down a job of any kind? How many grew up in housing commission arrangements? How many have struggled throughout life due to disability or mental health issues? How many fled war and persecution, torture and rape and then lived in poverty stricken conditions in refugee camps before ending up on our shores? How many currently live in countries that have been aid partners for the past few decades, with limited opportunities for basic health services, free education or employment opportunities? I can honestly say that I count all these groups amongst my friends, and maybe that makes it easier for me to understand their circumstances and why we need a budget that is just as well as sustainable.

But it's not just me and my bleeding heart friends who think it's important to be compassionate as well as fiscally responsible. The United Nations has set out standards for countries to follow when it comes to refugees, Indigenous Peoples, development aid and action on climate change. Australia already falls embarrassingly short on all four accounts, yet the rhetoric that is believed by many Australians is that our finances are in a mess, there is no urgency on climate change, we already take too many refugees, Aboriginal people have been given too much already, and that our own backyard is more important than those of our neighbours. Yet, if the SBS program "Go back where you came from" tells us anything, it is that even the most poorly educated, hard-hearted, red-neck is capable of changing their mind when they come face to face with another human being who tells their story.

So, what do I think we should do? I think we should organise and we should start to engage. While the Government might not be changing its mind any time soon, I think we can educate those who voted for them, introduce them to the facts and the real people who might open their minds and give them a broader perspective. We can provide examples of other countries that have great high speed rail, renewable energy programs, and recognise their international human rights obligations while still managing a stable economy. We can encourage the other political parties to get their act together and provide real policy alternatives at the next election. We can encourage one another to speak up about what it is we don't like, so that we can move towards a country that we're all proud of.

Lost and found

This is the story of my long lost brother.

The tale of how he came about really begins with two teenagers in the summer of 1963, but as far as I was concerned it all started with a 7 year old girl twenty years later and her unwavering wish for an older sibling.

You see, I had been wishing for siblings since I was about 3. When I was 5, I got two younger ones, and since that worked out so well, I decided it would be nice to have an older one too; somebody to stand up for me, to advise me, and be in solidarity with me during those difficult teenage years.

When I was 12 my wish was granted. An older brother had materialised and wanted to meet us. When dad told me the news, that he'd had a son when he was 19, and this person had been in touch, I burst into tears. Partly sadness that I hadn't known about him before,  partly happiness that I had an older brother after all, and partly a knowledge, as far as my young mind could comprehend, that this new information was big and complicated and was going to change how I saw the past and the future.

Andrew on a visit to Sydney,  circa 1992

My new brother was 24 years old - positively ancient as far as I was concerned, and already had a mum and dad who had raised him and a sister. He also had a new biological mother to get to know. Plus he lived in Melbourne. None of these factors were conducive to the instant solidarity and closeness that I had been expecting. But I retained an open mind.

I can't remember much of what we talked about that first meeting. We probably shared family photos, he must have mentioned his work as a librarian, and I think dad made plans for him to meet the grandparents. I suspect us kids were asked to give a short violin recital. I do remember him telling me that he used to really annoy his sister when they were teenagers, and I filed that away as evidence that maybe I had gotten the best of both worlds after all. Everyone thought he looked more like Uncle David than any of us, although he did share dad's strong dislike of capsicum, which gave a certain validity to dad's claims that it was a genuine health condition.

Overall, dad was just stoked that his son hadn't turned up as some tattooed bloke on a motorbike. That seemed to be his main fear, so it must have been comforting to see that Andrew is undecorated and prefers 4-wheeled transport. The other fear was that Andrew and I would meet, fall in love, then discover we were related and end up on "The Oprah Winfrey Show". That was thankfully no longer a concern either. We also learned that he is incredibly considerate, sociable, thoughtful, tells a great story and has an exceptional memory for people and places. None of us could have asked for a more delightful long lost relative.

And so began the getting to know you process. He sent us birthday cards, and if he was in Sydney or any of us were in Melbourne, we would meet up. He gradually became part of our lives, not wanting to intrude too soon, and for many years was something between a cousin and a good friend. Since we never lived together as siblings, I still think of myself a little bit as an eldest child. And besides, his sister in Melbourne has the only legitimate sibling claim over him because of all the teasing she put up with during adolescence. We have to respect that, but I did feel extremely proud introducing my new brother to friends and relatives at my 21st. He and Richard had flown up 'specially, which meant a lot to me.

In my twenties during a visit to Melbourne I asked Andrew and Richard about the secret of their relationship success. It was a tentative request for brotherly advice. They celebrated 20 years together just last year, and are one of the happiest couples I know. "Oh, I think it helps that we're boring" Richard offered, after a longish pause. "Yes" agreed Andrew. "I like looking at open houses and Richard likes seeing planes take off. We do those things together". I have yet to find a direct application of this advice to my own life, but was very glad to receive it.

Six years ago, Andrew and Richard moved to Sydney and bought a house just a short walk over the creek from mum and dad's place. While they were house hunting, Andrew stayed with my parents, and he and Mum bonded over beautiful sunsets, chats over a morning cuppa and a love of books. Since then there have been plenty of opportunities to connect more. At family get togethers Andrew and I enjoy entertaining others by carrying on a conversation in pidgin English or giggling and gossiping about the antics of each other's friends and family. When we reminisce about the early years, Andrew will remind me that when we met I was 12 whereas the twins were only 6, and I feel like one of "the older ones". We have the solidarity thing that I always wanted. It's turned out very nicely.

Well and truly part of the family, 2013

So, here we are 25 years later. Am I glad he wanted to find us? Only on a daily basis! Would I have liked to know about him earlier? Kinda! Just like Tom Cruise's character in "Rain Man", I sometimes feel it just would have been nice to know that I had a brother. But over time the lost years diminish in proportion to the found years and it matters less. Instead of regretting what we missed, or how things could have been, I am just so glad he is in my life now. And it is a reminder that even the most unlikely of wishes can come true!

Do you hear the people sing?

I spent a lovely weekend at the National Folk Festival over Easter this year. It's become a bit of a habit for me. I catch up with friends who perform, those who sit with me and enjoy the music, and those who are kind enough to have me to stay. I also get to see some of my favourite performers live. This year a highlight was seeing Archie Roach in concert.

Archie Roach in concert

One folk festival veteran, who is also a life long activist, was complaining to me that the new generation of folk singers (as in my own generation) don't touch on political issues in the same way that their parents did. They have veered away from the radical themes that their parents would bravely sing about in the '60s and '70s like the Vietnam war or Apartheid, she says, and only sing about mundane, safe things like going for a walk or odd socks.

I started to wonder about the official definition of folk music. After a perusal of wikipaedia, it seems the exact meaning is not altogether clear. Some say folk music is anything sung in the oral tradition, like folk tales. Some said it was the music of the uncultured class, which is probably still accurate if you think of the high number of folk festival goers in animal onesies, pyjamas or blunstone boots teamed with tie dyed rainbow skirts! But one widely accepted definition appealed to me: "folk music is what the people sing".

"Charlotte Raven" creating beautiful personalised poems

I guess this final definition comes closest to explaining what folk music is for me. Some of my favourite performers use music (or poetry or art) to express their passionate feelings about subjects that affect us as people; love, loss, war, injustice, and racism. Many of these themes are the songs of angry women and men; of activists. After all, wasn't jazz born of the struggle of African American people for their civil rights? Didn't the Irish sing about oppression by the English and doesn't Archie Roach sing about the racist policies inflicted on his people by us newcomer Australians?

While Archie Roach could never be accused of not being political, he is of an older generation. Thankfully, there is evidence that our generation is not completely apolitical. The Riff Raff Radical Marching Band is pretty politically radical and made up of at least three people that I know, and who are around my age. Many of my friends who perform sing of their anger about local, national and international issues; the wastefulness of a 50 metre pool in a town of 350 people, the destruction of the Jabiluka Uranium mine, shame at living in a racist colony, and reconciling feminism with the bible. But they also sing of love, friendship, loss and laughter.

Riff Raff Radical Marching Band

So, while I agree that some of the folk music of today might seem trivial and less radical than that of earlier generations, I think our radical, political themes are there if you look. We should encourage those folk singers of our generation not to be afraid to explore the political and social themes that make us angry these days. But I hope they don't stop singing those delightful ditties about everyday matters like wondering about the things one's guitar has seen, choosing to wear yesterday's clothes again or drinking too much gin. They are as much about the people that we are today as is our anger about modern manifestations of slavery, injustice and war.

Coming right way

Three of us journeyed in my car. Two Davids and me. I nicknamed them front-seat David and back-seat David for the purpose of telling them apart. As we shared stories and snacks on the trip, front-seat David kept referring to my "dilly bag" whenever I asked him to retrieve an item for me, and I enjoyed that gesture of inclusion. We were headed for the third workshop held by Quakers and First Nations People to explore connections, racism and sovereignty. When the three of us tumbled, late, into the first session, the smiles around the room welcomed us. There were some people I hadn't seen in two years, some I had kept in touch with, and new faces.

my dilly bag

And as we fell into a rhythm of discussion sessions punctuated by meal times and sleep, it became clear that my role was to listen. I listened to stories of youth suicide, stolen children, rape, racism,  hopelessness, incarceration, deaths in custody, mental health, the white man's poison, anger, addiction, activism, hope, resilience, unconditional love, support, and forgiveness. As always, I had to guard myself against the strong emotions that always well up at these types of occasions, knowing that even being able to take care of myself is a privilege afforded those of us for whom the personal is less political.

When I think of the suicides I think of my friends who took their lives. I think maybe I can empathise somehow. Because I've received the phone call, tried to make sense of it, felt overwhelmed and angry and unsure. I've said goodbye to that beautiful, gentle soul: somebody who, in that moment, didn't think life was worth it any more. But I know it's different. To see suicide touch so many young people in the same community is not the same thing at all. What is happening for them is collective hopelessness; the collateral damage caused by decades and centuries of structural violence and racism.

When I think of the children taken away, I think of my brother, who was taken from his mother at birth. And again I think maybe I can empathise somehow. The lost years that you never really get back, the what ifs that go through your head. And how you know he is always trying to catch up on a family that he wasn't part of as a child. But again I know it's different - for them it was a deliberate attempt to deny children their heritage, to breed out the black. And it continues - now it's called "The Intervention", or "stronger futures" or "concern for little children". People shared stories from all corners of the country of children taken away and it became clear to me that they never stopped taking the children away. But some, like front-seat David, came back, determined to reconnect and reclaim their lost heritage.

"What are you Quakers going to do?" they ask us, and we are eager, but unsure. They want concrete action. Sometimes it feels as if we are very much "the other", "the enemy", and I am aware that I benefit daily from the structures that hold them back, but there are moments of solidarity. When we talk of collective action it feels like progress. I know that there is more that the women would like to say, and I could have done more to listen to their stories over meals, or during the times when I selfishly chose to spend snatching up missed sleep.

Halfway through the second day, back-seat David and I took a walk up the mountain behind the centre and looked out over Lake George, letting the strong feelings settle. I am aware that, while friends and colleagues continue to campaign against apartheid around the world, we are the oppressors in a similar scenario here in Australia. We are complicit in and benefit from two centuries of genocide. Will we have the courage to stand up and be counted among those who see and name the racism that exists in our own country and in our own hearts?

Silver Wattle Quaker Centre, Bungendore

At one point, somebody made a distinction between Quakers and other Wadjula, and I felt a sense that we were beginning to come right way, a concept introduced to me by a very wise Quaker many years ago. The idea is that, by listening and hearing stories of what has happened, we can start to build a relationship with the First Australians, and eventually start to right the wrongs of the past. When we first came to Australia, we came wrong way. Now we are being given the chance to come right way.

We gather at the tree to say goodbye to the Kooma mob who are heading home. They have fifteen hours of driving ahead of them just to get to Brisbane. Then another couple of days due West. Suddenly Koko realises that I never got one of the sovereignty t-shirts. He looks me up and down, mumbles something about needing to find a large one, and produces an XXL and thrusts it into my hands. Gratitude prevails over indignation.

One man, a gentle, thoughtful soul who I felt I connected with over the weekend, was standing  beside me. "When are you coming back to Cunnamulla?" he asks me. "Oh, when front-seat David invites me again" I reply, because we'd already established that I'd visited back in 2008. "I'll invite you", he says. "I'll show you around". I try not to let the wetness in my eyes show. After two days of listening to how my people have wronged another, I can't believe that I might have made another friend. I feel I am another small step closer to "coming right way".

On twins and non-twins

"So, what are you getting Jess for her birthday?" Tom asks me earnestly. Five minutes later I have the reverse conversation with Jess. Yep, this can mean only one thing - the twins' birthday season is well and truly upon us!

You see, I grew up with twins. My younger siblings are twins, my grandmother was a twin, and my aunt and uncle are twins. I, however, am not a twin. You could say that I am the non-twin in our family.

For the first five years of my life, I was an only child who dreamed of siblings, prayed for siblings, and played at having siblings. I had a large doll that I referred to as my sister, and was bitterly disappointed that she seemed to get smaller and smaller as the years went on. So when mum and dad told me that I would be granted not one but two of these fellow offspring that I had covetted so, I was stoked!

Once I got over the initial disappointment that they too didn't seem to be the right size for playing with me, I patiently waited for the circumstances to change. I had to wait two years before they could reasonably be expected to sit at the little desks upstairs and dutifully play the part of the school students while I played Miss Valentine! I had to wait even longer for them to be able to play 500 and charades, but it's all good now.

The Golden Jubilee of twinhood, Paris 2007

I enjoy twin birthday season, and I enjoy teasing them about it. The earnest conversations about what to do for the other, the generosity they both show, discussion about parties, shopping and lots of phone calls. Also just the "double-ness" of it all. I do remember when they turned 21 and Jess mentioned that she might prefer her own party, there was talk of separatism. Tears were shed. But that was all forgotten a few years later when we spent their 25th birthday together in Paris. The golden jubilee of twinhood was definitely worth commemorating, they assured me, and they were generous enough to include me!!

I can remember people asking Tom or Jess what it was like being a twin, and they never knew how to answer. It was all they had ever known. Tom used to ask them in return what it's like not being a twin and that usually shut them up.

I recently met another non-twin. Or to be more accurate, she is actually a non-quad, and I think she summed it up when she said "it sucks not being a quad". It can be a bit lonely, but mostly it's double the fun and I would never want it any other way.

Truth telling

Somebody shared a Virginia Woolf quote the other day: "a feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life". I have been thinking about this, because I recently told the truth about my life and didn't get the reaction I wanted. And I'm okay with that.

The truth is not always easy to hear. We don't want to find out that our idols or family members or partners are fallible and have human frailties. There are things I've done in my life that I'm not proud of, and I'd like to be able to tell those stories truthfully, without judgement. I've also found that people don't want to hear about hard stuff, messy stuff, and raw emotions. It takes courage to share those things, and courage to hear them.

I'd also like to be able to tell the truth about what has happened to me, the times when I have been hurt, or really vulnerable. Often, when it comes to a story about my life, whether it happened when I was a child, a decade ago, or last week, I've already been on a journey with the story before the time of the telling. I've been angry, sad, and confused. But normally when I come to the point of telling others the story, especially new friends, I've still got lots of those emotions associated with the story, but I'm okay with it. I forget, though, that sharing a story is a two way thing. Sometimes I tell it flippantly, or carelessly. Sometimes I don't think enough about how it's going to affect the other person, whether they've got enough resilience to deal with it, and also whether I've put enough of my own armour on or built up enough trust with the other person before I make myself vulnerable in that way. 

But I guess a feminist, or any person wanting to live with integrity, keeps on telling the truth about their lives, even if it's hard. The trick is to get better at knowing when, and how and why we're sharing that information about ourselves. And then to be able to live with the reaction.