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. 

Unbiased?

When I was studying my Masters degree, the unit on Peace Journalism had a significant impact on me.  Our lecturer, former BBC Journalist Jake Lynch, explained that wars are increasingly fought as much through the media as on the ground. How do journalists tasked with informing the public about war navigate truth telling amidst nationalist propaganda? How do they find the right balance of professional detachment and human compassion? And how do they decide when to provide analysis and when to simply present the facts?

We learnt that in war/violence journalism, otherwise simply known as Journalism, a situation is presented as having 2 sides or parties, both seeking to "win". It often ignores context and history, and tends to demonise the other, reports reactively on physical violence after it has happened, focuses on elite peace-makers and gives names of the "other" evil doers while dehumanising those most impacted. There is a convention in structuring war journalism where both sides should be represented in the article or media piece, so that the reader/viewer has the experience of: "On the one hand xx, on the other hand yy. In the end, who really knows. You decide. I'm Jake Lynch, BBC news".

One significant weakness of war journalism is that it ignores power imbalance, positioning two seemingly equal parties up against one another as if we are at a football game. When we had the marriage equality plebiscite in Australia, it was often considered "fair" to include both a LGBTQI+ advocate and a religious conservative in the same discussion panel. Seems "unbiased" to have both sides represented, right? But, in a country that ended up voting overwhelmingly for marriage equality, why did we need to continue to give equal voice space to religious conservatives who have historically held the microphone anyway, and have caused significant emotional harm to vulnerable people?  

With the current situation in Gaza, I see all the same hallmarks of war journalism cropping up again. The media in the first days since 7th October was using language that positioned Israel and Hamas as two seemingly equal parties, failing to acknowledge that one of the two has the support of powerful allies, and has the most military might. It was as if 7th October was the "start" of the war and nothing that happened prior mattered. There is also the "atmosphere of doubt" about who is to blame for the hospital destruction, and our own Government endorsing the flying of the Israeli flag colours on the Opera House. There was significant pressure to condemn the actions of Hamas, but not the same pressure to speak out about the lives lost as a result of decades long military occupation and brutality. One of my Palestinian friends shared the image below, pointing to the ways that the media can present only part of a situation to create a false impression. 

In contrast, Peace Journalism looks for context, history and nuance. It notices and names structural violence and gives voice to the voiceless. It names all deplorable actions and evil doers. It explores and highlights nonviolent solutions. Stories of churches, hospitals and schools and how everyday people are desperately working to protect and care for civilians remind us of the compassion and courage and resilience of our fellow humans, re-humanising them. I also appreciated this article from an Israeli perspective, which understands the actions on 7th October as part of a much larger context. Breaking the Silence also shared about what they, as former IDF soldiers, were sent to do, and why they have courageously told the truth about harm they caused. 

When I returned from Palestine, I tried to incorporate these same principles into the stories I told. I met so many people who were engaged in their own nonviolent resistance against the occupation; Dar Zahran who opened up his family home as a museum in Ramallah to acknowledge and increase understanding about historical Palestine, the Nawaja family who continue the vigil on their land despite the regular threat of violence and home demolition, Gibreen, who took his sheep out to graze on his land situated on the other side of a settler highway as a statement of sumud (steadfast resilience) and the children who do their homework alongside the family sheep and goats, huddled in a cave to protect themselves from regular army incursions into their isolated home. They are all heroes in my mind.

Retreat

Gazing out past the forest of gum trees I can just make out the blue of the river and pick up the intermittent sound of canoeists making their way from the bridge to the dam. It’s a beautiful, warm day, with just enough wind for gum leaves to fall at times like very gentle rain, but not so much that my water colours or novels are affected in any way. I’ve set up the hammock and taken a couple of swims in the river. Water has been boiled and chilled for drinking and the biggest tragedy of the holiday is that I forgot to bring any chai. One smallish table fashioned from a 3 legged tree stump provides the single point of Telstra reception. Just enough to let people know I’m okay, but not enough to do any of the non-retreaty things like check facebook or emails. 

This beautiful spot has been a special place for me for most of my life.  Usually I’ll be here at this time of year with a group of friends, and there will be games of 500, codenames, mafia, and small groups will take responsibility for each dinner. Lunches will be a consortium of whatever everyone brought along. Someone will have brought chai or an exciting snack, or the makings of pancakes. And the sense of community that this place facilitates will abound. Over the years there have been many deep and meaningful conversations over the campfire, or in the river, or atop the “throne” rock formation above the cave. 

This time, though, I’ve come on my own. Because this past year has been demanding. And through a mix of COVID fog, work pressures, a break up and family commitments, I hadn’t got my act together to invite others. Also, a retreat felt like a nice way to end the year. A time to read, reflect, and rejuvenate. Whenever I arrive, it's as if the trees are welcoming me back. A warm glow envelopes me as I walk down the hill to the hut.

A few Quaker friends were talking about personal retreats when we met just before the holiday break. One person intended to visit the local Botanical gardens every day for several days and use the time to be in silent retreat, in nature, without having to travel to a special retreat venue. That got us all thinking about how we might achieve “retreat” in different ways. 

As it happened, a week or so ago mum and I visited the Botanical gardens and the Art Gallery of NSW. We followed the rainforest path mum had trodden many a time in the years following grandma's death, as she was seeking ideas and creating her own garden at the rear section of the family home. These escapes into town on a Sunday afternoon were a part of my mother's life that I hadn't  been aware of. 

At the entrance to the new North Wing of the Art Gallery was a welcome committee - a collection of blue statues who might be from the past or future, some with long arms and others with long legs, who were cooperating to get daily tasks done. These creatures were a highlight for both mum and me, and reminded me of the way the trees welcome me home to that special place.

So, as I attempted to wind up the hammock and sweep the fallen leaves into a sense of order, turned off the fridge, put away the cups and bowls, and brought the last of my bags up to the car, I considered how I might bring retreat into daily life during 2023. While nothing beats actually getting away, I know from the past 3 years that it's not always possible. So, I'll take time to read (I now have a decent pile that people have lent or given me recently) and maybe join a group to continue with water colour or try pottery. Swims at the local pool or beaches will be energizing. As for the lanky limbed welcome committee, they will remain in my minds eye, able to surface as needed. And there's always chai at my place. 

Breadcrumbs

We look at one another in frustration and sadness before she gets up and leaves. We've both just aired our grievances. There's not a lot more to say, yet it still feels abrupt. It's the most recent in a bit of a string of awkward goodbyes over the past few years, and I wonder again if I could have done anything differently.

Lately I’ve been getting into the Saturday morning habit of stopping at the local bakery on my way back from the gym and waiting in line with other Marrickville locals and their dogs for a kim chi scone, a chai brew and a seeded loaf. Back home, the seeded loaf always needs to be sliced and somehow that means that I’m sweeping up crumbs for the next few days. 

My therapist has been talking about breadcrumbs lately as well. Not the seeded loaf type of crumbs, but more the figurative type - times when I am willing to accept scerricks of others' time, or mere morsels of their emotional support or when there isn't reciprocity. She thinks I need to develop a bit more of an intolerance for crumbs. 

This is a good challenge for me. It still feels unfamiliar to me to set a boundary, or articulate my needs. As someone who is "other" focused, I have tended to think about what the other person wants and try to see their point of view, which can lead to resentment if they're not doing the same. But in recent times when someone has been flaky a few too many times, or disregarded my needs, or crossed a boundary, I’ve talked about the impact on me, or simply made a request about future behaviour. I've also been able to reflect on my own behaviour and come back later to apologise when I've been out of line. This feels like progress, and most of the time leads to a deeper connection with the other person.

Thanks to facebook memories, I'm reminded that this time two years ago I was staying at a friend's place while I processed the infamous "tea towel incident". I was deciding whether to leave or stay. Able to pretty my temporary sanctuary up with flowers, plants and a couple of cute homeware items purchased from Vinnies, I realised that I was starting to restore a sense of self. Part of me had been tempted to believe a narrative that I was too sensitive, that I was running away, and that I should consider more fully how my leaving would negatively impact on others. A friend recently reassured me that I wasn't running away so much as removing myself from a dynamic that wasn't safe for me. Sometimes communicating needs, setting boundaries or being vulnerable doesn't lead to a deeper connection and the best outcome for all is to walk away.

This year I had an odd birthday. There had been a death, and work had been stressful, and I'd ended up crying a lot. When it came time to join the evening gathering I had organised as a celebration, I worried that I’d still be sad. But I was surrounded by friends; people who show up even though there's stuff going on in their lives, who enjoy spending time with me, and who value the qualities in me that I value in myself. I came away feeling good about the nourishing friendships that I’ve cultivated over the years. 

This helped clarify for me that from now onwards I want to focus on those relationships where I feel valued and safe. For the others, I can appreciate their wonderful qualities, and be grateful for what I've learnt about myself from the relationship, but I've recently developed a mild intolerance for breadcrumbs. So, I've decided to choose me. I choose the whole loaf. I choose another slightly abrupt and awkward goodbye. 

Smell the flowers

Our lunch bowls of boiled vegetables and pasta with tomato sauce sat empty in front of us; an adequately filling and nourishing meal. The luncheon had been produced using a combination of the stove, the microwave and Dad’s special touch (which is to say, a firm belief that there’s no need to heat pasta sauce if the pasta is going to heat it anyway). Peering out the window, I commented on the break in the rain and it being a good time for a walk. “Yes, I’ll get my umbrella” agreed Dad, plodding off in search of an umbrella and a plastic bag to put it in. I decided to wear a hat as rain protection, and after some back and forth with options hanging on the back door, we set off with me sporting a smallish cricket hat that nobody remembers belonging to. 

Reaching a juncture on our journey, I asked Dad whether he wanted to venture down the lane, or continue along the footpath. Despite previously expressing strong misgivings about the lane, due to it being too overgrown and tree root-laden, he chose the lane, and we carefully navigated a couple of rebellious treeroots and were able to stop and smell the jasmine which was flowering at the southern end.

Later on the same walk, which is really just one block (or 1,000 steps according to the step tracker on Dad’s phone) that Dad treads so slowly that we can be gone for at least 30 minutes, Dad pointed out some bright red flowers. They were the same type that he’d found thrown into a neighbour’s front garden a couple of walks ago, rescued and placed in a vase on the kitchen table. Dad also likes to rescue discarded work gloves on his walks, of which mum, hearing about it from her base in Hobart, doesn’t approve. 

Cleaning up after lunch was a fairly simple process, although there was the matter of the leftover pasta sauce. We agreed to freeze it, which meant searching for a suitable container. The next task was labeling the container, which was complicated by neither of us knowing where any tape was. After searching dresser drawers and a funny little shelf where bread used to be delivered 100 years ago, Dad eventually found some sticky tape in the cupboard above the microwave. He carefully wrote “Tomato sauce, October 2022” with a black marker, which then almost immediately began to fade on the sticky tape. “Masking tape would have been better” I noted, without being prepared to look for any. Dad felt that it was really the year that was more important than the month, and a flash of a memory came back to me. After Grandma died, the aunts were cleaning out the freezer and found some unlabelled wedding cake. The last wedding had been Jane’s about 10 years earlier, so it was assumed that it must have been hers. Anyway, I think it was Dad who thought of putting a second piece of tape over the first to reinforce the writing, and after searching again in the dresser drawer and bread shelf, he found it in the cupboard above the microwave, and was pleased with the result. 

Recent visits to Dad have been quite enjoyable. When I was a teenager and he was busy “providing for a family”, our paths only really crossed when there was conflict - his TV too loud just outside my bedroom, his socks going missing and ending up mistakenly in my laundry pile, or times when I wasn’t allowed to go out. Now, both of us in different stages of life, there isn’t the same clash of wills, and we can take in the simpler things in life together - an impressive flower, daily walks, and the changing seasons. Dad, who rarely prepared a meal in our 20 odd years of living together, (although that is partly because his pizza a la peanut butter remains on the veto list) now even bakes (from packet mix) if I give him enough notice of my arrival.

So, Dad continues his daily walks and dutifully calls mum each morning and night to assure her that he’s alive and well. He occasionally accuses me of being bossy, and other people of interfering, but mostly he's placid and agreeable, and chats away pleasantly with the community drivers who take him to appointments. When I asked Dad if he felt resentment towards any of us he thought about it and said no. He didn’t feel resentment towards any people, just about the aging process. At which point his voice wobbled ever so slightly. 

Mothers Day

This year I found myself accepting a “Mothers’ Day” massage invitation from the local urban health retreat, and a rose from my gym instructor. The pink thornless stem was thrust into my hand as I was leaving the gym, sweaty and tired. “Happy Mothers’ Day” he said with more than enough cheer for both of us, dutifully wiping his offering with hand sanitiser. Walking home with the ill-gotten gift that was too long to fit easily into my tote bag, I started to feel that my hasty reply “Oh, I’m not a mother” might have been a little too self-effacing. He had insisted I take it anyway.

While Mothers Day has come to be a time of commercialism whereby we bestow gifts and praise upon women who have borne children, Mothering Sunday was apparently an early Christian tradition where workers returned home to their “Mother” church, meaning the village and church of their childhood. We talk about our mother tongue to mean the language of our childhood, and the mother country to talk about one’s native country. So, it seems mothering can have a broader meaning. But there’s a reason the word Mother is used figuratively in this sense. Mothers have traditionally been so integral to those early memories.  

          ........................................

"Do you have children?" she asks as our gaze is drawn to the rainbow unicorn birthday cake. Standing amongst the group of mothers, who I haven't actually been introduced to by the harried host, I keep my response brief. "No". We stand there in awkward silence for several more moments. At another child's party I am introduced as "the other person without children", as if that in itself ought to be a conversation prompt, like "you both play tennis". These days I carefully manage how and when I attend children’s birthday parties.

In another scenario, I was sharing a drink with a friend, a woman who I admire greatly. She's incredibly funny, compassionate and creative, has a heart for justice, and is nobody’s fool. Yet, it was only after the second glass on an occasion several years into our friendship, that she gave any indication of how the grief of childlessness had affected her. It occurred to me that while a miscarriage brings unimaginable grief, at least it's a grief that has a moment and a form. It’s a known quantity. People send flowers. Grief of childlessness is less tangible, and the way childlessness is understood has less “form” as well, as another blogger reflects. 

A few years ago, during a weekend away with several amazing childless and childfree women, a friend recommended a book called “The life unexpected: 12 weeks to your Plan B for a meaningful and fulfilling future without children”. The author, Jody Day, weaves her own journey of coming to terms with childlessness into a book which explores the experiences of countless others. She offers examples of role models; childless women who have lived well and made significant achievements in their lives. It occurred to me reading this book that I wasn’t alone or unusual in my sadness, nor would I always feel this way. And the negative labels of childless and non-mother now have permission to evolve into positive, life giving descriptions. Now, a couple of years later, I can speak more openly about the subject, which back then was just too painful. 

Women with children regularly remind me of my good fortune. “Oh, I’d give anything to have a night at home alone on the couch watching tv” they gush at me, or “I wish I had the time to paint my nails”, or "you're probably busy partying". While my day to day life doesn’t look quite like how they imagine it to be, I have come to see the advantages of the dependant-free lifestyle I find myself in. I actually love being the fun aunt, having time to create a deep connection with nieces and nephews both biological and chosen, and the space to think deliberately about how I want to set boundaries with these small people, show love and model living with courage, vulnerability and integrity. I enjoy being involved in voluntary activities, and cherish the way I can spend a Saturday morning sitting in a cafe writing if I wish, or enjoy live music of an evening. 

I also wonder whether hiding behind the comments about toenails and couches is perhaps a voice that is as silenced and frustrated as mine. Mothers who want to talk about regrets or loneliness or a yearning to live out broader dreams than motherhood might be worried about being judged as ungrateful or “bad mothers”. Where is the space to talk of such things? Is there a way that we can be present for one another in our regrets, and yearnings, and moments of joy, without it being a competition as to who is most hard done by or most successful?

There’s also a cynical part of me that sees Mothers Day accolades as tokenistic. Our society idolises mothers, but does it really respect them? When people wax lyrical about how much they appreciate everything that their mothers and wives do, I can’t help but think “why don’t you just do your share of the work, mate?” Our national household survey indicates that even when incomes and paid workloads are even, women in coupled households with dependent children (as in Mothers) do 23 hours of housework compared to men, who do 16 hours. And that's a significant improvement since the early 2000s.

So, yes, it is important to acknowledge mothers and motherhood. And I am ever grateful for the ways my mother’s care has shaped the trajectory of my life, and what she gave up to be my mother. And there is room, I hope, to acknowledge broader notions of mothering such as nurture of communities, and the birthing of new ideas. My adopted aunt, who has several more decades of navigating the childless scene under her belt than me, reflected today that Mothers Day doesn’t have to be a time of exclusion or loneliness for those who are not Mothers. The intent is evolving, she believes, to include recognition of those who nurture others in a multitude of ways, and those who would have liked to have been Mothers but couldn’t or didn’t. When I skyped with family on Mothers’ Day a couple of years ago my nephew wanted to wish me a Happy Mothers Day as well, but then remembered that I’m not a mother. After a short and slightly awkward pause while he contemplated this dilemma, he announced that there should be a “Ladies Day”. Cute. And luckily there is an Auntie's day in July, so he can make me a card then. But until July rolls around, I’ll unapologetically take the rose and the massage, thanks very much.

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. 

No joy

The other day I needed a "comfort skirt" and found, at the depths of the wardrobe, one that I haven't worn in almost ten years. It's a bit small for me now, and some of the patchwork panels have gone skewiff after so much wearing and washing, but it's one item I didn't feel ready to throw out in the recent "does it spark joy?" clean up adventure. So, I put the skirt on and we spent a comforting day together.

The skirt and I in our heyday!

The skirt got me thinking about Marie Kondo in a broader sense. Some of her principles for household clear outs could be applied to our social networks too. At a time when its possible to become "friends" with someone we hardly know, and then to "de-friend" or "ghost" someone we have come to know quite well, I wonder if we're as intentional about the contents of our social wardrobe as we are about our regular wardrobe. Have we become a "throw away society" when it comes to some people? And a hoarder when it comes to others? Sometimes it's good for the soul to part with those relationships that no longer spark joy, but do we take the time to properly thank folk who've drifted out of our lives?

Not long after the recent election I was surreptitiously de-friended by a family member. Apart from not knowing how this will play out at a future family get-together, if indeed there are any more, I am disappointed that there was no explanation (although I can guess what it's to do with), no farewell, and no gracious recognition of happier times that we've shared.

So, as I contemplate the future for pre-loved outfits and friends, I realise it's not too late, for me at least, to do this right. As I carefully fold the skirt, I remember the day I bought it, at a market in Freemantle. A friend selected a slightly different one for herself, and we delightedly compared notes for a while afterwards. I remember that I was wearing it when I met my ex for the first time. He said that the corduroy was a giveaway of my hippy tendencies!! The same tendencies that, ironically, are not appreciated by all.

And I remember an outing - just the two of us - when I was about 5. I think there was ice cream involved, a walk along the beach and a child-like wonder at the world. And when, sitting on Grandma’s back porch as a twenty-something, I was told in conspiratorial tones about a first crush. I’ll treasure those memories.

So, while people and garments will continue to come and go from my life, I'll always have the memories. Each one has a special place in my heart, even if one of us has outgrown the other or there's hurt and disappointment still in the air.

And so with those sentiments in mind, I'm now headed to the op shop. I'll be dropping off a bag with a few memories inside. I hope that the skewiff patchwork corduroy skirt will spark joy and create new memories for someone else for many years to come.

Pell and the patriarchy

Last week’s lift on the suppression order regarding Cardinal Pell’s guilty conviction has led to an outpouring of anger towards Pell and the Catholic Church. There is horror and fury about the acts of abuse and harm inflicted on two children by a man in a position of power, and then there is anger and disappointment at the institution that turned a blind eye. For me, there’s a third reason to be angry and that’s the patriarchy. Our social system is one where those in positions of power - mostly men - cover for and endorse one another at the expense of the basic rights and needs of those with less power - predominantly women and children. It is this system of structural violence against those most vulnerable that enables an act of harm to go untold, unbelieved, unreported and unresolved for two decades.

A number of high profile men came out in support of Cardinal Pell, despite the overwhelming evidence against him and despite a jury’s decision. Pell’s barrister described the acts he committed as “no more than plain vanilla”. Andrew Bolt explained in detail on national television why he still thinks Pell has been falsely accused. John Howard gave the man a character reference. And, in my small circles, a man about the age of Pell and his attorney expressed doubt about the verdict, concern that the public decided he was guilty even before the trial, and bewilderment as to why anyone would believe an “invisible” person over a public figure.

And right there you have the problem.

Somehow we choose to believe a man in power over a child, and insist that those with less power defend their position rather than the other way around. Men feel entitled to cry out in rage over what they perceive to be “false accusations” far more fervently than they cry out in shame for the years of trauma experienced by survivors. Acts of significant harm are minimised, excused and ignored, even by some women. These are the voices of those who have become slave to the patriarchy, who fail to see the inequity of our society and the privilege and power that people like George Pell have enjoyed up until now. Any challenge to that privilege is bitterly opposed. It is said that when you’ve been accustomed to privilege, equality begins to feel like oppression. (Clay Sharkey on twitter, 2016)

But we should and do collectively know better. The Royal Commission into Institutional responses to Child Sexual Abuse has taught us that child sexual abuse does and did happen to a much greater extent than some of us thought, it’s usually perpetrated by people in positions of power and trust, the resulting trauma is significant and long lasting, and the journey towards reporting is fraught with emotional danger.

local church

Having a #metoo story of my own, I know something of the journey that is trod in terms of choosing when and how to tell the story, and how best to heal. Not everyone believes you, and the best you can expect from some is an attitude of indifference or discomfort. You play the incident over in your mind, imagining the points at which you could have stopped it, or done things differently to get a different result. Ultimately, you blame yourself. It’s good that survivor groups have found their voice, and are calling out the damaging comments aired publicly (https://www.smh.com.au/national/victoria/vanilla-child-sexual-abuse-comments-were-profoundly-damaging-20190228-p510ta.html). They would know only too well that the boy who told his mother it didn’t happen would have done so because he was ashamed and confused, or feared disbelief and retribution. It’s exactly because of my acquaintance’s attitude that people decide not to tell. They sense that the risks are too great.

When a former colleague of mine was arrested for child sexual offences quite a few years ago now, a shudder of shock passed through the networks who had known him. We spoke in whispers, and tears of disbelief were shed. There was an element of racing to minimise reputational risk, and a couple of the men who knew him suggested that it was a “false accusation”. Yet, some of us women knew in our hearts that it was possible. We had not taken our earlier concerns or instances of discomfort with this man to management. Why? Because we didn’t think we would be believed. Or, even if we were believed, we doubted anything would be done, or done with integrity. We doubted ourselves and our interpretation of events. And we didn’t want a person we had come to know well to have his life irreversibly changed because of us, and a “hunch”. But in doing and saying nothing, we too chose to value the life of one man over that of a child. We have to live with the fact that there might be young people out there who were abused, and had their lives irreversibly changed as a result of the system that likely would have favoured his story over theirs.

But society has thankfully moved on to a certain extent from the views these few men still hold. For Australia to hold a Royal Commission, to follow through on a number of arrests and convictions, and engage in a process of reparation, is positive. Churches and other institutions are now held more strongly to account than ever before. The #metoo movement has also elevated the voices of those who have been kept silent for decades. And the aid sector in Australia now has one of the more robust Child Protection frameworks in the world. We have regular conversations about what constitutes child abuse, what signs to look out for, and how to respond appropriately and respectfully if a child reports an instance of abuse to us. And so, the groundswell of anger towards Pell indicates to me not so much a mob embarking on a witch hunt, as my acquaintance implied, but an outpouring of emotion after a long silence. It is the music of a people who will not be slaves to the patriarchy again.